The Last Day of Winter

by Shari Low

  The words were out of Caro’s mouth before she could change her mind. ‘Okay, I’ll wait then.’

  Lila opened the door wider to let her in, then led the way down the hallway. Scanning from left to right, Caro could feel her teeth begin to clench. Dotted the whole way along the walls on either side of her were large black and white photos, on white mounting boards surrounded by black frames, depicting a lifetime of happiness for the occupants of the house. Lila and their father holding hands as they walked on the beach. Jack Anderson and his other wife, Louise, throwing their heads back as they laughed on a windy day. Their wedding, the bride and groom standing in front of an altar. That one almost made her flee. From the picture, Caro could see that Jack would have been about thirty – when he was already very definitely married to her own mother. The lying, cheating, duplicitous bastard. For over thirty years he’d lived a double life and got away with it: two wives, two families, two homes, two cities. It was the kind of thing you read about and questioned… how did no one find out? Caro discovered later that his second wife knew about their existence and chose to ignore it, but her mother had never so much as suspected her husband of infidelity. She’d absolutely believed that he was working away to support them and she’d adored him unconditionally, spending her whole life waiting for him to walk in the door, ecstatic when he was there, almost shutting down when he wasn’t. Her marriage claimed her whole life and it was all a sham.

  Caro steadied herself, took a deep breath and kept walking, with a new resolve to face him down, to get answers, to say what she had to say.

  The kitchen took her by surprise. Her dad had always been notoriously tight with money, and he’d shown absolutely no desire to splash cash on the house she’d grown up in. It had been a perfectly nice home, but it had the same kitchen all her life, and nothing else much had changed either. This space, on the other hand, was gorgeous – black gloss units, with top-of-the-range appliances and an island in the middle, crowned by a stunning chandelier. No wonder he’d been so disinterested in their Aberdeen home, when he had this house waiting for him in Glasgow.

  Caro could see that there was a half-full glass of wine already sitting on the centre island next to an open copy of… She strained to see the words at the top of the page. Vogue.

  Lila slid onto the cream leather bar stool that was already pulled out beside it and motioned to Caro to sit on one of the others. The noise of the metal base of the stool moving across the marble tiled floor jarred as Caro pulled it out and climbed on, while trying to make her pulse slow down to something approaching normal.

  Okay. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. Lila had invited her in, so she was clearly making an effort. Perhaps this was a good thing, a chance to build even a small foundation for a relationship with a woman who was, after all, her half-sister. Be positive. Be open. Give her a chance. It would be okay. Perhaps she was actually a lovely person. Perhaps she’d been wronged by their father too. Maybe they could chat. Share experiences. Build a bond.

  In a split second, all heart-warming thoughts were immediately wiped out by the narrowing of Lila’s eyes as she spat out her opening line.

  ‘Surprised to see you here today. Isn’t this the day you’re meant to be marrying my ex-boyfriend?’

  Eleven

  Seb

  The drive to Glasgow gave Seb a chance to settle his mind. He’d been right to come back here. Even if Pearl’s niece was absolutely nothing to do with him – and let’s face it, that was a very strong probability – the potential consequences of that chance meeting had forced him to come back to Scotland, to finally fulfil the promise he and Juliet had made to each other. He hoped that somewhere, wherever she was, Juliet could see that. It was the least he could do, although when the time came, he still had no idea if he’d be able to let her go. The very thought of that made his mouth go dry and his stomach heave. The same words played over and over in his mind. I’m sorry, Juliet. So sorry. I hope you know that.

  It was a strange thing. He’d never believed in the afterlife, or spirits, or loved ones sticking around to watch over you. How that had changed. Perhaps it was desperation. Maybe a coping mechanism. But at some point since Juliet died, he’d convinced himself that she was still with him, that he could feel her, sense her, that she was seeing everything that he did, that she knew how tortured he was over what he’d done. For the last few months he’d been drowning in a quagmire of grief and guilt. He regretted every single second of the day that she was killed and it felt like part of him had died with her. The good part. Nothing else left but sorrow and self-loathing and a void that not even the bottom of a bottle could fill. He realised this was the first day since Juliet died that he hadn’t thought about opening a bottle of wine at lunchtime and downing a couple of glasses to take the edge off. Maybe later.

  Traffic got busier as he left the motorway, going through the Clyde tunnel and then on to the expressway in the west of the city, cutting off at the Partick junction. Despite the rain, the streets here were busy, the mass of young people sporting backpacks a testimony to the fact that this was the university area and heavily populated with students. There were all age groups though: elderly people carrying umbrellas and plastic bags of shopping, mums juggling kids as they darted in and out of shops, flash cars going by, representing the other prominent demographic in this part of the city: wealthy professionals and members of the arts community. This was the side of town that Juliet hailed from, growing up in the garden-flat conversion of the ground floor of the stunning curved Victorian terrace that Seb had just turned in to.

  He drove slowly, watching the building come towards him, imagining his love in the rooms of the home in front of him. She’d brought him here shortly after they’d met, pointed out her old bedroom window, regaled him with stories of her childhood, playing in the communal garden outside their front door, a green haven for the residents of the street.

  With a sad smile, he drove on, navigating the damp West End roads, lined with shop windows decorated for Christmas. A few miles further on, he reached his destination. The car park was quiet when he drove in, understandable when most people were busy preparing for Christmas instead of spending a leisurely day in the grand halls of this building.

  Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery had special meaning to them both. They’d come here for the first time in 2006, when it had just reopened after a three-year refurbishment. After that, on every one of their many visits home to Glasgow, they would return to wander the halls. Art had never been his thing, but Juliet’s enthusiasm had been contagious and he’d found himself enjoying the trips every bit as much as she did. That was Juliet’s gift – the ability to make people see things through her eyes, to get them excited and enthusiastic. It was what had made her a great teacher and partner. Seb suddenly realised that, in that thought, he’d used the past tense. Maybe a lunchtime wine wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Before he could act on that, he chided himself. Stop being such a fucking coward and face this. Face the past. Face what you did. Face the pain.

  He inhaled. Exhaled. Reset. Time to go.

  He lifted the brown leather bag, unable to let it out of his sight, and sprinted to the entrance to minimise the soaking from the pounding Glasgow rain. At the door, the security guard gave him a nod and a smile, which he reciprocated. It still astounded him that entry to this incredible building was free. No wonder the twenty-two galleries within its grand walls were a magnet to locals and tourists alike.

  Inside, he was, as always, immediately struck by the sheer scale of the main hall and the magnificent curved ceiling, exquisite chandeliers dropping down past stunning arched windows. Above him, grand balconies ran around all four walls of the building, and in front of him, soaring up the far wall, was an awe inspiring organ encased in deep, rich walnut. It was spectacular.

  Seb climbed the stairs to the second floor, then walked along to the middle arch in the upper balcony. If he looked down to his left, he could see where he’d b
een standing just a moment before. To his right, the brass pipes of the organ. This was it. The very spot he’d proposed. And even now, almost fifteen years later, he could remember every detail.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she’d asked playfully, her wide smile making her cheeks dimple. Her long chestnut hair was loosely pulled back into a plait that fell over one shoulder, escaping tendrils framing her face. It was June and she looked tanned and healthy in her white cropped jeans and pale blue T-shirt, white trainers for comfort because they planned to wander around the city all day. They’d been together for a year, living over in Portugal thanks to a two year contract with a new course on the Algarve, and had flown back for a friend’s fortieth.

  ‘I was just thinking I got lucky,’ he’d said, tugging her towards him, and laughing as her arms went around his neck and they kissed.

  ‘Eeeeeew, that’s gross,’ came a voice from a few metres away.

  They’d turned to see a whole class of children, obviously on a school trip, all staring at them, disgust on their faces, their spokesperson a little guy, around eight years old, with wide, horrified eyes, freckles and a mop of curly brown hair.

  ‘Sorry,’ their teacher had winced. ‘We haven’t covered tact and diplomacy yet,’ she’d joked, as she herded them away. That had made them laugh even more.

  As soon as they were alone, Seb knew it was the right moment. It wasn’t where or when he’d planned it. It was supposed to be later that evening, over a candlelit dinner in a beautiful restaurant. But he’d had the ring in his camera bag all day, too scared to leave it in the hotel room.

  He’d lifted the top flap of the black bag that dangled over his shoulder, removed the little navy velvet box, and opened it. He didn’t go down on one knee – Juliet had mentioned once that she found that too cringe-inducing. She always laughed, covered her face with a cushion and made ‘Eeeeew’ noises when they got to that bit in a romcom. Instead, he’d reached over, gently cupped her chin, drawing her astonished pale green eyes back from the ring box in his other hand. Nothing in his life, right up to that point, had ever felt so right.

  ‘Juliet Embers, I have loved you from the moment I met you. You are everything I could ever want and I know that I will adore you until the day I die.’ He had to clear his throat, given that his tough, West of Scotland male façade seemed to be temporarily choked. ‘Will you please marry me?’

  Her eyes were still locked on his and there was a slight pause before the most beautiful, intoxicating burst of laughter escaped her. ‘Yes!’ she’d cried, and he’d scooped her up, swung her round, both of them lost in the absolute joy of the moment.

  ‘I love you,’ he’d murmured into her hair.

  ‘I love you right back.’ Every word oozed happiness.

  ‘Eh, mister, I think you dropped this,’ came the same kid’s voice from earlier, and that’s when they’d realised that the entire class had returned and were standing by the entrance to the balcony, except the wee romantic who’d offered his disdainful opinion during their last encounter. He was right next to them, holding up the tiny velvet box that Seb had managed to drop in the excitement.

  Seb retook custody. ‘Thank you.”

  ‘No problem, mister. Still think all that kissing is pure yuck though. My mammy says it can give you cold sores.’

  The mortified teacher had swooped in and shooed him off, with a quick ‘Congratulations’ and a thumbs up.

  ‘Cold sores?’ Seb had asked his fiancée, grinning.

  ‘I’ll take my chances,’ Juliet replied, kissing him again, a long, slow touch of her lips. No one else existed. Not the tourists, the schoolkids or anyone else in the outside world. It was just the two of them.

  Engaged. He was forty-one years old and he’d finally found the person that he wanted to share his life with. Even better, by some miracle, she felt the same. That night, they’d gone to dinner at the West End Grand Hotel just a couple of miles away, and they’d drank champagne, eaten delicious food and then made love until sunrise. The next day, they’d crossed the road to the Botanic Gardens and wandered in the sunshine, making plans for their wedding, their future life together. ‘I can’t wait to grow old with you,’ she’d whispered.

  Hearing those words in his head now made him buckle at the waist, as if he’d been sucker-punched in the stomach. She never got to grow old. Her life had ended far too soon, before she’d fulfilled all her dreams, ticked everything off her bucket list, enjoyed her sixties, her seventies, her eighties.

  Sometimes he wondered… if, by some cosmic power, Juliet could decide whether to go back and make the same choices, would she do it?

  Would he?

  Standing here now, looking down as a group of kids just like the ones who’d been there that day made their way through the hall, squealing their ‘wow’s of amazement, he knew the answer to that.

  The last fifteen years had brought him the kind of happiness that he hadn’t even known existed, an exquisite love that he could never replace. They’d travelled the world, they’d had incredible experiences, they’d truly loved each other, and while no marriage was ever perfect, they’d come pretty damn close. Their time together had given them a lifetime of highs.

  But it had also brought him the very worst of lows.

  Would he do it again? No, he wouldn’t. Because if he hadn’t proposed to Juliet that day, if she hadn’t married him, if they hadn’t spent the last fifteen years together, then that day, six months ago, wouldn’t have happened.

  He’d killed Juliet. And if he could go back, he’d undo their lives together, because then, somewhere out there, the love of his life would still be alive. And he wouldn’t be back in their home city under a cloud of bitter guilt, trying desperately to find the courage to say a final goodbye.

  Twelve

  Josie

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Val screeched, as she swung the door open at Caro and Cammy’s flat. ‘I’ve been texting you for the last two hours!’

  The outburst startled Josie for a split second. Shit. She’d had her phone on silent since she went into the doctor’s office and hadn’t thought to check it. And the look on Val’s panic-stricken face… Crap, she knew. How could that have happened? How could she have found out already? Oh, bugger. Damage limitation.

  ‘Look, Val, it’s not the end of the world…’

  ‘You knew?’ Val screeched back. ‘You knew she was going to do this?’

  Hang on. Who was going to do what? Josie immediately grasped that they were on different pages and thought on her feet. ‘Knew what? I don’t know anything, but whatever it is, it’s not the end of the world. Now let me in because if I don’t get a cup of tea and a caramel wafer in the next five minutes, there’s every chance I’ll start a riot.’

  Val stepped to the side to let her pass and she spent the time it took to get into the kitchen recalibrating her demeanour. Chrissie and Jen, Caro’s bridesmaids, were already sitting at the kitchen table, looking like someone had stolen their tiaras. Okay, whatever was going on here clearly wasn’t good. Had Caro changed her mind about the dress? Or the flowers? Or the bridesmaids?

  ‘What have I missed?’ she asked suspiciously, flicking the kettle on and taking a mug from the draining board. They all spent so much time in each other’s houses that there was no standing on formality and waiting to be served. Besides, neither of the owners of this abode appeared to be present at the moment. She knew Cammy was staying at a hotel, but… ‘And where’s Caro? In the shower?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Jen admitted woefully.

  Josie froze. Turned. ‘You’ve lost the bride?’ She sounded like Liam Neeson in every Taken movie, when he realises that there’s a serious problem and his voice goes low and deadly.

  ‘Not lost her, exactly,’ Chrissie jumped in.

  Josie took in the pale complexions and bloodshot eyes on both of them. She’d been to Hangover Central enough times to know what it looked like. Her first thought was how stupid they had
been to have a wild night out the day before the wedding. The second thought was outrage that she hadn’t been invited. She’d never turned down a party in her life.

  Val came barrelling in behind her, her blonde bob trembling with panic. ‘Caro says she’s changed her mind and she doesn’t want to get married today.’

  Fuck. Shit. Bugger. Well, this day wasn’t panning out the way Josie had expected. Somebody in the Gods was clearly having a laugh at her expense.

  Josie placed her mug back down on the worktop. Now she knew why Liam Neeson never had time for a cuppa in Taken either. ‘What?’

  ‘Says she’s not doing it,’ Val went on. ‘She woke up this morning and decided she can’t go through with it. It’s not that she doesn’t love Cammy, it’s just… you know, all that business with her parents. She feels like marriage ruined her mum’s life and it’s all just too much for her and she’s having some kind of meltdown.’

  ‘Dear God, I take my eye off the ball for five minutes and this is what happens… Could she not just have done the sensible thing and took a hit out on that bastard father of hers?’ Josie murmured, dolloping an extra sugar in her tea. She was going to need all the strength she could get. Right, focus. What was important here? Track down Caro. ‘So did she say where she’s gone?’

  Val shrugged her shoulders. ‘No. She just said she was going to sort it out, and she bolted out the door.’

  Josie was incredulous. ‘And you didn’t rugby tackle her to the ground? I expect more from you, Val Brennan.’

  ‘The shock threw me off,’ Val retorted archly. ‘And anyway, where have you been? If the wedding planner had been here then maybe there would still be a flipping wedding to plan.’

  ‘Last minute details,’ Josie shot back, unwilling to elaborate. ‘Right, we need a plan. Chrissie, love, throw me a caramel wafer,’ she said, gesturing to the biscuit barrel that was sitting in the middle of the table. She caught it, unwrapped it and took a bite in one fluid motion.