We Belong Together

by Beth Moran

  ‘Right.’ Daniel took in a deep breath. He wasn’t smiling any more. ‘I have a speech planned, if that’s okay?’

  I nodded, unable to do anything else.

  ‘I can’t really remember it any more, but I’ll try to give you the gist… I’m so, massively, overwhelmingly sorry for how I handled everything. I have regretted it every second since you left. I can’t believe I let you go. You’d been beaten up and scared half to death, and instead of being there for you, I… froze. I can’t ever undo not racing to the hospital, I can’t ever be there for you when you needed me then, but I can promise to always be there if you ever need me again.’

  ‘Daniel… I think you had every right…’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head, vehemently. ‘No. What you said was true, I knew you. I know you. I was hurt and shocked that you’d hidden all that from me. I’ll admit that I was angry, and I felt betrayed. But once you’d gone, and I stopped being such an idiot and actually took a few minutes to think about it, I realised that I was angry you’d not told me. That you were going through this huge deal, and hadn’t felt able to trust me with it. You didn’t tell me because you thought I’d judge you, I’d think less of you and reject you for it. And I proved your fears right, didn’t I? I was a terrible boyfriend. I totally let you down in the worst possible way. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I put you and Hope in danger. You should have been angry.’

  ‘No. Lucy was the danger. I put you in danger because you didn’t feel like you could tell me.’

  ‘But I was Nora Sharp. I wrote nasty things about people for money.’

  ‘I also read the beautiful, uplifting things that Eleanor Sharpley wrote, remember? And I also read a whole load of Nora’s reviews. The ones that people didn’t bother to mention, because they’re decent and written with integrity. I also read the article you wrote last Saturday.’

  ‘Is that what made you come?’

  ‘It’s what made me brave enough to come. If you could do that, admit you’d done some awful things that you regretted, refuse to make excuses for it, and only say that from now on you were determined to do things better, it made me hope that maybe you’d allow me to do the same.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you think you did anything wrong… Daniel, I need to know that you’re not trying to shove what I did to one side or sweep it under the carpet. I’m not a perfect person. I’m a long, long way from that. Not least, I have borderline approval addiction. The compulsion to make people like me has caused me to be dishonest with myself, and other people, and while I’m working on it, I can’t promise it won’t ever happen again. I’m really bad at getting up in the morning and I have a hideous, lumpy scar on the back of my leg.’

  Daniel nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Okay. You may have noticed that I’m not the most emotionally intelligent of men. I am woefully bad at recognising and dealing with my own feelings, which means I can hurt the people I care about most. I also still push about a wheelbarrow of guilt and shame, and the need to somehow make things up to people who aren’t even alive any more. I have a frustrating tendency to try to do everything alone, in some warped need to prove myself to no one who even cares. I bury myself in work to avoid facing up to my problems, and I think that you are the most incredible, wonderful woman I have ever met.’ He paused. ‘I love you, flaws and failings and all.’

  ‘I love you, too.’

  Daniel’s eyes sparkled. ‘So, perhaps for now we just need to agree that we forgive each other, and accept each other, as we are?’

  ‘That sounds like a good plan,’ I replied, my voice so soft I could barely hear it over the buzzing of the motorboats in the distance.

  He coughed, scratched the back of his head, and looked up at me from under his brow. ‘I don’t want to suggest starting again, because we aren’t going to gloss over what happened, as if it didn’t matter. But I, for one, would very much like to restart what we had. I’ve had weeks to think about it, though. I understand if you need some time.’

  ‘I don’t need any time,’ I blurted, in one rush of breath. ‘I forgive you for behaving like a perfectly normal, rational person, and if you can honestly forgive me for all the crap I put you through, and for being a famous bitch, then yes please, I would really like to try again.’

  The grin was back. He hadn’t stopped looking at me, and it sent a flutter of joy through my body that only intensified when he slowly reached out and took hold of my hand. Once he’d wrapped his hand around mine, he gently tugged me across the bench, closer and closer until our lips met. It was a challenging kiss, given the smiling and the laughing and the crying, but still managed to be the loveliest kiss ever.

  It wasn’t, of course, a simple case of forgive and forget. We talked well into the night, while walking and drinking ice-cold cider and eating fish and chips on the shoreline. We curled up on the sofa in the living room and laid out the whole truth.

  We talked about how Hope had grown in the past few weeks. It was her birthday in a few days, and it looked as though she might even be walking by then. Becky had been working flat out running the retreat, absolutely convinced that her business partner simply needed a bit of time.

  ‘How’s Alice getting on as Operations Manager?’ I asked.

  ‘Good. The Boatman threw her one hell of a leaving do. They got the Bridge Band to play, and the two pubs ended up having a skinny-dipping relay race across the river and back.’

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘Nobody knows. An argument broke out about whether Caris Smith was cheating for using a rubber ring, and next thing we knew the swimmers were being attacked by a flock of geese.’

  ‘Becky said Alice is still with Jase.’

  He nodded. ‘But Luke said she had a look at Becky’s spare room the other day, eyeing it up for size.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll give her a ring, tell her how putting off making the right choice only leads to regrets later on.’

  ‘Maybe you should tell her in person.’

  ‘Maybe I should.’

  He described how the orchard was now bursting into life, with tomatoes, courgettes and spinach nearly ready for harvesting, and plans taking shape for its first wedding – childhood sweethearts from separate sides who broke off their engagement thirty-four years ago, but never had eyes for anyone else since.

  ‘Well, if they can forgive and forget and go as far as getting married, I’m not sure we have any excuse.’ I sat back on the sofa, horrified at my own words. ‘Not that I’m… I didn’t mean to imply…’

  ‘Was that a proposal?’ Daniel pretended to be horrified, but his eyes were dancing.

  ‘No! Oh my goodness, no!’ Every inch of my skin had flushed with mortification.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yes! Yes, very good. Not to be suggesting that we…’

  ‘I’d quite like to do that myself, if you don’t mind. And without Grandma earwigging from the corridor.’

  ‘I’m not earwigging, I was on my way to get a mug of cocoa!’ a croaky voice retorted from the other side of the door.

  ‘Shall we take this conversation somewhere more private?’ Daniel lent closer to murmur in my ear, the heat of his proximity doing nothing to ease my blushes.

  ‘Okay,’ I whispered back.

  ‘And then, tomorrow, Eleanor Sharpley, will you come home with me?’

  A surge of warmth exploded inside me. I think it was joy. Joy, and hope, and the freedom of being known, and loved all the same, while understanding that there is always more to know – some good, some bad – but the one thing that will remain is love.

  ‘I will.’

  I was going home.

  Author’s Note

  I first moved to a Nottinghamshire ‘ex-mining village’ fifteen years ago, where the proud mining heritage remains an inherent part of the community.

  However, it was only when researching this book that I discovered the ongoing impact of the national miners’ strike in 1984–5. During the strike, whole towns and villages wer
e split into strikers and the ‘scabs’ who crossed the picket line.

  For some, this divide has never been bridged, and they still avoid certain pubs or shops because ‘that’s where the scabs went’. At the time, people travelled miles to avoid meeting someone from the ‘wrong side’ in the supermarket.

  Those who went on strike weren’t entitled to benefits. Many relied on handouts. Others were reduced to burning shoes in an attempt to heat their houses once all the furniture had gone. Tensions often ran high on the picket lines, resulting in violence and destruction of property. Across the country, 20,000 were injured or taken to hospital, three men died and over 11,000 were arrested.

  While the village of Ferrington and all that happened there is a work of fiction, it was inspired by the true story of a mining village in Nottinghamshire that is divided in two by a river. Here, one side went on strike while the other side remained working. In recent years, an award-winning community orchard was established to help bring local people together in creating a place of beauty and peace that will help heal the wounds of the past.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks again to the fabulous team Boldwood for their unfailing support – especially Sarah Ritherdon, who is simply everything I could have asked for in an editor. My wonderful agent, Kiran Kataria continues to consistently go above and beyond in providing timely help and encouragement.

  Thanks to Matt Arnold who was willing to chat to a stranger about a range of unexpected and interesting topics, but most importantly community orchards and ex-mining communities. That conversation significantly shaped the whole book.

  As always, to everyone who has read my books, taken the time to write a review or get in touch – I’m so very grateful. Knowing you are out there reading and loving my books means more than I can say.

  For Ciara, Joseph and Dominic – who never failed to provide my dinners with an honest review. May our home always be the place where you can find peace, love, laughter and an endless supply of food.

  And for George – without a doubt, we belong together.

  More from Beth Moran

  We hope you enjoyed reading Take a Chance on Me. If you did, please leave a review.

  If you’d like to gift a copy, this book is also available as a paperback, digital audio download and audiobook CD.

  Sign up to Beth Moran’s mailing list here for news, competitions and updates on future books.

  Explore more uplifting novels from Beth Moran.

  Read on for an exclusive extract of Christmas Every Day…

  Prologue

  22 December

  It was finally here. The highlight of the Dougal and Duff calendar. Everyone would be there, from the lowliest admin assistant to the senior partners. The oak bannisters were draped with ivy, dotted with twinkling red and white fairy lights. The doorway leading into the designated party room was framed with pine branches, a cheeky sprig of mistletoe hanging in the centre. Inside, the room looked even more spectacular than last year. Hundreds of sparkling snowflakes dangled from the wood-panelled ceiling, more fairy lights and greenery adorned every surface. The Christmas tree in the centre of the back wall stood festooned with baubles and ribbons.

  Waiting staff slipped between the clusters of office cliques with trays of champagne and crumbly canapés, their black uniforms in sharp contrast to the glittering party dresses and tartan finery. A swing quartet thrummed, but it couldn’t beat the buzz of festive gossip. Rumours had been flying that the newest partner, Richard Abernethy, freshly returned from yet another victory in the Paris office, had been dropping hints about an important announcement. And when a locally renowned jeweller delivered a ring-shaped box to Reception that morning, every one of the sixty-three employees knew within minutes. The only question was who. Nobody had a clue.

  That was, except me.

  The other PAs assumed I must have some insight to the mystery woman, given that I’d almost unlimited access to his emails and diary. They spent most of the evening trying to badger me into giving them a name. Or at least a list of suspects.

  I smoothed down my ridiculously expensive dress, patted my hair, took another fake-nonchalant swig of champagne and said nothing.

  Not because of loyalty to my boss. Although that would have been reason enough.

  Taut with nerves, heart fluttering, resisting the urge to wash the dryness from my mouth with another drink, I not so surreptitiously watched my secret boyfriend and soon to be fiancé from across the room and wished he’d hurry up and get on with it.

  I had always dreaded Christmas. Particularly these last few years when it had simply been another day alone, opening the same gift card sent by my dad and watching someone else’s television. Waiting to hear from Richard, despite him telling me that he’d probably not get a moment to call.

  But this year – surely I’d be spending it on his family’s estate in the Highlands? I had already planned the clothes I would pack, and spent a frantic afternoon searching for the perfect ‘last-minute’ gifts for his parents and younger brother.

  For the first time, in so long that it made my heart ache just thinking about it, I would be spending Christmas with a loving, happy family.

  I took a deep breath, smothered my smile and, for the millionth time that day, silently practised my surprised, thrilled and senior-partner’s wife worthy ‘yes’.

  Chapter One

  When the house had been described as like something out of a fairy tale, I’d been picturing Snow White’s cottage, or a quaint gingerbread house (minus the evil witch, whom I’d left behind in Edinburgh), not a shrunken, grottier version of Sleeping Beauty’s derelict outhouse. And, in my storybook, there hadn’t been an old pram, two sagging armchairs and a turquoise toilet blocking the driveway.

  I peered through the taxi window, trying to kid myself it would look better once I was out of the car. Or it had stopped raining. Or if I took my glasses off. The driver pulled up in front of a rusted mangle.

  ‘Could you get any closer to the door?’ I asked, tugging the zip a bit higher on my jacket.

  He swivelled his head to look at me, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘What about parking on the lawn?’

  ‘That ain’t a lawn. It’s a jungle. I ain’t risking my tyres on that.’

  I blew out a sigh, and unbuckled the seat belt.

  ‘Fifty pound.

  What?’ My hand froze halfway to my purse. ‘We agreed thirty.’

  ‘That was before the ford, the mud pit and the overgrown branches scratching my paintwork. The car needs a full-on valet and the extra won’t even cover it. I’ve got standards to uphold.’

  I cast my eyes around the faded upholstery, scuffed trimmings and air freshener designed as a topless woman.

  ‘You knew the address was on an unnamed road in the middle of a forest and you still said thirty.’ I tried to keep the tremble out of my voice. The extra twenty pounds might not pay for a car valet but it would help me not starve for the next couple of weeks.

  ‘I’m the only taxi-driver round ‘ere who’ll come out this far.’ He grinned. The big bad wolf. ‘I’m the only taxi full stop. If you want out of ‘ere any time soon, best stay in my good books.’ He tipped his head towards the house. ‘And, trust me, you won’t be wanting to ‘ang around.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ I did my best to channel some of the experience I’d gained working for sharks who’d sell your own baby back to you, and straightened my shoulders. After enduring a lifetime of being treated like a worthless wimp, this was supposed to be a fresh start. The new, improved, over-it, Jenny.

  I opened my purse, and deliberately placed three notes on the plastic ledge between the front and back seats. ‘I’m giving you the thirty pounds you asked for, and not a penny more.’

  He curled up one side of his lip, leant towards me and growled. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  Letting out a squeak, I unclasped my purse again. ‘And a tip! Of course. Here. I’ll make it twenty.’ Yanking open the
door, I tumbled out into the freezing January rain, slipping and sliding round to the car boot. Hauling out my suitcase, followed by a rucksack, I stumbled out of the way just in time to avoid injury, but not a generous splattering of filthy spray from the revving wheels.

  Wiping a smear of mud off my glasses with a sodden sleeve, I stared at my new home.

  A semi-detached old woodsman’s cottage; the grey plaster frontage streaked with grime, slumped chimney and patchy roof confirmed it hadn’t worn the years well.

  I squelched through the puddles, rucksack on my back, hand-me-down Mulberry suitcase dragging behind, and peered in through the ivy-smothered front window. Rummaging in my jacket pocket for the key, I gave up attempting to make out shapes in the gloom beyond.

  ‘Right. Might as well get it over with. Get out of this rain and put the kettle on.’ I wiped the worst of the dirt from the keyhole, congratulating myself for having had the foresight to have the utilities reconnected before I arrived, and forced the key in, slowly wiggling it until it unlocked.

  I pushed against the door. Nothing. Not even a rattle.

  Turning the key back to the original position, I tried again. As water ran in icy rivulets down my face and up my sleeves, I did everything I could to make the door budge. Pounding, shoulder-barging, kicking, taking a slippery running charge like the cops in films.

  After a while, determined not to start crying, I dumped my luggage and precariously stepped along the front of the house to see if I could get around the back. No good. More bushes, the rain dripping off two-inch thorns. I glanced over at the adjoining cottage. There none of the windows were cracked and the garden didn’t look as though it had been abandoned by a rag-and-bone man. Hmm. Maybe I could sleep in there instead. Just for tonight. According to my mother, the whole building had lain empty for years. There wasn’t much demand for cottages in the middle of nowhere, unless done up as holiday lets, and no one wanted to holiday next door to a scrapheap.