Read the book: «Yesterday’s Sun»

AMANDA BROOKE

Yesterday’s Sun

Dedication

To Jessica and Nathan

For making me what I am

A mother

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

One hand of the clock swept across the other, marking that brief and unstoppable moment where one day ends and another begins. Holly lay in bed rubbing the swell of her stomach and soothing her unborn child against the cold tremor of fear that had swept across her body, as unstoppable as the hands of the clock.

It took Holly a considerable amount of effort to roll from her back onto her side. She had to manoeuvre her bump carefully while at the same time suppressing countless grunts and groans for fear of waking Tom, who was facing away from her, gently snoring. Holly nuzzled closer to him until her nose felt the familiar tickle of his untamed locks. She breathed in deeply, savouring his warm, sweet smell.

‘I love you,’ she whispered. The sound of her voice was barely audible, but then Holly had become an expert at keeping quiet. She had spent so many restless nights lying next to him, fighting the urge to break her silence and to tell him that the day she would leave him was drawing ever nearer.

‘Today’s the day,’ she told him. ‘You’re going to become a father and what an amazing daddy you’re going to be. But it’s not going to be easy. You’ll think you won’t be able to cope, but you will. You’ll be angry with me for leaving you both, but eventually you’ll understand. One day, you’ll look at our daughter and you’ll know what I know. You’ll know that she was worth the sacrifice.’

Tom shifted restlessly in his sleep and Holly held her breath. She didn’t want to wake him, not yet. But she had to give voice to her apology, even if she didn’t want him to hear it. It was one of the last things on her ‘to do’ list. That and give birth, of course.

Holly had spent the last few months preparing for the arrival of her daughter and, just as importantly, preparing for her departure from their lives. Tom loved Holly for her obsession with plans, something that bordered on neurosis, but even he would be shocked to discover how well she had prepared for this day. But how else could she die peacefully?

‘I love you,’ Holly repeated. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she felt the burden of knowledge pulling her down far more heavily than the baby she was carrying. ‘I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you, couldn’t tell you. However terrifying this is for me, it would have been unbearable for you. I’ve had to take some tough decisions and I’ve learnt the hard way that the best decisions are never the obvious ones. And I’ve learnt something else too. I’ve learnt that love endures, sometimes in the most amazing ways. I promise you, I’ll be there at your side in your darkest hours.’

A sob escaped and this time it was loud enough to stir Tom. He turned sleepily towards her. ‘Are you OK?’ he mumbled sleepily, and then startled himself awake. ‘Is it time?’

‘Time? Not quite yet,’ Holly assured him with a rueful smile despite herself. Time had been her enemy from the moment they had moved into the gatehouse, the house they now called home. That had been only eighteen months ago and her thoughts returned to that pivotal moment when time began to run out for her.

Chapter 1

Holly closed the front door and leaned heavily against it, breathing out a huge sigh of relief. The removal men had been miracle workers, transforming the empty shell they had arrived at that morning into something that Holly could now call home. The house had once been an imposing gatehouse, sitting at the entrance to the majestic Hardmonton Hall, but the Hall was now a burned out ruin and the gatehouse had been all but forgotten, set just outside the tiny village of Fincross. Despite its grey stone walls and peeling paint, Holly had fallen in love with the house. It had stood the test of time far better than the Hall itself and seemed the ideal place to build a home and settle down, perhaps for ever.

Still leaning against the door, Holly took a furtive look at her reflection in the full-length mirror which had been left propped up against the wall, waiting to be hung. The house, correction, her home may have improved its looks during the day, but she was definitely looking worse for wear. Her long blonde hair was usually her crowning glory to compensate for her otherwise average looks, but it was now pulled back in a bedraggled ponytail. The little make-up she had put on at the start of the day was no more than a memory, having retreated into the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her blue, almond-shaped eyes.

She hoped she looked more tired than old. After all, she was only twenty-nine and she felt as if her life was just beginning. Married for only two years, this was the first place she and Tom had actually owned and the first chance they had had to put down proper roots.

Ignoring her reflection, Holly took in her new surroundings. The hall ran down the centre of the house, with a door on the left leading to a small reception room that would become Tom’s study. The door to the right led to a larger reception room, which would be their living room, and the half-open door gave teasing glimpses of familiar pieces of furniture in their new surroundings. The city-living furniture was a harsh contrast to the chintz-inspired wallpaper and hardwood floors, but Holly had rather eccentric tastes and liked the conflict in styles.

‘I’ve checked the list and I think it’s complete,’ Tom said, appearing in the doorway at the furthest end of the hall, which led from the kitchen.

Tom looked even more dishevelled than Holly in his well-worn jeans and T-shirt. The look did nothing to flatter his tall, wiry stature or show off the toned body which Holly knew lay beneath. The difference between the two of them was that this worn-out look was normal for Tom. He was far too interested in the world around him to pay any attention to himself. That was probably why he made such a good journalist. He was warm and approachable, never smarmy, never intimidating, and people opened up easily to him.

Holly had resisted the urge to smarten him up, not least because it was the contrast to her own style that appealed to her. Holly was an artist and, when she wasn’t knee-deep in plaster of Paris and paint, she liked to dress up in carefully contrasting combinations of vintage and contemporary clothes, a style which was also reflected in her artwork. The other reason Holly accepted Tom’s unkempt style was purely selfish. He spent a lot of time working away and she didn’t want him impressing the ladies too much.

‘What list?’ Holly asked suspiciously. ‘There’s still tons of work to do. It’s going to take weeks before we’re properly unpacked and that’s before we even start thinking about redecorating.’

‘Not the moving-house list,’ Tom corrected her, ‘THE LIST.’ He was stepping slowly towards her with his left hand out in front of him, inspecting an imaginary piece of paper on his upturned palm. He stopped two feet in front of her.

‘You do realize that you’re looking at an empty hand?’

Tom ignored her. ‘Find boyfriend. Tick! Find gallery to exhibit your artwork. Tick! Get married. Tick! Establish select clientele to buy said works of art. Tick! Earn enough to give up your job. Tick!’ Each time he said, ‘Tick!’ Tom was using the index finger on his other hand as an imaginary pen to mark off each accomplishment.

‘And finally?’ asked Holly, already knowing the answer.

Tom moved a step closer. ‘Move to the country and live happily ever after.’

‘Tick,’ whispered Holly just before Tom kissed her.

After an indecent amount of time, Tom took a breath. ‘And I do believe, Mrs Corrigan, that you’ve completed your list a whole six months ahead of schedule.’

‘I do believe you’re right, Mr Corrigan,’ Holly answered smugly.

Perhaps smug was the wrong word. Eternally grateful might be better. Holly had worked hard at her five-year life plan but, in truth, her success at finding the perfect husband and blossoming career had been more luck than management. In fact, she owed it all to a drunken accountant.

When Holly was twenty-five, having left art school with an armful of accolades but no real idea of how she was going to make a living out of her talent, she had found herself juggling countless part-time jobs to make ends meet. The jobs had been accumulated as she worked her way through college and, when she left, she’d carried on with them until they began to consume so much of her day that art became a luxury she couldn’t afford, let alone find the time or energy to work on.

Her epiphany arrived one night in the shape of a middle-aged city worker who staggered drunkenly into the backstreet bar she was working in. Her hero, after several attempts, claimed a seat at the bar and immediately took Holly hostage with a lengthy monologue about his wonderful life and recent promotion in a leading accountancy firm. It wasn’t until the drunk told her about how his promotion was all part of his five-year plan that Holly, the neurotic list maker, started to pay attention. Suddenly realizing how aimless her own life was, she had asked herself why, if this good-for-nothing drunk could succeed, couldn’t she? She went home that night and couldn’t sleep until she had set out on paper the goals she wanted to achieve in the next five years.

Within a year, Holly had a new direction. She had traded in her collection of part-time jobs for one full-time job in a television studio, working behind the scenes on production and finally putting her talents to good use. It had also meant that she had enough spare time to develop her artwork and earn occasional commissions through contacts with a local art gallery.

Next on her list was her love life. That wasn’t supposed to happen until year three, but Tom arrived ahead of schedule. He had been visiting the TV studio for a job interview, and left a few hours later not only with a new job but with a new girlfriend too.

Holly had spotted him wandering around the props section, obviously lost. He had emerged from the interview on a high, having being offered a job as a special correspondent on environmental issues, but what started out as a snooping expedition around the studio quickly turned into an endless journey through a maze.

Tom Corrigan wasn’t exactly what Holly had in mind for husband material. On the face of it, they couldn’t have been more different. There was the obvious contrast in their looks. Her pale, mousey complexion was even more pronounced in comparison to Tom’s tall, dark, handsome looks. There were other fundamental differences too. She was organized, he was not. She prepared for and expected failure; Tom saw every setback as an opportunity. She admitted when she needed help; Tom, the man who had just been given the opportun­ity to travel the country, wasn’t about to admit any time soon that he couldn’t even find his way out of the studio. After bumping into Holly on that fateful tour of the studio, he neglected to mention that he was lost and offered to hang around and help her until she was finished for the day, at which point he would escort her off the premises and take her to dinner.

‘I can see the cogs turning,’ Tom warned her, drawing her out of her reverie. ‘Starting the next five-year plan already?’

‘I’m quite happy working my way through my current lists, thank you,’ replied Holly. ‘The unpacking, the re­decorating, my new studio, not to mention the new commission for Mrs Bronson.’

‘Quite happy?’ Tom asked her with mock surprise.

Holly smiled. ‘Very happy. Quite possibly very, very happy.’

‘Quite possibly?’ he said, raising a mischievous eyebrow.

‘Give it up already,’ Holly scolded. ‘Are we going to stand here all day in the hall arguing about the scale of my happiness, or are we going to make use of some of the other rooms?’

‘What a good idea. How about I get the champagne and meet you in the bedroom in precisely two minutes?’

‘Sounds like a plan to me,’ answered Holly, but Tom was already heading back to the kitchen.

The next morning, Tom and Holly were as reluctant to leave their bed as they had been eager to jump into it the night before. Tom was on leave from work for two weeks, so there was no alarm clock demanding their attention, no fixed routine to comply with, nothing to do but finish their unpacking and explore their new surroundings. They just had to get out of bed first.

The bed faced the large picture window, which looked out onto a rambling garden bordered by a rambling orchard and, beyond that, the rambling English country­side. It was a bright spring morning and the sun was doing its best to rouse the new incumbents of the gatehouse out of their deep sleep. The insistent sunshine played patterns across the white linen curtains, fluttered down the pale blue walls, skipped across the polished wooden floor and crept stealthily across Holly’s sleeping face, tickling her into wakefulness.

Her first thoughts quickly formed into a list of all the things that needed to be done, urgent actions vying for attention. Holly silenced those thoughts, mentally folding over the pages of her newly formed list. They could wait. She wanted to savour at least one day with her husband in their new home with no one else’s needs to satisfy except their own. Time at home with Tom was going to be at a premium in the coming months.

No sooner had they closed the deal on the gatehouse, a house which they had chosen specifically because it was within commuting distance of London, than Tom was offered a new job. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse, not least because the studio was going through a painful reorganization and he was one of the lucky ones. At least he was keeping his job, although he would now be expected to do more work front of camera, covering politics as well as environmental issues, and he could also expect to be sent further afield. The further afield clause in his contract arrived sooner than expected and his first assignment was a six-week stint in Belgium, making his commute a little longer than either of them had anticipated.

‘Are you awake?’ Tom asked.

‘Hmmm,’ answered Holly, turning towards him so that they were nose to nose.

‘Whoa, morning breath!’ teased Tom.

‘You can talk, you smell like a man.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I hadn’t finished,’ Holly corrected him. ‘You smell like a man who’s spent the night licking the carpet of one of those really old pubs where your shoes stick to the floor. In fact, I can see you’ve still got half the carpet coated on your tongue.’

‘So you don’t want a kiss then?’

‘Are you sure you can cope with my morning breath?’ challenged Holly. She deliberately breathed out each word.

‘I’m willing to take the chance if you don’t mind risking a mouthful of old pub carpet.’ Tom poked his tongue out and licked the tip of Holly’s nose.

‘I’ve had worse things in my mouth.’

‘Now there’s a challenge,’ grinned Tom.

‘Not only do you have a tongue that smells like the gutter, you’ve got a mind that’s already there.’

Tom glided his body over towards Holly, sliding his hand across her torso and then slipping his legs between hers. It was a well-rehearsed and familiar manoeuvre that placed him over her and left Holly breathless.

‘I can talk dirty, if you want me to,’ Tom offered.

Holly wrapped her arms around his neck before letting her fingers trail down his spine. Hidden beneath the shadow of Tom’s body, Holly could only sense the dappling of morning light as it played across his back.

‘How dirty?’

‘Well . . .’ Tom said. He drew out the word with a teasing hiss, then he smiled, or was it a smirk? ‘I’m not talking five-year plans here.’

‘I should hope not,’ replied Holly. She was watching the curves of his mouth intently, the dampness of his lips, the glimpse of his tongue. She pushed her body towards him, encouraging him on.

‘Oh, no,’ Tom said, ignoring her blatant desire. ‘I’m not even talking seven years.’ He kissed her nose. ‘Not even ten.’

Holly tangled her fingers in the luxurious waves of his hair. She reached up to kiss him but he moved his head away. He hadn’t finished teasing her yet.

‘I might be talking twenty years here. Hell, no, I’m perverted enough to even count on forty.’

‘You have a sick mind, Tom Corrigan,’ agreed Holly. Her body was tingling with anticipation and she writhed beneath him. She could tease too.

‘I want a plan that takes us right up to our dotage, in this house, surrounded by our family, our children, our children’s children and maybe even our children’s children’s children.’

For a fraction of a second, Holly’s body froze. Then she blinked hard in an attempt to push away the fear that had fluttered across her eyes. She forced a smile, hoping that Tom hadn’t noticed her reaction, hoping that she could resurrect the moment, but the air in her ballooning passion had well and truly popped.

‘What?’ Tom asked with a quizzical look that pierced Holly’s heart. ‘Does the thought of children terrify you so much?’

‘No,’ lied Holly.

‘Yes, it does,’ insisted Tom. He leaned his body over to her right side, resting his arms. The moment for passion had most definitely been lost.

‘I want children,’ insisted Holly. ‘It’s just the being a mother part that I struggle with.’

‘You want to give me children. That’s different from wanting them yourself,’ corrected Tom, his tone a mixture of concern and frustration. ‘And you can and will be a good mum. It’s not hereditary, you know.’

Tom was, of course, referring to her childhood. Holly was the product of a broken home, broken long before the bitter divorce that followed. Her mother had left home when Holly was only eight years old, but rather than feel abandoned, she had actually felt relief. Her mother had had a perverse attitude to motherhood and replaced love with cruelty, nurturing with scorn. After the divorce, Holly saw little of her and by the time she was a teenager her mother had drunk herself into an early grave. Her father by contrast was distant and completely uninterested in his daughter, but in some ways that made him every bit as cruel. He left Holly to bring herself up, so when she moved into student digs at the age of eighteen she never returned home again, not even for his funeral.

‘I know it’s not hereditary, but you learn by example. You really don’t know how lucky you are with your family. Yours is so, it’s so . . .’ Holly just couldn’t find the words. Tom knew all about her childhood, but he could never really know what it was like to grow up without the security of a loving family. ‘It’s so linear,’ she said at last.

‘Linear?’ laughed Tom. ‘What does that mean?’

‘You have a mum and a dad who love and support you, and they had parents who loved and supported them. Your grandparents probably had wonderful parents too, and so it goes on and on, handed down, generation after generation.’

Tom’s parents were wonderful in Holly’s eyes and she was sometimes overwhelmed by the way they had accepted her into their family and loved her like one of their own. Being part of a classic nuclear family had been a steep and very emotional learning curve for Holly. When Tom’s grandmother Edith had died recently, Holly had witnessed first-hand how the family had drawn strength from each other, how their love for Edith had somehow bridged the void that her death had left in their lives.

‘We’re not that perfect,’ Tom replied. ‘We have the odd black sheep in the family.’

‘Oh, but you are perfect. Compared to my family, you are.’ Holly gently touched the side of Tom’s face. ‘What if I’m the weak link that’s going to break the chain in your family? What if I can’t learn to be the kind of mother that your family has been built on through the generations?’

‘Don’t ever think you’re weak. Yes, your parents were weak and that had an effect on you, but it had the opposite effect. You’re the strongest person I know. Your parents were awful at parenting but that just means you’re going to make sure you’re the best mum you possibly could be. You have to believe that.’

Tom’s body had become tense and she could feel a growing anger inside him. Anger that she knew was directed at her parents and at himself for not being able to heal her and banish the demons of her past.

‘I know I have to believe in myself,’ conceded Holly, although she didn’t think she ever would. But Tom wasn’t going to rest until she had her next plan all worked out. Not that he needed a plan to work to. Tom was a free spirit who preferred to make things up as he went along, but he was thirty-two now and he was desperate to be a father or to at least know that he would be one day.

Tears had started to well in Holly’s eyes and the sunlight that surrounded Tom’s head was a blurred halo. The only thing Holly could see clearly was his soft green eyes.

‘Hey, you’re crying,’ Tom said, sounding shocked.

Holly blinked, willing the tears to disappear. ‘I’m not,’ she lied defiantly.

‘Ah, I forgot, you never cry.’

‘I do. Not that I am now, but I do.’

‘When?’

Holly paused, struggling to find a recent example that would prove Tom wrong. ‘There was that film, the one where the dog died.’

Tom frowned as he tried to remember. Then he stifled a laugh. ‘That must have been over two years ago, I don’t think we were even married then.’

‘But I cried, point proven.’

‘OK, point proven,’ conceded Tom. ‘But I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want for yourself. I had hoped that when Lisa had her baby and then Penny, you’d just want to follow suit, but I can see it’s not going to be that simple. If you’re not ready to start talking babies yet, then I understand.’

Lisa and Penny were the closest thing Holly had to friends in London and they’d had their babies within a year of each other. She knew Tom had been disappointed when Holly hadn’t miraculously become broody at the sight of a newborn. Little did he know that her enthusiasm to move to the country had in part been fuelled by a desire to put as much distance between herself and the endless baby chatter.

‘Once I’ve got the house in order, then we can start on the next five-year plan. A joint one this time, and making a baby will most definitely be on the list,’ she told him.

‘A baby? Singular?’ Tom said. His body had begun to relax again and he was back in teasing mode. ‘Have you looked at this body? It’s a well-tuned baby-making machine if ever there was one. You won’t be able to so much as look at me without getting pregnant.’

‘Hold on, tiger,’ smiled Holly, relaxing too. ‘I think that baby-making machine of yours could do with a little more practice.’

‘Your wish is my command,’ replied Tom.

It was lunchtime before they managed to explore the rest of their new home.

The days disappeared in a blur and Tom’s departure was drawing painfully near, painfully fast. They had unpacked everything that needed to be unpacked, cleaned everything that needed cleaning and replaced as many of the things that needed replacing as they could afford. What little savings they had left had already been set aside to pay for the renovation of a small outbuilding at the side of the house that was going to be used as Holly’s studio.

Tom’s parents had visited, bearing gifts and even helping out with the physical demands of turning the gatehouse into a home. Typical of Diane and Jack, they had stayed long enough to help but hadn’t outstayed their welcome. They knew without being told that Holly and Tom had a lot of quality time to try to cram into two weeks.

Diane had made sure the kitchen was organized and fully stocked with a range of cooking essentials before she left. She was keen to support Holly in one of her new projects. Holly wanted to learn to cook. Her dad had been keen to show Holly the basics, if only to keep himself well fed, but the basics had involved how to open tins of beans, how to pierce the cellophane before putting ready meals in the microwave, how to make instant noodles, that kind of thing. Now Holly and Tom were living so far away from the conveniences of fast-food takeaways and restaurants on every corner, she was keen to improve her skills. The move into the country was more than simply a change of address; Holly wanted it to be a change of lifestyle.

‘It’s a beautiful house, Holly. Jack and I are so happy for you both,’ Diane told her as they unpacked a mind-boggling assortment of kitchen utensils. ‘And Mum would be too. It makes the pain of losing her a little easier to bear, knowing that her legacy is to help you and Tom start a new life of your own.’

‘I’m just sorry Grandma Edith isn’t here to see her money being well spent. It means a lot to me and Tom that you’re happy with how we’ve used the inheritance.’

‘It’s all about investing in the future. This is where it all starts for you and Tom. This is where your family will be made.’

Diane gave Holly a hug and didn’t see the cloud of doubt pass over her face. Holly only wished she had the same kind of confidence in herself that the entire Corrigan family seemed to have.

Three days before Tom was due to leave, Holly’s to-do list was complete and the house was officially in order. The builders had already started work on the outbuilding and, although Holly was happy to sit back and let them get on with it, Tom obviously felt some kind of threat to his masculinity so he took up his own physical challenge by clearing the overgrown garden.

Leaving the men to their labours, Holly stayed indoors to start work on the preliminary sketches for her new commission. Mrs Bronson was a young wife with a very rich and very much older husband. To celebrate the birth of their first child together, as opposed to the numerous children her husband had fathered from a variety of previous marriages and dalliances, Mrs Bronson wanted to mark the occasion with a sculpture. It would need to be a substantial piece and would become a permanent and prominent feature in the entrance hall to their mansion.

Naturally, the theme of the sculpture was mother and child. Given the theme, Holly had been reluctant to take on the commission, which would take at least six months to complete, but the money was too good to turn down.

She had set out her sketch pads in the study that morning, full of good intentions but with a distinct lack of inspiration. Money alone wasn’t incentive enough to get her creative juices flowing. She just didn’t have that same depth of feeling she usually had to draw upon. She knew nothing about the miraculous bond between mother and child that everyone else seemed to drone on about.

Holly couldn’t recall a single memory of her childhood where she had felt that kind of bond. She had spent most of her formative years feeling either alone or afraid. Her mother had been in her teens when she had discovered she was pregnant. A hasty marriage and an unwanted child had come as a nasty shock to her and she hadn’t been prepared or willing to give up her freedom.

With a young child to care for, her mother’s social life had been severely restricted, so she often brought the party lifestyle she craved into the house. Holly had vivid memories of a house full of hangers-on, either recovering from the last party or waiting for the next. Her mum was always centre of attention, dancing barefoot through the house whether there was music playing or not. She always looked her happiest when she was dancing and everyone was drawn to her, even Holly, like a moth to the flame, eager to share her mother’s excitement. She could remember one time when her mum had picked her up and twirled her around the room to squeals of delight from her daughter, but Holly was never sure whether that had actually happened. She suspected it was merely a false memory of a longed-for dream. The memories Holly could rely on were those where her mum would stop dancing and point an accusing finger at her daughter before proclaiming to everyone that this was the creature who had ruined her life. The look on her mother’s face was one of pure loathing, and that was the image that Holly recalled when she thought of motherhood.

Until Tom, Holly hadn’t even managed to witness responsible parenting second-hand. In her early years, she had been isolated from other children, their parents having already labelled Holly as a problem child because of her family life. As a teenager, she had been naturally drawn to the other orphaned fledglings that had been pushed out of the nest too soon.

Her art had been her saviour in more ways than one. It had been a form of escapism, a part of her life she could control and succeed in and, in hindsight, it had also been an effective form of therapy. She had put a lot of anger into her earlier work and it was only after meeting Tom that she found she could express positive emotion in her art too. The love between a man and a woman she now understood; the love between a mother and a child she didn’t. She was drawing a blank, literally.

She had spent two hours going through the motions of sketching images, but still hadn’t come up with any ideas that were sufficiently original or thought-provoking. She’d sketched out some obvious images of a mother holding her child, a mother nursing her child, a mother kissing her child. Desperate for a new perspective, she’d even sketched out an image of the moment of birth. Possibly not the kind of statue Mrs Bronson would want greeting her guests in the entrance to her home.