Every Time a Bell Rings

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

Copyright © Carmel Harrington 2015

Cover photograph © Daniel Grill/Getty Images

Carmel Harrington asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

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stored in or introduced into any information storage and

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whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © September 2015 ISBN: 9780008156541

Version 2018-06-25

Acclaim for Carmel Harrington

‘Will make you see life in a different way’

Woman’s Way

‘Heartwrenching and heartwarming’

Evening Herald

‘Guaranteed to brighten your day’

Novelicious

‘Carmel Harrington has done it again! Brilliantly written … it surpasses all expectations’

Chicklit Club

‘A bittersweet, quietly brilliant novel that will make you cry, laugh and cry all over again’

Female First

‘Funny, poignant and bursting with heartfelt humour’

I Heart … Chick Lit

‘Completely stunning’

Reviewed the Book

‘It will stay with you well after, you have turned the last page’

Bleach House Library

For my family – the H’s,Roger, Amelia, Nate & Eva.

Epigraph

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

Khalil Gibran

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Acclaim for Carmel Harrington

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

PART TWO

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

PART THREE

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Tess’s Christmas Pudding

A Q & A With Carmel Harrington

Keep Reading...

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.

Hamilton Wright Mabie

Christmas Eve, 2005

‘Happiness is …’ I exhale a long, deep, satisfied sigh, and the cold breath of winter floats out of my mouth up into the air.

‘This is the best Christmas street lighting yet.’

I know I say the same thing every year, in this very same spot, at this very same time. I’ll probably say it again next year too.

In this moment, I’ve never seen anything more perfect. The Victorian-inspired decorations are from a bygone era that shine with goodwill to all men. I know, I know, that sounds all cheese on toast, but when it comes to Christmas, that’s allowed. With extra parmesan on top, as far as I’m concerned.

My city, my beloved Dublin, is sparkling in a festive glow. And its inhabitants are collectively holding their breaths, because Christmas is almost here.

And this year, I’ve been delivered an early Christmas present. The fact that it’s the same one I received when I was eight years old isn’t lost on me. Coincidence, fate, magic, I don’t know what forces are at play to make this happen, but I’m grateful.

Just two weeks ago, I was single, happily so too, living my best life, teaching kids in St Colmcille’s. I honest to goodness didn’t wake up each day lamenting the lack of love in my life. Because I had a good life, boyfriends coming and going. I figured that one day I would meet Mr Right. But now that he is here, I cannot believe that I ever got through each day without him by my side.

Here I am, at the foot of Grafton Street with Jim Looney of all people. If you would have suggested such a thing to me a mere few weeks ago, the words ‘look up’ and ‘flying pigs’ would have been uttered.

Jim Looney.

I sigh again as I take him in, standing beside the statue of Molly Malone, laughing at the tinsel that someone has draped over her cleavage.

An image of Jim strutting down a runway pops into my head and I giggle at the thought. He could give any male model a run for their money, but I think he’d rather pull his nails out one by one than do that.

I grab my phone and take a photo of him. I’ve already taken at least a dozen this evening. He could be modelling a new line in men’s winter clothing, he looks so good. I mean, not many could get away with that multi-coloured Dr Who-inspired scarf wrapped around his neck over and over. But on him it looks quirky and cool.

And, this is the bit that I still can’t quite believe.

He’s my boyfriend. All mine.

Don’t go getting too used to this, Belle. It never lasts.

I quickly banish the little voice inside my head. Go away nasty mean voice.

I know full well that I’m punching above my weight. I mean, for goodness sake, he’s even got a chiselled jawline. Seriously, I’m telling you, he’s fecking gorgeous. I can’t find ways to describe him to you without sounding like a big sap. But trust me when I say this. He’s, as we are want to say in Dublin about a good-looking man, a ‘ride’.

When I look into his big blue eyes, I’m done for. I keep forgetting what I’m about to say when he directs those baby blues at me.

And don’t get me started on his hair. That’s always been my Achilles heel. It makes me feel all protective and full of love. You see, it has this habit of just flopping over his right eye. I’m sure most would say it’s red or ginger, maybe even auburn. But I like to call it foxy.

Jim McFoxy Looney.

When it does that flopping thing, it’s as if my hands have a mind of their own and they involuntarily reach up to brush it back off his forehead. But there again, I’m not complaining about that, because I don’t need any excuse to touch Jim. And I’ve realised that when I do touch him, it seems to have a delicious knock-on effect. One minute I’m lightly touching his forearm, then the next we’re kissing.

A shiver ripples through me as I remember what happened only this morning when I brushed past him on my way into the bathroom.

Twice.

Who would have thought that Jim Looney had that in him? I’m telling you, it’s ridiculous how sexy he is.

He is, no other word for it, but a fecking ride.

You’ll notice that I’ll find any excuse to say that.

Jim Looney, the big ride, my boyfriend.

I feel a bit giddy with it all, to be honest. It’s like it’s five o’clock all the time and I’m half drunk. The mad thing is, I’ve not had much to drink in weeks. Jim’s not a big drinker and that in itself is charming, because all the guys I’ve dated recently seem to be more in love with a pint of lager than me. Kind of refreshing to be with a guy who gets that there are more things to do in life than prop up a bar.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Jim asks, with a raised eyebrow.

‘Ah, that would be telling,’ I say with a grin.

Thank goodness he can’t read thoughts. If I tell him what I’ve just been thinking, we’ll be in a taxi and on our way back to my apartment before the words are out of my mouth. And as tempting as that thought is, it will have to wait.

Because it’s Christmas Eve and we’re on Grafton Street, where its festive delights await us.

‘So, tell me about this tradition of yours, the one you do every Christmas Eve?’ Jim asks.

‘This is my tenth year. Started because of Joyce O’Connor,’ I say.

‘Why do I get the feeling there’s a story there?’ Jim remarks.

‘Oh yes, there’s a story alright. She asked me to go into the city with her one Christmas Eve, when I was fifteen,’ I say.

I wonder what Joyce is up to now. We lost touch a long time ago. But she’s wrapped up in this particular tradition and standing here usually sparks a memory of her.

She wasn’t even a close friend. In fact, if I’m calling a spade a spade, she was a bit of a bitch. I don’t know why I said yes in the first place when she asked me to go with her. I mean, she’d been one of those passive aggressive wagons for years. The queen of making snide comments behind my back, giving inverted compliments that everyone knows is really an insult.

I spent half my childhood trying to dodge Joyce and her cronies in the hallways at school. Anything to avoid one of her ‘chats’.

‘I remember her. At least I think I’m remembering the right one. Blonde, small girl? Touch of the mean girls about her? She was one of the gang who used to give you a hard time,’ Jim says.

I laugh, yep, he’s got her number. ‘Good memory. She had her moments, for sure. And the only reason she asked me to go with her on that day was because she had no other options. Her usual cronies were busy and she needed a decoy. Her parents would never have let her go off to meet a boy on her own. But a nice innocent trip into town with a friend, well, that was different.’

‘Oh, I get it. You got to be a big, fat, green, hairy gooseberry,’ Jim says.

I nod. ‘I’d nothing better to do, so thought, why not? And it made Tess happy when I told her I was off gallivanting. She was always worrying about me being such a loner.’

‘Did you have fun in the end?’ Jim says. ‘Maybe she wasn’t as bad as you thought?’

‘No, we didn’t bond over hot chocolate or anything. She was true to form and remained a wagon. But despite that, I did have fun,’ I say.

The 16B bus had been jammers with lots of people with the same idea, to head into the city to soak up the festive atmosphere.

‘Joyce didn’t even bother keeping up a pretence that we were together for more than a few minutes. Once we jumped on board the bus she ran upstairs to the upper deck and within seconds was doing a round of tonsil hockey with a pimply, horny boy called Billy Doyle. I swear her arse hadn’t even hit the seat he’d saved for her before his tongue was down her throat,’ I say.

‘You can’t buy class.’ Jim says shaking his head.

‘A right dirt bird.’ I say and he laughs with me. ‘You know, they hadn’t even bothered to save a seat for me. As the upper deck was so full, I had no choice but to retreat back downstairs, tail between my legs and stand. Joyce didn’t give me a backwards glance, the cheeky mare,’ I say.

I marvel that I ever allowed myself to be treated like that.

‘Once we arrived at O’Connell Street, the two love birds headed to McDonalds to share a strawberry shake. It was clear I wasn’t included in their romantic date, so I left them to it. I suppose I should have been annoyed with her, but I didn’t mind in the slightest.’

Jim throws a sympathetic glance my way, but I’m quick to reassure him, ‘I was used to my own company back then, preferred it a lot of the time.’

It baffled me as to why they wanted to sit on plastic seats in a noisy fast-food restaurant, when they could be out, soaking up the Christmassy atmosphere in the city.

‘It was their loss. I got to explore Dublin, on my own. It was almost dusk and the city changes in that light. Everything seemed so magical.’

I pause, feeling embarrassed, ‘This probably sounds silly but, to me, it felt like I was looking at my city with new eyes.’

‘Not silly at all.’ Jim replies. ‘You know what I thought when we got to O’Connell Street? There’s a touch of Bedford Falls about it all now. You know, the town in It’s a Wonderful Life.’

I smile and nod in agreement. I’ve always thought the same. ‘I love that movie.’

I jump as a badly dressed Santa roars in our direction. ‘Merry Christmas. Ho ho ho.’ He rings his bell and rattles a box loudly, collecting change for charity. He seems intent on frightening passers-by and is clearly delighted with himself when everyone jumps in shock.

I throw a few euro into his box and then Jim says, ‘So fill me in on how this tradition of yours works.’

‘Well, ever since that year, I’ve come back each Christmas Eve. I start off in O’Connell Street, then walk over the Liffey, past Trinity College, say hello to the Molly Malone statue in all her glory, stroll up Grafton Street, then head over to the Ha’penny Bridge, before going home,’ I say.

‘You ever mix it up and change the route?’ Jim asks.

‘Oh, God no. Has to be in that order,’ I say. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot to say, I do have a quick pit stop in Captain America’s for hot chocolate and a slice of their, quite frankly, decadent Mississippi Mud Pie. Just to keep the energy levels up.’ I grin like a four-year-old.

‘Sounds like quite a nice tradition to keep.’ Jim says. ‘I’m glad I’m here to share it with you this year.’

‘I’m glad you’re here too. You know, I’ve had years of strolling up and down this cobbled street with boyfriends, girlfriends, school friends and, yes, I’ll even admit it – the shame – on my own a few times.’ I look at him, feeling a little shy. ‘But this feels special, more than any other year. That’s because of you, Jim.’

He grabs my hand and laughs, ‘I’m honoured. Come on then, Ms Bailey, show me what this great city of ours has to offer.’

My eyes greedily take in the view ahead of us, down Grafton Street. Red, flickering lights coil around luscious green garlands, which drape from one side of the street to the other. In the centre of each garland is a large red Victorian lantern and the light casts a warm glow over the busy cobbled street. Each shop window is alight with Christmas lights and resplendent baubles in rich jewel colours.

There’s something about the energy here … well, it is breathtaking.

I’m not the only one who feels that. I can see it on the faces of people as they rush by too, with their pre-Christmas festive highs.

Okay, maybe not so much on that guy’s face, I giggle, as a harassed man in his forties rushes by. Last-minute shopper, I decide. Poor sap. I’ve mine all done and dusted since October. I wouldn’t dream of leaving it to now. But aside from the odd scowling face, the street is awash with a sea of shiny, happy people.

‘Look over there,’ I shout in excitement as I spy a window display with a group of reindeers nibbling on fake grass in the snow. Then another scene catches my eyes and I’m darting over to the other side of the street, pulling Jim behind me.

‘Earlier, when you said happiness is …’ Jim waves his hand around the Christmas-card view in front of us, ‘is all of this what you meant by happiness?’

‘Well, obviously lots of things make me happy. But this, well, it’s up there with the best of them. I love everything about Christmas. You must feel it too? Doesn’t it feel like we’re in a Christmas movie right now?’ I exclaim.

‘Oh, a blockbuster for sure.’ He drawls. ‘Aside from twinkling lights, which I know you’re a sucker for, what else makes you happy?’

I reckon the feel of my hand in his, as we walk through the frenzied crowds, is top of my happy list right now. But a girl has to hold some cards to herself, so I remain silent.

‘I want to know. Come on, Belle. What else makes you happy?’ Jim persists.

‘Oh, a lot of different things. Not having to set the alarm on Saturdays and Sundays. Peanut butter on hot toast. But don’t be giving me cold toast. I can’t be doing with rubbery cold toast,’ I say.

‘A shootable offence that?’ He asks and when I nod, he says, ‘I’m taking notes here. This is good intel.’

‘Well, while you’re at it, add to the list that not spreading said peanut butter to all corners of the toast is equally damnable. I can’t be doing with someone who just smears it on willy nilly, not giving due consideration to all parts of the bread,’ I tell him.

‘Got it. Take care when smearing peanut butter – evenly – on piping-hot toast. What else makes your ladyship happy?’ He says, tipping his hat in mock salute.

‘I love starting a new book and then realising that it’s one of the good ones. The kind that I am not going to want to finish,’ I say.

I think some more and add, ‘Oh and dancing. Any kind, but preferably one that involves a lot of bum-shaking is guaranteed to make me smile.’

Jim raises his eyebrow so I reward him with a little shake of my bum.

‘See. Look how happy my dancing makes you too.’ I tease, and he bursts into laughter.

‘Oh, you can be assured that your bum makes me happy,’ he declares, giving it a pat, and I thank the stars that I stuck at the squats this summer in the gym.

‘You’ve not mentioned swinging,’ Jim states.

‘How very dare you! I’m a respectable lady, I’ll have you know. I’ve never left my key ring in anyone’s fruit bowl.’ I feign outrage. I know what he’s referring to, but it’s still fun teasing him.

He starts to splutter an explanation, then he realises my game.

‘Yes, Jim Looney, I still love swings. I can’t pass by a park without seeing how high I can go.’ I admit. ‘And I do some of my best thinking when I’m up there chasing the clouds.’

‘You were always the same,’ he remembers. ‘I was more of a slide man myself.’

I remember him always trying to climb up the slide, rather than use the ladder and me begging him to push me higher and higher on the swings. That was a long time ago, though.

He pulls me to the side of the street, out of the lane of traffic and looks searchingly into my eyes.’ What about me? Do I make you happy?’

I’m surprised to see that my confident, laid-back boyfriend looks like a ten-year-old boy, suddenly unsure of himself.

Without hesitation, I take his hands between my own and tell him, with the utmost sincerity, ‘You, Jim Looney, make me happiest most of all.’

My friends would be horrified that I’ve laid my heart bare so early on in our relationship. I know that I probably should play a little harder to get. But I’ve never been any good at hiding how I feel.

‘You get what you see with my Belle.’ Tess always says. Heart-on-sleeve territory.

Well, he’s getting a complete, hopelessly devoted to you, kind of lovestruck feeling from me right now.

He gives me the strangest look. Damn it, I’ve frightened him off.

‘You’re full of surprises,’ he says after a moment of tortured silence and you’d swear he was just seeing me for the first time.

‘You okay?’ I ask and my stomach flips. That strange look is back on his face. It worries me.

‘So much has changed since I left, but then, some things are just as they were when I said goodbye.’ He murmurs. ‘It’s disconcerting.’

‘You’re getting all reflective in your old age.’ I poke him in his side. ‘Now enough of that, come on admit it, Brown Thomas gives Macy’s a run for its money, doesn’t it?’

‘Absolutely, it’s not half-bad.’ He acknowledges in his slow half-Midwestern, half-Irish drawl, and we pause to take in the decadent window displays.

‘I really think it’s the most beautiful street in the world.’ I murmur. ‘When I stand here, I feel like a child again.’

As we move from window to window of the department store I have the most wonderful sensation that I’ve been engulfed in a big Christmas hug. Mannequins draped in Victorian clothing, bejewelled with pearls and glittering gems, stand and sit in displays, dressed with snow, fairy lights and dazzling Christmas trees. I lean back into Jim’s embrace and nuzzle my head into the crook of his neck.

Oh, I love how he smells. I’ve spent some time on this subject and have decided that it’s a mix of spice and cinnamon and oaky leathers. He actually smells a bit Christmassy.

And then his arms wrap around my body and I think he’s just so … I struggle to find the right word and then giggle when it comes to me. He’s just so manly, yes that’s the word.

I catch a glimpse of us in the reflection of the window display, me giggling and him smiling in response, even though he has no idea why I’m doing so and I don’t think I’ve ever felt luckier.

I notice a few people looking at us. I’m used to that, the gawping, that is. The foxy-haired Irishman with a Midwestern US drawl and the caramel-skinned Amazonian woman, with black afro hair and Dublin accent. An unlikely pair maybe, but we somehow fit perfectly.