A Winter's Wish

Chapter Three

From behind the bar of the Duck Inn, Phil McNally folded his arms over his chest and observed the hustle and bustle of a Sunday night in Buttersley. There was nothing unusual in this activity. There hadn’t been many Sunday nights during his seven-year ownership of the pub that Phil hadn’t folded his arms over his chest and observed the village’s residents relaxing in the plush surroundings. And all the regulars were there tonight: Joe, the window cleaner with his girlfriend, Candi; Jenny Rutter, who now ran guided tours up at the manor house, and her man, Peter; Derek Carter, the vicar, who never said no to so much as a wine gum; and Mrs Gates from the grocery store, wearing a wig that looked like it might have been one of Marie Antoinette’s cast-offs. Added to the colourful mix of local characters were those who had travelled from the surrounding area specially to savour all the Duck had to offer – the comfortable interior, the beautifully decorated conservatory, the carefully selected range of culinary delights.

Phil had been brought up in the trade. His parents had run a variety of pubs over the years, from those on council estates, where only the most audacious ventured out after dark, to eventually buying their own small hotel on the outskirts of Harrogate. Phil had learned everything he could from them, helping out as soon as he was old enough. And along with all the requisite business skills, they’d also instilled in him the ethic that hard work pays off: an adage to which they were testament. They’d worked hard and saved hard – saved enough, in fact, to help Phil buy the Duck.

‘That should cover the deposit,’ his dad had said, shoving a cheque into Phil’s hand.

‘I can’t take that,’ he’d gasped, wide-eyed at the number of noughts.

‘Oh yes you can. That pub’s too good an opportunity to miss.’

Phil had bit his lip. The Duck was a good opportunity. An excellent opportunity. One that rarely came up. At twenty-five he’d been biding his time, waiting for the perfect place to come on the market, working and living with his parents, saving every penny. But even so, he didn’t have enough to cover the deposit.

‘I’ll pay you back when it takes off,’ he’d vowed.

And he had. The pub’s balance sheet had been healthy enough before he’d taken over. The only pub in the village, in an idyllic setting on the duck-ponded green, guaranteed its local trade. But, after carrying out meticulous research, Phil spotted a couple of new trends in the market: affluent young families were moving to the area bringing with them lots of disposable cash and regular epicurean visitors. And, culinary tastes were becoming much more discerning.

So he set out to exploit both these developments, adding a fabulous new conservatory to the back of the building, and offering a tempting selection of grub to suit all tastes – from the traditional to the exotic. Instilling a sense of pride in his staff, he’d built up a good, loyal team, most of whom had been with him for years. And his marketing outlay – huge initially – was now non-existent. Word of mouth, always the best recommendation, proved much more effective.

Saturdays being far too hectic to even draw breath, Phil allowed himself such moments of reflection every Sunday evening. And normally, amidst all the genial conviviality – not to mention the constant hum of the till – he experienced a warm glow of satisfaction.

This evening, though, he just felt sick. Sick to his very core. Like he could throw up at any moment.

‘Evening, Phil.’

His navel-gazing was cut short by Jake O’Donnell, who fitted Phil’s well-heeled client profile perfectly. Jake had moved to the village a couple of years ago when he’d married Annie. Phil liked Jake. He was a good, down-to-earth bloke, who wrote a lot of books by all accounts. Not that Phil had read any of them. His reading matter stretched only as far as Top Gear and Private Eye.

Plastering a smile onto his face, Phil pulled himself together and returned the pleasantry. ‘Hi, Jake. We don’t normally see you on a Sunday night. To what do we owe the pleasure?’

Jake grimaced. ‘Annie’s ever-so-slightly-scary sister. She’s staying with us for a while.’

He indicated a table to the right where Annie and another attractive young woman sat perusing the menu. They both had the same honey-blonde hair, but there any discernible similarity ended. Annie was the quintessential girl next door, with her freckled face and messy ponytail. Her sister, with her sleek bob and magenta lipstick, looked like she had a poker somewhere uncomfortable.

‘Why so scary?’ he asked.

‘She’s an actuary. Scary by default. Smiling is prohibited in the world of risk assessment. Plus, Amelia used to run the whole department. Which makes her—’

‘Uber-scary,’ they snorted in unison.

‘How long is she staying?’

Jake shrugged. ‘No idea. She’s been made redundant, which has hit her pretty badly. If I was her, I’d have been delighted to get out – and with a big fat cheque. But her pride’s taken a battering. Annie felt really sorry for her and invited her up never expecting her to accept. But, to our amazement, she did. Quite what she’s going to do with herself, I have no idea. In fact, Annie and I are on complete tenterhooks wondering how it’s going to go, and the poor kids seem completely terrified of her. But that’s enough about us. How are things with you? Not long to the big move now. Everything sorted?’

As Phil turned to add a dash of gin to a glass, a surge of bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it down before whisking back round. ‘Er, just about. A few loose ends to tie up, then I’ll be off.’

‘You’ll be a big miss. This place won’t be the same without you.’

And I won’t be the same without this place, Phil almost added. But he didn’t. It would sound pathetic. After all, how many people would love the chance to experience a new life in Brisbane? Would kill to have the Great Barrier Reef on their doorstep? Endless sunshine, golden beaches, and barbecues where you didn’t have to huddle in the garage because the heavens had opened?

Millions of people, he’d wager. It was just a shame he wasn’t one of them.

When Rachel had first mentioned emigrating, Phil had thought it nothing but a pipe dream. Didn’t everyone at some point fantasise about packing it all in and jetting off on an exotic adventure? But he should’ve known better. Rachel was a doer not a dreamer, and when she set her mind to something, that was it. After five years together, no one knew that better than Phil. He’d even featured on her list of goals at one stage. Years later, she admitted that the first time she’d seen him, whilst in the pub with a group of nursing friends, she’d decided she had to have him. Completely unbeknown to Phil, subtle enquiries as to his marital status had been made, followed by a dramatic increase in her visits to the pub, despite her residing in Harrogate at the time. One particular Saturday night, just after Phil had waved off the last customer and locked up, he’d been stacking glasses in the dishwasher when there’d been a rattle on the door.

‘I’m really sorry but I think I’ve left my sheepskin gloves here,’ Rachel purred, gazing up at him through dark, lowered, impossibly long lashes.

Phil furrowed his forehead. ‘Sheepskin gloves? But it’s the middle of July.’

Her bright red lips stretched into a mischievous smile. And that, of course, had been it. Lashes, lips, lustrous dark curls and a killer bod barely covered in a tiny mini-skirt and plunging top meant he hadn’t stood a chance. He’d taken her upstairs to his flat. Three hours and two bottles of Prosecco later, she’d been in his bed. And rarely out of it for the next few months.

Not that Phil made a habit of bedding all the attractive women who flirted with him. If he did, he’d rarely be out of bed. He could never quite fathom what it was about him that women found so attractive. He was of average height, average build – although regular runs ensured he kept in shape – and his features, although pleasant, were anything but startling.

‘It’s that twinkle in those cornflower-blue eyes,’ Rachel insisted, after observing Lydia Pemberton, one of the village’s randy middle-aged women, flirting with him. ‘And your gorgeous hair.’

Phil had to admit that if he’d been forced to name his best feature, he would’ve said his hair. Not that he spent much time on it. He couldn’t be bothered with all that gel, and mousse, and spiking and highlighting palaver. Thankfully, he didn’t have to. His shaggy mane of blond curls fell defiantly into the “surfer dude” category – a completely fortuitous coincidence, which appeared to sit well with the opposite sex.

‘I should make you shave it off before I leave for Oz tomorrow,’ Rachel said, running her hands through it as they’d lain in bed during their last evening together.

Phil’s stomach lurched. He wasn’t particularly vain, but well … his curls were part of him.

‘I’m only joking,’ she said, obviously sensing his distress. Then, she’d sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest. And the tears had begun. ‘It’s just that I’m scared you’ll forget about me, or find someone else while I’m away.’

Phil balked inwardly. He really didn’t do the whole tears thing. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he replied dismissively. ‘Of course I won’t.’

Rachel wrenched a tissue from the box on the bedside table. ‘I really wanted us to start our new life together. But now this job has come up, I’d be stupid to turn it down.’

‘It’s a brilliant job. You had to take it,’ he assured her. And it was. A fantastic job. After going straight into nursing from school, Rachel had gone on to train as a midwife. And Brisbane’s biggest hospital had offered her her dream job – as manager of the unit.

She heaved a quivering sigh. ‘I know. But it just means things are happening much quicker than I’d planned. It could be months before you’re able to sort everything out here and join me.’

‘I’ll tie everything up as soon as I can.’

As promptly as they’d started, the tears stopped. ‘So you’ll sell the pub to the brewery?’

Phil’s heart stuttered. That hadn’t been what he’d meant at all. He’d had countless offers for the pub over the years but he wanted to sell it to someone like him. Someone who cared. Not some massive faceless corporation who’d rip out all the character to bring it in line with their “corporate branding”.

‘You know it makes sense,’ Rachel continued, the tearful scene obviously having finished as she began trailing kisses down his bare chest. ‘They’re offering you much more than anyone else would. And just think what we could do with all that dosh.’

Phil sighed. Of course she was right. The ridiculous sum the brewery had tossed on the table would enable them to buy a house outright in Brisbane, and still leave a decent sum for him to set up some kind of business. That was one stipulation he definitely was sticking to. Other than his parents, he’d never worked for anyone else. Nor did he intend to.

‘Okay,’ he huffed, as Rachel’s kissing stopped just short of his groin. ‘I’ll sell to the brewery.’

‘Good move, baby,’ she cooed, her head disappearing under the duvet. At which point Phil forgot all about pubs and breweries, and anything that did not involve Rachel’s luscious lips.

But that moment, as delectable as it had been, had been fleeting. As soon as the reality of what he’d promised had sunk in, Phil’s innards had been on a constant churning cycle. The rate of which had increased significantly following Rachel’s announcement last night.

‘I’ve found just the thing for you,’ her voice gushed across the ten thousand dividing miles. ‘A little pizza shop in the centre of town. They do wraps and everything.’

Phil couldn’t have cared less if they sold deep-fried caviar on silver platters. He could picture it now: a gleaming white soulless space with red posters dotted about the walls advertising “a tempting range of toppings”. It was hardly likely to be at the heart of Brisbane society, unlike the Duck – the backbone of Buttersley.

‘I’ll send you the link and all the pictures I’ve taken,’ she enthused.

‘Great,’ muttered Phil, unable to inject so much as a smidgeon of enthusiasm into his tone. Rachel appeared not to notice.

‘I’m on nights for the next week, babe, so I’ll call when I can.’

‘No problem,’ said Phil on a sigh of relief. Thank God he had a bit of a reprieve. With her constantly in touch, he felt like he’d lost track of his own opinions.

At least he had a bit of breathing space now.

But space to do what, he had absolutely no idea.

Chapter Four

The first thing Amelia noticed when she awoke was her fuzzy head. The second was a strange sense of bewilderment. She couldn’t recall another Monday morning when she’d had nothing to do. In fact, she’d be hard pushed to think of any morning when she’d had nothing to do. Even on holiday she had a schedule: a swim before breakfast, a jog along the beach, a session in the gym. But this morning she had neither the energy nor the motivation to even slide out of bed. Perhaps she should just give into the urge and burrow under the duvet—

‘Thomas! Come out of there!’

Amelia jack-knifed up as her bedroom door flew open and in bowled a miniature Darth Vader brandishing a flashing lightsaber. Pip, red tinsel around his collar, followed, leaping onto Amelia’s bed with a great sense of purpose.

‘Gosh, I’m so sorry,’ apologised Annie, scuttling in after them. She scooped up her son with one hand and dragged the dog off the bed with the other. ‘I’ve told them to be quiet and stay away from your room but—’

‘It’s all right. I was just about to get up,’ lied Amelia.

‘You honestly don’t have to,’ said Annie. ‘You should have a lie-in. I would if I could. I really shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine last night.’

‘Me neither.’ Amelia didn’t normally drink so much. In fact, she rarely drank at all. A couple of glasses of champagne at work functions was as much as she ever risked. You couldn’t run an actuarial department without a razor-sharp mind. But she wasn’t running an actuarial department now, was she? She wasn’t doing anything. For the first time in her life she was completely without purpose.

‘So, any plans?’ Jake had asked her in the pub.

Amelia had toyed with a chunk of aubergine on her pasta salad as tears, once again, stung her eyes. ‘Er, no. Not at the moment,’ she’d managed to reply.

‘That’s not like you,’ Annie had pointed out. ‘You always have a plan – always striving towards your next career goal.’

I don’t have a next career goal, Amelia had wanted to wail. Thankfully, though, the attention had shifted to Mr Russell – the owner of the newsagent’s, who’d scuttled over to tell them he’d be closing the shop for a few days over the holidays as he was going to visit his family down south. As soon as he’d tottered off Amelia, unable to face more interrogation about her own sorry situation, had steered the conversation onto the much less emotive subject of Annie’s new tearoom.

‘Breakfast’s ready if you’re coming down,’ Annie informed her, whisking the interlopers out of the room and closing the door behind her.

Well, given she was now fully awake, Amelia concluded she might as well get up. Dragging herself out of bed, she padded over to the en suite and examined her reflection in the mirror. God! She looked terrible: skin the colour of putty, dark shadows beneath her bloodshot eyes, and not an ounce of her normally high-voltage energy. With a heavy sigh, she turned on the shower and whipped up a bottle of shampoo.

Half an hour later, showered and dressed in black designer jeans and a grey cashmere jumper, she wandered down to the kitchen. Sophie sat at the table in a blue gingham dress and navy cardigan, her hair in two fat bunches, spreading what looked like an entire jar of strawberry jam onto a tiny piece of toast. Cereal boxes and soggy cereal remnants, as well as a smattering of crockery – some clean, some used – a rack of wholemeal toast, and a half-full cafetière covered the table.

‘Hello,’ said Amelia.

Abandoning her toast-smearing for a moment, Sophie lifted her head and gazed at her aunt with huge green eyes. ‘Hello.’

Amelia immediately felt awkward – on the back foot. For heaven’s sake, she chided herself, she regularly presented to groups of highly educated, intelligent people. How on earth could a seven-year-old make her feel so self-conscious?

Resisting the urge to turn on her heel and shoot back upstairs and under the duvet, she pulled out the bench opposite her niece and plopped down onto it. She cleared her throat.

‘So. Are you, er, going to school today?’

Her earnest gaze still fixed on Amelia’s face, Sophie nodded.

‘Do you like school?’

Sophie nodded.

‘Do you have lots of friends there?’

Sophie nodded.

‘Right. Well, um, that’s nice.’ At a loss as to what else to say, Amelia reached for a slice of toast.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Sophie piped up.

Amelia’s toast slipped from her fingers, landing on a couple of Coco Pops, which had seen better days.

Before she could reply, Annie waltzed into the room, Darth Vader scuttling behind her.

‘Got to dash, I’m afraid,’ she said, whipping most of the detritus from the table. ‘It’s completely manic up at the manor at the moment. Portia’s rather gorgeous, and very generous, boyfriend, Jed, surprised her with a two-week holiday in the Caribbean, so while she’s sunning herself on a beach, the rest of us are running around like the proverbial blue-bottomed flies.’ She began bundling up the children in coats and scarves, then swiped up their accompanying baggage and headed for the front door.

‘If you want to take Pip for a walk, his lead and stuff is in the utility room,’ she called through from the hall. ‘Jake will be back at lunchtime. He’s up at the manor preparing for his next writing course. Come up later if you like. I can show you round the house, in all its newly refurbished glory. And you can sample our coffee and cake. I’ll leave a key on the table here for you.’

And with that, off they went.

No sooner had the door closed, than an eerie silence settled over the house, which suddenly seemed far too big. Unnerved by the dramatic change in atmosphere, Amelia spotted a radio on the kitchen bench. She wandered over and flicked it on. Stone Cold Sober by Paloma Faith floated out. With her back against the bench, gazing out into the frost-covered garden, she contemplated Sophie’s question.

Did she have a boyfriend?

Of course, for most people, the question would elicit a simple Yes or No. But not for Amelia. Her love life fell unreservedly into the “It’s Complicated” category. And yet again, there was no one to blame for that but herself …

‘Anyone sitting here?’ a gangly youth with dark floppy hair had asked on her first day at Cambridge. All the freshers had been summoned to a meeting on “Keeping Safe” in one of the lecture theatres.

Amelia had shaken her head, far too taken aback by how devastatingly good-looking he was to add any words to the gesture.

He plumped down on the bench alongside her. ‘I hate all this induction stuff, don’t you? Can’t wait to get it all over with and get down to some serious drinking. You coming to the meet ’n’ greet thing at the pub after this?’

Amelia hadn’t intended going to the meet ’n’ greet thing. She’d been planning on scrutinising her reading list for what must have been the twenty-seventh time, making doubly sure she’d crammed in as much as she could before lectures started. But, gazing into those sparkling hazel eyes as he awaited her response, she found herself nodding.

‘Great,’ he said, delicious lips stretching into a grin. ‘I’m Doug, by the way.’

‘Amelia,’ croaked Amelia, simultaneously wondering how her throat was suddenly lined with sand, if she’d managed to get her name right, and why all previous thoughts of reading lists, colleges and induction lectures had suddenly left the building, replaced with an overwhelming urge to kiss that delectable mouth.

For the next hour, while the speaker droned on about keeping away from the river if “one had partaken of alcohol”, and how bikes should be “secured at all times”, Amelia was aware of nothing more than Doug’s firm body squashed up against hers. She’d never had any interest in the opposite sex before – had been far too focused on achieving the grades for Cambridge to even think about having a boyfriend. But that hour sitting beside Doug proved an epiphany. Now she understood perfectly what all the girls at school had been clucking about. Because, for the first time in her life, something was happening to her that she couldn’t control. Something exciting that made her stomach flutter.

Having dreamt up dozens of ridiculously romantic scenarios around the pub meet ’n’ greet, when she really should have been listening to the dangers of leaving your laptop unattended, the reality of the occasion unfortunately came nowhere near her naïve and unrealistic expectations. Firstly, because she’d never been out drinking before: crowded pubs and copious amounts of alcohol were an entirely new – and extremely overwhelming – experience for her. And secondly, because the moment Doug fought his way over to her, another figure appeared at her side.

‘Hi. I’m Imogen Forster-Brown,’ said the tall willowy girl, shaking back a sheath of platinum-blonde hair. She ran a cursory glance over Amelia before turning cool blue eyes to Doug. ‘My friends call me Immy.’

Ten seconds in the girl’s presence was long enough for Amelia to know that she would never be calling her “Immy”. But for all Imogen continued her hair-flicking, gazing at Doug all the while with huge blue eyes, his hazel ones, much to Amelia’s astonished delight, seemed far more interested in her. He’d asked her out in the second week and Amelia had been so happy she’d thought her heart might burst. Over the ensuing months, they spent every spare moment together, and every day Amelia toppled further and further in love. Thanks to Doug, her first year at Cambridge became the best of her young life. Until she received her end-of-year exam results.

‘I’m afraid you’re really going to have to pull your socks up if you want to stay here,’ her tutor had warned.

Amelia had fled that excruciating meeting and headed straight to her room, where she’d spent the next thirty minutes throwing up. Of course she’d known she hadn’t been working as hard as she could – realised she was spending time she should’ve been studying with Doug. But, erroneously it seemed, she’d thought she might, for once, be able to balance the two – have some semblance of a normal life rather than dedicating every minute of the day to her work. Obviously she’d been wrong.

Doug, needless to say, had sailed through his exams, even achieving the highest grades in his year for his Economics studies. He was one of those enviable souls to whom academic prowess came easily. Unlike Amelia who had to slog for every one of her achievements. And slog she had – all the way through school to achieve this place at Cambridge. Just imagining the ignominy of being kicked off her course – of feeling a complete and utter failure – was enough to make her tremble from head to toe.

And so, two days before they packed up for the summer break, she made a momentous decision. For the sake of her entire future, she had to finish with Doug. She hadn’t come this far, she’d reasoned, to have it all snatched away from her. And there wasn’t only her to think about. Her parents would be devastated, along with the committee who’d painstakingly selected her for the prestigious scholarship. Indeed, even if it wasn’t a condition of the award, Amelia would feel obliged to pay back the generous contribution.

When she’d informed him of her decision, Doug had been gutted, pleading with her to change her mind but, despite falling apart inside, Amelia had stuck to her guns. And to avoid any temptation of jumping on a train and going to see him over the summer, she’d headed straight out to Goa where she’d spent the entire break with her parents. It had been the worst four months of her life, the ache in her chest and the hollow, sick sensation in her stomach increasing daily.