Entering our street, I notice that compared to the other houses, my house looks lacking in the decorations department. Our next-door neighbor has fairy lights in every window, a massive inflatable snowman on the front porch, and the display is topped off with a singing Santa on his sleigh.
Our only decorations are a lonely plastic tree crammed into the corner of our living room with the baubles that I found in a local charity shop. Guilt twists my stomach: I should’ve tried harder.
Dog and Millie are sitting on the sofa, intertwined. He runs his hand over her shoulder possessively. They look comfortable and happy. I’m delighted for my friend; it’s good to see him settled for once.
When Hannah enters, Millie immediately jumps up and runs across to embrace her.
“Merry Christmas, special girl. Tell me everything you got from the big man.” Her face falls when she sees my little girl’s expression. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
Hannah shrugs her shoulders. “Nothing. Just getting too old for all...” She waves her hands around the room. “This. It’s not real anyway. It’s all a lie.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, nerves fluttering in my stomach.
Hannah looks from Millie to me, then shakes her head. “Nothing. Ignore me.”
The glow of the holiday season has well and truly diminished in the first hour of her visit. My little girl is very unhappy, and I have no idea what to do to help her.
Chapter fifteen
Katie
I stare at my computer screen and read the email for the tenth time. Elation builds from my toes up as the words sink in.
Dear Miss Clark,
Thank you for your recent manuscript submission.
I’m delighted to offer you a publishing contract with us at Miller Publishing. We would like to book you for three novels over the next two-year period.
I will forward our contract and payment terms later today for your consideration.
Congratulations. I look forward to working with you.
Kind Regards,
Celia Miller
Miller Publishing
Miller Publishing. The biggest publishing house in the UK. Fucking hell.
Any success I’ve had with my books has been self-published. Fun, hard work, and one hundred percent mine.
But this is a whole new level; my writing has the opportunity to fly. I’m dumbstruck. Life does start to feel as if it is coming together, and, for the first time, I’m looking forward to the new year ahead.
I grab my phone to text Lance my good news, but stop myself.
No, I want to tell him in person. I want to see his face. He’s listened to me drone on and on about my writing, publishing, and the ‘impossible’ dreams. All the ‘what ifs’ and ‘if only’ talks are suddenly becoming real.
I know he’s going to be excited for me. That thought warms me through. It’s like he channels my lost friend, Bex: equal parts cheerleader and ass-kicker.
Thinking of her makes me wonder how her family is feeling. They must miss her terribly. This is their second holiday season without her. They say time heals. I don’t think that’s true. You learn to live with it.
I drag my attention back to my email before I start falling down the grief spiral. It was a shock to receive it, especially between Christmas and New Year. I type a quick reply, thanking her for the offer and saying I look forward to receiving the contract, not wanting to seem too eager.
Treat them mean is the advice. Hopefully, that motto works for publishers as well as men. My fingers shake. I need to stay calm instead of acting like a crazed lunatic. But this is so fucking exciting.
A chorus of animal sounds carries through the cottage. My heart lifts. Lance has arrived.