Love At Christmas, Actually

Driving Home for Christmas
A.L. Michael
Winter’s Fairytale
Maxine Morrey
The Little Christmas Kitchen
Jenny Oliver

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © A.L. Michael/Maxine Morrey/Jenny Oliver 2015

A.L. Michael/Maxine Morrey/Jenny Oliver 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. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474048521

Version date: 2018-06-20

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Driving Home for Christmas

Blurb

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Winter’s Fairytale

Blurb

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

The Little Christmas Kitchen

Blurb

Author Bio

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

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

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

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

Endpages

About the Publisher

Driving Home for Christmas

Megan McAllister is home for Christmas…whether she likes it or not!

Christmas is about family…and for Megan family means two people: herself, and her daughter Skye. It doesn’t mean her parents who, ten years ago, saw her pregnancy as anything but a miracle. And it definitely doesn’t include her irresistible ex-boyfriend Lucas Bright.

So ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ has never been top of Megan’s festive playlist. But for Skye, she knows she needs to spend the holiday season with the people she’s left behind. She can do this. Even if the thought of meeting Lucas under the mistletoe still has her feeling like she’s drunk one-too-many Snowballs!

But somewhere between the hanging of stockings and the crackle of wrapping paper, Christmas starts to sparkle. And Megan begins to wonder if family could be bigger than her and Skye after all…

Pop the buck’s fizz, stoke the fire and prepare to giggle the festive season away with AL Michael!

A.L. MICHAEL is a twenty-something writer from North London, currently living in Watford. She has a BA in English Literature with Creative Writing, and an MA in Creative Entrepreneurship (both from UEA) and is studying for an MSc in Creative Writing for Therapeutic Purposes. She is not at all dependent on her student discount card. She works as a creative writing workshop facilitator, and an English tutor, and is currently working on her fourth novel. She has an alarming penchant for puns, is often sarcastic when she means to be sincere, and can spend hours watching videos of Corgis on Buzzfeed. But it’s all research, really.

For Mum and Dad, who have always supported my choices.

And for S, who is the only person I want to kiss under the mistletoe.

Chapter One

December 2004

Maybe they’ll be merciful, Megan McAllister thought as she hung Christmas decorations onto the same Christmas tree they’d had every year since she could remember. Old Piney spent the year out in the garden, and was cruelly uprooted every December and brought into the sweltering heat of the living room, with the log fire crackling, almost as a warning of what happened to bad trees. It was starting to look like it was suffering. It wasn’t the only one.

Maybe they’d see it as a Christmas miracle, and look to the kindness and understanding of the people of Bethlehem when she told them. But she doubted it somehow.

She was meant to be off to Cambridge, to read English. She was meant to go off and do great things. She’d only just got her head around the idea of being independent, leaving their little village for a proper town. Leaving Lucas behind. And now…well, none of that really mattered any more, did it?

She paused, looking at the decoration she’d picked up. A red clay hand imprint, heavy and solid, with ‘Megan’s first Christmas’ marker-penned across the front.

Oh shit.

***

‘I don’t want to go, Anna.’

Skye heard her mother’s voice, arguing with her great-aunt. Skye was meant to be in bed, but Auntie Anna tended to let it slide if she was quiet or reading. Anna let a lot of things go for reading. Especially if Skye then recited something impressive from Shakespeare or a Wilde play. Anna was ‘wild for Wilde’, as she loved to say.

‘Darling, it’s important,’ Anna drawled, and Skye could imagine her sucking on her thin black cigarette holder, tracing the edges of her heavily lined lashes.

Her mum used to say Anna was a ‘theatre darling’ and ‘a bit of a cliché’, but Skye didn’t really think it was fair to call someone a cliché just because they enjoyed what they enjoyed. It was like when people called her precocious because she liked exact words and actions. Nothing wrong with that. For the most part, Anna was just eccentric, with her big jewellery and dramatic hand gestures.

‘What’s different now? She summons us and we have to come running? She’s wanted nothing to do with us for ten years, Anna.’

‘You know that’s not true, darling,’ Anna shushed her. They must have been talking about her grandma, Skye realised, because that was the only time her mum and Anna argued. Well, that and the time Skye had snuck into the fridge and had a bite of Anna’s special chocolate brownie that tasted weird, and she’d had to lie down for hours. Mum had been pretty mad about that.

‘Reminding me that you’re acting as her little spy is hardly going to endear me right now,’ Megan said pointedly.

‘She cares, my love, really,’ Anna said gently, and Megan stayed silent. ‘It’s taken ten years for her to reach out, don’t be stubborn and let it take ten more.’

‘You want me to be the bigger person?’ Megan asked.

‘I want you to do this for me,’ Anna said heavily, ‘and I want you to do it for Skye. She needs more people in her life than her mother, an ageing actress and a young queen.’

‘Jeremy’s hardly a queen.’

‘He does drag five nights a week, what else would you call him?’

‘A very talented actor?’

Anna sighed. ‘You and your delicate sensibilities, darling. I do wish you’d stop being such a goody two shoes all the time.’

Megan laughed bitterly. ‘I’m a single mother. My parents disowned me. I’m entirely too dependent on an evening gin and tonic, and I haven’t had a relationship in ten years.’

‘And you’re so bloody saintly about it all.’

‘Would you rather I’d run off and joined a biker gang? Or the circus! That would have been a good story, Skye could be a contortionist by now, or riding elephants for the crowds,’ Megan babbled on. ‘Maybe I would have stopped waxing, become a bearded lady, married the moustached strong man…’

‘Darling, I just meant perhaps you could stop punishing yourself for something that happened ten years ago, and has actually worked out pretty well,’ Anna sighed. ‘You are so very like your mother sometimes.’

Megan gasped. ‘If you’re going to say things like that I hope to hell you’ve made Sangria.’

Skye heard Anna sigh. ‘I made hot toddy instead. Look, I know you take such delight in being indignant and proud all the time, but from one black sheep to another, sometimes it gets a little cold out here.’

Megan was silent, and Skye could imagine her blowing on her drink, the steam curling out and warming her face.

‘I’ll think about it,’ Megan said quietly.

Did her mum want a relationship? Skye had never really questioned their life together, it just was. And what was wrong with a grown-up having a gin and tonic if they wanted it? Her mum was a good mum.

Skye crept back up the stairs and into her room, crawling across the floor to slide into her fort, which was where she did all her Big Detective Thinking. Skye was going to be a private investigator when she grew up, and her fort housed all her tools for the job. The fort was really just strips of old faded pastel print sheets Megan had sewn together, decorated with fairy lights and turned into a tipi. Skye loved it.

She supposed her life looked strange to other people. Certainly to Britney and Chanel and that group of girls at school that always wanted to know why she didn’t have a dad. When kids came round to the house, they always used to ask if Jeremy was her dad. Sometimes she said yes. When he babysat her, back when Mum used to work nights and Anna was at the theatre, Jeremy would let her play with his glittery make-up, and curl her hair up so she looked like Shirley Temple. The problem with saying Jeremy was her dad was that eventually all her friends fell in love with him, because he had this silky blond hair, and bright blue eyes, and this lovely smile that made everyone smile back.

Besides, it was wrong to lie. Her real dad was a nice enough man that wasn’t good at being a dad, but that was okay, because Mum was very good at being a mum. That’s what Anna said, anyway. Skye knew there was more to it than that. She knew that her mum was prettier and smarter and younger than all the other parents. That her friends’ dads used to act weird around her mum, and the mums never invited her to the PTA. But it didn’t matter, because her mum would always find out where the bake sale was, or the fundraiser, and always turn up with homemade cookies or a donation, and then disappear again, never saying a word.

‘Hey, cheeky monkey, aren’t you meant to be asleep?’ Megan came in, eyebrows raised.

Her mum was beautiful, Skye thought. She had this warm brown hair that fell to her shoulders, and hazel eyes, and a little diamond that sparkled in her nose. Skye thought she’d never be as beautiful as her mum.

‘Anna said it was okay if I was reading.’

‘What are you reading then?’ Her mum sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her tipi. Skye stuck her hand out, book displayed.

‘Animal Farm?’ Megan exclaimed, then shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know why I’m surprised any more.’

‘Jeremy said it would make me a politician, and he thought I would make the world a better place,’ Skye shrugged, ‘but to be honest, it just makes me think we’re right to eat bacon.’

‘Smart call, girlie,’ Megan grinned. ‘Want to read some to me? In bed?’

‘Anna says you’re entirely lacking in subtlety,’ Skye informed her, crawling out of her tipi and jumping under her duvet.

‘I don’t need to be subtle. I’m your mum. It’s my job to tell you what to do.’

‘For how long?’

‘Until you’re better at making decisions than I am?’

‘Two years?’ Skye grinned, baring her teeth.

‘You’re lucky you’re cute, you know.’ Megan cuddled in close, tucking her daughter’s long brown hair behind an elfin ear. ‘But you’re not wrong.’

Before long, Skye’s eyes were closing, weighed down and heavy even though she wanted to keep reading. She felt warm arms around her, cushions and blankets rearranged and tucked in, and her mother’s voice saying the same words she’d said every night since Skye could remember.

‘You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.’

***

November 2004

‘You’re looking fat, M,’ Belinda said, stuffing chips down her throat, barely chewing.

Megan looked down; her jeans were a little tight, creating a red crease along her middle.

‘I thought breakups were meant to make you lose weight. Or are you already over Lucas?’

‘B, how about you don’t speak with your mouth full, so that I don’t feel like I’m a victim of a terrible potato storm.’ Megan pursed her lips. ‘And when you do speak, you can stop talking such utter shite.’

‘So you weren’t getting off with Joey Monroe at the party a few weeks ago?’ Belinda grinned like the vindictive bitch she was, so pleased to finally tear Megan down. ‘You weren’t upstairs in his room for hours?’

‘You think Joey could last for hours? Get a life, B.’ Megan rolled her eyes.

‘What, not much in comparison to Lukey?’

Megan rounded on her. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you picking on me?’

‘Because you’re always the good girl who gets everything she wants, and Lucas doesn’t want you any more. There’s some justice in that.’

Megan knew Belinda wanted Lucas, she always had. She remembered all the times Belinda had invited herself along on dates, wanted to talk through their relationship in detail, wanted to be as involved as possible. She was overjoyed when Megan and Lucas called it off, chasing him down the second she heard. She’d spent the last few weeks curled around him in corridors. It was hard to tell if Lucas liked Belinda too; Megan was having a hard time making eye contact with him these days.

‘You fancy Lucas,’ she stated.

‘And he’s not with you any more,’ Belinda said triumphantly.

‘He’s still my best friend, B. We’re still in the band together, we’re still in each other’s lives. If you think you’re going to get anywhere with him, you’re wrong.’

Belinda grinned. ‘Who says I haven’t already? You weren’t the only one up in a bedroom at Joey’s party.’ She flounced off, her stupidly bouncy hair moving dramatically as she departed.

Megan felt sick. Sure, things with Lucas had become a little…weird. But he was her best friend. They’d been in each other’s lives since they were kids. There was no way…but if there was, then maybe it was time to see Joey again, to try and make it clear to Lucas that she didn’t care at all.

Her heart sank, and she knew she was a liar. She cared. She definitely cared.

***

‘So I have some news,’ Megan had told Skye that morning on the walk to school. ‘We’re going to do something different for Christmas this year.’

Skye tilted her head at her mother. ‘Disneyland?’

‘Sadly not,’ Megan said, thinking she’d much rather do that. ‘We’re going to spend it with your grandparents.’

Once she’d said it, nothing really changed. A weight wasn’t lifted, all her anger wasn’t dissipated. She hadn’t reached the acceptance stage of grief. Anna had said that her mum wanted to see her, that Heather McAllister had finally realised life was short. Well, it was short, too short to spend with people you didn’t love at Christmas. Too short to sit around hearing endlessly about how she’d wasted her life. And how were they going to be with Skye?

A small part of her longed for home. For the big worn-down dining room table they’d all squished around. The real fire her dad would make in the living room, where everyone bundled onto sofas and cushions on the floor, marvelling at the tree, drinking tea and eating Christmas cake, exhausted and elated.

‘But what about Anna? Is she coming too?’ Skye asked.

Megan smiled gently, stroked her long brown hair, looked at her serious face. That was Skye, always worrying about who was left out and how people might feel. Maybe she’d get home and her parents would say how good a job she’d done of raising a smart, wonderful girl. And if they didn’t, they could go to hell, because they were wrong.

‘She wants to have a Christmas party with her theatre friends this year, doll.’ Megan squeezed Skye’s hand to let her know the next part was secret information, it was their code. ‘Between you and me, I think a lot of Anna’s friends are getting a little old and weary, and she wants to spend some quality time with them.’

Skye nodded slowly, then paused. ‘But you don’t want to go to grandma’s.’

‘I guess you could say I’m a little nervous.’

‘And angry,’ Skye added.

‘And angry,’ Megan confirmed, ‘but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have grandparents. It’s lovely to have them. And uncle Matty will be there, and he has a kid now. So you’d get to know your cousin too.’

She was hard-selling, she knew. She might as well promise her a pony. Skye had never particularly wanted for a family, as far as she knew. They had Anna, and Jeremy, the reams of elderly debutantes who arrived with sparkling gifts for ‘the little darling’.

‘What’s my cousin called?’

‘Jasper, I think. I’m pretty sure they went with Jasper over Reginald.’

‘Are they rich or something?’ Skye asked.

‘I have no idea,’ Megan lied, thinking of the embossed wedding invitation that came in a silk-lined box, with Swarovski diamonds around the edges. ‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because names can be signs of socio-economic status,’ Skye said proudly.

‘So…sometimes rich people have posh names?’ Megan raised an eyebrow. ‘You just wanted to use the words socio-economic in a sentence.’

‘Yup,’ Skye grinned, swinging her hands back and forth.

‘What on earth are they teaching you in that school?’

‘Boring stuff. I learned that from Jeremy. He was talking about the boys he went to school with, and they all had strange names. So I asked.’

‘It’s good to be curious,’ Megan said, thinking perhaps Megan better not get all of her information on society from an embittered drag queen. ‘So, we’re on board for Grandma and Granddad’s?’

Skye shrugged, trying not to seem pleased. ‘If it doesn’t work out, next year we could go to Disneyland?’

Megan stopped and held out her hand to Skye. ‘Deal.’ They shook on it.

As Megan waved goodbye to Skye’s retreating back at the school gates, and watched as the other mothers eyed her, as if she’d suddenly sprout horns and do a sexy tribal dance around their husbands, she wondered whether this was the right idea. There was going to be shouting this Christmas. No doubt. Maybe they’d fight their way through it, come out the other end. But probably not. Megan had images of her mother’s mouth turning down in derision, in that way that it did, and her father shrugging sadly, never a word to defend her. She’d flounce out, drag Skye along, and then it was all done.

Was she going to have to call her mother to confirm she was coming? No, if she wanted them there, she could call. Or even better, Anna could call. Or send an invitation in the mail. Or an email. Or a carrier pigeon. Whatever, as long as she didn’t have to talk to her before Christmas day.

Anna walked up the road from St Joseph’s school, and around the corner to a little annexe building, technically still a part of the school.

She buzzed herself in, striding down the hall to her office. Well, the office she shared with Dezi, Molly and Simon. And ‘office’ was a bit of a stretch. A large dingy room with a few desks and computers, papers and files piled high in every direction, toys and charts and all manner of props chucked in the corners. Systematically, every term, they reorganised everything, but it always seemed to end up in this state of chaos around November time.

‘Morning!’ Megan announced herself, pausing to tap Molly on the shoulder, and sign out her greeting, mouthing the words. Molly was an excellent lip reader, and didn’t really need Megan’s average signing skills, but she wanted to keep practising.

‘Morning,’ Molly replied with a smile. ‘Want to do some training over lunch?’

Her hands moved so quickly that Megan always needed a second to catch up, and felt she must be making that face she made when trying to do complicated maths questions.

Megan nodded. ‘Meet you at one.’

She walked over to Dezi, who was slumped face down on her desk. ‘Heavy night?’

‘I’m going to die alone,’ a voice mumbled.

‘Because you’re too busy getting painfully drunk to actually interact with people?’ Megan offered, putting her lunch in the flickering mini fridge they had in the poor excuse for a kitchen corner, and clicking the kettle on.

‘As opposed to using your child as an emotional shield so no- one can ever get close?’ Dezi glared.

‘I’m too old to date. It probably involves some new-fangled technology and I don’t need anyone. I’m happy on my own.’ Megan had said this to Dezi so many times it was starting to sound fake. But it wasn’t her fault if her colleague couldn’t comprehend the idea.

‘Well, someone’s getting a vibrator for Christmas,’ Dezi said seriously, and even wrote it down on a post-it note.

‘Megan! Good morning!’ Simon strode over, files in hand, his blond hair flopping over as he walked. He grinned at her, handing her some papers. ‘You’re working with Amrita this morning, right? I just had a few notes.’ He gestured to a table.

‘I bet he does,’ Dezi mumbled, lifting her head up briefly enough to roll her eyes at Megan.

Simon always had notes. Great, long notes written out in his chicken-scratch handwriting, that he would make them wait around for him to decipher. It also didn’t help that he’d decided being an academic meant dressing like a granddad. His elbow patches were not ironic. Megan was pretty sure he’d painstakingly searched for an original tweed jacket, as he wore it with such pride, unaware that the youth of today could find the same thing in Primark.

‘Some notes would be great, Simon,’ Megan smiled, then gestured towards the kettle. ‘Shall I make us both a cuppa and we can have a chat about them?’

Simon seemed to light up at the prospect, becoming all awkward and rattling, the same way he was anytime Megan showed him some kindness. It was accepted in the office by this point that Simon had a little ‘thing’ for her. Dezi insisted it was all-out love, Molly thought it was a crush. She thought…well, she just kind of wished he’d find someone else to focus on and let her get on with her work. It was uncharitable of her, she realised, and promised herself she’d get Simon a really nice gift for Christmas. Nothing too nice, obviously, just in case he took it as a sign.

Megan was a speech and language therapist for the kids at St Joseph’s, and a couple of the other neighbouring schools. She found it hilarious that those mothers who judged her at the school gates had no idea that she was qualified and actually helping their children. They’d seen her walk into the centre, but probably thought she was there to seduce one of the male teachers and make him her Baby Daddy. Not that she cared what they thought.

Megan loved her job. She loved the look of surprise when the kids could suddenly make a sound or say a word they’d never been able to say before. Even the smallest success, a ‘bl’ sound for ‘blue’, or being able to blow through a whistle, all these were massive achievements for the kids, and she loved seeing the change in them.

Half the time she worked on helping the partially deaf kids sound out words, hear themselves. The rest of it she was working with Molly, prepping the kids who were going to have cochlear implants so they could hear for the first time, and helping them after as they learned how to use their vocal cords as well as signing.

The day passed quickly enough, and Megan couldn’t help but wonder what her parents would think of her job. She couldn’t even remember what she wanted to be back then. The plan had always been to go to Cambridge, do English, but mostly that was just because she loved reading, and her parents had decided they wanted an Oxbridge graduate. In many ways, that extra couple of years to consider what she wanted to spend her life doing, how she wanted to provide for her daughter, helped her make the right decision. Every decision she’d made since getting pregnant had been the right one. Except, maybe, deciding to go to her parents’ for Christmas.

***

November 2004

London looked beautiful in the run-up to Christmas. She’d been tempted to make a day of it, go to see the lights on Oxford Street, wander around Selfridges. Maybe even go down to Somerset House and see the ice-skating rink. She and Lucas had done that last year. Every year, now she thought about it. He loved stupid stuff like that. Had absolutely no qualms about throwing away his rock ’n’ roll persona and being silly with her. But it was too painful to think about Lucas right now, probably off somewhere with Belinda. Maybe he was doing all that stuff with her. Maybe he’d lent her his leather jacket and held her hand as they slid across the ice, laughing and smiling. The thought was just too much, and for the hundredth time that week, she wanted to vomit. She knew she’d caused all of this.

All she wanted was to do the normal Christmas stuff in town, find little trinkets for her mum, go to Forbidden Planet and pick up something Matty would get overly excited about. But instead she was squatting above a grotty toilet in Euston station with a third pregnancy test.

Three tests. Three positives.

Merry fucking Christmas, Megan McAllister thought.

***

That night, Anna was having one of her soirées. Around this time of year, Megan always got a bit withdrawn, throwing herself into work and present-buying, and ensuring that her daughter had the best Christmas ever. Anna was insistent that it was time for Christmas cheer.

‘It’s not even December until next week,’ Megan moaned, sitting at the kitchen counter, throwing an apple from the fruit bowl over to Skye. ‘And aren’t you having all your old biddies over on Christmas day? Isn’t that why we’re being banished?’

Anna was an imposing figure at the best of times. She’d always been slim and tall, but was starting to verge on spindly these days. Megan kept trying to sneak her extra portions of food, but Anna had the same rules about food now as she’d always had. Little, but luxurious. ‘The French know how to eat, darling,’ she always said. Although that usually meant that she wanted an excuse to open a bottle of champagne with dinner, just because it was a Tuesday.

She raised a perfectly arched, and drawn on, eyebrow, her sharp cut dark bob fitting her face tightly. ‘Biddies? If you mean some of the most prominent and talented people ever to grace the stage, then yes, darling, they are experienced.’

Anna moved to the bar in the far corner of the kitchen, the only part she seemed to use frequently, and started making two gin and tonics. ‘And don’t think of it as banishment. Your mother wants you there, wants you both there.’

Skye jumped up on the stool next to her mother. ‘I’m excited about Christmas.’

‘You are?’ Megan raised an eyebrow.

Skye shrugged. ‘Well yeah, if it’s good then we have a great time. If it sucks, we go to Disneyland. It’s win-win.’

Anna pointed at her in triumph. ‘Smart cookie.’

Megan turned to her daughter. ‘You wanna –’

‘– go do my homework so that you’re not drinking in front of your one and only child and feel guilty about it?’ Skye finished, picking up her school bag, saluting and skipping up the stairs. Megan’s jaw dropped. One more thing to panic about. Her daughter thought she was an alcoholic.

‘I don’t know whether to be amazed that I’ve raised a genius, or terrified that she is so aware of everything.’ Megan slumped. ‘Anna, are you sure this is the right choice?’

‘Well, I decided foie gras was a bit much, so I settled for a mainly seafood selection, but the caterers are very good –’ Anna started.

‘I wasn’t talking about the party,’ Megan whined, running a hand through her hair.

Anna brought over two thin glasses with a slice of lime in each. ‘I know, darling, I just didn’t know what answer to give you.’

Anna perched on the chair next to Megan, and softly ran a hand over her niece’s hair. ‘I’ve loved having you here these years, you know. You’ve brought me back to life, given me back my purpose, my vivacity.’

‘It didn’t seem like you ever lost it,’ Megan said, ‘in fact I was more worried about us getting in the way of your parties and your exciting life.’

‘Nothing is more exciting than seeing two wonderful people grow and change and become who they are,’ Anna smiled, her dark lip liner rippling. ‘Now, as for your parents, they’ve finally been motivated. You didn’t hear it from me, but there’s been some illness in the family.’ She watched as Megan’s face fell, saw as her mind started racing from terrible to worse. ‘Everything’s fine, everything’s okay now. But scares like that, well, they put things into perspective, don’t they?’

Megan nodded, and took a sip of her drink, perfectly cool, the gin just a little too strong. She felt the muscles in her legs relax as the alcohol kicked in.

‘So they really want us there,’ Megan mused.

‘They really do.’

‘I still want you to phone and check the times and all that.’

Anna raised an eyebrow, and picked up a piece of paper with everything Megan needed to know. ‘What do you take me for?’

Megan looked at her aunt’s looping, elegant and unnecessarily swirly handwriting, and felt her stomach drop.

‘They want us to go for a week?’ She felt her throat go dry. ‘We’ll never make it to Christmas Day! I thought it would just be popping in, saying hello, eating some dry turkey and disappearing again!’

Anna patted her hand. ‘Well, I think now they’ve finally got you to visit after ten years, they probably want some time to get to know you both. Plus, some of my guests are visiting from overseas, so having the spare room will be helpful. That’s all right, isn’t it, darling?’

Megan had the overwhelming desire to stomp up to her room like a teenager and not speak to Anna until she changed her mind. Instead she just downed the rest of her drink, and went for a much needed nap.

***

December 2005

The first Christmas at Anna’s was not something Megan had been expecting. When she awoke that morning, Skye cuddled in beside her, cooing and gurgling in delight, she’d thought they’d tiptoe down, make some tea and toast, and wait for Anna to wake up. Most days she was a late riser. Megan was embarrassed about the present she’d bought for Anna, but she had so little spare cash, even working that bar job right up to Christmas Eve, that it was all she could afford. A small vintage-style compact mirror, which hopefully looked more expensive than it was. Nothing was going to be good enough, when Anna had taken them in, supported them, looked after Skye whilst Megan went to work. Encouraged Megan to start thinking about part-time university courses. She’d saved them.

‘Merry Christmas, little girl!’ She tickled the baby’s stomach. ‘This is your first Christmas!’

The sadness tightened her stomach as she thought of her family, sitting around Piney in the living room, all in their Christmas pyjamas that they would have opened the night before, and put on especially. Matty would be snarling, roused from his bed with kicking and desperate pleas. Except he wouldn’t, because she was the one who always woke him up. Even as they’d grown older, she still insisted on waking him up and opening their Christmas stockings together in the early morning.

She looked to the small fireplace in her beautiful bright room in Anna’s house, where she’d hung two stockings – one of her old socks that she’d sewn a red trim on, and a phantom red baby sock that had no partner, that she’d sewn the number ‘1’ onto. Next year, she would afford a real stocking, and great presents. For now it was lucky that Skye didn’t really understand the concept of gifts, or the concept of Christmas at all.

‘We are going to have a great day, little miss!’ she said, buoying herself up. That had been her biggest lesson of motherhood so far. Learn to seem happy. She hitched the baby up on her hip, and trundled down the large wide staircase to the kitchen. Anna’s huge fake tree was in the hallway, looking like something out of a movie, which was, of course, what she had been going for. They stood briefly together, looking at the lights twinkling, and Megan felt her heart fill as Skye’s chubby little face broke into a grin, the lights reflected in her eyes. They were lucky, they were so lucky.

‘Merry Christmas, darlings!’ Anna appeared in a long red kimono, perfectly made up. ‘Come on, come on!’ She pulled on Megan’s hand, giving Skye a brief kiss on the cheek.

She brought them through to the kitchen, where there were two fluted glasses of champagne and orange juice, and Skye’s bottle with orange in it.

‘There’s no champers in hers, is there?’ Megan asked with a grin. But sometimes with Anna you had to check these things.

‘Of course not, darling, I just wanted her to feel involved.’ She handed Megan a glass and they clinked in a cheers.

‘Merry Christmas, Anna,’ Megan smiled, ‘this is wonderful.’

‘You have no idea, darling!’ Anna grinned.

***

After a couple of days dwelling on it, and trying to figure out what one bought for one’s parents at Christmas when you’d been estranged for ten years, Megan gave up and called Matty.

‘Hello?’ He sounded exhausted.

‘Matty, it’s me…Megan.’ She paused here, unsure of the last time she spoke to her brother.

‘Meg!’ His voice was slightly more invigorated. ‘I hear you’re joining us for Christmas this year.’

‘Apparently so.’

‘I’m glad,’ he said warmly. ‘They are too, you know. Mum won’t say anything, but…’

Megan shook that thought away, the same knot of dread building up in her stomach again.

‘Well, they’re actually why I’m calling – I’m trying to find Christmas presents. Also wanted to know what Jasper was into, and Claudia, obviously,’ she added, thinking of the ice-cold blond that Matty had introduced her to only a few weeks before she’d had to leave home, and the weird fact that somehow that woman was now her sister-in-law.

‘Maybe if you ever replied to any of my invitations, you’d know both of them well enough,’ he said pointedly.

‘Matty –’

‘And maybe I could buy my niece something she’d actually like, instead of sending her an array of impersonal gender-specific pink gifts that Claudia picks out every year, because she’s upset we never had a girl.’

‘She’s a smarty pants,’ Megan said, because talking about Skye was easier than trying to explain to her brother why she’d cut him out with her parents, when he’d never done anything wrong. ‘Anything that lets her learn something new – books, art stuff, science set. She also wants to be a detective when she grows up.’

‘Private investigator!’ Skye shouted from the other room.

‘Sorry,’ she said to Matty, ‘private investigator. Apparently I’m smart enough to know the difference by now.’

‘Jas is a little more difficult. He’s one of those kids that saves up his pocket money for months and months for the one thing he wants. And rarely wants anything else.’

‘So what’s he saving for?’ she asked.

‘A time machine.’ Her brother laughed. ‘He’s good with books. He’s a little quiet, always has been, but he’s a good kid. I’m glad you’ll get to meet him.’

‘Me too,’ she said, ‘I’m really sorry, Matty –’

‘Hey,’ she could hear him shrugging, that same docile look he always had, like nothing could upset him, ‘shit happens. You made good, kid. Come back home and show off about it.’

She grinned, and was about to say goodbye when she suddenly had a thought.

‘Matty, are Mum and Dad… Well, has there been any health scares or anything?’

‘Well.’ He considered it. ‘The fact that they’ve made a move to get things going with you again would suggest it, wouldn’t it? I’ve not heard anything, but there has been some hush-hush, whisper-whisper stuff going on. I thought all was revealed when I found out you were coming to dinner.’

‘Huh.’

‘Don’t worry kid, you know if it was serious, Mum would be running around playing drama queen for all she could get. No point letting something run its course when you could have a big to-do about it all, is there?’

‘Good point!’ She really did feel much better, and spared a guilty thought for how much better she might have felt over the years if she’d reached out sooner. Still, no time for that now.

‘I’ll see you next week then,’ she said, wondering why after all these years, when she’d been striving to be a real adult for so long, being called ‘kid’ was so very comforting.

Chapter Two

September 2001

‘Megan, you’re acting like a child.’ Her mother’s voice was cold.

‘But I’m tired!’ She sighed, resting her head on the table. She’d finished school, had been handed a cereal bar in the car as she went on to her French lesson, her ballet and jazz class, and then advanced art. She was aching, exhausted and her mum just didn’t seem to get it.

‘Tired!’ Heather snorted, clanging things around the kitchen. ‘Do you know how lucky you are that we can provide these classes for you? Your father works hard so we can give you everything, and I arrange all these things, and drive you all over the place to secure you a better future…’

‘I know,’ Megan said softly, not lifting her head up. There was no point arguing. They’d been here before, many times. Megan McAllister was on her way to Cambridge University, whether she wanted to or not. That had been decided long before she’d been able to speak her mind. And now it didn’t matter what she said.

‘I would have loved to have done these things as a child!’ her mother continued, and Megan felt herself zone out, hovering on the edge of sleep, mentally protecting herself. It was nine pm and she still had homework to do. And it was only Tuesday. Tomorrow was gymnastics and physics and piano lessons. There was something planned every day, every hour, for the rest of her life. Until she left to go to Cambridge, where she would study every hour, until she got a job and worked all the time. Megan did a mental calculation…so she’d have no free time until she was twenty-five? That didn’t really seem fair.

‘I just can’t believe how selfish you’re being,’ her mother’s voice was grating, running up a high scale until it echoed its disapproval.

Megan lifted her head up to look at Heather, who was glaring at her, pausing to check her appearance in the reflection of the glass windows. Her mother was wearing her usual array of designer clothes, though she hadn’t been anywhere that day, as far as Megan could tell.

‘I’m sorry,’ Megan said.

‘Well, that’s not good enough.’ Her mother inspected her perfectly manicured nails. ‘Your ballet teacher said you were in another world today, and you can’t just blame lack of dedication on tiredness. Don’t you think every other person applying to Cambridge gets tired? They just decide to be better than that, and you can too.’

‘I know,’ Megan replied, in that moment realising that she did actually, truly, hate her mother, and that’s what the acid in the pit of her stomach was. She shook the thought away before it took hold.

‘In fact,’ Heather clapped her hands, ‘this is a good learning opportunity, I think. If you’re so tired, you probably don’t need to have dinner, do you? You should probably just go up to your room now and sleep.’

Megan didn’t have the energy to argue, just stared at the pot of mashed potato sitting on top of the stove, her stomach growling. There was no point even begging once Heather had decided that Megan was being difficult.

‘You’re right, Mum, it won’t happen again.’

‘I should hope not,’ Heather replied, the glow of a parent who knows they’re right emanating from her. Megan knew she’d relay the whole account to her dad when he came in, and he’d congratulate Heather on such excellent judgement. ‘Now off you go.’

Megan trudged upstairs, thinking that she wished people had to pass a test before they could become parents. Half the time it felt like her mum was just repeating things she’d heard parents say on TV.

She glared at the cabinet on the landing, heaving with trophies and medals and certificates. Never enough. It was never, ever enough for them. She walked into her room and flopped onto her bed face first, hand rooting about under the bed for her secret stash. Inside her box of trainers, and actually inside the shoe, was a sandwich bag, containing the remains of the posh chocolates her Auntie Anna sent from London. They’d at least get her through the English assignment she had to write for tomorrow.

She lay back and thought about leaving home, about packing her bags, and living somewhere quiet and calm, where she could just breathe. Where it was okay to do nothing once in a while, to sit with your thoughts, and just be. Freedom. One day.

***

‘Anna, I think this is the worst idea ever,’ Heather McAllister pleaded with her sister, ‘she’s never wanted to come back. She hates us!’

‘Now darling, you know that’s not true,’ Anna said, sucking on her thin cigarette, ‘Christmas is a time for family, and it’s been long enough now, don’t you think?’

Heather sighed. Of course she wanted her daughter back, she wanted to meet the little genius whose pictures she’d seen hundreds of times, wanted to hear her voice, see how she laughed. But there was a dark little part of her that shivered every time she thought about Megan, and the night she ran away, and she thought it might have been shame. Shame at Megan, shame at what the neighbours might think. And then later, shame because she couldn’t do the one thing a parent was meant to do: support your child no matter what. Shame that the neighbours might find out that Heather McAllister was the sort of woman who wouldn’t talk to her daughter for ten years.

‘I just…I don’t want everyone upset,’ Heather said staunchly.

‘Between you and me, darling, one of Megan’s colleagues’ parents died recently, shook them all up a bit. Made her realise how short life is, you know? We’ve found a crack in the wall, let’s let the light in now, shall we?’

‘I’ve always hated your bloody analogies,’ Heather grumbled at her sister.

‘You just hate when I’m right,’ Anna laughed. But that wasn’t really it. She hated Anna for getting to see them grow up and change, for getting to look after that tiny grandchild of hers, for being part of their life when she’d never been able. But like everyone had told her, that was no one’s fault but her own.

‘Tell them to stay for longer,’ Heather said suddenly, ‘stay for a week.’

‘Going for the storming and forming approach?’ Anna said, thinking back to their days as summer school counsellors when they were girls. Always had to have a storm for friendships to form, the camp guide had shouted each time they worried about a brawl or argument.

‘Something like that,’ Heather McAllister said, thinking that she was not going to lose her family again.

***

‘Please tell me you’re not working tonight?’ Megan begged Jeremy as he walked into the kitchen.

‘If I were I’d look a whole lot more sparkly by now. Takes a lot of preparation, being fabulous!’ Jeremy winked salaciously, then shrugged. ‘What’s up?’

‘I need chocolate and wine, and ice cream, and you to be here for a massive bitching session,’ Megan whined. She was really only whiney with Jeremy, she’d noticed. Somehow, it was allowed with him, but no one else. Everyone else had to see strong, capable Megan, who was handling everything.

‘And what has caused this necessary meltdown?’ he asked, filling up the kettle.

‘I’m going to my mother’s for Christmas.’

Jeremy stopped, turned the tap off and abandoned the kettle.

‘Why the fuck are you doing that?’ Occasionally, Jeremy’s Essex roots escaped, his eyes wide in incredulity.

Megan shrugged. ‘Reasons and stuff?’

‘Like the end of the world?’ Jeremy nudged her with his hip so she’d move out of the way of the cupboard, reaching for the wine glasses.

‘Life’s too short,’ Megan shrugged again, watching Jeremy nose through the wine rack for the perfect red. On his days off, Jeremy was your average guy, with his tousled blond hair and smiling eyes, padding around barefoot at Anna’s, reading intently, writing his play furiously, in all the hidden nooks and corners of the house. One day Skye found him in a cupboard, trying to write a monologue in the dark. Well, so not so average. But when you saw him on stage, he was this glittering dame, all sparkle and song, innuendo and sass.

‘It’s too short to be fucking miserable, that’s true,’ he nodded, pouring the wine and holding out a hand to stop Megan grabbing a glass, knowing she rarely waited for it to breathe before downing it in a few gulps. After a few moments, he handed the glass to her, watching with narrowed eyes as she sipped it delicately.

‘Lovely,’ she nodded, and he nodded back.

‘So…you’re freaking out,’ Jeremy stated, ‘understandably. But surely it’ll be great for Skye?’

‘She’s excited, and I’m glad she can meet my brother and his kid…but something about that village just feels toxic. Like I’m going to walk down to the cornershop for milk and someone will look at me and know that I’m that McAllister girl who got knocked up and ran away.’

Megan circled the rim of her glass.

‘I thought they chucked you out?’

‘Same difference, really, isn’t it? They wanted me gone, so I went.’ Megan felt like her primary form of communication seemed to be shrugging. She was regressing before she even got to Hertfordshire.

‘Just…’ Jeremy rested a hand on hers, ‘make an escape plan just in case, and you can always come back here and join me and the Elderly Poets Society on Christmas Day. I’m sure one of them is going to try to do a solo seated on the piano, fall off and break a hip. It’ll be an entertaining night.’

‘You’re awful.’

‘Well, why can’t they get old gracefully and let the rest of us claim some of the spotlight?’ Jeremy grinned. ‘Besides, it’ll be me flapping about fetching their drinks and hearing all about theatre back in the day.’

‘And you love every second of it,’ Megan pointed out.

‘I do indeed,’ Jeremy grinned, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘You’re not that McAllister girl who got knocked up and ran away. You’re that McAllister girl who made an amazing life for herself and her kid. Even if you are a bit of a moany cow.’

***

December 24th 2004

‘You’re lying,’ her mother spat, ‘you’re annoyed because you’re not the centre of attention and you’re lying to us. It’s pathetic.’

Megan closed her eyes, drawing on some reserve of calm that she didn’t even know she had. She’d said it once, the worst was over. She could say it again.

‘I’m not lying. I’m pregnant.’

Her mother’s face, for once, had become ugly. Twisted with every emotion that she never let herself express, for fear of the ageing lines that might mar her complexion if she laughed.

Her father stood there anxiously, twisting his hands but saying nothing. Like a dog waiting for his owner’s command. His face was pitying, but as Megan had always expected, he was more concerned about Heather’s response than anything to do with Megan. What would her mother do next, she wondered, narrating it in her head like a gameshow. Ladies and gentlemen, which way will Heather McAllister go next? Will it be fury, a fainting spell, or a stream of cursewords? Find out next week on ‘Our Daughter is a Failure.’

‘Whose is it?’ Heather croaked, eyebrow raised. She was looking for a reason to bring Lucas into this, Megan could tell.

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘No point protecting him. It’s Lucas, isn’t it? Of course it is. So you can end up just like his mother, with two kids out of wedlock, an alcoholic father who spends his days God knows where –’

‘Mum, that’s not fair –’ Megan started.

‘Fair? You think any of this is fair?’ Heather started getting hysterical. ‘We sacrificed everything for you. You think Cambridge takes knocked-up sluts? You’ve ruined everything we worked for!’

‘We? We worked for?’ Megan felt her voice rising, her hands trembling, and tried to stay calm, tried to scramble back to that place of calm, of certainty. ‘You worked me like a fucking show pony my entire life! But you’ve never given a shit about me! And I always knew the minute I stopped winning ribbons you’d put me out to pasture!’

Heather’s eyes looked like they were about to bulge out of their sockets. ‘You ungrateful little bitch. You think you can do a better job parenting? You think you’ll do a better job with this bastard child of yours?’

Megan looked to her dad, beseeching, holding his gaze in the hopes that he would give her something, a word, a hug, a movement. Instead, he stood rooted to the spot, his only response a small shrug, his eyes wide and panicked.

Heather paced back and forth for a few minutes, then took a deep breath. Megan was almost amused, watching her mother move onto the next stage of grief. Bargaining.

‘Okay,’ Heather said, arms out, ‘here’s what we do. We take Megan to get rid of it. She never sees Lucas again. She keeps her head down and Cambridge will never know.’

She nodded certainly, her brown bob swaying as she folded her arms. Deal done. That was the answer.

‘I’m keeping it.’

The silence that followed seemed to suck all the air out of the room.

‘You’re not.’

‘I really am.’

Megan’s father cleared his throat, moving towards her, arm outstretched. His hand didn’t quite touch her arm, but hovered there, centimetres from her skin, as if he could go through the motions and it would have the same effect.

‘Now, Megan, I think what we’re saying here is that we don’t want this to ruin your life,’ Jonathan started delicately, a lot of throat-clearing and hmm-ing.

‘And it will,’ Heather added vehemently.

‘You have a whole life ahead of you, and this, well, this will change things,’ Jonathan said seriously. Then he nodded and stepped back, as if he felt he’d said everything he needed to say.

Megan rolled her eyes. Perhaps it would have been better if he’d stayed silent instead of stating the fucking obvious. She could do a better job at raising a child than these two. At least her child would be loved unconditionally. Her kid would be loved even if she was crap at ballet and rubbish at physics and just wanted to climb trees all the time. That had to be a better start than these two.

‘Look, Megan, no one needs to know. We’ll go get it taken care of, and you come back and you stay quiet, and life will go on as normal,’ Heather said reasonably.

She took a deep breath, her eyes meeting her mother’s fully for the first time in what felt like forever. Like she finally was truly being seen. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that I hate our normal life?’

Heather blinked. ‘So you thought acting like a little slut would change things up a bit? Well, congratulations! Megan got the drama she wanted!’

Minnie the dog whined gently in the corner, watching her owners carefully, trying to discern where the danger was. Megan put a hand on her head to calm her, and the black and white fluffy mass stood beside her like a protector. Her only friend.

‘Look –’ Jonathan started.

‘No!’ Heather advanced on her daughter. ‘You listen carefully to me, young lady. You can’t have this baby. You can’t even do your own washing. You can’t survive without us. You try and you’d be running back to us a day later on your hands and knees begging us to forgive you.’ Heather’s grin, so sure of herself, her ace in the hole, her truth. She had the money, so she had the power.

‘I guess we’ll see, won’t we?’ Megan said simply, as she picked up her backpack and coat, and left without a backwards glance, closing the door behind her.

She made it to the church yard, five minutes down the road, before she burst into tears. Huddled on the cold stone tomb, trying to get her breathing to slow, she knew there was one more person she wanted to see before she went. She waited for fifteen minutes to see if anyone walked past, if she saw her parents’ cars trawling the streets, if they regretted their actions, if they loved her enough to ask her to come home.

No one came, and so her decision was made.

***

Anna had insisted they take the car, bumbling and prone to breakdown as it was. So on the sixteenth of December, they piled up their stuff into the old red 2CV, and decided to get there. Skye had spent most of the time deciding what books to take with her, whilst Megan had spent pretty much every morning up until they went trying to hide her consistent vomiting. Which was similar to the situation when she’d left them. At least there was no chance she’d be pregnant again.

She wrapped her thick cardigan around her, slammed the boot shut, worrying about the presents piled up in the back seat. What do you get for your parents when you haven’t spoken to them in a decade? She’d settled for her mother’s unchanging Chanel No.5, a book on World War One for her Dad, some dorky things for Matty who she was sure, regardless of his job and wife and child, would not have changed at all. And obviously, all of Skye’s stuff.

Skye sat in the front seat, expectant and excited. She’d brushed her hair over and over that morning, scrubbed at her teeth with vigour, practising her smile in the bathroom mirror. She wanted to please them, these phantom grandparents. Megan’s heart broke just a little, and she swore to herself that if her parents weren’t delighted with Skye, she was leaving that instant.

‘One minute and we’ll get going,’ Megan told her, turning up the hot air in the car, and running back to the front door, where Anna was waiting.

‘It’ll be fine, right?’ Megan asked, desperate for comfort. ‘It’ll be good?’

Anna’s face creased with the large smile she gave her niece, pulling her in for a hug. Anna always smelled like nicotine and coffee, with the barest hint of some expensive musky perfume, something rich and overwhelming.

‘It will be wonderful,’ she said, ‘you just have to give it a chance.’

‘One chance,’ Megan said with determination.

Anna raised an eyebrow. ‘Knowing you and your mother, how about three chances? Just for luck.’

Megan held her hand, squeezed and nodded. Then she reached into her pocket, bringing out a square present wrapped in silver paper, an opalescent ribbon tied in a bow.

‘Before I forget, I wanted to give you this. Wanted you to have it for Christmas Day.’ She shook a finger at her aunt. ‘No sooner, I know what you’re like.’

Anna rolled her eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder who the adult is in this situation.’

‘You wonder? It’s always been me.’ Megan grinned and pecked her on the cheek before running back to the car. ‘Merry Christmas!’

Anna’s present hadn’t been a problem at all. It was ten years since she’d taken them in, and Megan was in a good place now. She’d bought her a replacement for that vintage compact gift the first Christmas they spent together. This one was really vintage, with a history, gleaming pearls and restored to glory. Anna would love it. And she deserved it.

Megan couldn’t help but feel everything had an equal and opposite reaction. The more grateful she was to Anna, the more angry she was at her parents. But now was not the time, she thought as she turned in her seatbelt, checking Skye’s was adjusted properly. It was time to let Skye meet her family, and she could decide if they were worth sticking around for.

The little old tin can car trundled off the drive and out into Highgate village. Megan signalled carefully, checking her mirrors, irritated by the way the presents were piled up at the back.

‘Mum…when was the last time you drove?’

‘It’s been a while,’ Megan admitted, ‘but it’s fine. It’s just driving this old clunker that’s the problem. I’m going to have a leg injury from the power needed to break!’

‘That’s very good to know.’ Skye rolled her eyes and started fiddling with the radio, its tinny hiss over Christmas songs setting her teeth on edge. ‘Do you think it’ll snow?’

‘I bloody well hope not!’ Megan said, focusing on the traffic, her hands clamped around the steering wheel.

‘Not now, I mean, at Christmas. I don’t think I’ve ever had a Christmas Day where it properly snowed.’

Megan thought back. ‘There was, when you were five. We tried making a snowman and when it melted later in the day you thought one of us had done it.’ Megan made a face. ‘You’ve always loved a good conspiracy.’

Skye smiled, shuffled in her seat. ‘I think this will be good practice, going to Grandma’s.’

‘Practice for what?’

‘For my detective skills, of course! Detectives have to be able to read people, to understand the difference between what they say and what they mean. And I never get to meet new people, really, so this is good practice.’

Megan sighed. ‘Believe me, darling, with my parents, they always say what they mean.’

‘Everyone’s got secrets, Mum,’ Skye said, with such mystery and satisfaction that Megan started to laugh.

‘Well, I look forward to seeing your case notes, Detective McAllister.’ She frowned. ‘That radio’s driving me nuts – look in the glove compartment for a tape to play, would you? I think Jeremy used the car last, might be something fun in here.’

Skye grabbed a tape that simply said, The Mix - 2003 and popped it in. Megan recognised it immediately. Lucas had made it. They’d made it together, back when he used to drive that rubbish little Micra that always veered to the left. He’d spent so much time and money making it safe to drive that he couldn’t afford a CD player, so Megan had spent hours with her parents’ old stereo, taping individual songs from their CD collection. Later, it had become their little ritual, each month, taping new songs, updating the collection. Dark, heavy things for Lucas to brood along in the car to, and rock anthems for them to belt out together. This was softer though, more relaxed. The Smiths, Belle and Sebastian. She’d been educating him, she remembered with a smile, she’d been trying to say that the lyrics could still be angry if the music wasn’t. He’d never quite believed her, but he used to smile when she sang along anyway, tapping away on the steering wheel as they drove around town, not doing much but being together.

Skye bopped along, recognising a few of them, The Beatles, Elvis, a little bit of everything. Then the track changed and Megan felt her stomach drop. It was a lot of twinkly guitar, heavily reverbed, and an echoing voice sang those words: We keep making those same mistakes, over and over and over again. It’s always the same it’ll never end…

‘Mum…is that you?’Skye looked delighted, turning up the stereo, nodding her head. ‘This is brilliant! It sounds like you, when you sing in the shower! Or that time at New Year’s when Jeremy got you to do karaoke!’

Megan nodded, but felt strangely tearful. It wasn’t her, it wasn’t her any more.

***

December 2004

The posters were up for their gig on Boxing Day. Nothing special, the local pub had let them have the space because Danny, the drummer, was working the Christmas rush. Pulling pints didn’t make much, and gig space was limited in their little town.

The posters were up around school, Megan standing proudly at the front with a smirk on her face, her typical Camden rock girl outfit – leather jacket, black top and skirt, stripy tights. Her newly dyed fire-engine-red hair. Lucas was to her side, pouting. Danny was further back, and next to him, Keith, who was about thirty and had a beard that none of the boys were even close to growing. But man, could that guy play bass guitar.

Megan and the Boys, the poster proclaimed, Boxing Day, The Old Nag’s Head.

‘Not going to be Megan and the Boys much longer, is it?’ Belinda came up behind her, staring at the poster.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well,’ Belinda faux whispered, staring at Megan’s stomach, ‘it’ll be Megan and the Toys soon, right? Or Megan and the Bump? Which do you prefer?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied stonily.

‘Yes you do, it’s obvious.’ Belinda was enjoying herself, too much. ‘And the thing is, once Lucas knows, do you really think he’s going to want to have anything to do with you? You think he’s not going to look at you with a sigh of relief once the whole school knows?’

‘I think that if he’s stupid enough to fall for your shit, then I hope he gets whatever STD you have and his dick falls off,’ Megan said pointedly, turning towards Belinda and backing her up against the wall. ‘You don’t frighten me, bitch. You don’t know my life, you don’t know my deal. So how about we ignore each other until I go off to uni, and you go off to become a failed model with a rich husband, okay?’

Megan walked away, jaw locked in place, unsure of whether she wanted to cry or scream. She was going to have to give up the band, she realised. She hadn’t considered just how much that was going to hurt.

Belinda couldn’t know, not really. Maybe Megan had put on weight, her mother had certainly mentioned it enough. Stress eating doesn’t solve a problem, Megan, only weak people eat their feelings. Megan realised that was because to her mother, strong people didn’t have feelings at all. Just goals.

She didn’t know which secret her mother would find more horrific: that Megan was pregnant, or that she hadn’t got into Cambridge. She got the rejection letter weeks ago. Didn’t even make it to interview. All those years of classes, those missed Sunday mornings in bed, the netball in the rain, the tennis, the French lessons, the Cambridge hoody they’d bought her for her eleventh birthday – it was all for nothing. And it was nothing Megan had done. It was just that what her parents had created hadn’t been good enough.

She almost felt sorry for them. At least now they’d never have to know. They could blame it on her getting pregnant, and they’d always know they’d done the best they could. She could give them that, at least.

***

It didn’t take long to get to Whittleby Cottage. She’d always hated that her parents had to name the house. Before, it had just been Number 43. But no, they had to have the grandeur of a named building. It had made getting any post ridiculous, and visiting friends could never find the right place. She drove the little 2CV onto the muddy path up to the house, stopping just before they reached the driveway.

‘That’s it,’ she said to Skye, who was making her detective face (pouting and squinting) and ‘hmm’ing significantly.

It didn’t look any different. In fact, it looked exactly the same as the day she left. It was cold and grey. The willow tree to the side of the house was still hanging on for dear life, managing to remain upright through sheer force of will. The house looked Tudor, with those black beams across the front, the roof designed to look like it had been thatched. Everything about the house was meant to be warm and inviting and twee. Megan could see the light flickering in the living-room window, where the tree was up, twinkling. It looked like they had a log fire going, and she had to admit, the smoky smell of wood would be a welcome nostalgia. Plus her feet were freezing from the dodgy heating in the car.

‘Mum?’ Skye prodded her. ‘Are we going in?’

Megan sighed deeply and looked at her daughter. She took in Skye’s dark hair, shiny and long, arranged neatly over her shoulder. Skye’s eyes, the same as hers, and her mother’s, and Matty’s, so light a brown that they might have been tiger’s eye stones, with flecks of gold and green. How could they not love her? It was impossible, right? It was impossible for her to bring them this smart, beautiful, kind-hearted, curious child, and for them to disregard her, wasn’t it? Megan shook her head, shuffled in her seat.

She started the car again, trundling up to the paved driveway, and delicately steered the car under the willow tree, somehow thinking it might lend the poor tree some strength, or at least stop it from falling too far to the ground.

Skye unbuckled and jumped out immediately, stretching, looking around the front garden with interest.

‘Mum,’ she stage-whispered as Megan tiredly opened the boot of the car, ‘are they really rich?’

Megan had no idea how to answer that. For all her daughter’s talk of socio-economic status, Megan was very careful with money, and didn’t spend it easily. That said, they lived in a beautiful house in Highgate with a rich Dame who drank Laurent Perrier like it was water. What was rich or poor really?

‘They…they work very hard to have nice things, bub. But maybe no questions like that to start with. Secret detective, not the kind at a murder scene, right?’

‘No interrogating,’ Sky nodded, thinking she’d save that for after they inevitably upset her mum and they had to drive back to Auntie Anna’s. Which was fine with her. As long as Disneyland was still on the table.

There was a soft mumbling sound behind her, and Skye turned to find a sad old collie, her head tilted as she watched her. The dog seemed to want to bark, but wasn’t really sure whether to be upset or not. So she whined a little, and sat in front of Skye, waiting.

‘Um…Mum?’ Skye pointed at the dog.

‘Minnie!’ Megan grinned, bending down towards the dog, who used what little energy she had to jump up, her suspicions confirmed. She barked loudly and joyfully as Megan rubbed behind her white and black ears, hands lost in her fur.

‘Skye, this is Minnie, you don’t have to be scared.’

‘I’m not scared,’ Skye frowned, but stayed back all the same.

‘You sure?’

Suddenly a door opened, and a small lady was shouting, ‘Minnie, come on now!’ before she realised she had guests. ‘Oh. Oh!’

Somehow, the lady wasn’t what Skye had been expecting. She’d thought her grandmother would be more like Anna. In this posh house that called itself a cottage, wearing jewels and drinking champagne. This woman had on stretchy dark green trousers and a big knitted jumper with a reindeer on the front. She looked…well, she looked older, but in a different way to Anna. This woman looked warm and healthy, with her dark hair pinned up in a bun, with straggly bits around her face, and her glasses perched low on her nose.

‘Jonathan!’ the woman called, her voice wobbling, ‘they’re here!’ She walked out to greet them, her fluffy boot slippers surely getting wet on the ground. She seemed to stare at Skye a little too intensely, and Skye moved behind her mother, just a little. Detectives had to be safe, after all. She was just assessing the situation.

‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said, ‘we were trying to cook a turkey, as practice for the big day, and we forgot about it, and the stuffing went funny, and the fire alarm went off…’ She exhaled, blowing a piece of hair out of her face. She shook her head. ‘Not that any of that matters.’

The woman looked so anxious, her wide brown eyes just like her mum’s, that Skye felt sorry for her. She looked at Megan, who nodded, and walked over to the woman. She smiled her big white smile, the one she’d been perfecting in the mirror all week.

‘Hi!’ She stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Skye, you must be my grandmother.’

The woman half-laughed, and looked to Megan with a raised eyebrow. Megan looked back seriously, and nodded at her daughter, as if to say, ‘Well answer the girl then.’

‘I am! I am your grandmother, and I’m so pleased to finally meet you!’ Heather McAllister held Skye’s hands with both of her own, tears in her eyes. She shook her head. ‘Come on, come on. Leave the bags in the car, let’s have some cake. If I haven’t burnt that as well.’

Megan stayed put, her hand in Minnie’s fur, listening to the quiet, comfortable panting of her dear pet. It was sad to see her so old, hard of hearing and slow to move. But she was something to hold onto, something safe and steady going back into that house. Her mother looked different. Shockingly so. Her hair pinned up haphazardly, wearing comfy clothing, looking like a normal person instead of an ideal on a pedestal, so much better than ordinary people. Her mother had once told her that ‘comfort was for the weak’ and that making an impression was always the most important thing. Where was that woman now? Maybe things had really changed in ten years. Megan took a deep breath, held her head high, and crossed the threshold.

Chapter Three

May 2001

‘Happy birthday, darling!’ Her mother actually sounded cheery, Megan noted, as she sat down to a birthday breakfast, balloons attached to her chair. Matty threw a barely wrapped package at her, grabbed a coffee and shuffled back up to his bed, like the surly teenager he was. She peeled off the remainder of the newspaper that he’d screwed it up in and found his old remote control car that she’d always loved. She always loved Matty’s presents the best. He seemed to know her, even if he didn’t do much but grunt at her.

‘Open your presents!’

Heather was too excited, but Megan didn’t mind. It was a Saturday, she only had to go to tennis lessons and then she didn’t have to do anything else for the day, and her parents had even said she could have some friends from school round to the house. They’d even, miraculously, said her friend Lucas could come, even though Heather didn’t approve of ‘that mutton dressed as lamb mother of his’. It was her special day, and she was allowed to have her friends. She’d ignored her mother’s comment that it might show those kids what a real upbringing looked like.

Megan delicately peeled back the Sellotape and uncurled the corners of her first present. A soft, square package. A T-shirt, she guessed. Yep. She pulled out the yellow top with ‘Cambridge University’ emblazoned on the front. She looked up to her mother’s eager face and tilted her head.

‘Do you like it? Isn’t it wonderful? A symbol of the bright path our little Megan is on!’ Heather squeezed her cheeks. ‘Open the others!’

Apart from Matty’s and her mysterious Auntie Anna’s present (a huge box of posh chocolates as always, and a pair of sparkling silver hoop earrings that seemed too grown up for her to own), every other present was Cambridge-themed. A mug, a calendar, a satchel bag. Apparently the theme was ‘happy birthday, we gave you life, now we’ve decided what you’re going to do with it.’

But everyone seemed so happy, so Megan just smiled and as the birthday cake with the university logo was brought in, she closed her eyes and wished for something that was hers.

***

The first meet and greet was a terrifying mix of awkwardness and nostalgia. Megan sat in the kitchen, instinctively choosing the same seat she’d always sat at for dinner, and wondered if her mother noticed these things too. Luckily Skye was so excited she was talking ten to the dozen, and taking up most of the awkward silence with her enthusiasm. Which would have seemed natural if she hadn’t kept turning to Megan and giving her significant looks, which seemed to say ‘I’ve got this covered, Mum.’ Which just made Megan love her more, the little nutter.

‘I really love cake!’ Skye said, seated next to Megan at the kitchen table.

Heather McAllister sat opposite gingerly, then leaned in, head on her hand, as if it was the most important question in the world. ‘What’s your favourite?’

‘Chocolate fudge! Or maybe Oreo Cookie Cheesecake that Mum makes.’

Skye looked up at her and smiled, then dove into the lemon drizzle cake that Heather was so worried about.

‘Well, maybe we can try and make that while you’re here?’ Heather smiled, looking tentatively at Megan.

Megan shrugged, half-smiled and nodded, realising she hadn’t really said anything since she’d set foot in the house. It was like she was shell-shocked.

‘Whe……’ She cleared her throat. ‘When’s Matty down?’

Heather briefly looked disappointed, but threw herself into it. ‘Tomorrow, I think he’s going to bring Jasper round to meet Skye. I think there was talk of going to see the carols in the town square, have some hot chocolate, play some hook a duck?’

Megan wasn’t sure how to feel about any of this, sitting there sipping her tea, back straight as a rod as her mother tried her hardest to make things easier. But to play along with it was to forget, and to start an argument was to throw all this away, this chance they’d been given. Limbo.

She smiled. ‘Sounds great, doesn’t it, kid?’

Skye nodded, face full of cake.

‘Dad joining us at all?’ Megan asked, sure that her father was hiding somewhere in the house, unsure of how to deal with emotional situations.

‘I think he’s in the den. Doing some work on…something.’ Heather shrugged helplessly. She’d never been good at lying. That was the problem that night, her horror and disgust so clear on her face before she could wipe the slate clean. She’d been unable to hide it, and Megan was unable to unsee it.

‘How about if I go?’ Megan suggested tentatively, certain of how to deal with her father, rather than the mother she had disappointed so very badly.

Heather nodded. ‘You know where it is. Me and Skye can talk about all the fun things we can do this week, can’t we?’

Skye nodded and made a shooing motion at her mother, patting her grandmother’s hand. That child was an emotional manipulator of the highest degree. Or she was just enjoying herself. It was pretty hard to tell.

Megan walked out of the kitchen and through into the living room, pausing a moment to admire Old Piney, still holding up after all these years. The tree had been modernised just a bit, the lights now a classy white instead of multicoloured, the ornaments all slightly more organised, more co-ordinated than they had been. At the top she saw a little red clay hand print that read ‘Jasper’s first Christmas’ and thought perhaps she should have brought Skye’s as a gift. To let her really be part of this family. So far, so…awkward.

She padded through the living room to a dark door at the end, and knocked briefly.

‘Dad?’ She pushed the door open further, to see him sitting at his desk, facing the window. His shoulders were shaking.

‘Dad, it’s me,’ she said gently, ‘can I come in?’

She saw him nod, desperately trying to wipe his eyes, and when he turned around he was smiling shakily. His hair had mostly greyed since she’d last seen him, his eyes light and kind, with more wrinkles around the edges. He looked well though, although still hunched over, feeling too imposing when he stood tall.

‘I’ve waited such a long time to hear those words,’ he said softly, making to put his arms around her, and then pausing. ‘Is it okay…if I…?’

She nodded, reaching up to hug him, and felt him start to shudder again. ‘Oh Megan, I’m so ashamed, I’m so ashamed of us. Of how it happened, how it got this far…’

‘I know,’ she shushed him. ‘I got your presents every year though.’

‘You knew that was me?’

‘Dad, no one else would send me classic rock albums and bars of Galaxy,’ she laughed. That had been their thing, growing up. She would lie on this sofa in the den as he played Bob Dylan, Neil Young, any of his ‘greats’, and eat chocolate with her eyes closed, just listening. It got harder and harder as she got older, as Heather’s dream for the Megan she wanted, the Cambridge-bound Megan, got in the way. They never really had time. But those childhood memories were blissful. Her dad always said no one took any time to listen any more. ‘You might as well have sent a note saying “teach your daughter about good music”.’

‘And did you?’

Megan made a face, ‘She really, and I mean really, loves Elvis.’

‘Costello?’ John said hopefully.

‘Presley.’

‘Oh,’ he shrugged, ‘well, at least it’s not that Yasmin Beefer or whatever his name is.’

Megan laughed, ‘I wholeheartedly concur. Until she starts singing “Heartbreak Hotel” on Sunday mornings at six am. Do you want to meet her? Maybe you can win her over to the dark rhythms of rock and roll.’

John nodded again, head down, and Megan could see he was getting tearful once again. She patted his shoulder. ‘Come on, Dad, you’re going to love her.’

‘I already do,’ he said, and let her lead the way.

***

June 2002

‘You can’t keep doing this.’ Lucas was rocking back and forth on the chair in the library, looking like a Judd Nelson wannabe. He had detention again.

‘Says you. What was it this time?’ Megan didn’t even look up from her biology book.

Lucas shrugged, looking at the ceiling. ‘Forgot my homework? Was late to something? I don’t even really notice any more. I am, apparently, a bad seed.’

He swung his chair legs back down with a thunk. The older librarian was on duty, Mrs Cranson, and she shh’d him with a glare. He put up his hands in defeat and moved over to where Megan was studying.

‘No,’ she put her hand up, eyes still focused on her work, ‘no time to talk.’

‘Meg, you’ve got to stop this, you’re pushing yourself way too hard. They’re just GCSEs. They don’t matter.’

‘To you,’ she snorted. ‘Look, Lucas, I have exactly twenty minutes to finish my biology revision before I’ve got to go to my dance class, and then my music class, and then when I get home I have a maths tutor, and our exam is tomorrow, okay? I don’t have time to entertain you because you’re bored in detention again.’

She looked up at him, and her eyes were bloodshot, strained with dark circles. Her skin looked pale and drawn and she looked like she’d lost weight. Sure, they weren’t best friends or anything, but he’d known her since they were kids, and he liked Megan. She was a crazy control freak perfectionist, but that wasn’t really her fault. She used to be funny, be sassy and sarcastic, but the teachers wouldn’t mind because she still got all the answers right.

She didn’t seem sassy any more. She seemed grey.

‘Meg, come on, you’re going to make yourself ill. Have you eaten today?’ Lucas rifled through his messenger bag, covered in badges and pen marks, and produced a chocolate bar. ‘Here.’ He threw it in front of her face.

‘I am not hungry!’ she hissed. ‘Look, I’ve had four Red Bulls today and you are making me waste that energy that I need to get this shit done!’

‘SHHH!’ Mrs Cranson shot her death glare at Megan this time.

‘Oh for – fine! You know what, fine! The library shouldn’t even BE for detention! People are trying to study!’ Megan started stuffing her papers into her bag, but as she stood up, everything started to get woozy and all the colours merged into each other, and then into black.

When she woke up, Lucas was holding her hand. Her head hurt.

‘Wha –’

‘You passed out. Exhaustion. Probably too much caffeine and too little food. But you know, I’m not a genius or anything…’ he shrugged.

Megan tried to sit up.

‘Nope!’ He put a hand on her head. ‘I have been told I’m not allowed to let you get up. Something about the school’s insurance. Mrs Cranson insisted that I make sure you couldn’t injure yourself further on school property.’

‘And you always do what the teacher says?’

Lucas grinned, blue eyes twinkling. ‘Oh I’m a regular boy scout.’

‘Then help me sit up.’

He lifted her hands until she was sitting cross-legged next to him, and he passed her the chocolate bar again.

‘Eat it.’

Megan just looked at him, and he nodded encouragingly.

‘If you don’t, I’m going to start singing really loudly here in the library, and that would put people off their studies! At this very important time! And you, Megan McAllister, couldn’t stand it.’

‘You’re such an arse,’ she sighed, biting into the chocolate with aggression, whilst he just leant back and grinned.

‘Do you ever wonder what you’re doing this for? All the studying and the lessons and the focus?’ Lucas asked.

‘My parents,’ Megan shrugged, ‘they want me to do well.’ And it doesn’t go down well when I complain, she added silently.

‘Don’t you get any downtime?’

‘What’s downtime?‘Megan grinned. ‘You mean the time after all my lessons when I pass out in my bed and get five whole hours of sleep?’

Lucas Bright turned to her, blue eyes flashing as he leaned in, earnest and intense. ‘That’s not really living though, is it?’

Megan shrugged. ‘What choice do I have?’

Lucas grinned. ‘You know how your mother thinks I’m a bad influence and you should probably stay away from me?’

Megan said nothing, blushing as she looked at the floor.

‘She was right,’ Lucas laughed. ‘I think you’re in need of a little rebellion. And I am a master.’

***

The first night at Whittleby Cottage went smoothly. Mainly because they’d had wine with dinner and Jonathan had opened the good whisky. They ordered in Chinese food because the turkey was burnt and Megan tried not to think about the waste of it all, how much money they’d probably spent on that turkey only to give it to Minnie. She shook it off. There was no way to avoid the situation – if they were too familiar and had too good a time; it was painful. If she made it difficult, everyone felt awkward, and Skye would be upset.

She watched her daughter, sitting on the floor at the coffee table, Jonathan on the other side as they played chess. A Christmas compilation played in the background, and the house smelled like cinnamon. Minnie was sitting on her feet, and her mother was sitting with her sketch book in the corner. Megan had a sneaking suspicion she was drawing Skye, but didn’t say anything. There was no need for conversation, no need for explanation, at least not yet, and that was comforting.

When it got to ten o’ clock, Megan roused herself. ‘Come on bub, time for bed. You can finish the game tomorrow.’

Skye grumbled but stood up, putting her hand out to shake Jonathan’s. ‘Thanks for playing with me, Granddad. I look forward to beating you tomorrow.’

‘I’m sure you do, but it’s not likely to happen!’ He stuck out his tongue.

‘We thought Skye could stay in your old room, and then you could go in the guest room? Or whichever way you want to do it…’ Heather trailed off, looking at Megan for approval.

‘Sounds great, Mum,’ Megan nodded, realising she hadn’t addressed her mother so far, not properly. A lump formed in her throat. ‘Are Matty and Claudia staying over Christmas or…?’

‘They’re only down the road, they might stay Christmas Eve night, depending on how things go…’ Heather trailed off again, but Megan knew what she meant. In case it all got a little too emotional, Matty would play buffer.

‘Good idea.’ She waved, then guided Skye upstairs. ‘Night!’

Her room. What would they have done with it? Created another beautiful guest room, so posh that every visitor felt uncomfortable sleeping in it? She pushed the door and saw it still squeaked. Megan stepped in and felt the energy leave her body as she looked around. It was unchanged. Everything was exactly in its place, the same as she left it, almost ten years to the day.

The posters, everything from The Kinks to Bob Marley to Tom Waits. The photo montage above the bed, the band posters. The scratched dresser with all her creams and perfumes still as they had been. The poster for that last gig at The Nag’s Head lay on the side, crumpled and unfolded a million times, until all their faces were faded away. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t know if it meant her parents cared, they wanted to keep her close, or if they were mourning her like some dead daughter, instead of reaching out. Keep the old Megan in a mausoleum and mourn her. Abandon the real one to get on with her life.

Skye bounced on the bed, tracing the edges of the black and white bedspread. There was a knitted blanket at the end she’d bought from IKEA when it first opened, and Dad had taken her. Pingu the penguin sat on her pillows, as if he’d been waiting all this time, stalwart and loyal.

‘This was you, huh?’ Skye looked around in awe.

‘Yeah, guess it’s pretty strange for you, all of this.’ Megan sat down beside her. ‘How are you doing?’

Skye thought about it, her brown eyes rolling up to the ceiling, head tilted. ‘I’m good. I like them. But I love you, and if they’re mean to you then that’s it.’

‘You’re just saying that so we can go to Disneyland.’

Skye shrugged, and grinned. ‘So am I sleeping here?’

‘If you want to.’

Skye nodded, looking around as if any object could tell a story. Which, Megan supposed, they could. Her gaze wandered to the photo montage. Pictures of the band, looking all stoic and serious, her and Luke pulling faces, her with her arm around Belinda. The Christmas the year before she left, posing for the camera, encircled in Luke’s arms as he held up mistletoe. Her chest felt like it was going to cave in. Luke would have left, wouldn’t he? Got on a tour bus, become a big star in London dive bars, or LA’s sleek scene. Maybe he’d moved down to Cornwall, to teach kids guitar, living in a little cottage on the side of a cliff.

She’d looked out for him, in NME, gig listings, every time she thought she saw a Lucas listed. But the truth was, he could use any name, be in any band by now. She had the means to find him, she could join all those social media sites, sniff him out. But in all honesty, it was too late, and she had things to be ashamed of too.

Skye changed into her pyjamas, and Megan brushed her hair as her daughter read out from To Kill a Mockingbird. They snuggled in close, Megan helping with the longer words, adding a bit of context here and there. She looked to her bookshelf in the corner and found her own copy sitting on the shelf, as well as many other books that she had always wanted to give to Skye. The smell of her old room, the familiar give of the cushions surrounded her, until Skye drifted off to sleep, and Megan followed, never making it to the guest room.

***

May 2003

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ he said, standing up and placing his guitar down on the bed.

‘I’m not!’ Megan tried to contain her irritation. ‘All I said was maybe we could use a minor seventh chord…’

‘Unfathomable!’ Lucas paced up and down his room, his hair spiking up at all angles as he ran his hand through it irritably.

‘Oh I’m sorry, could someone tell me where the Artist Formerly Known As Lucas has gone?’ Megan rolled her eyes, unplugging her cherry red Fender Strat from the amp they were sharing. Lucas’s room was barely big enough for them to play together, let alone argue about playing together.

‘Shut up, Meg. Just because you dyed your hair to match your guitar you think you’re Courtney Love now?’

She raised her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, oh musical genius! It’s just that usually when we write songs together we actually write songs together!’ She stood by the window, leaning against it, unsure why things seemed to have changed.

‘Why are we always arguing?’ she asked him, seeing him look up suddenly, blue eyes clouding over. He’d stopped wearing eyeliner since summer had hit, and she had to say she preferred him without. The girls in the village had loved it, their little punk rock god crush. They used to turn up at the gigs wearing Nirvana T-shirts and shrugging when he asked them who Kurt Cobain was. Megan preferred when he was just Lucas. Her childhood friend, her bandmate. Just him, playing music, being him. No facade.

‘We do seem to be, don’t we?’ he said simply, staring at the ground.

‘I…I don’t think it’s me who’s starting it, Luke,’ she said gently. ‘I seem to be pissing you off a lot more recently. Since we started sixth form…do you want me to leave the band?’

His eyes widened. ‘No! No, no, that’s not it, Angel, honest.’ He walked over to her, leaning on the other side of the window, looking out into their front garden, where his little sister was digging in the dirt, helping his mother plant flowers.

‘I know I’m not a musician, Luke,’ she said sadly, ‘I’m just the singer, but you used to like when I helped with lyrics.’

He grabbed her hand. ‘It’s nothing to do with the band. I mean, it is a bit. It’s…you know, spending a lot of time together. We do all our normal friend stuff, watching movies and whatever, and then we do band stuff, and then college…’ He squeezed her hand, looking into her eyes like she was supposed to understand some secret code.

‘It’s too much,’ she nodded, sighing. ‘That’s fine, I get it.’

‘You really don’t get it!’ Luke panicked, pulled her to him and kissed her. She froze for a second, and so did he, his lips resting on hers to see what she’d do. He tasted like peppermint and chocolate and stale cigarettes. Megan sighed a little, and he kissed her again, properly this time, his lips warm and insistent as her arms wrapped around his neck. Her heart was thumping like nothing else, and as he nipped against her bottom lip, she suddenly realised what he’d been trying to say.

She pulled back and grinned at him. ‘You’ve been being mean to me because you like me! It’s like year four all over again!’

Lucas at least looked embarrassed, scratching his neck and failing to meet her eyes. ‘Yeah…kinda…’

Megan tilted her head. ‘And this isn’t just some weird boy hormone thing?’

Luke rolled his eyes. ‘Meg, this time I’m telling you this not because I like you, but because it’s true: don’t be an idiot.’

He put his arm around her waist and pulled her towards him, kissing her again. Megan grinned against his lips. ‘Well, isn’t this a surprise.’

‘Good one?’ He pulled back, searching her eyes for disappointment or awkwardness.

‘Kiss me again and we’ll see,’ she laughed, grabbing his hand. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt so happy.

***

The next morning everyone was still play acting Happy Families. Megan felt the familiar itch, the need to smash the facade apart, break it down and hold it up to the light. It was fake, and she hated it. Better to come out and have a big emotional outpouring at the start, rather than this…politeness she found so abhorrent. But there was Skye to think of.

Her dad made French toast, the crackly radio played The Beatles in the kitchen as he hummed along, wearing his apron with the motorbikes on, his chef hat tipped at a jaunty angle. She’d forgotten how much her father used to make her laugh. Skye loved him immediately, but wouldn’t accept his views on Elvis.

‘Kid, I will show you some music that would make you think Elvis was nothing more than a flash in the pan pop star.’

‘The same has been said about The Beatles, and you’re still listening to them,’ Skye said, shrugging as he set down her breakfast before her.

‘Touché,’ Jonathan agreed, making a face at Megan, who simply shook her head in response.

‘Don’t try and insult the King, Dad, it just won’t work with her.’

‘Nope. No chance.’ Skye shook her head seriously. ‘But amazing toast, Granddad, seriously. Jeremy’s cooking skills are starting to look terrible in comparison.’

Heather, who had been quietly drinking her coffee, overseeing her husband’s cooking, looked up. She shared a significant look with Jonathan.

‘Is Jeremy your…step-father?’ Heather ventured, checking to see how upset Megan was by the question. Her lips got thin and she raised an eyebrow.

‘No!’ Skye laughed, looking to Megan.

‘Oh, no, I mean…you obviously think of him as your father,’ Jonathan said, nodding, then making a face as if to convey just how awkward it was. What if Skye hadn’t known about her parentage? What if Megan had been living with someone who’d raised her child as her own? It wasn’t unheard of. Their assumptions would have screwed it all up.

‘Jeremy’s gay!’ Skye laughed, waiting for Megan to elaborate.

‘He’s Anna’s lodger. He’s lived with us as long as we’ve been there,’ Megan said stiffly, ‘he’s family.’

She watched as her mother’s lip curled. She knew exactly what she was thinking: what kind of den of sin was Anna letting them live in? And she hadn’t even mentioned Jeremy’s job, thank god.

‘He’s wonderful. He’s a writer, working on plays,’ Skye said proudly, and Megan breathed a sigh of relief.

‘And he does drag acts!’ Skye added, as Jonathan coughed, and Heather looked at the ceiling. ‘He’s a really beautiful woman!’

Megan shrugged and realised there was nothing to do but join in. ‘Yeah, he’s got this way with body glitter that just…highlights his non-existent assets.’

‘Megan!’ her mother exclaimed.

‘What, Mum? Going to ask me how I dare to raise my child in such an environment? Because I wasn’t given many options when it came to that, was I?’

The two women stood facing each other, hands on hips, and Skye marvelled at how much of a mirror image they were.

‘Now, now, Megan, we didn’t mean anything,’ her father intercepted. ‘This bloke sounds fascinating, and we’re both glad you have someone in your life you love so much.’

‘We do,’ Skye nodded, then turned to Heather. ‘So what are we doing today, Grandma?’

Heather turned towards Skye, whose little face smiled up at her, eyes wide and curious. Megan saw how torn her mother was – continue the fight and defend herself, or connect with her granddaughter. She sat down and patted Skye’s hand, answering her in an overly cheery tone.

‘Well, we thought we’d go down to the Christmas Fayre in the village, play some games, hear the carols.’ Heather winked. ‘Eat lots of junk food. What do you think?’

Skye nodded. ‘I think it’s the best idea ever, don’t you, Mum?’

Megan nodded, completely aware that her daughter was creating a diversion, especially as she winked at her when she knew Heather wasn’t looking.

They disappeared to get ready for the walk down to the village, and Megan grabbed Skye’s hand.

‘What are you doing, Pink Panther?’

‘What?’ Skye made her eyes wide and innocent, raising her eyebrows. But her smirk gave her away.

‘Your questions, your diversions, your “devoted to grandma” routine. Don’t think you’re fooling me, kid.’

‘I don’t need to fool you, I need to fool them,’ Skye said seriously. ‘It’s sleuthing practice.’

‘Why do you need to practise?’ Megan raised an eyebrow, helping Skye into her padded winter coat. Her two pigtails hung out from the big fur-lined hood, making her suddenly look so much younger, so much more innocent. No doubt Skye had chosen her outfit especially for this purpose, as part of ‘Project Make Grandma Adore Me’. Evil genius.

‘Because skills take practice. Plus, I’m getting you out of situations. So I’m being useful.’

Megan knelt in front of her, holding out her gloves, an eyebrow raised. ‘You don’t have to be useful, my love, because you are absolutely necessary.’

Skye frowned at her, bemused.

‘I just mean you don’t have to keep saving my arse.’ Megan paused. ‘Bum. Don’t tell them I said arse.’

‘Twice,’ Skye grinned, and took her mum’s hand. ‘So, this fayre thing, it happens every Christmas?’

They wandered out to the front of the house to wait for their hosts, who were probably gossiping about Jeremy the Gay Performer whilst getting ready.

‘Yep, every year. It’s pretty fun. Or it was, anyway. Your granddad is extraordinarily gifted with the Hook A Duck games. Get him to win you something.’

Skye’s brow furrowed. ‘Where’s the fun in that? I want to win it for myself.’

Megan grinned, putting her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. ‘Two hot chocolates for you today, kid. Or two treats of whatever kind you want.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re a wonderful person, and I’m your mum, and it’s Christmas. So there.’ Megan stuck out her tongue. Her parents arrived, wrapped up in the same winter clothes they’d had since she could remember, and off they went down the steep hill to town.

The village had changed a fair bit in the last ten years, Megan noted. Not necessarily the people, or the feel of it, but a few bits here and there. The existence of a Subway, the Costa Coffee on the corner. There were still the independents, the butchers, the bakery that she hung out in one summer, obsessed with the boy behind the till who gave her free donuts. The strange pottery cafe that no one ever seemed to go to, but never disappeared. They walked past Vittorio’s, a posh Italian restaurant she’d waited tables at every Saturday night since she was sixteen. It looked exactly the same inside, pristine, with the waiters in penguin suits. She’d hated that job. Hated Marco, the owner, and how he talked to them all. But the tips had been good, and the free dinners were almost worth the abuse. Heather had made her give up the job once exam season started, but she wasn’t too bothered by that point. It was strange to think the money she made from Marco had given her and Skye their start. But he was still an arse.

They reached the High Street, where the festivities were in full swing. Market stalls and Christmas lights were everywhere, to a soundtrack of carollers in the middle of the square. They stood before a grand Christmas tree, lit up, sparkling in the dull greyness of the afternoon. The voices were angelic, and yes, there was Mr Turner, still conducting the choir with his audacious movements, always overzealous as he started sweating through his woolly hat.

Skye was holding Heather’s hand as they moved through the crowd, and Megan relaxed, allowing herself to be transported back to the childhood days of the fayre. The year they won the raffle, the year Matty drank so much hot apple cider he was sick behind Santa’s grotto. The year she and Lucas played their own version of Christmas carols in the square to raise money for charity, and everyone was so kind, so generous, so proud of them. She shook the thought away like it was smoke.

‘Hook a duck!’ Skye said loudly, pointing.

Jonathan looked at Megan with glee, rubbing his hands together, then ran off with her daughter, as she dragged him along. That left her slowly walking with her mother.

‘He’s so excited she’s here,’ Heather said by her side, neither taking their eyes away from the pair.

‘She’s so like him. Inquisitive, always wanting an answer. Everything always has to make sense.’ Megan smiled into the distance, thinking of how many answers she had never had for her daughter. Her smile dimmed a little.

‘That must be exhausting.’

‘It’s kind of a thrill.’

‘I…’ Her mother paused. ‘I’m really excited you’re here too. Both of you.’

‘Good.’ She still couldn’t quite bear to have this conversation face to face with her mother, instead of adjacent. She couldn’t bear to see the disappointment still sitting in her eyes. ‘At some point we’re going to have to have it all out. You know that, right?’

‘I know,’ her mother said quietly, ‘but it’s nice to pretend until then.’

They day passed pleasantly enough, playing the games, hearing the music. Megan, true to her word, bought Skye both a hot chocolate and a gingerbread cookie. As they were leaving to walk back up the hill, infused with the joyousness of the event, the smell of hot apple cider and the twinkle of the bells on the baby reindeer’s collar as he walked about his pen, Megan was stopped by a hand on her arm.

‘Megan McAllister!’ a woman’s voice called out, and all she could think was please don’t be Belinda. Please. More than that, please don’t be Belinda married to Lucas with hundreds of awful babies. Please, that’s all I’m asking.

She turned around and was faced with the excited bundle of energy that was Estelle Williams. Estelle had been a bit of a dark horse, in that she’d been the librarian at school when Megan was studying, despite only being twenty-three herself. She’d disappeared off to uni, and returned to their little town with a few piercings and tattoos, and a penchant for rockabilly. And became the school librarian. No one could figure out why she’d done it, or why they hired her. But she’d helped Megan with her university applications, and had shown her a ridiculous amount of kindness over the years.

‘Estelle! It’s so great to see you!’ She embraced her.

Estelle looked the same, her red hair in victory curls, her thick framed glasses perched on the end of her pierced nose. Her coat looked like it was straight from Little Red Riding hood, a fitted and flared number with big gold buttons and a black fur trim. She looked like Mrs Santa’s naughty younger sister.

‘I thought that was you, you’re back!’

‘Just for the holidays.’ She pointed over at Skye and her parents. ‘Wanted my little one to meet my parents.’

Estelle grabbed her hand, dark red lipstick curving into a genuine smile. ‘That is wonderful, darling, honestly. You can tell me all about it tomorrow when you meet me for drinks.’

‘I…um…’

Estelle raised a drawn-on eyebrow. ‘Your parents will want to spend time with their grandkid, right? Plus, the Nag’s Head have started doing cocktails. They’re vile but very cheap.’

‘Wow, aren’t we getting sophisticated out in the country?’ Megan laughed, but agreed to meet her at the pub the next night at seven.

When she rejoined Skye and her parents, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Estelle was going to have all sorts of gossip that she really didn’t want to know.

***

December 2004

‘Megan! What’s wrong?’ Estelle pulled out a pack of tissues from her Lulu Guinness bag, sliding them across the desk.

‘I’m…I’m…’ Megan was starting to hyperventilate, and Estelle flipped up the break in the desk to let her through, ushering her into the back room. She placed a ‘librarian on break’ sign on the desk, and followed her.

Megan sat in the swivel chair, head between her legs, alternating between gasping and crying. Her hair, dyed red, was starting to turn back to its natural brown, and she seemed to keep tugging at it in frustration. Estelle grabbed her hands.

‘Come on Megan, you’re scaring me a little. What’s up? I know you’re still waiting for the Cambridge letters, but….’

‘Everything’s changed,’ she breathed, somehow attaining calm composure. She looked Estelle straight in the eye. ‘I’m pregnant.’ It was the first time she’d said it out loud. First time she’d let herself think about it since throwing away the tests in the toilets in Euston station. And of course, she decides to break down at college, in the library.

Estelle’s eyebrows raised only for a second, before she vocalised exactly how Megan felt about it all, ‘Well, shit.’

They sat in silence for a moment, Megan swinging her legs against the scratchy blue material.

‘Is it Lucas’?’

‘No.’

‘Oh…double shit,’ Estelle sighed. ‘Times like this one really wants a cigarette.’

‘Or tequila,’ Megan agreed.

‘So…have you considered your options?’

‘I know I should get rid of…it,’ Megan started. ‘I spent all that time campaigning for the sexual health clinic as part of the GP, and I did that debate where I argued Pro-choice…God, when people find out that I’m a hypocrite…’

‘Woah, not a hypocrite!’ Estelle grabbed her hand. ‘Fighting for rights doesn’t mean you have to make that decision. You believe in choice, remember?’

‘Yeah,’ Megan said hopelessly, ‘I don’t even know why. I know it’s going to screw up my life. Uni will be gone. Lucas and leaving this place…all of it up in smoke with one wiggle of my cervix.’

‘Try long periods of excruciating pain,’ Estelle corrected.

‘And that was just the conception.’

Estelle smiled. ‘See, making jokes. Already we’re getting somewhere.’

‘Everything’s going to change,’ Megan said, feeling the tears well up again.

‘Babe, it already has,’ Estelle told her, and handed her another pack of tissues.

***

Megan had made an effort that night, styled her hair so it sat softly on her shoulders, curling at the ends. She’d put on her black velvet dress, the one she’d bought to wear on Christmas Day, it being tradition in the McAllister household to get dressed up for the big event. But she could always wash it. She was wearing her boots with the chunky heel, had flicked her eyeliner a little more distinctly, somehow still eager to impress Estelle all these years later.

‘Wow.’ Skye looked at her in the mirror as Megan finished applying her make-up.

‘Good?’

‘Really good. You could sing with Jeremy on stage!’ Skye patted her shoulder and ran off to return to the chess board.

With the fear that her daughter thought she looked like a drag queen, Megan pulled on her coat, and walked down the hill to the Nag’s Head, the oldest pub in town. It was pretty much the same inside, warm and comforting, with the fire burning away in the corner, Pluto the black labrador still dozing in front of it at all times. He’d been an excitable puppy the last time she’d been here, chewing on her mic cord and eventually falling asleep on the speaker.

‘Megan!’ Estelle waved from one of the sofas at the back, two drinks sitting in front of her. The stage area was clear, so Megan walked across it, trying not to think about how wonderful it had been to sing there, to feel like a real rock and roll star, playing to a bunch of uninterested retirees and drunk teenagers.

‘I got the drinks in – felt a Pina Colada is fairly inoffensive,’ Estelle gestured, ‘although it tastes less like a Pina Colada and more like someone threw a bunch of rum into some pineapple juice, but I’m not complaining. How are you?’

Megan shrugged. ‘I’m good, I guess. We live in Highgate with my aunt Anna, me and Skye that is, my daughter…’ Megan shook her head, ‘which you knew, obviously.’

‘You ever go off to do that English degree?’

‘Actually, I did a degree part time.’ Megan sipped her drink and shuddered at the sweetness, feeling the alcohol seep into her system. ‘I’m a speech and language therapist now. I work with deaf kids, and children with speech impediments, that kind of stuff.’

Estelle grinned. ‘That seems…so perfect for you. Is this the first time you’ve been back? I’ve been away the last couple of Christmases, so we could have just missed each other…’

‘First time back.’ Megan widened her eyes. ‘And it’s awkward and weird, and I will probably need a good few more of these disgusting cocktails whilst I’m here.’

Estelle snorted into her drink, then raised her glass. ‘To Megan, the returning warrior. Missed you, darlin’.’

They clinked glasses, and Megan felt the familiarity settle around her. Estelle had been a strange one. She’d always looked up to her in school, and then off she went to university, and Megan was sure she’d be famous. Snapped up by a modelling agency, become an actress, or a famous painter or something. Despite the fact that she never actually seemed to do anything artistic. And then she returned a couple of years later to be the school librarian, no questions asked.

‘You still the librarian?’ Megan asked suddenly, then thought it sounded rude, as if she was diminishing Estelle’s life in this small town.

‘Archivist, thank you. I am, but I’m also an English teacher now, if you can believe it.’ Estelle rolled her eyes. ‘I go off to study biomedical science, and end up an English teacher. Go figure.’

‘You like it?’

‘I…I like the students. Most of the time. And I like books, and analysis and when one of the kids comes out with something fantastic,’ Estelle nodded, ‘but then there’s the ones who have been studying Of Mice and Men all year and are still calling it a play, or made it all the way through The Tempest thinking Ariel is the girl mermaid from Disney. It’s…painful.’

‘So why stay?’

Estelle shrugged, delicately adjusting an eyelash. ‘The staff are nice to work with, and I moved back to look after my mum, so it made sense to have something local.’

Megan nodded, the sudden reappearance making sense now. No one could understand why a girl like Estelle would stay in a town like that. She could be anywhere, doing anything.

‘But she passed away a couple of years ago, so I don’t really need to be here any more. Just habit, I guess,’ Estelle said casually, slurping up the last of her drink. ‘Another?’

‘I’ll get them.’ Megan jumped up. ‘Same again?’

‘Surprise me, I’m not fussy,’ Estelle smiled, as Megan walked to the bar. She sensed Estelle didn’t want to talk about her mother, which was fair enough, as no one had ever known that was why she came back. Or why she stayed. And Estelle had kept her secret all those years ago.

Tom the landlord sighed as she asked for two Cosmopolitans. ‘If I give you a bottle of wine for the same price, will you take it? I hate making those bloody things. All my wife’s idea.’

She took pity on him and agreed, and as she paid he looked at her, head tilted to the side.

‘Do I know you, love? You look awful familiar.’

‘I played in a band here a couple of times, but that was a lifetime ago,’ she relented, hoping that wasn’t enough to make him go ‘Oh, you’re Heather and John’s girl, the one who ran off with a bun in the oven.’ But no, he just nodded.

‘We’ve got a good lot on tonight, you know. A bunch of music teachers from the school started a band to relive their youth, sad bastards,’ Tom chuckled to himself. ‘That said, they’re pretty good. Been playing here for years. Quite a following of young girls.’

‘Well. I’ll look forward to that,’ Megan grinned and made her way back to Estelle.

‘They’re still playing music here?’ she asked as she put the wine down, pouring the rosè into the two oversized glasses.

‘Always,’ Estelle grinned, ‘it ranges from the awful to the awesome. A couple of the Year Tens have started a band called The Illusionists. They keep trying to pull scarves out of their guitars whilst they play. It’s awful. They might play tonight and we can boo them!’ She paused. ‘Nothing quite lives up to Megan and the Boys though.’

‘You knew about that?’

‘I was a fan. Came to every gig you guys played here. Your little one got the musical talent?’ Estelle looked at something over Megan’s shoulder, briefly alarmed, and then returned her gaze to Megan.

‘No idea. She’s more interested in becoming a secret detective. Which I worry about because it means she’s terribly good at lying when she wants to. Luckily she’s too moral to use it on me. Seems to be working well at getting extra slices of cake from her grandparents though,’ she shrugged.

They talked about Skye for a little more, and about the school, the changes in the town over the last few years, until the microphone buzzed, and Tom was there, addressing the crowd, looking up at them in the back of the room.

‘Well, unfortunately, our Friday regulars Cludbucket couldn’t perform tonight, probably due to some sort of rock and roll reason, like hangovers, or the clap’ – here the audience hooted and laughed – ‘but they’re rubbish anyway. I’m pleased to present the Nag’s Head’s favourite band…No Education!’

The crowd cheered, teenage girls scooted to the front, but Estelle grabbed her hand. ‘Megan, I’m sorry, they weren’t supposed to be on tonight.’

Megan turned to her, laughing. ‘Don’t worry about it, if they’re better than Cludbucket, and how couldn’t they be with a name like that…’

Megan’s voice faded as she turned to the stage and saw that same boy she’d stood on stage with all those years ago, adjusting his mic and tuning his guitar.

‘I’m Lucas,’ the dark-haired man said, ‘and we’re No Education.’

His eyes scanned the crowd, smiling, and his gaze found hers. His eyes widened for the longest moment, standing in silence, looking as if someone had just taken a frying pan to his face. Then he launched into his set, and didn’t make eye contact again.

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