PROLOGUE
THE SOUND OF tinkling bells and Christmas carols floated into Abbie Cook’s head. Followed by laughter. Hungry newborns grizzling. The chink of teacups. The smell of coffee that still made her nauseous.
Go away, world.
The babies’ cries felt as if they had a direct line to her heart, tugging and stabbing and shaping it into a raw lump of pain. She kept her eyes tightly closed as she focused on keeping the contents of her stomach precisely where they were.
‘Merry Christmas, Abbie. Wake up, the doctor’s going to do his rounds in a minute. You might be able to go home. You’ll want to be home, dear, on Christmas Day, won’t you?’
Even though her eyes were clamped shut, Abbie felt the slide of the tear down her cheek and she turned away from the nurse’s voice. The last thing she wanted was to go home to that empty house with an empty belly and a completely cried-out heart. Staying asleep, hibernating under the regulation hospital duvet, was just perfect, especially today.
Her third Christmas without Michael. The first had been a blur of condolence messages. The second a pretence of fun with people who didn’t think she should be alone, when all she’d wanted was to be alone. And now this. Another year without decorations, another year gone by, without keeping her promise to her husband.
But it didn’t do to feel sorry for herself on a ward in the hospital she worked in. There’d been enough pity glances from her colleagues these past few weeks. Actually, years. And enough self-pity too. What would Michael think of her? He wouldn’t have wanted her to feel like this, that was for sure. He’d have wanted her to get up and make the most of her life regardless of what befell her. He’d want her to keep on fighting for happiness. He’d have wanted her to decorate the house, to celebrate Christmas and enjoy life.
She heaved herself up the bed and looked at the cup of steaming tea, hoping the well-meaning staff nurse would do a bunk and leave her on her own. ‘Thanks. Yeah. Okay.’
‘Hey, love.’ A hand slid over hers. ‘You’ll be okay. You will—’
‘Abbie! Abbie! Santa Claus been!’
‘Uh-huh. Visitors.’ The nurse’s hand shrugged off as thudding footsteps sliced through the ward’s white noise and a giggling, wriggling four-year-old scrambled onto the bed thrusting a box with sharp edges into Abbie’s hands. ‘Abbie! Look.’
‘Hey, Scratch. Let me see.’ It was hard to be sad around Rosie, who grasped her life with tight little fists and squeezed out every drop of every second. Abbie took the box and peered. ‘What have you got here?’
‘A tablet. For games and writing.’ As the little girl spoke her dark curls bobbed from side to side and the tiny, jaded bit left of Abbie’s heart squeezed.
‘Oh. Lovely.’ Abbie glanced up at Rosie’s mum, Emma, and pigged her eyes. ‘A tablet. Okay. Excellent?’
‘Apparently the best present. In the world. Someone didn’t realise I was holding off until she was older.’ Emma gave a resigned shrug as she perched on the bed—against all hospital policies—but Abbie loved her for it. And she assumed someone referred to one of Emma’s brothers who overcompensated for Rosie’s lack of a father. At least this year he hadn’t bought her another football. ‘How are you doing, hun?’
Abbie dug very deep. It was Christmas Day. She wasn’t going to spoil it for a four-year-old. ‘Fine, thanks.’
‘You look better.’
‘Yeah. I’m okay.’ She lowered her voice a little to prevent little listening ears from hearing. ‘I’ve been thinking. A lot.’
‘Me too!’ There was a light in Emma’s eyes that melded with the ever-present sadness that was there whenever she was around Abbie. She’d seen that sadness before, too, when Emma had been having her own troubles. ‘You first—’
‘You first!’
‘Jinx!’ Abbie laughed for the first time in what felt like forever. That was the thing about best friends—after almost twenty years of living in each other’s pockets they finished sentences and had a strange and comforting telepathy. ‘Okay. If you don’t mind, I’m just going to say something and I want you to be honest. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ As she nodded Emma absent-mindedly stroked her daughter’s curls. A simple action that was feral and instinctive and that Abbie craved to do to a child of her own with every atom in her body.
‘Okay.’ She sat a little straighter. ‘The thing is, I can’t do this any more. God, I want to; I want a baby more than anything in the world, you know that. But Dr Morrison was frank—I can’t carry one to term. Ever. I’ve tried and tried and it’s not going to happen. I can’t put myself through that again so I have to face up to it. I can’t have Michael’s baby. I will never have it.’ Her throat felt raw and her stomach tightened. It was reality and she had to deal with it. ‘So. There it is. I’m
