Chapter Two
Fifteen months ago – December 2015
Lydia ran a duster across the windowsill of the front room in their terraced house in Bath, Somerset. It hadn’t started to snow yet but outside, the rooftops were white, dusted with frost, window frames and pavements caught the sun that highlighted their icy spots.
Lydia and Theo had bought this house together just over two years ago, giddy with excitement at finally completing on a purchase without being gazumped, and even more elated that they were no longer at the mercy of a landlord. Their last place, a modest second-floor flat on a smart central Georgian street in the city, had been an amalgamation of broken appliances, ever-growing mould in the bathroom and no end of ongoing problems including a boiler that chose to go on the blink every winter without fail. One of the first things they’d done when they moved in here was to make sure the heating was top-notch and the insulation the best it could be.
And now this house with its midnight-blue door, to match the gate, was home. They were yet to do the drab kitchen because they’d run out of money to spend on the Edwardian terrace, but Lydia had a flair for bringing out the best of what was already there. The kitchen was more than a decade old, but these days it looked bright and airy. They’d scrubbed all the cabinets, inside and out, painted around the edges of the worktops to disguise stains and give the room a bit of a lift, they’d added new light fittings and bought a new slot-in oven so they could at least cook safely rather than in the one that probably should’ve been condemned a long time ago. Herbs now grew in little aluminium buckets lined up along the windowsill and a blackboard stretched floor to ceiling on the only free wall space. Each of them would use it to scribble items for the shopping list or leave messages for one another, and Lydia would always draw a few hearts or flowers at the edges, just to make it look pretty.
Lydia finished dusting the lounge and moved on to the hallway where she wiped down the wooden shelf that housed multiple sets of keys, Theo’s wallet, bits of post they’d opened and done nothing with. She grabbed the dustpan and brush and tackled the floor that was ever dirty with debris brought in from the wintry outside, and then returned to the lounge and the welcoming pine scent from the Christmas tree she and Theo had chosen yesterday from a farm less than an hour’s drive away. Already the floor was covered with needles, mostly from Theo trying to get the thing straight in its stand last night as they’d sipped on mulled wine, played Christmas songs at full blast and finally decorated it with baubles and delicate decorations. She looked up at the angel on top, the figure they’d chosen together after only being a couple for two months. Theo had made her laugh when he said buying something together showed a genuine commitment, and she’d thought how lovely he was and how she wanted to spend every single Christmas with him from now on.
She swept the last of the pine needles from the wooden floor beneath the tree and stood back to admire their handiwork. Even with her fuzzy head this morning, it still made her smile seeing the lights dipping between the greenery, the decorations old and new hung at random intervals, the silver bells she and Theo had laboriously threaded with silver string and tied to the ends of the branches.
‘Morning, sexy.’ Theo made her jump when he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He nuzzled against her neck. ‘It’s too cold to go to work, please tell me to stay at home because you need me.’
She turned round and kissed him on the lips. She took in the navy blue suit that looked so good on him, the silk tie she’d bought him last year. He smelled of Hugo Boss aftershave and toothpaste. ‘Maybe you should stay home today,’ she suggested. ‘We could go back to bed.’
He kissed her again and she knew he was tempted. ‘Maybe we don’t need to make it as far as the bedroom. It is our own place after all.’
She looked over at the sofa, grey with white cushions, but without moving she stepped closer to him and tugged on his tie. He got the message and they lay down almost beneath the Christmas tree, on the rug so it wasn’t too hard for them or cold against the floor.
‘You’re a wicked woman.’ His deep brown eyes drank her in. ‘Now get these clothes off. You look far better in your birthday suit.’
Together they wrangled off her leggings and her favourite lilac dance top, and the second she was naked, his hands glided across her body as though overnight he’d forgotten what every inch of her felt like. She loosened his tie, giving up when it became knotted even tighter, and instead, wrestled it over his head. She wanted to feel his skin against hers and she deftly undid each shirt button in turn, wrenched his clothes off and cast them aside.
‘You should clean more often,’ he said after they’d made love and he had her encased in his arms beneath the Christmas tree. ‘Clearly it agrees with you.’ They were both looking up at the lights she’d turned on first thing to begin the festive cheer as soon as possible. He shivered when she trailed her fingers across the warmth of his chest and willed him not to move, not yet. ‘Why were you doing it so early anyway? Don’t tell me you’ve already been down to the studio.’
Lydia had been dancing since she was tiny. She’d kept it up all through university, she’d joined a contemporary dance school in London while she was there and taken part in several shows, and although she didn’t necessarily perform anymore, it was a hobby she knew was with her for life. Nothing felt as free or as exhilarating as being on the dance floor, moving, expressing her every emotion.
‘I was dancing when you were still snoring your head off!’ she told him.
‘Very funny.’ He sat up and Lydia ran her hand down his smooth back until he pulled his shirt on and did up the buttons.
‘I only cleaned because Sally’s coming over at the weekend. I don’t want her thinking I’ve turned into a slob.’
‘You’re hardly a slob.’ He turned round and faced her again, tipped his head and kissed her belly button. ‘You’re beautiful.’ He hooked her dark, wavy hair behind one ear. He’d always loved her long hair. He’d called her exotic the first time they met, with her hair that fell in waves, eyes that were as deep a brown as his and skin that was a natural nut-brown colour all year round regardless of whether the sun had made an appearance.
Lydia pulled on her own clothes and picked up his tie from the floor, undid the knot and looped it round his neck after he upturned the collar.
He leaned forwards and kissed her again. ‘How about you work this morning and I come home early afternoon? We’ll head into the city centre for a few glasses of wine and some dinner, check out the Christmas markets. I’ve been working crazy hours lately and I’ve been neglecting you.’
She smiled up at him. ‘You didn’t neglect me just then.’
‘Careful, or you’ll have me taking off your clothes a second time.’
‘Enough of the flirting, get to work, you.’ She wasn’t sure he should be suggesting dinner out and the Christmas markets, because their savings were for finishing the house, and she didn’t want them to fritter the money away.
‘Did you send your application in for the journalist job?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got a good feeling about this one.’
She wished she did. It wasn’t that she didn’t want the job, or the decent money, come to that. But what Theo saw as uncertainty on her part that she could ace an interview, and then deliver her best in a new position, was really the doubt she’d had building up inside of her for a long time. In London she’d worked for a major newspaper for a few years and the atmosphere was go, go, go. Everything had to be done yesterday, everything was to strict deadline and there was a permanent fear lining your stomach, from the minute you stepped into that revolving door at the offices and were flung out the other side to the moment you left. Some nights it didn’t even stop there. She’d worked ridiculously long hours on a frequent basis, often losing sleep over how much she still had to do. At the time she’d thought it the nature of the job.
Lydia’s dad was a journalist once upon a time, before he took early retirement. He’d started at the bottom on a daily newspaper too, and worked his way up to more senior positions. She had decided that perhaps it would take time to get used to the workings of the media, but when she’d been made redundant, while everyone else was panicking or upset or frantically sending out their CVs to whoever would read them, part of Lydia had taken a huge sigh of relief and was ready to move on. Quite where Lydia wanted to escape to she hadn’t really known, but when she started freelancing she found the happy medium. It was hard to drum up work, but she had enough that she made a small income and her contacts were starting to build as time went on.
She’d talked about the transition with her dad and he’d been surprisingly supportive. ‘Only half your genes are from me,’ he’d told her. ‘You get your more nurturing, selfless side from your mother. It’s your life, Lydia,’ he’d said, ‘and you only get one chance at it.’
