Page 72 of The Cotswolds Christmas Fair

Jen’s heart was thudding so hard she could barely hear Julia speaking. Her hands had bunched themselves into fists on the table. ‘Why wouldn’t it work out? Can’t you just be happy for me?’

Julia pursed her lips, and Jen felt a surge of fury rise in her. This was her sister, but she was acting like some disappointed parent. ‘Well,’ Julia said. ‘Come on. You know what you’re like, you’ll get bored and move on to something else soon.’ She drained her cup and brushed down her skirt, glancing around to look at the door. ‘You always do this, you throw yourself into stuff without thinking it through and then everyone has to clear up the mess when it all goes wrong.’

Jen was so angry that she could hardly speak. But she was hurt, too. She’d thought they would bond over this – sisters, moving on to adulthood together, both in serious relationships, both at the beginning of promising careers. It stung to hear Julia dismiss her like this.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she snapped. ‘We’re serious about each other. And even if we did split up – which we won’t – I’d still see Martha. I’m going to be her teacher.’

If only she’d known.

The term went well. Jen worked hard and was often exhausted, but she loved every moment – her classroom was a bright, inviting haven of lovingly put-together displays and child-friendly resources, many of which she bought herself. The children thrived under her gentle, firm guidance, and none more than Martha. Jen felt a special burst of pride when the little girl contributed to group sessions or giggled with her friends.

She was at David’s less often. He was busy with work, and she was distracted. Their balmy, romantic summer had slipped into a more fraught season that meant they had less time for each other. But still, they made the effort when they could, going for walks as the weather chilled, and comparing news of their day over homecooked lasagne. They were happy. She thought they were happy.

Jen had always loved Christmas, and the build-up to her first one as a teacher, her first one in Martha’s life, was exciting. The three of them chose a tree and decorated it together, Jen and David lifting Martha to place the star on the top. They practised the songs for her first school nativity, and David proudly recorded the event while Jen encouraged her class to do their best, despite the distraction of having their parents watching. On the last day of term, she hurried to tidy her classroom.

Excited, she rushed to the house. The presents she’d bought were already under the tree – a Gruffalo dressing-up outfit and toy for Martha and an expensive watch with a traditional leather strap for David. Just like the one he described remembering his dad wearing. They had a Christmas movie marathon planned and a pile of home-made mince pies to go with it. Not to mention mulled wine for the grown-ups and hot chocolate for Martha.

It had been a long, tiring, exhilarating term, and she was delighted to be celebrating the end of it with David and Martha.

When she got to the house it was in darkness. The tree wasn’t lit. The rooms were silent.

And on the table lay a note. It simply read, Sorry.

Chapter Thirty-Two

She ran to Julia.

Things between them were a little tense, but they were still sisters. Julia knew her like no one else. She would understand the devastation Jen was feeling now.

She’d thought that Julia might be out with Dan, or snuggled up on the sofa with him in a haze of sickening contentment, but luckily she was alone. Jen couldn’t face such a blatant display of happiness while her own heart had been shattered. Julia wore an old dressing gown and her make-up-free eyes were red as she tucked into a tub of ice cream. She took one look at Jen’s face and got another spoon from the drawer, handing it to her silently.

They sat on the sofa in the tiny flat Julia lived in then, and Jen told the whole sorry tale, as much of it as there was to tell, as the ice cream slowly disappeared.

She’d called David as soon as she’d seen the note, and on the third time he’d picked up, apparently realising that she was going to keep trying until he answered. He’d sounded appropriately sheepish. Broken, even.

But he’d gone back to his wife, and taken Martha.

Apparently she’d been in touch over the past couple of months, and they’d quietly begun talking and rebuilding. She was sorry. She realised she’d made a terrible mistake.

‘What can I do?’ he asked, despair threading through his voice. ‘It’s Martha’s mum, and nothing can replace that. I have to do what’s right for her.’

Jen wanted to scream at him. What about what’s right for us? What about me? Can’t I be enough, for you and Martha?

But she didn’t, because she knew the answers. What was best for Martha was the only thing that mattered. And Jen loved her, there was no doubt of that. She loved David, she loved Martha, and given the chance she’d have done anything to make them happy, to make things work.

But what could she offer that meant more than Martha’s own mum?

Sitting at the table in his kitchen, where they’d eaten and talked and mapped out a future together, she sobbed into the phone. ‘But – everything you said, all our plans, was it – did it mean anything? At all?’

She heard him swallow, and when he spoke his voice shook. ‘Yes, of course, I wouldn’t string you along. And I’ll never know if I’m making the worst mistake of my life, but – it’s her mum. I have to try.’

That was the last conversation she had with him. And, as she sat on her sister’s sofa, she wept for everything she’d lost; not just David, not even Martha, but the future they should have had together. The family they were going to add to. The life they would have shared.

She didn’t know who she was, without all that.

Julia held her as she sobbed, and dried her face and refilled her glass. She called David every name under the sun, she told Jen that she could do better, that she deserved better, that she absolutely would find better.

She said all the right things. Until she didn’t.