By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс

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СКАЧАТЬ he well? Was he happy? And after that time when Isabelle had asked her to stay for dinner on the day of the scan, her mother-in-law had talked about everything under the sun except Forde. Which wasn’t like Isabelle and led Melanie to suspect her mother-in-law was obeying orders from her son.

      She could be wrong, of course, maybe she was being paranoid, but, whatever, she couldn’t complain.

      But she missed him. Terribly. It had been bad enough when she had first left him in the early part of the year, but then she had been reconciled to the fact her marriage was over. She had thrown herself into making her business work and finding herself a home, and, although that hadn’t compensated for not having him around, it had occupied her mind some of the time. Furnishing the cottage, turning her tiny courtyard garden into a small oasis, making sure any professional work she did was done to the best of her ability and drumming up business had all played its part in dulling her mind against the pain.

      But now …

      Since he had muscled his way into her life again that night in August he’d reopened a door she was powerless to shut. He’d penetrated her mind—and her body, she thought wryly, her hand going to the swell of her belly.

      And in spite of herself she wanted to see him, the more so as the sessions with Miriam progressed.

      She was finding herself in a strange place emotionally as her deepest fears and anxieties stemming from her troubled childhood and even more troubled teens were unearthed. She had to come to terms with the truth that she’d buried the fact she’d always felt worthless and unloved behind the capable, controlled façade she presented to the world. And as time had gone on something had begun to happen to the solid ball of pain and fear and sorrow lodged in her heart. It had begun to slowly disintegrate, and, though the process wasn’t without its own anguish and grief, it was cleansing.

      Gradually, very gradually she was beginning to accept the concept that her confusion and despair as a child had coloured her view of herself. She hadn’t been responsible for her parents’ death or that of her grandmother, or her friend’s tragic accident either. None of that had been her fault.

      The miscarriage was harder to come to terms with, her grief still frighteningly raw. It helped more than she could ever express that Miriam had pushed aside her professional status and cried with her on those sessions, revealing to Melanie that she’d lost a baby herself at six months and had blamed herself for a long time afterwards.

      ‘It’s what we do as women,’ Miriam had said wryly as she’d dried her eyes after one particularly harrowing meeting. ‘Take the blame, punish ourselves, try to make sense of what is an unexplainable tragedy. But you weren’t to blame. You would have given your life for Matthew as I would have given mine for my baby.’

      ‘Forde said that once, that I’d have given my life for Matthew’s if I could,’ Melanie had said thoughtfully.

      ‘He’s right.’ Miriam had patted her arm gently. ‘And he loves you very much. Lots of women go a whole lifetime without being loved like Forde loves you. You can trust him—you know that, don’t you?’

      But could she trust herself? She wanted to. More than anything she longed to put the past behind her and believe she could be a good wife and mother and a rational and optimistic human being, but how did she know if she had the strength of mind to do that or would she fall back into the old fears and anxieties that would cripple her and ultimately those she loved?

      Melanie was thinking about the conversation with Miriam on the day before Christmas Eve. She was curled up on one of the sofas in her sitting room, which she’d pulled close to the glowing fire, watching an old Christmassy film on TV but without paying it any real attention. She had finished work until after the New Year; the ground had been as hard as iron for weeks and heavy snow was forecast within the next twenty-four hours.

      She and James had finished the job they’d gone on to once Isabelle’s garden was completed and James had disappeared off to Scotland to spend Christmas with his parents and a whole host of relations, although she suspected it was more the allure of the Hogmanay party his parents always held on New Year’s Eve that he didn’t want to miss. He had invited her to go with him, telling her his parents’ house was always packed full over the festive season and one more would make no difference, but she’d declined the offer. A couple of her friends had invited her for Christmas lunch, and both Isabelle and Miriam had made noises in that direction, but she had politely said no to everyone.

      She had forbidden the one person she wanted to spend Christmas with from coming anywhere near her, and although part of her wanted to call Forde and just hear his voice, another part—a stronger part—didn’t feel ready for what that might entail. She had bought him a Christmas card and then decided not to send it because for the life of her she couldn’t find the right words to say. She knew she would have to phone him after Christmas about the next scan; it was only two weeks away now.

      She rested her hand on the mound of her stomach and in response felt a fluttering that made her smile. That had happened several times in the last week and it never failed to thrill her. Her baby, living, growing, moving inside her, a little person who would have its own mind and personality. She had felt this baby move much earlier than she had Matthew but her friends who had children had assured her it was like that with the second. And with each experience of feeling those tiny arms and legs stretching and kicking she had wondered how ever she’d be able to hand their child over to Forde and walk away. It would kill her, she thought, shutting her eyes tightly. But would it be the best thing for her baby? She didn’t know any more. She had been so sure before she’d started seeing Miriam, but now, the more she understood herself and what had led her to think that way, the more she’d dared to hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, the depression that had kicked in after the miscarriage and that had been fed by the insecurities of her past had fooled her into thinking that way.

      ‘You’re not a Jonah, Melanie.’ Miriam had said that at their last session as they were saying goodbye. ‘You are like everyone else. Some people sail through life without encountering any problems, others seem to have loads from day one, but it’s all due to chance, unfair though that is. I can’t say the rest of your life is going to be a bowl of cherries, no one can, but I can say you have a choice right now. You can either look at the negatives and convince yourself it’s all doom and gloom, or you can take life by the throat and kick it into submission. Know what I mean?’

      ‘Like Cassie and Sarah?’ she’d answered. Sarah was the little girl in a wheelchair in the photograph. She was beautiful, with curly brown hair and huge, limpid green eyes, but she had been born with spina bifida and other medical complications. Cassie, her mother, was devoted to her and in the summer Cassie had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, but according to Miriam her daughter was determined to fight her illness every inch of the way. Sarah, young as she was, had the same spirit, her proud grandmother said, and was a joy to be with. Miriam had admitted to Melanie she’d cried bitter tears over them both but would never dream of letting her daughter or granddaughter know because neither of them ‘did’ self-pity.

      ‘My Cassie must have had her down times over Sarah and now this multiple sclerosis has reared its head, but, apart from in the early days with Sarah just after she was born, I’ve never seen Cassie anything but positive.’ Miriam had looked at her, her eyes soft. ‘You can be like that, Melanie. I know it.’

      A log fell further into the glowing ash, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. It roused Melanie from her thoughts and she glanced at the dwindling stack of logs and empty coal scuttle. She must go and bring more logs in and fill the scuttle before it got dark, she thought, rising to her feet reluctantly. James had helped her build a lean-to in her small paved front garden in the summer for her supply of logs and sacks of coal. She hadn’t wanted СКАЧАТЬ