CHAPTER TWO

      SHE refused to let Kate turn up the heating.

      ‘We’ll be fine,’ she protested. ‘Believe me, this isn’t cold.’

      ‘It’s only on frost protection!’

      ‘It’s fine. We’re used to it. Please, I really don’t want to argue about this. We have jumpers.’

      ‘Well, at least light the woodburner,’ Kate said, relenting with a sigh. ‘There’s a huge stack of logs outside the back door.’

      ‘I can’t use his logs! Logs are expensive!’

      Kate just laughed. ‘Not if you own several acres of woodland. He has more logs than he knows what to do with. We all use them. I throw some into the boot of my car every day and take them home to burn overnight, and so does everyone else. Really, you can’t let the kids be cold, Millie. Just use the wood.’

      So she did. She lit the fire, stood the heavy black mesh guard in front of it and the children settled down on the rug with Rufus and watched the television while she made them something quick and simple for supper. Even Thomas was good, managing to eat his supper without spitting it out all over the room or screaming the place down, and Amelia felt herself start to relax.

      And when the wind picked up in the night and the old house creaked and groaned, it was just as if it was settling down, turning up its collar against the wind and wrapping its arms around them all to keep them warm.

      Fanciful nonsense.

      But it felt real, and when she got up in the morning and tiptoed downstairs to check the fire before the children woke, she found Rufus fast asleep on the rug in front of the woodburner, and he lifted his head and wagged his tail. She picked him up and hugged him, tears of relief prickling her eyes because finally, for the first time in months, she felt—even if it would only be for a few days—as if they were safe.

      She filled up the fire, amazed that it had stayed alight, and made herself a cup of tea while Rufus went out in the garden for a moment. Then she took advantage of the quiet time and sat with him by the fire to drink her tea and contemplate her next move.

      Rattling the cage of the job agencies, of course. What choice was there? Without a job, she couldn’t hope to get a house. And she needed to get some food in. Maybe a small chicken? She could roast it, and put a few sausages round it, and it would be much cheaper than a turkey. Just as well, as she was trying to stretch the small amount of money she had left for as long as possible.

      She thought of the extravagant Christmases she’d had with David in the past, the lavish presents, the wasted food, and wondered if the children felt cheated. Probably, but Christmas was just one of the many ways in which he’d let them down on a regular basis, so she was sure they’d just take it all in their stride.

      Unlike being homeless, she thought, getting to her feet and washing out her mug before going upstairs to start the day. They were finding that really difficult and confusing, and all the chopping and changing was making them feel insecure. And she hated that. But there was Laura’s cheque, which meant she might be able to find somewhere sooner—even if she would have to pay her back, just for the sake of her pride.

      So, bearing the cheque in mind, she spent part of the morning on the phone trying to find somewhere to live, but the next day would be Christmas Eve and realistically nobody wanted to show her anything until after the Christmas period was over, and the job agencies were no more helpful. Nobody, apparently, was looking for a translator at the moment, so abandoning her search until after Christmas, she took the kids out for a long walk around the grounds, with Thomas in his stroller and Rufus sniffing the ground and having a wonderful time while Kitty and Edward ran around shrieking and giggling.

      And there was nobody to hear, nobody to complain, nobody to stifle the sound of their childish laughter, and gradually she relaxed and let herself enjoy the day.

      ‘Mummy, can we have a Christmas tree?’ Edward asked as they trudged back for lunch.

      More money—not only for the tree, but also for decorations. And she couldn’t let herself touch Laura’s money except for a house. ‘I don’t know if we should,’ she said, blaming it on the unknown Jake and burying her guilt because she was sick of telling her children that they couldn’t have things when it was all because their unprincipled and disinterested father refused to pay up. ‘It’s not our house, and you know how they drop needles. He might mind.’

      ‘He won’t mind! Of course he won’t! Everyone has a Christmas tree!’ Kitty explained patiently to her obviously dense mother.

      ‘But we haven’t got the decorations, and anyway, I don’t know where we could get one this late,’ she said, wondering if she’d get away with it and hating the fact that she had to disappoint them yet again.

      They walked on in silence for a moment, then Edward stopped. ‘We could make one!’ he said, his eyes lighting up at the challenge and finding a solution, as he always did. ‘And we could put fir cones on it! There were lots in the wood—and there were some branches there that looked like Christmas tree branches, a bit. Can we get them after lunch and tie them together and pretend they’re a tree, and then we can put fir cones on it, and berries—I saw some berries, and I’m sure he won’t mind if we only pick a few—’

      ‘Well, he might—’

      ‘No, he won’t! Mummy, he’s lent us his house!’ Kitty said earnestly and, not for the first time, Millie felt a stab of unease.

      But the children were right, everybody had a tree, and what harm could a few cut branches and some fir cones do? And maybe even the odd sprig of berries…

      ‘All right,’ she agreed, ‘just a little tree.’ So after lunch they trooped back, leaving the exhausted little Rufus snoozing by the fire, and Amelia and Edward loaded themselves up with branches and they set off, Kitty dragging Thomas in the stroller backwards all the way from the woods to the house.

      ‘There!’ Edward said in satisfaction, dropping his pile of branches by the back door. ‘Now we can make our tree!’

      The only thing that kept him going on that hellish journey was the thought of home.

      The blissful comfort of his favourite old leather sofa, a bottle of fifteen-year-old single malt and—equally importantly—the painkillers in his flight bag.

      Getting upstairs to bed would be beyond him at this point. His knee was killing him—not like last time, when he’d done the ligaments in his other leg, but badly enough to mean that staying would have been pointless, even if he hadn’t broken his wrist. And now all he could think about was lying down, and the sooner the better. He’d been stupid to travel so soon; his body was black and blue from end to end, but somehow, with Christmas what felt like seconds away and everyone down in the village getting so damned excited about it, leaving had become imperative now that he could no longer ski to outrun his demons.

      Not that he ever really managed to outrun them, although he always gave it a damn good try, but this time he’d come too close to losing everything, and deep down he’d realised