Cathy Kelly 3-Book Collection 2: The House on Willow Street, The Honey Queen, Christmas Magic, plus bonus short story: The Perfect Holiday

She smiled at the kisses and the term of endearment. Baby. No woman who got called ‘baby’ could be turning perimenopausal. He loved her, and she loved him, even if he was the worst housekeeper she’d ever met.

Still smiling, she went downstairs, ignored the cartons on the kitchen table and poured herself a glass of chilled white wine from the fridge. On a hook by the back porch door were a few heavy rugs Suki used when she wanted to sit on the porch swing seat on winter nights. Snagging one, she went outside, wrapping herself up in the rug. It was nicer on the porch when she lit the candles in all the tiny storm lanterns, but it took ages and she was too tired. When Mick sat out with her, he made sure he had music playing, sometimes bluegrass, more often rock. For Suki, music just reminded her of the hurt she felt, so when she was alone, she sat in silence.

Closing her eyes, she let wine and nicotine sink into her. When she was a teenager, she’d sit out in the orchard in the evenings, sneaking a cigarette after dinner. Sometimes their cat, a small black creature called Raven, would join her, weaving around for attention.

Tess had rescued the cat from the woods one day, a tiny scrap of a thing thrown into a sack with the top tied.

Of course, they’d kept her. Nothing in pain was ever sent away from Avalon House.

Tess had saved the cat and named her, yet Raven had chosen Suki to be her beloved mistress. Suki was careless of the cat’s affection and that appeared to suit the cat just fine.

Raven was long gone now, buried with all the Avalon House animals in the tiny pet graveyard outside the orchard wall.

Suki’s eyes filled with tears. This was ridiculous, she thought, stabbing out her cigarette and then wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

She kept thinking about home, about Tess, about Avalon, and it was stupid. Smart women didn’t look back, they looked forward. Right?

Chapter Six (#ulink_838465f8-4fd1-57a6-b314-546504151b54)

Mara had thought going to Jack’s wedding was painful: but going into work and seeing him with Tawhnee every day after the wedding was far worse.

‘I feel as if I’ve disappeared into a black hole,’ she told Cici miserably. ‘I’m there but I’m not there, not in Jack’s eyes, anyway. I’ve just realized that it wasn’t the most thrilling job in the world. Yes, I was lucky to have a job at all, but I loved it because of him. Now it’s torture.’

It was torture to go into work each day, feeling ‘ordinary’ and having the beautiful, long-legged Tawhnee swanning past, with every man’s eyes upon her.

It was torture to feel every woman in the place – except Tawhnee – urging her silently on, giving her thumbs-up signs across the office and silent hugs in the kitchenette.

She was invisible to every man and an object of pity to every woman.

Mara had never felt like a beauty queen, but when she’d been with Jack, she had felt loved for who she was. Once the love had been taken away and paraded so openly in front of her as so obviously false, she was bereft.

‘You’re great,’ Veronica had said one day at lunch, which had turned into a women-only zone where all the anti-Tawhnee and anti-Jack people congregated and bitched about how short Tawhnee’s skirts were, how tight her blouses were, how ludicrous her false eyelashes were …

‘Yes, totally OTT,’ agreed Sean, who was gay, and therefore allowed into the women-only zone. ‘She wears so much make-up, she’s like a tranny.’

‘Whereas you, Mara,’ went on Veronica, ‘are classy, individual, clever and …’ she searched for another word.

‘Not a Ferrari,’ supplied Mara. ‘Apparently, Tawhnee is a Ferrari and I am … nobody knows, but I assume I’m a clapped-out old banger. A Ford Cortina with two hundred thousand miles on the clock? Something ordinary, anyway.’

Everyone stared at her.

‘It’s what the guys were saying the day I found out about Jack and Her. She’s a Ferrari, therefore hotter than hell, and I’m not. They couldn’t come up with anything else for me.’

‘Ah.’ Everyone got it.

Sean poked her with his fork. ‘Call yourself ordinary in that rig-out?’ he said, and everyone, including Mara, laughed.

In an attempt to cope with her misery she had made an extra-special effort with her clothes. That day, she’d chosen an emerald green vintage Dior-ish swirling skirt worn with a black patent belt around her hourglass waist with a beret topping off her red curls.

‘Without the clothes, I’m ordinary,’ Mara said sadly.

Sean held his hands over his eyes dramatically: ‘I don’t want to see the without the clothes version,’ he said. ‘Tried it once and didn’t like it. Keep the clothes on, dearie.’

But despite all the moral support, Mara’s spirits were low. She came to the conclusion that her job and the daily proximity to Jack were to blame.

‘I know it’s mad to give up a decent job these days, but I have to,’ she’d said one night to Cici, when they were in the DVD shop, pootling around the shelves as they decided what to rent. ‘I love Galway, you know I do,’ Mara said to her friend. ‘But everything about this place reminds me of Jack and I need to get away.’

As soon as she said it, Mara felt the rightness of the decision. She’d go away – and not home, either. She’d brought Jack there, she’d brought him proudly into the family home with the hope that he was hers for ever. No, she felt too raw to run home to her parents. She’d go to Avalon and Danae; Jack had never been there. It would be clean, virgin territory, un-tainted by Jack.

‘Leave Galway?’ The words finally got through to Cici, who was toying over a rack of DVDs featuring men with guns in their hands, chiselled faces and torn T-shirts showing taut six-packs. Cici had no interest in guns, as it happened.

‘I’ve got to leave my job,’ Mara went on. ‘It’s hell going in there every day and seeing her looking stunning and thinking that, if I looked like that, I’d be married to Jack.’

‘Just shows you he’s a moron,’ muttered Cici. ‘But you can’t leave Galway. What’ll I do?’

‘Sublet my room,’ said Mara decisively. ‘Give me six months to wash Jack out of my hair and who knows what I’ll feel like then.’

‘But I’ll miss you,’ Cici said, beginning to look panicked.

‘I’m going to Avalon to my aunt, Danae. You can come to visit – you’d love it.’

Cici turned away from the men-with-bared-torso DVDs. ‘Beaches,’ she said. ‘That’s what we need. Or The Bodyguard.’

‘No,’ said Mara. ‘Let’s rent Aliens. I want to watch the bit where Ripley gets to go after Mama Alien with a flamethrower. That’s the way I feel about men right now. The next man who comes near me is going to get a blast of the flamethrower.’

‘Should I phone the local police station in Avalon and warn them you plan to run amok with your flamethrower?’ Cici asked.

‘No,’ laughed Mara. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll tell them myself. Or I’ll get a sign for the top of the car.’

Mara was on her own that Friday night and she’d planned a glass of wine, chocolate and an evening with the remote control.

Cici and a few of the gang were going to see a film, then have dinner at a new Mexican restaurant.

‘You need to get out,’ Cici said.

But Mara had no interest in out.She could only just bear being in if she watched one of the endless crime series on TV, where evil stalked and complete nutters came up with ever more inventive ways to torture people.

Cici thought all the serial-killer shows were weird and believed the people who watched them were even weirder.

‘What do you get out of watching that stuff?’ she asked, mystified.

‘Comfort,’ explained Mara. ‘No matter how bad I feel, it’s better than the people being tracked by the killers. Plus, the detectives always work out whodunnit in the end, which is also comforting. Bad deeds are punished. That’s a nice thought.’

So she was alone, with a box of chocolate finger biscuits and a glass of rosé that night at eight when the doorbell rang.

Shuffling along in her sloppy home sweatpants and slippers, Mara went to the door and peered out through the peephole.

Jack.