It’s a Wonderful Life: The Christmas bestseller is back with an unforgettable holiday romance

I’d deliberately not worked over the Christmas period, thinking the break would do me good. And then all the stuff with Mum and Dad happened. I’m still reeling from their news. I know my parents have never been particularly lovey-dovey, but they’ve always seemed to get along, and I assumed they always would. This has come like a bolt from the blue.

As families go, despite our differences we are as happy as the next one. Or I’ve always thought so anyway. When I was in my teens I used to worry Mum and Dad might split up – I seem to remember a lot of arguments back then. But now? I’m about to hit forty, my mum is about to hit seventy. This should have been a year of happy family celebrations, particularly with Sam turning eighteen and a new baby being thrown into the mix. Instead Mum and Dad are barely speaking. Mum is spending all her time indoors, and won’t be coaxed out, while Dad is being silently sullen about the whole thing. That’s the thing that kills me. I’ve always worshipped my dad – to be honest I get on better with him than with Mum. When I was little he was always the cuddly one, the one I went to when I was feeling low. Mum’s always been a more of a pull-yourself-together kind of parent. Dad always propped me up at those times when I felt I couldn’t cope. The thought of him having had an affair makes me feel sick. And I feel partly to blame too. If only I hadn’t encouraged him to go to art classes, he’d never have met this damned Lilian woman.

But then, how could I have foreseen what would happen? I find it so hard to believe that my lovely, funny, kind dad could have behaved so badly. I’m furious with him, and I hate feeling like that, but he’s made me angrier than I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t know where it’s all going to end, but I expect I’ll have to pick up the pieces. I usually do in this family.

On top of this, I feel so pressurised by the book. The deadline is looming over my head, and I’ve been so distracted that the creativity I so desperately need just isn’t happening.

Normally, I’d try and thrash this out with Daniel. Although he never tends to be very critical, it’s always lovely to hear his supportive comments. But at the moment he’s really preoccupied with work stuff. He’s still finding his feet at his new school, and some days I know it’s a struggle for him. They’re expecting an Ofsted inspection this term, and he’s already fretting about it. As the first black Head Teacher in a white, middle-class school, there’s an awful lot riding on it. Even though said school was woefully mismanaged before he turned up.

I know he’s feeling the pressure, and I don’t want to burden him with my worries. Besides, I think he’s taken the Mum and Dad thing pretty hard too – he’s always loved my parents, especially because of his own situation, and now they’ve thrown us all a huge curveball.

This is not good. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus on the work in front of me.

So – the Littlest Angel – where is she and where is she going next?

I get up to make coffee. I just can’t concentrate. My little angel is very lost. And so, I fear, am I …

Daniel

‘Don’t run in the corridors!’ Daniel admonished two Year Seven boys who were doing skids down the corridor, blissfully unaware of his presence. They stood up, startled, automatically tucking their shirts into their trousers and adjusting their ties with a ‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir,’ before scooting away.

Daniel grinned to himself, remembering Sam at that age. He’d been so easy to deal with back then. But now? Now he was a closed book. He didn’t appear to be doing any work for his A Levels at all, and any attempts to talk about his future were met with hostility. Years of experience dealing with teenagers had given Daniel the knowledge that a hands-off approach was probably the best; he’d come round in his own good time. But it was much harder doing it yourself than advising other parents. Beth fretted so much. She always wanted to know what Sam was up to, when to Daniel it was clear he didn’t always want to say. It was the source of most of their arguments. Beth was a great mum, but sometimes Daniel felt she wanted to interfere too much with the children, and she’d be better off just letting them be. On the other hand, Beth thought Daniel was too laid-back and should be more assertive with them. It was a conundrum they didn’t look likely to solve any time soon.

Having dispatched the boys down the corridor, Daniel headed for his office to catch up on some paperwork. He loved his job, enjoyed the cut and thrust of running a school, and the interactions with the kids. He’d gone into education to make a difference, just as long ago a couple of teachers had made a difference for him. After his dad had left home when Daniel was ten, there’d been a time when he had been so angry and bitter, he had become quite self-destructive. Without the support of an English teacher when he was in Year Seven and a maths teacher in Year Nine, Daniel might never have found his calling. He could so easily have gone off the rails. As it was, those two teachers had changed his life, and it had fired him up to do the same for others.

He had never regretted his decision to be a teacher, and he was really enjoying working in the new school, where there was a good ethos and the kids, in the main, wanted to study. But it wasn’t the world he’d entered all those years ago, and the pressure to succeed was immense. The thought of the Ofsted inspection was giving him sleepless nights. He knew he had a good management team in place, though he could have done with a couple more senior figures on it; the governors kept going for money over experience. It was cheaper to pay a twenty-eight-year-old to be head of department than a forty-five-year-old. And with the way the budget was looking – a big headache to address this term – saving money was paramount. He was grateful for the enthusiasm and energy his new staff members brought to the school, but he did worry that there was a lack of experience too. Something else he needed to sort out.

Daniel’s phone buzzed. A message from Beth. He loved the way she still texted him in the day. Though they had married young – too young some of their friends had thought, especially with a baby on the way – theirs was a good marriage, and he was more contented than most people he knew in his position.

Having a slow day. Any chance of lunch?

He smiled. Eighteen years married and he still was just as much in love with Beth as when they’d first met. He really wished he did have time for lunch.

Sorry, no can do. Meeting. But let’s do dinner tonight.

And with the thought of that playing happily on his mind, he strode down the corridor with renewed purpose. As long as Beth was beside him, he could cope with anything.

Lou

‘Can I get you anything, Mum?’

I’ve come into the kitchen to find Mum staring into the garden. She’s still wearing her dressing gown and looks like she hasn’t slept.

‘A different life?’ asks Mum bitterly.

Oh God. Here we go. Every day since I’ve moved back in she’s been like this. Never mind that my own life has spectacularly imploded since Jo left. To top it off, I finally got made redundant just after Christmas. My manager blamed cutbacks, told me it was nothing personal, but it was the last thing I needed after the blow of Jo leaving. I can’t afford the rent on my flat without a job. If I’d still been with Jo, I could have gone to stay with her. But I had nowhere else to go, hence why I’ve ended up back home. I may as well be miserable with Mum and Dad rather than be on my own.

I’d thought maybe there might be a silver lining to moving back home, that my being here might help Mum, and help me too in a funny way. I thought it might take my mind off my own misery. But she barely acknowledges me, and I’m not sure if I’m making any difference. I mean, I get how she feels. I’ve had my fair share of heartache and I’m no stranger to being dumped and cheated on (Jo said there’s no one else, but I’m not sure I believe her. But that might be my insecurity talking). Finding out your husband of over forty years has been cheating must be horrendous. But I hadn’t expected this. This shadow of a person, not moving, inert, just accepting her fate. The Mum I know would never give up like this. Why can’t she be angry any more, the way Beth and I are? It’s like all the fight’s gone out of her.

I want to shake her and say, Do something. Fight for him. But she doesn’t. Beth thinks she needs time, but I’m not sure my sister realises how bad the situation is. Sam and Megan, of course, think it’s hilarious that Grandpa could even be having an affair. The idea of seventy-somethings having a sex life is completely incomprehensible to them. But this is serious. Mum and Dad have had their ups and downs, but they’ve always been together. And the situation is further complicated by the fact that Dad seems to be spending a lot of time with this Lilian woman, but he still hasn’t officially left Mum’s house. He’s sleeping in the spare room and sneaking out to see her every day. He never says where he’s going, or what his plans are. Presumably because the first time I asked him about it we had a stand-up row; it was horrible. Dad isn’t the rowing sort, and since then he’s refused to discuss the situation with me.

I don’t know what to do. I’ve spent my whole life being regarded as the pathetic one in the family: poor Lou stuffed up her A Levels, poor Lou can’t get a decent job, poor Lou hasn’t got a man – and now here I am having to act like the responsible one. I really haven’t the faintest idea how to do it.

‘I was thinking more on the lines of a cup of tea?’ I say as cheerfully as I can, but Mum looks at me blankly.

‘I suppose,’ she says. Her eyes look dull and lifeless. It’s a bit scary how quickly my energetic mum has morphed into a zombie. She’s barely been out of the house since Christmas, and I keep being bombarded with messages from her friends, checking up on her because she refuses to speak to them.

‘How about we go out for a coffee at the garden centre?’ I say.

I’d like to suggest going shopping, but I know I’ll get nowhere with that. I’ve been doing the shopping for the last two weeks, Dad being incapable of doing any domestic tasks. Lucky Lilian.

‘What’s the point?’ says Mum.

‘The point,’ I say firmly, ‘is you need to get out of the house. Trust me, I know.’

I think of all the times people have done this for me, stopped me drowning in self-pity when all I wanted to do was sit in my PJs eating chocolate and drinking too much wine. I’ve only coped this time because Mum needs me so much I haven’t had time to wallow in it. But when I’ve been heartbroken in the past, I’ve always been lucky enough to have someone there to kick me into shape and get me out of my despondency. I know it works.

‘So come on,’ I say. ‘Time to have a bath and pull yourself together. Dad’s never going to take you back if you wander round looking like a wet weekend in November.’

‘Don’t be rude,’ says Mum, with a flash of her old self, which gives me some hope. Slowly but surely, she does start to get ready.

First steps, but maybe I’m getting there …

Chapter Two (#ulink_7f279dd8-6097-518a-b9fd-bf2f1bc5ff0a)

Beth

I’m on a train to London to meet my new editor, Vanessa, in person for the first time. Normally I enjoy my trips to see my publishers. It’s always been a chance to catch up with Karen, talk shop and thrash out new ideas – it’s creative, energising and fun. Plus it gets me out of the house.

But today is different. If Karen were still around, I’d at least be able to discuss things, but I barely know Vanessa. I’ve been trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but so far have found her to be annoyingly patronising, and often quite rude. I know I should be open-minded but I’m finding it increasingly difficult to take suggestions from a woman young enough to be my daughter, who always approaches every conversation as if I’m a problem that needs solving and keeps saying things like, ‘Well, it’s not that I don’t like it, exactly, it’s just there’s a spark missing.’

I know there’s a spark missing. She’s the editor, I was rather hoping she’d help me find it, but her latest solution to send my little angel on a journey round the whole world feels overcomplicated to me. ‘It’ll help give it that international feel that’s so vital to the picture-book market,’ she gushed down the phone last week.

‘Yeah, I know how it works,’ I said, biting my lip. I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and I understand the importance of foreign editions; they help increase the print run and bring down the production costs. Without them, it’s much harder to get a book off the ground. One or two of my early projects foundered as a result of too few foreign publishers coming on board. I don’t need Vanessa to lecture me on how important it is. I feel she’s treating me like an idiot, and it’s making me resent her even more.

Anyway, whatever I’m doing isn’t working, so I found myself agreeing to take my angel on a journey that involves London, Paris, New York, Berlin and Rome, even though apart from Rome none of these places even existed in Jesus’ time.

When I pointed this out, I was given an airy, ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter, it’s symbolic.’ Though of what, I’m not quite sure.

So I’ve done as she’s asked and drawn up some spreads of the Littlest Angel making friends with a pigeon on top of Nelson’s Column and asking the Mona Lisa for directions. In Berlin she’s getting a view of the city from the Reichstag, and in Rome she’s at the Vatican.

It doesn’t make any sense to me at all. Every time I draw the angel, I can’t seem to help myself giving her a puzzled and despairing look. It’s just how I feel. Though I know the book wasn’t working, I don’t think Vanessa’s solution is any better.

I get to the office in plenty of time for our meeting, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach. What am I doing? Why am I allowing my gut instincts to be overridden by someone like Vanessa? If only I had a clear view of my story I’d be able to fight back, but the trouble is, I don’t, and I know this book is going to end up being a disaster.

Vanessa doesn’t keep me waiting long. As I anticipated, she’s a pretty, bright young thing, all gushing enthusiasm. Suddenly it occurs to me that she might be as nervous as I am.

‘I just can’t believe I’m working with you, Beth,’ she says. ‘I loved your books when I was little.’