Another Love Read online

  Start Reading

  About Another Love

  About Amanda Prowse

  Reviews

  About No Greater Love

  About No Greater Courage

  Also by Amanda Prowse

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  To read this book as the author intended – and for a fuller reading experience – turn on ‘original’ or ‘publisher’s font’ in your text display options.

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  Display Options Notice

  Prologue

  Celeste

  Chapter One

  Celeste

  Chapter Two

  Celeste

  Chapter Three

  Celeste

  Chapter Four

  Celeste

  Chapter Five

  Celeste

  Chapter Six

  Celeste

  Chapter Seven

  Celeste

  Chapter Eight

  Celeste

  Chapter Nine

  Celeste

  Chapter Ten

  Celeste

  Chapter Eleven

  Celeste

  Chapter Twelve

  Celeste

  Chapter Thirteen

  Celeste

  Chapter Fourteen

  Celeste

  Chapter Fifteen

  Celeste

  Chapter Sixteen

  Celeste

  Chapter Seventeen

  Celeste

  Chapter Eighteen

  Celeste

  Chapter Nineteen

  Celeste

  Chapter Twenty

  Celeste

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Celeste

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Celeste

  Epilogue

  Preview

  About Another Love

  Reviews

  About Amanda Prowse

  No Greater Love

  No Greater Courage

  Also by Amanda Prowse

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  Prologue

  My darling Celeste,

  This letter might come too late for us both, but either way, I feel compelled to put pen to paper. I read a quote the other day that said, ‘Imagine when you die and arrive at your final destination, God says, “So how was heaven?”’ It floored me. I lay on the carpet and shook with fear. My ideas about God and indeed heaven are sketchy, but this made sense to me because my life was wonderful. I had it all. People often say that, don’t they? But I really did, and I guess that’s the hardest thing for me to fathom, how I unpicked my existence strand by strand until everything I held dear lay in a pile like a fine knitted garment reduced to knotty wool.

  It’s as if there are two of me. The shy me, the nice me. Smiling and enjoying the good fortune of others, wanting to do good, wanting to love and be loved, wanting nothing more than to laugh and laugh some more; the woman who puts her family at the centre of everything. That woman is smart, interested and interesting. She wakes with a spring in her step and a lift to her heart, happy to have a place in the world, a woman who looks forward to the future.

  And then there is the other me, the one who has another love, a love that can’t be broken. A destructive, all-consuming love that casts a long, dark shadow over all that is good. This other love is so strong that she will do anything, anything if it means they can slope off together and snatch some illicit moments of pure, pure joy. This woman is mean, angry and easily led. She is reckless, cruel and self-centred. She scares those around her, and she scares herself a bit too. And it doesn’t matter how forcefully I tell myself to keep her at bay, how firm my resolve to leave her buried, she is made of stronger stuff than I can defeat. She is hardened metal against my softened will, she is omnipotent and magnificent and in her presence I can do nothing but cower.

  When she is around, I can feel the tension in the air like a storm brewing on the horizon. I can almost see the bruised purple clouds rolling in. I can feel my face change from pretty to ugly. So very ugly. I feel my muscles tense and my eyes bulge. My mouth spews vile, aggressive slurs and I don’t care whose ears are on the receiving end. Even yours my darling girl. I become angry for angry’s sake. It’s as if I want to wreak havoc. And while the nice me, the other me, claws away inside, mortified at her behaviour, there is nothing I can do. I can’t find a way out.

  There is no salve for the guilt I feel, no cure for the nagging remorse at how I treated you, no remedy for the deep sadness at what I have lost.

  I carry a picture in my mind of a time long ago. A snapshot of the life that used to be mine. I am standing at the sink, filling the kettle to make tea for those I love and you are little, maybe four, and you are sitting on the floor in your pyjamas, singing ‘You Are My Sunshine’ out of tune. Your voice is loud, and you are happy! Happy just to be at home with me, safe and warm. I wish I could go back to that day and start over. I wish I could have one last chance to do things differently. But deep down I know that I could be given an infinite number of chances and I would not change a thing. I would still end up here alone with this pen in my hand, shaking, with my heart fit to burst and my nose and throat thick with tears. I would not change a thing because I can’t.

  It may sound strange, but I wish I’d been diagnosed with a different sickness, a more visible one. Something that twisted my body, broke my bones or blistered my skin. Something that would make people look away and shield their children. Even that would be preferable. Anything other than to have people think that being like this is my choice.

  It is not my choice. It is not my choice!

  Who would choose this?

  Celeste

  It’s been quite a week. On Wednesday I got back in touch with the therapist, Erica, who I haven’t seen since I was a teenager, and today I start, on her recommendation, writing things down.

  ‘Why should I write it all down?’ I asked as she handed me this spiral-bound notepad and pen, like I was still a child and had no way of securing either. I chose not to point out that I’ve just graduated from Southampton Uni with a 2:1 in Human Geography. I wasn’t being flippant with my question; I genuinely wanted to know how it would benefit me.

  She gave a small sigh, as though the answer were obvious, pulling off her glasses and waving them as she spoke, a neat trick. It not only gave her a prop for distraction, reminding me of the photographer who clicked his fingers over my dad’s head to make me look in that direction while he snapped away, but also because without the sharp focus of my pained expression, my querying smile, she was able to speak freely, regurgitating facts and ideas without my sentiment as a diversion.

  ‘Because if you are able, with honesty, uncensored, to capture the key events that have shaped you, it will help you make sense of your upbringing, help you reach an understanding. You said you were worried about your childhood in some way tarnishing the life you and Alistair might have; this exercise will provide clarity, help you move forward, enable you to have a good look at how your thought processes and behaviour have evolved.’

  ‘You make me sound like a Pokémon.’

  ‘A what?’ she asked, with a little crease at the top of her nose and a curl to her top lip, as though I was speaking a different language. I wanted to ask how she could have got to fifty-eight and not know what Pokémon are.

  Erica was keen to talk about my mum’s letter. I was keen not to. It’s too distressing; I literally can’t look at it. I’ve placed it in a drawer, mentally parked it and will dig it out when I’m feeling… stronger, I guess.

  Okay, so here goes. Purple ink? What was Erica thinking? It’s such a frivolous colour for such a serious undertakin
g; maybe that’s the point.

  My name is Celeste. I am from Bristol and I am twenty-one. I am the daughter of Romilly and David Wells. I’m teetotal, like to swim, love to walk. I own too many pairs of trainers and not enough pairs of heels. I’m allergic to nearly all mascara and crave smoked mackerel. I can only cook one passable thing, chicken and ham pie, and I am engaged to Alistair Hastings, who I met on a field trip in Dorset. The day I met him I was wearing wellington boots and my hair was plastered to my head with rain. I looked at him and I knew, knew that he was the one I wanted to spend my life with. I can’t say his name or think about him without smiling. I’m absolutely crazy about him. He is smart, kind and funny and he would definitely have laughed at my Pokémon reference. He’s a farmer and thankfully a dab hand in the kitchen, as long as what needs dabbing is meat, potatoes and veg.

  Erica said to go back to the beginning. For me that starts with toddlerhood. I remember being three very clearly. Well, actually, that’s not strictly true. I remember aspects of being that age. Certain facts and images float to the top, bright and distinct like the scarlet waxy globs inside a lava lamp. I suspect these memories are not that interesting to anyone but me, like the time I hid in the cupboard in the hallway, sitting on a roll of carpet, listening to my mum’s voice as she made out she didn’t know I was there. ‘I wonder where she could be?’ she said, extra loudly, making sure the words filtered through the door that was pulled to, letting in a crack of light and a glimpse of the hall floor. I banged my feet on the floor in excitement, knowing that any second she would fling open the door and discover me and I would leap into her arms and she would hold me close and spin round in a circle with my head buried in her shoulder and the scent of her perfume rising up.

  These were the years before, when I only ever pictured my mum with a stomach full of love and the desire to be near her, always. This was the time when I thought she could make everything better, when I trusted her to provide a haven for me, a home that smelt of sugar cookies and encircling arms. Before…

  One

  ‘Does it really matter?’ Romilly whispered, looking up with a pained expression, holding a side plate in each hand. Both were white but had different patterns around the edge. On one, a delicate double silver line; on the other, a tiny bird and leaf pattern in relief.

  ‘How do you mean?’ David shook his head, confused.

  ‘Well…’ She put the plates on the table and pushed her glasses up her nose, then patted the scarlet creep of embarrassment that bloomed on her chest. ‘I mean, you only eat off them and when you’re not putting food on them, toast and whatnot, they’ll be shut away in a cupboard.’ She sighed. ‘I’m tempted just to go for the plainest, the cheapest, and not worry about it too much. I don’t think it really matters.’

  She felt her cheeks colour in case this was the wrong answer, knowing David’s mother, Sylvia, would not understand her indifference to things she felt were vital. Sylvia did this, stressed the things Romilly must do in order for her wedding, and by implication her marriage, to be successful. ‘A good wife should want to cook for her man. You have to overlook his occasional grumpiness – that’s men for you, troubled and tired with all that responsibility!’ This had made Romilly smile, as if being male carried with it a certain weight that, being a mere female, she could never fully comprehend. And on hearing about a male friend of theirs who intended to accompany his girlfriend into the birthing pool: ‘Good God! I expect the poor chap will need counselling after that! It’s just not natural!’ There was so much that Romilly wanted to say to her future mother-in-law, not least that it was in fact the most natural thing in the world and did she realise it wasn’t 1953. And also, with all her pearls of wisdom and sage advice, how come her own husband had done a runner before they’d hit their tenth anniversary? But of course she never would, because for all her faults, Romilly was not mean. And she had to concede that the wiry, opinionated American had managed to grow the gorgeous man she was going to marry.

  ‘You really don’t care, do you?’ David smiled, walked over to the table behind which she hovered, and picked up a dinner plate.

  Romilly shook her head, sending her thick red hair shivering down her back. ‘Plates is plates.’

  ‘I don’t think I have ever loved you more.’ He carefully touched a finger to the delicate china on the table before reaching for her hand. ‘Just so you know, we have about twenty minutes to get you home or I swear I am going to shag you here and now on this very table.’ He nodded, darting a look at the carefully displayed chinaware.

  ‘But we’re in the middle of John Lewis!’ she whispered, staring at the shoppers in close proximity. Even the thought that they might have overheard was enough to send her pulse racing.

  ‘Nineteen,’ he countered coolly, folding his arms across his chest.

  ‘David!’ Someone might be listening. She gathered her cardigan around her slender form and tucked the long strap of her bag over her hunched shoulders as she stood.

  ‘How are we getting on here?’ The lady smiled as she approached. She had been wonderfully helpful and seemed excited about their impending nuptials, even though Romilly was sure working in the wedding list department must have left her a little jaded about the whole palaver; there were only so many times you could show genuine enthusiasm for the description of pale ivory taffeta and a horseshoe seating plan.

  ‘Oh! Goodness!’ Romilly had hoped they might be able to slip out of the store unnoticed. ‘I… I am so sorry, but we are not going to make a final choice today. But thank you for all your help. We’ll be back, very soon,’ she added nervously.

  ‘We’re going to sleep on it,’ David said authoritatively.

  ‘Righto. Well, you are absolutely right. You mustn’t rush your decision. They do need to be exactly what you want; after all, you have to live with them for quite a while. Tell you what, I’ll make a note of the samples you like and pop them in your file with your wedding list. The name is…?’

  ‘David Wells. And my wife-to-be is Romilly. Miss Romilly Shepherd.’

  Romilly felt her stomach bunch and her face break into a smile at his words ‘wife-to-be’.

  ‘And the date of the wedding?’ the woman asked as she jotted down notes in a maroon leather hardback book, held up to her chest.

  ‘In six weeks.’ Romilly blushed. ‘Six weeks from today. Saturday the eighteenth.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but that’s seventeen minutes, Rom.’ David tapped his watch and gripped her by the arm. The woman stared at him quizzically.

  ‘I’m so sorry to rush off. We have to erm…’ Romilly whispered over her shoulder as David pulled her from the store with some urgency. They ran across the road towards the car, laughing.

  *

  Romilly lay on her tummy, kicking her legs up behind her. The tangled white sheet covered her modesty as she stared at the beautiful man sitting against the headboard who was to become her husband.

  ‘You are very handsome, you know. I still get shocked by it. I look up and it hits me in the chest, the realisation that I am marrying a very good-looking man. I like it.’

  David smiled at her. ‘We are going to have fine-looking babies.’

  ‘Sooner rather than later, if we carry on like this.’ She laughed and lay back on the mattress, reaching over to the bedside table for her glasses.

  ‘Ooh, yes, please! I can turn you into a proper housewife. You can stay at home and grow babies and cook supper, forget all this getting your PhD nonsense!’

  ‘I thought you loved me for my brain?’ she simpered.

  David shook his head. ‘That’s just what I told you to get you into bed. But now I have and you are trapped, I can come clean and say that it was purely your sexy little bod and that red hair that did it for me.’

  Romilly smiled. ‘I really don’t want to be flattered by that. I want to be offended, outraged…’

  ‘But you are, admit it.’ He nudged her arm with his toes.

  She laughed out loud a
nd leant forward to kiss his ankle. She was beyond flattered, thrilled, in fact, to be viewed in this way! She heard her mum’s voice, a constant refrain through her childhood, correcting anyone who referred to her as ginger, insisting she was strawberry blonde and then, as the shade darkened over the years, either Titian or auburn. It made her feel like her very red hair was something of a negative.

  Romilly had been five when her sisters were born. As far as she was aware, this was when her dad had begun retreating to his shed, where he still liked to lurk all these years later, ‘sorting out his bits and bobs’ or ‘fixing and pottering’, as if living with four women was more than any man could cope with. Maybe it was.

  Carrie and Holly arrived like marshmallow meteors: soft and sweet and wreaking devastation on her little world. It was as if her parents had ordered them straight from the Disney Store. ‘We’ll take two identical, blonde, pretty, cute, well-behaved, characterful babies, please! Oh, and make them gigglers and good sleepers, that would be great!’ From the moment the twins were born, every journey her mum made took double the time it should. Everyone in their Wiltshire postcode, from milkmen to old ladies, would stop her, hand on arm, to stare and beam. ‘Will you look at them little poppets! They are beautiful! So pretty!’ And her mum would beam back, because they were and she had made them. After a second or two, her mum would place her hand on Romilly’s back and push her forward an inch, saying, ‘This is Romilly, their big sister. She’s very clever!’ Trying to include her, consoling her with the sticking-plaster of being bright. ‘She really is very clever.’ This her mum said more times than Romilly could count, sometimes followed by ‘Aren’t you?’ And Romilly would nod and smile, because she knew this was what was expected, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach that meant smiling was the last thing she felt like.

  Even though she noticed that the twins were much admired – it was hard not to – it didn’t occur to her to feel jealous. Not a bit. She loved her little sisters, loved their cuteness, the constant burble of conversation, their excitability that made even the most mundane day feel like a party. She didn’t need the constant reassurance from her mum that she had her own gifts, no matter how hidden. In fact, the relentless bolstering led Romilly to conclude that she must be not quite good enough; otherwise, why would her mum feel the need?