The Idea of You Read online

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  PRAISE FOR AMANDA PROWSE ‘A tragic story of loss and love.’ Lorraine Kelly, The Sun ‘Captivating, heartbreaking and superbly written.’ Closer ‘A deeply emotional, unputdownable read.’ Red ‘Uplifting and positive, but you may still need a box of tissues.’ Cosmopolitan ‘You’ll fall in love with this.’ Cosmopolitan ‘Warning: you will need tissues.’ The Sun on Sunday ‘Handles her explosive subject with delicate care.’ Daily Mail ‘Deeply moving and eye-opening.’ Heat ‘A perfect marriage morphs into harrowing territory . . . a real tear-jerker.’ Sunday Mirror ‘Powerful and emotional drama that packs a real punch.’ Heat ‘Warmly accessible but subtle . . . moving and inspiring.’ Daily Mail ‘A powerful and emotional work of fiction with a unique twist – a practical lesson in how to spot a fatal, but often treatable disease.’ Piers Morgan, CNN presenter ‘A truly amazing piece of drama about a condition that could affect any one of us in a heartbeat. Every mother should read this book.’ Danielle

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  OTHER BOOKS BY AMANDA PROWSE The Food of Love Poppy Day What Have I Done? Clover’s Child A Little Love Christmas for One Will You Remember Me? A Mother’s Story Perfect Daughter Three-and-a-Half Heartbeats (exclusive to Amazon Kindle) The Second Chance Café (originally published as The Christmas Café) Another Love My Husband’s Wife I Won’t Be Home for Christmas NOVELLAS BY AMANDA PROWSE The Game Something Quite Beautiful A Christmas Wish Ten Pound Ticket Imogen’s Baby Miss Potterton’s Birthday Tea

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Text copyright © 2017 Amanda Prowse All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781503942332 ISBN-10: 1503942333 Cover photography by Tin Moon Limited Cover design by Debbie Clement

  The Idea of You is dedicated to every woman who has known the pain of miscarriage, who has felt her hopes and dreams of motherhood end without warning. Maybe she is like me and is unsure of how to grieve, how to mourn something that was never whole, and yet touched her soul in a way that is difficult to describe. I still think of all my little miracles who brought me joy and sadness in equal measure, and undoubtedly shaped the woman I became. I send all these women and their partners love and this reminder that helped me head towards happiness: ‘It is always darkest before the dawn; don’t give up.’ X

  CONTENTS FROM THE AUTHOR Soaring higher than ... PROLOGUE ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO ACKNOWLEDGMENTS BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FROM THE AUTHOR I started writing at the age of forty, having always been an avid reader. Every book I read I would put into a category of either ‘I wish I had written that book’ or ‘I can do better than that’! I didn’t have the confidence or courage to put pen to paper, fearing my lack of grammar and limited understanding about the world of publishing might hamper my efforts. It was only after beating cancer that I looked at the world in a different way, figuring that if this was my one time around the block, what did I really want to do? And what I really wanted to do was write stories! I have been writing for four years now and have written seventeen novels and six novellas. I am pretty much average at everything. I’m a rubbish cook, useless at sport, and can never manage to get the duvet into the duvet cover. They say everyone has one thing that they can do, and I have discovered my one thing: I can write stories very quickly. They play in my head like a movie, and all I have to do

  Soaring higher than I could ever reach. Leaving nothing, but the perfect idea of you, a space where a heart used to beat, and hopes and dreams of the better world that hovered in your tiny palms. I cannot forget the frail longing for time, time to hold you skin to skin and to watch you take shape, the solid you, made of love and pride and things that were no match for the wings that you grew too soon. AJWP

  PROLOGUE ‘Are you nervous, sweetie?’ She whipped her head towards the kindly voice of the woman who had entered the room, and nodded. Her breath came in short bursts. Her fringe was stuck to her forehead in fine, damp wisps. The woman smiled, her slow, patient manner welcome, calming. ‘Well, it’s easy to say, but don’t be. We have done this a million times before.’ She patted Lucy’s narrow shoulder before walking away with a squeak to her shoe and a swish of her skirt. Lucy would have liked to reply, but at that moment her voice had disappeared, hovering beneath a plug of fear that sat at the base of her throat. How could she begin to explain? It wasn’t only a fear of what was about to happen, but also the sadness that, after this, she would be changed. And she didn’t want to be changed. She liked being like this. She liked it very much. Lifting her fingers, she placed them on her heart, which was beating so hard she was convinced it was forming a heart-shaped bulge in her skin, like t

  ONE Today, Lucy felt a little like an imposter in the house of God. Christenings made her feel especially uncomfortable. Being asked to be a godparent was, however, an honour, a great responsibility, and one she hoped she would shoulder well. She glanced at Benedict, the beautiful baby boy in his mother’s arms, on this, his special day. As she smiled at his gummy face, self-doubt hammered inside her head. Supposing this baby grew up to be a reprobate; would that be her fault? Surely not. It had always been her belief that how a child turned out was down to three things: parents, environment and schooling. This, she felt, would exonerate her nicely should the need arise. Not that she could picture him being anything less than wonderful. He was far too cute. Her discomfort also came from the fact that she was yet again single at an event that screamed coupledom. On a day-to-day basis, she tried not to give her single state more than a passing thought, tried to ignore the image of Richard

  So here it is, my letter to you. A letter you might never see, but one which I shall take great joy in writing nonetheless. Where to start? I suppose with a snippet of my current life. Every aspect of my existence changed when I met my husband. Up until that point, my life had been ordered, neat, a little sterile I guess, in retrospect, and this was how I pictured it continuing. If I looked ahead, I saw no break to the established norm of working hard and marking time, with pockets of happiness dotting an often hectic calendar. Day trips, glasses of wine and leisurely lunches with my girlfriends, even holidays to locations that provided perfect postcard-worthy landscapes to capture with my camera lens, snapping images in the hope that these pictures might help me bottle the wonderful moments of distraction. These were the things that I looked forward to: events that placed a big, joyous dollop of motivation on the darkest of days and helped quash any suggestion of loneliness. And then

  TWO The one-year anniversary card sat on the mantelpiece. Lucy had kept it there for the last three weeks and was loath to put it away. Every time the thin wedding band on her finger caught her eye, it still sent a jolt of happiness right through her. To be this happy felt good. Their wedding had indeed been perfect. The whole event had been delivered exactly as promised, devoid of bridesmaids, gift lists, toasts, doves and three-tiered cakes, and not a fancy frock in sight. The temporary receptionist at work, Delia, had given up her precious lunch hour, along with a man from the accounts department at Jonah’s car dealership. Delia had been sworn to secrecy about her whereabouts, particularly if Tansy asked. The four stood awkwardly in front of a lady with a pair of spectacles resting on her
pointy nose, who neatly filled out the blank rows on their marriage certificate before offering a perfunctory ‘many congratulations’ and tearing the numbered sheet from its gluey stays. The happy g

  I often wonder what your voice might be like. I think about it progressing from baby sounds and gurgles to a burbling lisp of repetition – mumma . . . mumma . . . mumma . . . – until your true voice emerges and you speak clearly and coherently, sharing all the wonderful things that you have learned, and telling me of all the amazing things that you have seen in your sweet, sweet tone. I hear you, when you are older, ending a call with ‘gotta go, I love you, Mum!’ And my heart lifts at the very idea of you in a rush to crack on with this busy, wonderful life of yours. I wonder if you might sound a bit like me? This idea makes me smile; I like it very much. I also think about your first steps. What a thing! Your first ever steps on the planet! I imagine me there, smiling on one side of the room, and my mum or my sister on the other. I pull away my fingers that you have been gripping and watch as you sway a little like a drunk and then almost run, maybe on tippytoes, towards the warm embr

  THREE Lucy could only breathe with her mouth open and she did so with her eyes closed, trying to block out where she was and why she was there. She didn’t care how it looked to the other patients or their visitors or indeed the numerous medics who hurried across the shiny floor with clipboards resting on their forearms and fixed half-smiles of reassurance and regret. She figured it was far better to sit propped up in this exposed bed in this very public day ward with her mouth open, keeping as calm as she possibly could, rather than have to explain that if she breathed through her nose, she could smell the iron-laden scent of her loss. It was especially strong to her, the earthy, blood-tinged odour of her baby leaving her body, as it wafted upwards. She knew that one strong inhalation might be all it took to push her over the edge. . . . about the size of a small chicken’s egg . . . It will now weigh up to fourteen grams. That might be true, but this baby was not as tough nor nearly as

  I like to imagine all the pictures and cards that you would have made at nursery school. I know that our kitchen cupboards and walls could only benefit from being covered in things that you had made and designed. It would bring me joy every time I looked at them. Oh! To see your little handprints smeared across a page in red or blue paint and to be able to frame the first Christmas card you made! I think that would be the most wonderful thing. I picture a badly drawn Christmas tree, coloured in with sparkles and glitter all over it. I bet you would love to get your hands covered in glue and pom-poms and bits of macaroni, and I think it’s these pictures, these glorious creations, that turn any house into a home, don’t you? And that’s a house I have always wanted to live in.

  FOUR Lucy learned to move on; at least, that was the face she presented to the outside world. It wasn’t that she hid her feelings from Jonah as such, but she was certainly aware of presenting an outer persona that was often stronger than she felt, as if this was the person he expected her to be. When in the house alone, she did on occasion pull the baby book from behind its French Revolution barricade and flip to the page where she would be, if nature hadn’t played its cruellest trick on her. She held the open book to her face and read. At week thirteen, were you able to see your baby you would probably recognise it as a baby. It has nails on the ends of its fingers and toes and can move its neck and head. It is approximately the size of a large clementine and can open and close its mouth. ‘Wow!’ she spoke aloud. ‘Little nails on the ends of your fingers, imagine that!’ She ran her hand over her flat stomach before reading on. At week fourteen your baby is now moving around a lot. It i

  There are a couple of lovely schools around here. I tend to slow up as I walk past them on my way to and from the shops and I can’t help but beam at the little children who run around the playground like busy wasps. The noise they make collectively is glorious! It’s a high-pitched burble of words, suffused with laughter and squeals. I always think that if angels chattered, it would sound something close to this. It’s the sound of innocence, the sound of happy. Their little shoes are scuffed and they have the remnants of lunch on their cuffs and collars and splotches of paint and glue on their shirts. Even now, I envy the mums standing in clusters at the school gate, that disparate group from all four corners of the globe with only one thing in common: that they stand patiently waiting to wrap their hand around the smaller hand of their child and skip them towards home, where a cosy tea waits in a warm kitchen. I picture myself standing and chatting with those mums. ‘Oh she’s doing real

  FIVE Lucy felt the beginnings of a headache as Tansy banged her palm on the table. ‘I am not being deliberately difficult and I refute the suggestion. I think what you need to understand, John, is that pitching is what I do! I have successfully won the JBBD account, which is still our second-biggest grossing client, and the Met diversity campaign.’ She counted on her fingers, as she reeled off the details. ‘Are we going to have to sit and listen to a complete list of your achievements and accolades, Tansy?’ John interrupted. ‘Because if that’s your intention, it might be quicker if you simply gave us a copy of your CV. I wouldn’t want to miss any crucial detail that might clearly indicate your suitability over mine. I mean, did you for example ever get a citizenship award at school or have you run a half-marathon? I would like to take this opportunity to point out that I came second in a Rubik’s cube timed assessment when I was fourteen.’ ‘Very funny.’ Tansy glared at her male counterp

  I often think about how I would dress you. And to be honest I change my mind a lot! I think when you were little I’d have put you in traditional clothes, all the knitted things that I have made, of course, and some made by my mum and my gran too. I love the idea of cradling you in something that has been touched by the hands of all those generations of women. Then if I think of you as a toddler, I picture you in dungarees with striped T-shirts underneath and cute little bow barrettes in your curly hair. Or sometimes I see you in a really over-the-top party dress with a net petticoat and flowers, the full works. I think you’d hate it, but would look adorable. I bought you a dress once. It makes me cry to think about that, but I did. I can’t really explain why. I was in a department store looking for a bread bin and I found myself in the children’s clothes department. The place was crowded with parents and their children, most looking like they wanted to be anywhere else, irritated by th

  SIX ‘Fay, I need your help.’ Lucy placed the phone under her chin and stared at the colour swatches, spread into a fanned rainbow on the worktop in the kitchen. It took all of her strength not to blurt out to her sister that she was pregnant, but she knew it was wise to wait until after her first scan, when she could tell the world! ‘Oh God, it’s not money, is it? Because I can tell you that whatever you in your fancy advertising agency and Mr Porsche are earning, it has to be a darned sight more than Adam and I bring home as teachers.’ ‘No! It’s not money.’ She tutted. ‘I’m trying to pick out colours for the spare room; I want it to be as nice as possible for Camille, but I’m not very good at this. I have always gone for white walls and bold-coloured accessories, and that works for me, but she’s a sixteen-year-old girl and I want it to be pretty and funky and I don’t know what sixteen-year-old girls are into.’ ‘Seventeen-year-old boys,’ Fay quipped. ‘Very funny. I don’t think Camille

  Early one Saturday, I sat in Gail’s bakery on Salusbury Road with a cup of coffee and a slice of carrot cake. I was comfortable in the way that you can be at the weekend, in my jeans and a T-shirt and trainers. Jonah was having his hair cut around the corner and was going to meet me there afterwards for a catch-up. I grabbed a newspaper from the rack and took a seat in the corner at a little square table by the bathroom. The place was busy and I liked being among people and yet at the same time in my own private bubble. I took a sip of my latte and opened the paper, skimming articles about the plans for a new hospital ward, bits of celebrity gossip that I was only a little bit interested in and adverts for things to do
in London, new releases at the cinema and a great recommendation for a pop-up Cuban café opening on the South Bank. I forked a chunk of moist cake into my mouth and savoured the taste and texture. Then I turned the page. And there it was. I swallowed the cake that had tu

  SEVEN Lucy paid the cab driver and stepped from his taxi, gripping the key in her hand. She tried to swallow the nerves that fluttered in her chest, exhaling through her open mouth and digging deep to find a smile while trying to steady her hands. It will all be okay, Lucy. Just take a deep breath and get through this, she reasoned, as she put the key in the lock. The first thing she heard was raucous laughter coming from the kitchen. ‘Hel-loo?’ she called out, turning to close the front door; she shut her eyes briefly, as if in prayer. ‘Hey, love! In the kitchen!’ Jonah called out. Leaving her jacket and bag in the hallway, she pulled her hair free from the collar of her blouse and trod the steps down into their cosy kitchen. The first thing Lucy noticed was the way Camille stopped laughing and sucked her cheeks in slightly, as if posing for a photograph. Jonah was, as ever, holding court from the stovetop, where he stirred a deliciously fragrant curry with a wooden spoon in one hand

  After my second miscarriage I had a dark recurring thought that, try as I might, I couldn’t suppress. I fully understood that Jonah had Camille, that she was his baby girl and always would be. But I realised that the scene I had imagined for so long, that beautiful, life-defining moment when our baby was lifted from my body and handed over to him, would only ever be a rerun of what he had already experienced. And even that thought made me feel so sad. Like this might all be pointless. I was feeling the cloak of depression throw itself over my head. My failure to become a mother, the grief at my loss, it was all a little more than I could bear.

  EIGHT Over the following weeks, Lucy recovered, to a degree. She placed her baby book back behind its French Revolution wall and found that it helped to bury the hurt somewhere so deep inside her that even she couldn’t see it. The challenge of working with Tansy and John on this vital project served as a good diversion. It was a campaign to make business users aware of innovations in green energy and it would be a much-needed cash boost for the agency. It was just as much of a challenge as living in a house where, on occasion, she felt like a stranger. Camille filled her days in a horizontal fashion, waking late and sloping to the sitting room, where she took up residence on the sofa. A collection of coffee cups, biscuit wrappers and empty crisp packets would gather around her, until she got bored of her latest box set and sloped back upstairs to the bathroom, where she would lie in the tub for hours, soaking in a scented bubbly marinade and listening to music. Then she would slide bac