Postcards at Christmas Read online

  ALSO BY IMOGEN CLARK

  Postcards From a Stranger

  The Thing About Clare

  Where the Story Starts

  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. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Blue Lizard Books

  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.

  eISBN: 9781542020534

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  Contents

  CHRISTMAS

  1

  2

  3

  SPRING

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  SUMMER

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  AUTUMN

  24

  25

  CHRISTMAS

  26

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHRISTMAS

  1

  CARA

  ‘Cara?’

  I look up from where Lily and I are sorting the Quality Street chocolates into piles by colour. Simeon is in the doorway. He’s still wearing the yellow paper crown that came out of his Christmas cracker. Mrs P and I gave up on ours ages ago. Mine tore when Lily grabbed at it and I saw Mrs P discreetly drop hers in the bin with the rest of the cracker litter. Simeon must have forgotten that he’s still got his on, bless him. It’s just nestled there in his thick dark hair. If I don’t mention it, he’ll probably still be wearing it at bedtime. I decide not to tell him.

  ‘Yes?’ I reply, my eyes immediately dropping back down to Lily. She’s far too small to unwrap a chocolate by herself and if I don’t watch her like a hawk she’ll stuff as many as she can into her mouth, shiny foil papers and all. I catch her hand, complete with golden penny, just as she’s lifting it towards her face.

  Simeon doesn’t reply. It’s a slightly heavy silence that tells me that he has something to say that I need to focus on, so I scoop Lily into my arms and stand up, resting her on my hip. She makes an objecting kind of sound because I’ve moved her from the crinkly, brightly coloured playthings, but then she starts fiddling with my face instead, pressing her little fingers into my cheek and making it all squidge up towards my eyes unflatteringly. I look over to Simeon.

  ‘Yes?’ I say again.

  He bites his lip and runs his hand through his hair, dislodging the paper crown which slips noiselessly to the floor. I wonder if he’s going to confess to having broken something precious or buying something ridiculous in the pre-Boxing Day sales online.

  ‘What on earth is it?’ I ask, laughing. Lily, sensing my amusement, lets out a little chortle too and for a second all our attention is entirely absorbed by her, our baby daughter. She’s seven months old now, just at the stage where she can sit without toppling backwards but she can’t yet crawl. Life is perfect at the moment, the broken nights and confusion of the first few months a thing of the past. Sometimes I wish that I could stop time and preserve everything just as it is right now.

  Understanding that she has our entire attention, Lily turns her charm on full beam, smiling coquettishly, turning her head between us as if she can’t decide which is the more deserving of her favours.

  ‘What does Daddy want?’ I ask her, running my hand over her wispy dark curls.

  Simeon clears his throat.

  ‘Daddy wants to ask Mummy to marry him,’ he says.

  I’m not sure I’ve heard him right at first and I snap my head round to look at him rather than Lily.

  ‘What?’ I ask. ‘What did you say?’

  He crosses the room, reaching us in a few short strides, and then drops to one knee in front of me.

  ‘Cara Ferensby. Would you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?’

  He lowers his head as if he’s waiting for me to knight him with a silver sword.

  I am astounded. I am flabbergasted. You could knock me over with a feather and all other clichés generally used in moments of great surprise. Married? I absolutely didn’t see that one coming. Yes, we live together in this house bought with the proceeds of my former family home, and we have Lily, who wasn’t entirely planned but is very much loved and wanted. I have my work designing wedding dresses and he is a teacher in a primary school not far away. We have friends and family (more than I’d ever realised, in fact, after the revelations of a couple of years ago.) Our life is pretty close to perfect. So, getting married would be the glitter on top of the cherry on top of the icing on top of the very tasty cake.

  The only trouble is that I’m not sure I want to get married. I remain unconvinced by it as an institution. I can’t remember anything about my parent’s marriage but, from what I’ve gathered from my brother Michael, it wasn’t exactly a bed of roses. And I was a bridesmaid for my best friend Beth when she married her surgeon boyfriend Greg (against my better judgement) but they didn’t even manage to celebrate their Paper anniversary together. I do know people who are happily married, but . . .

  Simeon looks up now and I realise that I have been silent for just a shade too long. His expression slips from excited expectation into something approaching worry and I can’t bear it. I love Simeon with everything I have and the idea of doing anything that might hurt him hurts me even more. I settle my face into what I think is a transparent smile.

  ‘Well, that was a surprise,’ I say, hoping that that’s enough to cover my hesitation.

  ‘What was a surprise?’ asks Mrs P as she comes into the room, drying her hands on a tea towel, an apron still covering her Christmas Day dress. Mrs P was the nurse I hired to care for my father in the final stages of his Alzheimer’s, but she has become as close as family, closer in many ways. She takes in the scene before her, with Simeon on one knee in front of me, and her eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, nodding knowingly. ‘I see.’

  She takes a couple of steps back the way she came to give us some privacy, but Simeon speaks to her imploringly.

  ‘Will you tell her, Angie? I’ve just popped the question and she’s leaving me dangling from a thread without an answer. It’s doing absolutely nothing for my self-esteem.’

  And now I’m thinking fast. I love this man. I want to spend the rest of my life with him. Is there anything really so very bad about committing to him the way that people generally do in these circumstances? I decide to bite the bullet.

  ‘It’s a wonderful surprise,’ I say. ‘A perfect Christmas present. Yes. I’d love to marry you,’ I add and hope that I sound more convinced than I feel.

  ‘Well, thank God for that!’ laughs Simeon. ‘I thought for one terrible moment that you were going to turn me down.’

  He stands up and engulfs Lily and me in a bear hug. I lean into him and push my face into his chest so that neither he nor Mrs P can read anything into my expression that I’d rather they didn’t see, but Lily objects to being squashed in this manner and screeches until we pull apart.

  ‘Congratul
ations, both of you,’ Mrs P says, her smile broad. ‘And to Lily, of course. Will you make your own dress, Cara?’

  And so, it begins. I have watched so many brides ride this rollercoaster over the years, never once imagining that one day it would be my turn. The thought of all the rigmarole of a big wedding makes me feel panicky, but I push away the doubts. Just because I’ve said yes doesn’t mean that I have to get swamped by a massive do. If I am going to get married, then I’m doing it on my own terms.

  ‘One thing at a time,’ I laugh. ‘Let me get over the shock of this decision before you start asking me to make any more.’

  ‘I think champagne is called for,’ says Simeon. ‘Or cava maybe?’ he adds doubtfully. ‘Do we have anything fizzy other than tonic water?’

  ‘I think there’s some in the cupboard under the stairs,’ I say, and he heads off to retrieve it.

  I put Lily in her high chair and scatter a couple of raisins on the tray from a box that’s ever-present in my pocket. She starts trying to pick them up. It will take her some time, her fine motor skills still needing some refinement. Then I stand and stare at the lights twinkling on the Christmas tree as I listen to Simeon moving things around under the stairs.

  A moment later Mrs P is at my side. I feel her hand, warm on my arm.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she says quietly. ‘He’s a lovely man.’

  She’s right. I know that. I am very lucky to have him.

  ‘It’ll be fine, Cara,’ she adds. ‘Just give yourself time.’

  I nod but I don’t turn to look at her. I don’t quite trust myself not to cry.

  2

  Later, when Lily is safely tucked up in her cot and Mrs P has gone home, we snuggle on the sofa: me with a glass of Baileys and Simeon with a beer. The television is on: some Christmas Special of a terrible sitcom that we don’t like and which we’re not really watching. Simeon’s proposal is hanging in the air, floating like a helium balloon somewhere over our heads, but neither of us seems to want to be the one that yanks on the string to pull it down. But it must be done.

  I start.

  ‘Well, that was a bit of a surprise earlier,’ I say.

  Simeon feigns confusion for a moment, his brows knitted as he thinks.

  ‘What was?’ he asks, and then adds, ‘Oh, my grand romantic gesture?’

  He doffs an invisible cap extravagantly and it makes me laugh.

  ‘But seriously,’ I say. ‘Did you mean it? You want us to get married?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ He counters my questions with a question of his own and then watches me intently as I decide how to answer.

  ‘Well, yes. Of course . . .’

  I hesitate and his face takes on that anxious expression that it wears when Lily is ill.

  ‘It’s just that . . . Well, if I’m totally honest, it was a bit of a shock. I thought we were fine as we were.’

  ‘And we are,’ he says. ‘But I thought that it might be even better if we got married. Don’t you agree?’

  There are sound reasons for getting married, especially now we have Lily, and hopefully more babies, in the picture. I can’t deny that. And there’s no doubt that Simeon is the man for me. And yet . . . Maybe I’m being silly? Just because I don’t really have any sound marriage role models in my life doesn’t mean that it won’t work out for me. Perhaps I just need to give myself a little more time to get used to the idea.

  ‘Why don’t you think about it?’ asks Simeon, as ever in tune with what is going on in my head. ‘If you really don’t want to marry me . . .’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I interrupt, sitting up so that I can look directly into his eyes.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief, at least,’ he says, pushing my hair off my forehead and planting a kiss on the tip of my nose.

  ‘It’s just that I’ve never really thought about us getting married. It isn’t that important to me. It’s not really a measure of our success as a couple.’

  Simeon is quiet for a moment, the canned laughter from the television filling the gap.

  ‘I think it is important to me,’ he says slowly. ‘It’s like a marker to the world to show everyone what we mean to one another.’

  ‘I think everyone that matters to us already knows that,’ I say. ‘But I do get it. And it’s fine. We can get married if you want.’

  ‘But is it what you want?’ he asks, and I see that he isn’t going to let me get away with being quite so vague.

  I examine my conscience, run through the cons and stack them up against the pros. On the positive side are the fact that we love each other, that we have Lily and the house and our life together, that it’s legally less complicated. Against it is my fear of failure. The pros win.

  ‘Yes,’ I say decisively. ‘Yes. I would love to marry you. But let’s make it quick. I don’t want one of those engagements that goes on forever. We’ll look into venues and then get somewhere booked. Shall we aim for early summer?’

  Simeon looks delighted, his eyes shining. There might even be a tear or two there, but it could just be the lighting.

  ‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘You will make a beautiful summer bride.’

  I think of the speed with which Beth got married and it’s like a cloud passing in front of the sun. But this isn’t like Beth and Greg’s wedding. Simeon and I love each other, and the haste of the arrangements is my doing and not him manipulating me into something that he wants. It is completely different.

  ‘Can we tell people?’ he asks me. I can hear the excitement in his voice, like a child with a secret. ‘There’s my mum and dad and your mum and Michael. And I’ll need to find a best man.’

  He has clearly given this some thought.

  ‘Got anyone in mind?’ I ask, hoping that I’m matching his enthusiasm, even though the bridal party is the last thing I want to think about just now.

  He pauses for a moment and pretends to consider the question, which makes me want to hug him. I wonder if he sees through me like I do him.

  ‘Mark, I think,’ he says decisively. ‘He’s my best mate from uni.’

  This is new. I’ve never heard him so much as mention a Mark before.

  ‘Do I know him?’ I ask disingenuously.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘I’ve not seen him for a while.’

  Simeon and I have only been together for a couple of years and I’m still learning about his past, but it seems a little peculiar that he would never have even mentioned the person he wants as his best man.

  ‘What’s he like?’ I ask.

  Simeon shrugs as if this is too hard a question.

  ‘Oh, you know. He’s great. One of the lads. Just a normal bloke.’

  This description doesn’t fill me with enthusiasm. My brother Michael was never ‘one of the lads’ and neither was Simeon as far as I know. ‘The lads’ are not a breed I particularly know or want to know anything about.

  ‘Well, I look forward to meeting him,’ I say neutrally.

  Simeon gets to his feet and then scoops me up in his arms as if I weighed nothing at all. I squeal and my drink nearly goes for a burton.

  ‘I think we should adjourn to the bedroom to celebrate,’ he says, his grin wide.

  ‘I agree wholeheartedly,’ I say.

  And with that, our Christmas Day draws to a close.

  3

  I tell Beth our news over a glass of wine in the bar where I first met Simeon. It’s full of people all escaping their families and the leftover turkey. The excitement of the pre-Christmas period has dissipated and now the conversations around us are quieter and more intimate.

  Of course, Beth nearly implodes with excitement. It seems that her unsuccessful marriage to Greg has done nothing to dampen her enthusiasm for all things weddingy. She showers me with questions, none of which I have an answer for. When she has tried four or five ‘Bride 101’ queries without getting a satisfactory reply she gives up.

  ‘Cara! You’re rubbish at this! Have you not given the wedding any thought at all? You
’re going to need to try a whole lot harder,’ she says with a grin. ‘Okay. Let’s start with the basics. Church or not?’

  ‘Not,’ I say. Neither of us is religious and it feels hypocritical to pretend otherwise.

  ‘How many guests?’

  I do a quick tot up in my head. There would be next to no one on my side. Simeon has more friends and there are also his work colleagues, who I suppose he might want to invite.

  ‘Fifty?’ I guess. ‘Definitely no more than that.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Beth, drawing the word out as she considers possible venues. She lists various hotels in the local vicinity which are either too large or too grand or both. I shake my head at each of them.

  ‘I think I want somewhere a bit unusual, with a bit of history, quirky, you know?’

  Beth nods her head solemnly.

  ‘Leave it with me. And your dress?’

  I can see that this is going to be a theme of questions going forward. What does a wedding dress designer wear to her own wedding?

  ‘To be honest,’ I say, ‘I’m really not sure. Let’s get a venue sorted first and then we’ll see.’

  Beth eyes me appraisingly. She has known me since we were children and sometimes I could swear that she has a wiretap directly into my brain.

  ‘Are you completely happy about this?’ she asks me, her head cocked to one side and her brow furrowed.

  ‘Yes,’ I say decisively, and I realise that I mean it. ‘It was a shock, I’ll admit, and I wasn’t sure to start with, but now I’ve got my head round it I’m okay.’

  She nods, accepting my word without further question.

  ‘You do know your dress is going to have to be incredible. I mean, no pressure or anything.’

  ‘Thanks. Oh, the irony of a wedding dress designer not really wanting to get married,’ I add.

  ‘Hang on,’ interrupts Beth. ‘You just said . . .’

  ‘I know. I do want to get married really. It’s just a bit of a mindset shift.’

  ‘There really is no pressure here, Ca,’ she says. ‘You can do exactly what you want. Simeon will understand.’

  ‘I know,’ I reply. ‘And what I want is to get married.’