She was torn down the middle. She looked at the fine hair at the base of each of his fingers and at the white half-moons in each nail. Desperate to make a mental note of every part of him, her eyes flicked to his chest; to his skin, bare where his robe gaped, visible to his navel; to the muscles taught in his stomach, covered by a layer of soft hair.

‘Please Tom, if you ever have to go into battle, promise me that you won’t be a hero.’

He laughed softly. ‘Me? Never.’ And, in that moment, she could see his future as clearly as if it were in the pages of a book. ‘Happy Christmas, my darling Lou.’

He kissed her, and she closed her eyes, drowning in the sensation of his arms holding her, his stubble against her cheek, his hands pressing into her hair – imprinting every last drop of Thomas Mandeville’s love into her memory.

A chill wind blew into the conservatory as Lou stepped across the threshold. She closed the door to protect the orchids, pausing to look through the window at the outline of their waxy leaves. She gripped the door handle. It would be easy to turn it now, to step inside and run back up the stairs to that gracious, funny, gentle man who had found his way into every part of her. They had said their goodbyes, made promises of reunions and forevers that she knew neither of them could ever keep. Tom! She wanted to shout his name, to have him rush down the stairs, throw open the door, take her in his arms, and pull her to him and never let her go. If he did that – if she counted to five, and he came for her – it would be a sign that she was free to stay. That she was no longer needed in her old life. That her brothers would cope without her. She peered into the darkness.

One … two… three … four … five … please … please … please …

No light came on. No sounds of movement from within. She rested her forehead against the cold glass and forced each finger to release its grip on the handle. On the horizon, the first hairsbreadth of pale pink sunlight appeared.

Without looking back, she ran as fast as she could in her dance slippers down the drive. As she reached the gates, she couldn’t deny herself one last look back. There, standing in the window of the room above the front door, was Tom. With the light behind him, he was hardly more than a dark shadow. He raised his hand. Lou kissed her palm and held it up to him, her patched up, stitched up heart, splitting in two.

36

Christmas Day 2013

Lou crossed the boundary. The sky was dark; the stars and moon out. She had missed every daylight hour of Christmas Day.