Page 50 of The Holiday Cottage

Alone.

The word seemed to settle on her like one of the snowflakes drifting in front of the car.

Perhaps because of that encounter with her mother, she was more aware of it than usual. Everywhere she looked, people seemed to be in groups. There was a woman with two excited children trying to feed ducks that stood bemused on the frozen surface of a pond. A family laughing together as they dragged an oversize Christmas tree along a snow-covered path and a couple walking hand in hand looking like something from an ad for vitamins (or maybe winter coats).

Imogen watched as the woman laughed up at the man, and he lowered his head to kiss her slowly.

“Ugh,” she muttered. “Get a room.” And they probably had a room, most likely in a five-star hotel where they’d order room service and sip champagne and talk about how much they loved everything about Christmas. Perhaps he was going to propose and they’d remember this particular Christmas forever.

Everyone seemed content.

Everyone had someone.

Imogen felt a pang of envy and forced herself to focus on the road. She knew that wasn’t true, but right at that moment itfelttrue. Part of her hoped to pass a couple in midfight, or a child having a tantrum. Anything that might remind her that she wasn’t the only one living a less than perfect life. She knew Christmas was a difficult time for many people, but there was something about snow and sparkle that made her forget that.

As she left the village, the roads worsened. She gripped the wheel, hoping she didn’t slide the rental car into a ditch. Trees bordered each side of the narrow road, their snow-covered branches creating a frozen archway. It was pretty, but also deadly, and she slowed as snow fluttered down, reducing her visibility. Maybe driving hadn’t been such a great idea. She was used to living in the city, where snow swiftly melted and rarely interfered with daily life.

“You have arrived at your destination,” said her phone and Imogen breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.”

She shook her head. And now she was talking to her phone as if it were a person. She was losing it.

She took the turn indicated, past a stylish sign saying Winterbury Estate and Vineyard and then stopped. A pair of large wrought-iron gates had been left open and she could see the driveway winding ahead through an avenue of snow-laden trees.

Dorothy lived here?

It was a good thing she was on her own in the car because she was pretty sure her jaw dropped. She’d seen pictures, of course, when Dorothy had explained that she wanted to hold the summer event on her land, but pictures didn’t capture the magical setting or the sheer scale of the place.

She drove through the gates and there to the right, sheltered from the road by a dry stone wall and mature trees, was Holly Cottage. The name had no doubt been inspired by the large holly bush that dominated the front garden. It was crowded with scarlet berries, although with weather this cold she had no doubt the birds would soon strip it bare.

She pulled into the parking space and gazed at the place that would be her home for the next few weeks.

The cottage was chocolate-box perfect, brimming with Cotswold charm. Snow clung to the roof and dusted the rose that climbed its way up the pale stone walls, and she could see in a single glance that everything Dorothy had said about it was correct.

It was the perfect Christmas cottage. The ideal romantic bolt-hole. The dream honeymoon destination. A paradise for the selfie obsessed. But Imogen didn’t fit into any of those categories, and there was something about the idyllic cottage that intensified the ache of loneliness inside her.

Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea.

By coming here all she’d really done was change her surroundings. Everything else had come with her. All her feelings about this time of year, her guilt at having deceived her colleagues, the hurt caused by her mother. The whole mess that was her life. Had she really thought that “getting away from it all” would actually mean getting away from it all?

She sat for a moment, feeling sorry for herself, and then remembered that feeling sorry for herself achieved nothing.

She turned off the engine and took a deep breath. She’d made it through Christmases that were worse than this one. So her mother didn’t love her. That wasn’t exactly a shock, was it? Deep down she’d always known that. There was no reason why hearing it spelled out so brutally and publicly should have this effect on her. What did it matter if a bunch of strangers knew her sad tale? Hopefully, it would make them appreciate their own families, and in a way her mother had done her a favor because now she was going to stop deluding herself that this little “family” of hers existed. It existed only in her head, a figment of her imagination, conjured by yearning and hope. Her mother was so damaged by her own family’s rejection that she was incapable of trusting anyone with her love.

She was on her own in the world, and the sooner she accepted the reality of that, the sooner she’d stop feeling so bruised.

And she had much to be grateful for. She still had a job she loved (she wasn’t going to think about how she was going to unravel the lies she’d told her colleagues, at least not now). She had somewhere to live, and she could afford to feed herself.

And for the next few weeks she was going to be staying here, in this wonderful place.

Yes, she would still be alone, but it would be better than London. The wintry isolation was glorious, and so much better than streets crowded with stressed-out Christmas shoppers. And it was all hers.

Having given herself a sharp talking-to, she stepped out of the car and stepped onto a soft blanket of fresh snow studded with pine cones from the surrounding trees.

All she saw for miles around were snowy trees and fields. It was blissfully peaceful, the air cold but crisp and clean.

Her spirits lifted and with a surge of new determination, she dragged her case to the cottage. Dorothy had left it unlocked and she opened the door, tugged off her snowy boots and stepped onto the stone floor. Warmth seeped through her socks and she stood for a moment, savoring the welcome heat. At least she wasn’t going to be cold.

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