Lizzie's Christmas Escape Read online

  Lizzie’s Christmas Escape

  A Sparkling, Feel Good Christmas Romance

  Christie Barlow

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Letter from Christie

  Kitty’s Countryside Dream

  Also by Christie Barlow

  The Thank Yous

  For Ann Sandeman

  * * *

  Without your strength, laughter, hope and unwavering determination to stand up to cancer, the Amigos would not be here.

  * * *

  We love you,

  Annie’s Amigos

  * * *

  London Moonwalk 2016

  1

  The snow was gently flurrying to the ground as I stood on my tiptoes, staring out of the kitchen window onto the road where I had lived for the last twenty-three years. It was starting to look a lot like Christmas; the weather in the past couple of weeks had been rather on the chilly side – a bitter minus two degrees to be precise. I was no weather person, but looking at the bleak grey sky above, it seemed certain that the snow would continue to fall for the next few hours. The morning news, which I’d watched at breakfast, had been predictable – images of motorways at a complete standstill, cars stranded, trains delayed and gritters out in full force.

  I watched the hive of activity outside. A removal van was parked up on the snowy verge. There were a number of burly men hauling cardboard boxes from the rear of the van and traipsing up and down a garden path. Snowflakes swirled all around them. They stamped their snowy boots on the makeshift cardboard mat and manoeuvred their way through the neighbouring door. Sarah and Lloyd Baldwin, our former neighbours, had emigrated three weeks ago to the warmer climates of Australia. They had been our neighbours for over twenty years, and I’d been quite taken aback when they suddenly dropped the bombshell they were leaving. Their two boys were all grown up and had long since flown the nest. From as far back as I could remember, Sarah had always talked about moving to Australia. Her sister had emigrated there years ago and I knew she missed her dreadfully. This was their time now, and I couldn’t blame them for wanting to feel the warm sun on their skin, day in and day out. They were truly the best neighbours anyone could ever wish for and they would be sadly missed.

  They hadn’t sold their house; they’d opted for the safe option and decided to rent it out just on the off-chance that they didn’t like their new life in Oz – though according to their latest email they’d already settled well. I had never travelled abroad. I had suggested to Henry that we take a holiday somewhere hot on many occasions, but he just didn’t see the point in paying inflated prices for food and beer when you could purchase a ‘good old’ plate of egg and chips at a reasonable rate and enjoy the amusement arcades on the promenade of Blackpool.

  Having new neighbours was the most exciting thing that had happened in this street for as long as I could remember. Henry and I had never moved house – this had always been our marital home.

  We’d met during our last term at college. I’d admired him from a distance for nearly two whole years before he turned to me in the canteen queue one day and said hello. Everyone classed Henry as one of the cool students. Heads turned when he walked down the corridor. Girls acted all giggly around him, and he oozed charisma. His hair was immaculately groomed, his skin clear and his dress sense screamed rock star. He had the most handsome smile too. Henry was captain of the college football team and every Friday lunchtime, come rain or shine, there would be hordes of girls gathering on the side-lines watching him practise. I never in a million years thought he would ever look twice at me.

  By the time our college days were over, Henry was a qualified electrician and I was a qualified dressmaker. That very summer my aspirations were put on hold when I fell pregnant with our first child. Abbie was born twenty-three years ago, and Freya followed her eighteen months later. We were married at Christmas when I was four months pregnant with Abbie. It wasn’t a huge wedding, very low-key, but absolutely perfect – the best day of my life.

  Henry and the girls were my whole life. I was extremely proud of them all. The girls were currently away at university. Abbie was studying art and textiles while Freya was learning photography. Henry said they must take after me with their creative flair. These days they were only home during the holidays, and even then, were often out with their friends or catching up on sleep. I did miss them. The house was quiet without them both.

  It was a modest detached house. My parents had loaned us money for the deposit. At the time, my dad had recently retired from the police force and had cashed in numerous bonds. Their generosity helped us tremendously, and Henry worked every hour God sent to pay them back.

  We were situated right at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. Our bottle-green front door opened straight onto the oak-floored hallway, the stairs were straight in front, and a door to the right led onto the living room, while one to the left led directly to the kitchen. The living room was my favourite place in the house, especially at Christmas time. It came alive with the twinkling lights, red bows and pine cones draped across the mantelpiece – an old reclaimed railway sleeper – and the constant crackle of the wood burner kept me warm during the cold winter months. The furniture was minimal: a sofa, a coffee table and a bookcase, and Henry’s comfy, battered old armchair in the corner. This was just the way I liked it.

  We had a small separate dining room that seated six people comfortably, and eight at a push, but we only tended to use it on special occasions; the rest of the time I used it as my sewing room. My mum’s antique sewing machine sat proudly on the dining-room table. It had been passed down to her from my Granny Mary, who was also a seamstress. When I was a child I wanted to be just like my mum and my granny. I couldn’t wait to follow in their footsteps and train to be a dressmaker. I was always mesmerised by how effortlessly my mum ran the material through the sewing machine and transformed it into such beautiful garments. Each week she would sit with me for hours teaching me numerous stitches that I’d practise on scraps of material from her sewing box. Those were fond memories I’d never forget.

  Upstairs we had three bedrooms, one main bathroom and one en-suite, and that suited us. For the most part, I loved our home.

  I smiled to myself, remembering the day we moved in. It was just like today, snowing and freezing outside. Henry had insisted he’d carry me over the threshold. I don’t know how he managed it with my baby bump, but he swept me off my feet and we’d both giggled as he’d swayed from side to side, trying to keep his balance. Once my feet were firmly back on the ground we’d both stood in the hallway beaming from ear to ear, not quite believing the house was ours.

  Everything came together that Christmas. I was bursting not only with a baby but delight. My sewing skills were a blessing in disguise, and for the rest of my pregnancy I set to work making all the soft furnishings for our new home. Those times were the best, and Henry and I had so much fun decorating the house together. By the time I went into labour our home was just perfect.

  I sighed, my breath fogging up the glass as I recognised Henry’s van snaking slowly along the freshly fallen snow towards the house. In front of his bright headlamps the snowflakes danced fast and furious. I smiled at the house on the corner. Every year the Pillingers went over the top with their Christmas decorations. Currently their six-foot inflatable Santa and life-size reindeer were both battling the blizzard outside. Their living-room curtains were open, revealing the largest tree I had ever seen. I wasn’t sure how they’d even transported the tree to the house, never mind how they’d manoeuvred the huge branches through the front door. However, there was no denying it looked truly stunning swathed in its glittery baubles and sparkling fairy lights.

  Quickly I moved away from the window and glanced up at the clock. Sure enough it was half past five. I heard the crunch of tyres as Henry’s van manoeuvred its way through the fresh snow, the van door slamming and then the clunk of the key turning in the lock of the front door, the thud of Henry’s rucksack as it was tossed onto the wooden floor.

  I turned around and looked at my reflection in the mirror that hung on the wall in the kitchen. Right on cue, as it was every day, I mouthed Henry’s first words to me: ‘Is tea ready yet?’ I sighed again. I could bet my life he would immediately slump d
own in his battered armchair, and the TV would be switched on to his favourite programme – darts. I tutted and shook my head as the commentary from the telly rung out: ‘One hundred and eighty.’

  For the past year, every evening had had more or less the same routine. Last Christmas I had sworn to myself that things would change, and yet here we were again, at the beginning of the festive season, and everything was exactly the same as it had been last year.

  I shouted to Henry his tea would be a matter of minutes. There was no response – there never was. Opening the door to the pantry I smiled. There, hidden away amongst the pots and the pans and my secret stash of mince pies, was my ever-faithful Gary Barlow calendar. We had enjoyed numerous chats over the year – granted it was all one-sided, but it was comforting to know what went on in the pantry stayed in the pantry. Quickly I struck off another date from the calendar; it was only another week or so until the girls were home for Christmas.

  Having these conversations with Gary only confirmed what I already knew – I was a middle-aged woman in a crisis. Unlike Henry, I would bet my house that Gary didn’t slouch in the chair watching darts while fiddling with his body parts underneath elasticated jogging pants that had most definitely seen better days. I’m sure Gary’s attire would at least be designer. Whilst Gary was an international superstar, jet-setting here, there and everywhere, my only weekly outing was escaping to bingo with my best friend Ann Sandeman. Casting my mind back, I couldn’t even remember the last time Henry and I had enjoyed an evening together or had shared any physical contact – unless you counted the unfortunate incident a couple of Christmases ago. I’d spent an enjoyable day Christmas shopping with Ann, and after a rather extravagant pink-champagne lunch in Selfridges, the alcohol must have addled my brain, because it was at that very moment I’d talked myself into investing in some new sexy lingerie – in fact it was bright red satin and I had been convinced I would give Mrs Sexy Santa Claus a run for her money. As I’d swung my carrier bag, delighted with my purchase, I’d squirted myself with a new perfume that Ann and I had discovered in the bargain basement of the pharmacy, and I’d truly believed that I would secure my husband’s attention once again. It had been a while.

  When I’d arrived back home, I’d been filled with trepidation mixed with excitement. I’d never done anything like this before. In the past it was rare I’d ever have to fight for Henry’s attention. He’d always been the one who would instigate sex.

  I’d eagerly dressed in the eye-catching underwear, and after grabbing the remote control from the arm of his battered old armchair, I’d muted the telly. Bending down on my knees in front of him I’d run my hands up and down his thighs. Henry had groaned.

  I’d leant forward for a kiss – and absolutely nothing. He’d moved his head and gazed at the telly. I can still remember his words like it was yesterday: ‘You go upstairs, love, and make yourself comfy. I’ll be up in a few minutes. Phil Taylor only needs to throw a treble twenty to win the championship.’ He’d kissed my head lightly before I’d stood up and climbed the stairs towards the bedroom.

  I’d waited.

  And waited.

  Eventually, after twenty minutes I’d wrapped my dressing gown around my body and trudged back down the stairs only to find Henry had fallen fast asleep in the chair clutching his beer can.

  This had been rejection at its best. Was he serious? Did he really prefer watching an overweight middle-aged man throw an arrow at a board than taking his wife to bed? The days of floating on cloud nine had seemed well and truly over. After the humiliation of that incident, Henry and I drifted further apart.

  The summer I’d become a qualified dressmaker I’d fallen pregnant with Abbie. Since then I’d always been a stay-at-home mum. At first I enjoyed the routine – I’d lounge around in my scruffs and never had to worry about looking respectable. My friends were envious of my situation; while they juggled childcare arrangements and struggled with the daily household chores, I appeared to have it all under control. As Abbie and Freya grew up and tootled off to school, I was the first to admit loneliness had started to creep in. This was when I decided it was time to put my skills into action and set up shop on the dining-room table. I began to make soft furnishings, and although my customers were mainly the mums from school, before I knew it, I was making a little bit of extra cash doing what I loved best.

  Hearing the buzzing of the oven timer I grabbed the oven gloves from the drawer and pulled down on the door to discover the cottage pie bubbling away perfectly. Every Monday was cottage-pie Monday, just like every Wednesday was egg-and-chip Wednesday. Henry liked his routine. Once upon a time, Henry would insist that he cooked for me on a Friday night to give me a rest, or we’d treat ourselves to a takeaway with a bottle of red from the local Co-op. However, over the years this treat had dwindled away, and it was now left to me to prepare every meal. I suppose in one way I was fed up with cooking the same old, same old every day of the week, but in another, I never had to think about preparing anything new.

  Switching off the timer I transferred the pie to the top of the hob and dished it up onto the plates. There was always enough to feed a small army – even though the girls were no longer at home I would always cook for everyone, a habit I didn’t seem to be able to break.

  ‘Tea is served, Henry,’ I shouted across the hallway, my voice competing with the dart commentary. I just didn’t understand the fascination of watching a grown man throw an arrow at a board, and what was the point in always watching reruns of the game? Surely, then, it was no surprise to Henry who the winner was.

  The sudden silence told me Henry had paused the telly. Heaven forbid he missed a moment while he collected his tea from the kitchen. A few seconds later he appeared at the kitchen door, and without making any eye contact or muttering a word, he placed his food on a tray alongside his knife and fork and disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

  I sat down at the table alone. I swallowed down my disappointment and shook my head. I didn’t know why I was expecting tonight to be any different. Henry hadn’t managed to remember our wedding anniversary for as long as I could recall.

  Walking over to the fridge I retrieved the chilled bottle of fizz that was sitting in the door. Usually I liked a glass of wine when preparing the evening meal, but tonight I was hoping to share one with Henry. Popping the cork, I poured myself a very large glass and muttered ‘cheers’ to myself. I took a huge gulp and then refilled the glass to the brim. Remembering the card I had written to Henry earlier that day, I took the red envelope out of my handbag and ripped it open with some force. My words in the card seemed to mock me: ‘To my darling husband Henry.’ I had no idea why I had even written that; maybe it was habit. ‘I love you more each day. All my love, Lizzie xx.’ I had no idea why I’d written that either.

  Striding over to the bin, I pressed my foot down on the pedal and tossed the card amongst the potato and carrot peelings. There didn’t seem anything ‘darling’ about Henry any more.

  Sitting back down at the table, I pushed the cottage pie around my plate with the fork. My appetite seemed to have diminished in seconds, and within a matter of minutes I heard the telly being paused again. Henry appeared for a second time, his plate spotless, and in his usual routine abandoned his tray by the kitchen sink, ready and waiting for me to clear it away. However, on his way back towards the door, he paused in front of the table and turned to face me.

  ‘Lizzie,’ he said, scratching his head then pulling his elasticated jogging pants up around his belly. I looked up and met his gaze. My heart was thumping; I couldn’t quite believe it. Had he actually remembered what day it was? Had he remembered it was our anniversary? I waited in anticipation to hear the rest of the words he was about to speak.

  ‘Isn’t it too early to be drinking wine like it’s going out of fashion? Anyone would think you had a drinking problem,’ he said testily before turning round and walking out of the kitchen, back towards his beloved darts.

  My jaw dropped to the floor. Fuming, I grasped the bottle and, once again, filled my glass to the brim.