by Emma Rowley
“Are you ready then?” She unbuckles the toddler in the back and heaves him out.
“Yes, Mumma.” She takes his hand and they set off, her walking slowly, so he can keep up.
He’s growing so fast now, the bloom in his cheeks so bright it’s like he lights up from the inside. He’s already forgetting that they ever lived anywhere else but Oakhurst, with Nana and the cat.
Now he’s spotted what’s in her other hand. “Nana flowers?”
“Not these flowers, Teddy.”
His brows lower, his bottom lip sticking out. “Nana flowers,” he insists. “Nana like flowers.” The terrible twos, she thinks, here they come. She knows his birthday is around this time of year.
“That’s right, Nana does like flowers. But these are special flowers, for someone you don’t know. Someone who was called Nancy.”
“Nan-cy,” he says carefully. “We go see Nancy?”
“Kind of,” she says. “Nancy’s not here anymore. We’re just going to leave them for her.”
It is not by the place itself, she’s glad to see, but in a pretty, shaded spot near the deer park entrance, at the foot of the first great oak tree off the path. Above the little pile of blooms and cellophane a lone balloon floats at half mast, its skin puckered.
“Balloon!” he says, now pulling her along.
It doesn’t take them long. When they get there, she takes a moment before deciding to set the roses down at the back of the pile, wild hothouse blooms, peach and pink and yellow and white, out of season but beautiful, with their heady scent. There’s no note: there’s nothing she wants to write down.
The little boy stays close to his mother, uncertain now. Something in her solemnity has touched him. “Can I ha’ balloon?”
“Not this one. This one has to stay here. But we can go and get you a new one. Right now,” she says. She shivers.
“From supermarket?” he says hopefully.
She laughs. It’s his favorite place: all the people, and sweeties, and the fifty-pence ride that bobs him up and down at a stately pace. “I think we could get you one from the supermarket. Are you ready?”
“Yes!”
“All right then. Let’s go.”
And they leave then to walk back to the car, the two little figures growing smaller and smaller, hand in hand, the sunset making the whole world glow before them. Neither of them look back.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to John Scognamiglio and to everyone at Kensington who has supported my book.
Thank you to my UK editor Ben Willis, for all your energy, creativity, and hard work; to Francesca Pathak, for making things happen; and to the rest of the talented team at Orion. Thank you to my agent Clare Hulton, for your help and encouragement.
Thank you to those who were generous with your time in answering my questions about your working worlds, particularly Olivia Budge, Hannah Woodcock, Jennifer Twite, Lucy Oldfield, Robert Frankl and Rebecca Bradley. Any liberties taken with the usual professional procedures—or anything else—are mine alone.
Thank you to my family, friends and colleagues for all your support and enthusiasm. Special thanks to Helena Curran—I was and am so grateful for your insights. Thank you to Sarah Rowley, Zoe Rowley, Ian Rowley, Tom Colvin and Lis Mogul, for always cheering me on.
Finally, huge thanks to Liz Rowley, who helped me so much in the writing of this book. Unlike Kate, she knows this daughter is always at the end of the phone. In fact . . . Mum, sorry, I know it’s late—but can we have a quick chat?