HOW TO FALL IN LOVE AGAIN:
Kitty’s Story
Amanda Prowse
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About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
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About How to Fall in Love Again
Kitty Montrose lives an idyllic life in the Scottish Highlands. An adored only child, she delights in the closeness she shares with her horse-riding mother and her gentle father.
But her perfect world is shattered when her mother is diagnosed with clinical depression. The illness lurks in their home like a dark monster. Kitty finds solace and escape in the arms - and the bed - of her best friend Angus.
Soon they are married, with a baby on the way. But what happens when Angus turns cold and unfeeling? Will Kitty regret staying with him for the sake of their child? And, years later, can Kitty's old flame, Theo Montgomery, help her to discover her perfect life? Or is it too late for them both?
Contents
Welcome Page
About How to Fall in Love Again
Dedication
Chapter 1
Moving Home
Chapter 2
Moving Home
Chapter 3
Moving Home
Chapter 4
Moving Home
Chapter 5
Moving Home
Chapter 6
Moving Home
Chapter 7
Moving Home
Chapter 8
Moving Home
Chapter 9
Moving Home
Chapter 10
Moving Home
Chapter 11
Moving Home
Chapter 12
Moving Home
Chapter 13
Moving Home
Chapter 14
Moving Home
Chapter 15
Moving Home
Epilogue
About Amanda Prowse
About No Greater Love
About No Greater Courage
Also by Amanda Prowse
From the Editor of this Book
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
This book is for Laura Palmer, “Hand in hand
we danced, scattering magic in our wake
and that magic lies on the paths we all
walk, just waiting for discovery…”
ajwp with love.
1
1974
‘Kitty,’ her mother called from the stable yard, ‘come back here right now! You are not to go near that pony again today. I’ve told you twice!’
‘But why can’t I go with you and the boys?’ Kitty stomped her little riding boot on the cobbles and stuck out her bottom lip.
‘Because.’
‘That’s not an answer!’ Kitty bellowed, hitting the leg of her jodhpurs with her crop.
‘Well, it’s all the answer you’re going to get, my little love. Now go into the house and scrub up and ask Marjorie for some tea and sandwiches. We won’t be too long.’
‘But, Mum, Marjorie smells of dog and even though you say you won’t be too long, I know you will. It’s not fair! I ride better than Ruraigh, just ask Daddy, and Hamish is a crybaby. And I never cry!’
Her mother rubbed her brow, the soft leather of her riding glove squeaking across her fair, freckled skin. ‘For the love of God, Kitty, why do you have to question everything! Why can’t you for once just do as I ask, just once?’
Kitty shrugged inside her Fair Isle sweater and wondered the same thing. She knew her mum, always keen to be doing something, was constantly saying, ‘To sit idle is a waste of a day, a waste of a life, and who wants that?’ Not Kitty, that was for sure. Her fidgety nature meant she completely understood her mum’s need to be on her way, but her mum appeared to have forgotten how much Kitty hated having her wings clipped. And it felt horrible.
She might have only been seven years old, but Kitty knew that her compulsion to query everything was not something her six classmates shared. She had overhead Miss Drummond saying to the priest, ‘That young Kitty Montrose, she has wings on her feet and the devil on her tongue – it’s a full-time job trying to coax her into staying in her chair!’ This description had filled Kitty with happiness, though she suspected the other girls in her class would have been upset in her place. With wings on her feet, she now knew she could outrun Ruraigh and Hamish, her cousins, no matter that they were a whole one and two years older than her. They might have known words she didn’t, occasionally teaching her the odd one, but she wasn’t going to let them beat her at everything, no way.
‘I’m meeting everyone on the ridge – we’re going for a hack, and I’m already late.’ Her mother sighed. ‘We want to catch the last of the light.’
‘Please, Mum! I love riding up there,’ she whined.
‘Well, you shouldn’t love riding up there, it’s way too steep for your pony, and the weather comes in quickly. It’s not safe.’
‘If it’s not safe for me, how come it’s safe for you?’
‘Because I’m a grown-up. And remind me, why am I still here having this conversation?’ Her mum walked forward, leading the tall horse.
‘But Daddy said I was a natural,’ Kitty said in desperation.
‘Your dad’s an idiot!’
Kitty knew her mum didn’t really think he was an idiot. She watched the two of them after supper each evening, sitting in the library while she played in front of the fire. Her dad would rub her mum’s toes as they drank cocoa or whisky and giggled, sometimes whispering when they thought she couldn’t hear.
She stuck her chin out and pulled her most endearing face. ‘Please, Mumma!’
Fenella Montrose ignored her pouting daughter, stepped up onto the mounting block and swung her leg over the muscled back of Ballachulish Boy. ‘Go and find Marjorie. I shan’t tell you again, you wee scamp!’ she shouted, but with a flash of love in her eyes and the twitch of a smile around her mouth. She gathered Balla’s reins loosely, making the lightest contact between her hands and the bit, then clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and gently squeezed his girth with her lower legs. Horse and rider walked serenely out of the yard.
A ball of rage swirled in Kitty’s tummy as her cheeks turned pink.
‘Kitty? Kitty, hen?’ Marjorie called from the deep front porch of their vast grey house, Darraghfield. ‘There’s soup, sandwiches and cake when you’re ready!’
Late afternoon was Kitty’s favourite time of day. As the sky turned purple, softening the outlines of the deep glens and rolling Highland hills around them, the lights of the main house would come on one by one, reminding her of an advent calendar with each little window opening to reveal a secret.
‘Kitty! Kitty!’ their housekeeper called, her tone becoming more exasperated.
Using the shadows, the little girl wove her way across the cobbles, darting this way and that to stay hidden, looking back over her shoulder until she felt the scratchy straw of Flynn’s bedding underfoot.
‘Sshhhh! Flynn, we’re on a secret mission.’ She held her finger up to her lips and told her pony not to make a sound. ‘We’re going to follow Mummy and her friends out and come home before them and they will never know we’ve been gone. Don’t worry about Marjorie, she can watch Crossroads in peace in the kitchen.’
With her two red plaits bouncing up and down, Kitty trotted Flynn across the cobbles, out of the yard and along the lane. She looked up at the darkening sky and breathed in the late-afternoon air, which was heavy with moisture and the sweet scent of moss. With a wide smile of satisfaction, she walked her pony across the field;
clumps of tall thistles and lichen-covered rocks littered the wet grass, making the going a little tough along the sharp incline. Bending forward, she patted her pony’s flank with the flat of her palm. ‘You’re such a good boy, Flynn! I love you.’
At the top of the field they broke into a canter and it was only when Kitty looked back down the sweep of the bank towards the house that her smile faded. It was further away than she’d anticipated and suddenly the path wasn’t where she thought it would be. She’d forgotten that this side of the ridge fell into darkness first, as the sun dropped behind the towering conifers along the summit.
‘It’s okay, Flynn. Don’t be scared, boy. We’ll just go down very slowly and go home – we’ll be back on the lane before you know it. I think it’s too late and too dark for a baby pony like you to be out all on your own.’
Kitty’s heart was beating loudly and droplets of sweat had broken out above her lip. Her hands felt clammy against the reins and in the half-light the trees and hedgerows harboured the sinister shapes of monsters and ghouls. The two of them went forward with caution; Flynn’s steps were hesitant, and Kitty’s breath came in short bursts.
‘Don’t be scared, Flynn!’ She swallowed. ‘It’s only the dark and we’re nearly home. We’ll get you settled and I’ll go and watch TV with Marjorie in the—’
Kitty didn’t see the large red hind and her baby feeding on the lower slope of the field, but Flynn did. He whinnied, bucked and raised his two front legs, skittish on the slippery bank, before throwing Kitty down hard.
It was a shock to view the world from such an odd angle when only seconds before all had been well. She screamed as she tumbled. A pain in her arm drew all her attention as she lay on the grass, finding it hard to catch her breath. Flynn, now free of his rider, raced off as fast as his little legs would take him, in the opposite direction of the house. She heard his canter fade into silence.
Kitty cried loudly, glad at first that no one was around to hear. Then she fell into some kind of sleep, the soft moss and grass as her mattress, the damp earth soaking her clothing and the crescent moon peeking at her from behind the dark bruise of dusk.
*
‘Kitty!’
The call was faint to start with. She thought she might be dreaming, but the uncomfortable ache to her body told her she was awake. Slowly opening her eyes, she tried to sit up, but the pain in her arm and shoulder made moving impossible.
‘Kitty!’
It was louder this time, closer, and then came beams of light, swinging up and down the field from powerful torches. She raised her good arm and flexed her fingers as best she could before replying quietly, ‘Here,’ and then again, louder, ‘Here!’
‘Kitty!’ There was an almost hysterical edge to her mother’s voice. ‘Oh, sweet Lord above!’
She closed her eyes and heard the flat, heavy thud of footsteps running across the ground to where she lay, accompanied by shouts and the metallic jangle of lanterns and torches. Her body softened a little. They’d found her.
‘Oh, darling! Oh, my baby!’ Her mother sobbed. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ she managed. Even in her dazed state she knew to lie so as not to make her mother any more anxious.
‘Now, Kitty Montrose, what have you been up to?’ Her dad’s soft, calm tone made her smile, despite her discomfort. His big bald head, and hands as wide as pans came into view as he crouched down beside her. Just knowing he was there made everything feel a whole lot better.
‘I wanted to ride with everyone up on the ridge, and…’ Her face scrunched up as the left side of her body throbbed.
‘There now.’ He smoothed her wispy fringe from her clammy forehead. ‘You need to breathe and try and relax your muscles, and remember that you’re a warrior, like your mum.’
Kitty nodded. She never forgot. A warrior, like my mum. It made her special. Strong.
‘Let’s get you inside and warmed up.’ Her dad bent down and Ruraigh swung the torch over her form.
As the beam of light fell across her left arm, her mother screamed. ‘Oh my God! Her arm! Stephen, will you look at her arm!’ Then came the sound of Hamish being sick into the grass.
‘Don’t look down, Kitty.’ Her dad leant in close and spoke firmly, yet calmly. ‘Keep your eyes on my face and we’ll get you to the hospital and they can patch you up and you’ll be good to go.’
She could hear the fear in his voice, and despite being told not to look, he had piqued her curiosity. She lowered her eyes and stared at her arm. It looked odd to say the least – it was broken, clearly, and stuck out from her body, twisted at a very awkward angle. It was scary to see something so familiar so bent out of shape and, strangely, once she’d seen it, it hurt even more. ‘Fuckaduck!’ she screamed, before giving in to tears of fear.
Despite the dire circumstances, Ruraigh laughed and Kitty wondered what was so funny about the word that he and Hamish had taught her only yesterday.
Moving Home
2018
Kitty let her eyes rove across the mountain of sealed boxes stacked neatly along the back wall of the landing, their contents summarised in scrawls of thick black marker-pen. More still were lined up in the bedroom, with others dotted around the kitchen. Every room of the four-storey Victorian terrace in Blackheath, London had been dismantled; the fittings and fixtures had been plucked off walls and gathered from shelves, cloaked in bubblewrap and secreted away inside the cardboard boxes, ready to emerge in their quite different new home. It felt odd, packing up a lifetime of memories. She hadn’t banked on it being so emotive, but with each new box filled she felt swamped by recollections. Some of her happiest times had been spent in this house, playing with the kids when they were little, on the sitting-room rug that now stood, rolled and bound with tape, waiting in a corner. And she’d had some of her saddest times here too, curled up in the chair in the sitting room, waiting for the next big showdown, crying silently and wondering how she’d got it all so wrong.
Kitty had no idea she had so much stuff.
Lots of it belonged to the kids, admittedly. She had unwittingly become the custodian of the crap they didn’t want in their own homes. Everything from ski gear to boxes of books, camping equipment and even a spare rabbit hutch – God only knew where that had come from! Not that she minded, not really. Having their things around her allowed her to believe at some level that they still lived there, and that in itself was a comfort.
Moving house, however, was a good chance for a clear-out. It forced her to investigate long-abandoned corners and dusty cupboards that bulged, mostly with rubbish. It was surprising that after years of taking up precious space in her home, the value of certain things was no more than the fact of their having been around for a long time. She sent the clutter to the tip without too much consideration. At least where they were moving to was big, with plenty of storage. Although, last she’d heard, certain individuals already had their eye on several of the outbuildings, which would apparently be perfect for a woodworking studio, a workshop and a potting shed, if she remembered correctly. She smiled at the image of them set up and cosy in a family home; the giddy swirl in her stomach was that of a teenager and not a fifty-two-year-old woman. She rather liked it.
It was early morning. Sophie, who had popped in as promised to help with the lifting, called down through the open loft hatch. Kitty was grateful for her stopping by.
‘Are you ready, Mum? This is getting heavy.’
Kitty stretched up her arms and steadied herself against the aluminium ladder, which felt none too secure. ‘Yes, drop it! The anticipation is killing me!’
‘Here it comes.’
Kitty braced herself and gathered the sturdy plastic box into her arms, which were still strong, muscled. Sport, and swimming in particular, had proved to be the kindest thing she’d done to her body over the years.
‘What’s in it?’ Sophie called from within the dusty confines of the loft.
‘Give me a chance! Good Lord, are you this i
mpatient with your pupils?’ She laughed, trying to imagine her daughter in her role as teacher, a department head, no less.
‘I am, actually – they’re all petrified of me.’ Sophie laughed.
‘Poor them.’ Kitty smiled with pride.
She lugged the box across the narrow landing and heaved it onto her bed, before pulling it open and showering the duvet with dust. As she peered inside, her heart fluttered and she felt a whoosh of excitement in her chest. She looked up at her daughter, who now stood in the doorway of the bedroom. ‘Oh, Soph! Oh, how lovely! These are my old photographs. Mainly from when I was little, and a few from school, I seem to remember.’
‘Ooh, marvellous – snapshots from debauched parties and your misspent youth, I hope?’ Sophie rubbed her hands together and flopped down on the bed next to her mother.
‘Hardly!’ Kitty laughed. ‘More likely me in the swimming pool or playing Scrabble with your grandad – that kind of thing.’
She ran her fingers over the collection of images, some dog-eared and others sporting the sticky ring of a carelessly placed glass of squash. Some were in black and white, others had gone sepia-toned where the colours had faded. But every one of them took her back to a particular place in time; she could recall the decor, the time of year, even the scent of summer grass or winter fires.
‘I know you all snap away now on your phones quite frivolously, but in those days photographs were only taken by a sturdy camera and they felt quite important. They were printed and some even got framed and made it onto the mantelpiece, and they were always hung on to; they were precious things. Not like now when you have thousands of them sitting on that tiny screen and you delete them willy-nilly.’
‘Yes, but we get to choose the best pictures, edit them, even, so we wouldn’t end up with something like this!’ Sophie held up a picture of Kitty as a small child in a hand-knitted Arran jumper. Her hair stuck up at odd angles and her eyes were half-closed. The whole image was blurry. It was less than attractive.
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