by Sarah Morgan
‘I guess her life must be pretty empty.’
Empty? Had they looked around at all? Seen the view from her corner office? True, she didn’t often look at it herself, because she was too busy to turn around, but she’d been told it was magnificent. Hadn’t they seen the photographs of her with industry leaders?
She led a full life.
‘Yeah, poor thing…’
She wasn’t a poor thing. She was a powerhouse.
All they saw was the businesswoman. They knew nothing else about her. They didn’t know how hard she’d had to work to arrive at this place in her life. They didn’t know why she was this way. They didn’t know she had a past. A history. They didn’t know all the things that had happened to her.
They didn’t know her at all. They thought she had an empty life. They thought she was a lonely, sad figure. They were wrong.
They were—
Were they wrong?
She felt a sudden wash of cold air and saw a blinding light.
That question Rochelle had asked her, echoed in her head: And you’ve never had any regrets?
The faint wobble inside her became something bigger. It spread from the inside outwards until her whole body was shaking.
She didn’t have regrets. She did not have regrets.
Regret was a wasted emotion—first cousin to guilt. Gayle had no room for either in her life.
But the shaking wouldn’t stop.
‘We’ll get her to the ER.’
As well as the shaking, now there was a terrifying pressure in her chest. Had they forgotten to lift the bookcase from her mangled body? No. No, it wasn’t that. The pressure was coming from the inside, not the outside. Heart? No, it wasn’t that either. It wasn’t physical. It was emotional.
‘Her pulse-rate is increasing.’
Of course it was increasing! Emotion did that to you. It messed you up. It was the reason she tried never to let it into her life. She had no idea who had allowed it in now—because it certainly hadn’t been her. It must have crept in through the hole in her head.
‘She might be bleeding from somewhere. Let’s move. If there’s no one at home to care for her they’ll probably admit her.
She was going to be admitted to hospital because all she had in her life was work and Puccini. Neither of those was going to bring her a glass of water or check she was alive in the night.
She lay there, trapped inside her bruised, broken body, forcing herself to do what she urged others to do. Acknowledge the truth of her life.
She ran a successful company. She had an apartment full of art and antiques on the Upper East Side and enough money that she never had to worry about it. But she had no one who would rush to her side when she was in trouble.
Cole was here because he was paid to be here, so that didn’t count.
She wasn’t loved. There was no one who cared about her. Not one person who would hear about the accident and think, Oh, no! Poor Gayle! No one would be calling a florist and ordering flowers. No one would be delivering a casserole to her door or asking if there was anything she needed.
She was alone in this life she’d designed for herself.
Completely, totally and utterly alone.
She realised why most people were reluctant to examine the truth of their lives. It was an uncomfortable experience.
What had she done?
She’d chosen her life, designed her life, and now she didn’t like the way it was looking.
In that moment Gayle had an epiphany—and not a good one.
What if she’d chosen the wrong design? What if all the choices she’d made had been wrong? What if all these techniques she’d recommended to people through her books were wrong too?
She needed to stop publication.
She needed to tell her publisher she wanted to rethink the book. How could she promote Brave New You when she was lying on the floor shivering like a wounded animal?
She opened her mouth and tried to croak out some words.
‘She’s moving. She’s conscious! Gayle—Gayle, can you hear me?’
Yes, she could hear him. She was unloved—not deaf.
She opened her eyes and saw a uniformed EMT and behind him Cole, looking worried. There was the cameraman, and also Rochelle, scribbling frantically. Making the most of an opportunity, Gayle thought. Taking the advice she’d been given and redesigning her life.
And that was when she had her second epiphany. Who said you could only design your life once? People remodelled houses all the time, didn’t they? Just because you’d lived with white walls for decades, it didn’t mean you couldn’t suddenly paint them green.
If she didn’t like the way her life looked, then it was up to her to fix it.
And, although she didn’t regret her actions, exactly, she did regret the outcome of those actions.
Maybe she could have done more.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to rebuild what had been knocked down.
But she had to be the one to make the first move.
‘My daughter.’ Her lips formed the words. ‘Call…my daughter.’
She saw Cole’s face pale. ‘She’s conscious, but she has a serious head injury. She’s confused. She has amnesia.’
The EMT frowned. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘Because GM doesn’t have a daughter.’
Gayle thought about the baby they’d put into her arms. The way it had felt to be entirely responsible for the well-being of a tiny, helpless infant, knowing how hard life could be. She’d wanted to swaddle her in steel and surround her with an electric fence to keep the bad at bay.
‘Gayle, do you know what day it is?’
Yes, she knew what day it was. It was the day she’d started questioning everything she’d believed was right. The day she’d realised that regret could hurt more than a severe head injury.
She tried again. ‘Call my eldest daughter.’
What if she died before she had a chance to fix things?
‘Eldest…?’ Cole looked nervous. ‘She doesn’t have one daughter, let alone more. Ms Mitchell—Gayle—how many fingers am I holding up? Can you tell me?’
Right at that moment she wanted to hold up her own finger. Her middle one.
‘Call my daughter.’
‘She isn’t confused. Gayle Mitchell has two daughters,’ Rochelle said. ‘I did a deep dive into her background before the interview. My research suggests they’re estranged.’
Estranged? No, that wasn’t right. True, they hadn’t seen each other for a while. Maybe a few years. All right, perhaps it was at least five years… Gayle couldn’t remember. But she did remember their last encounter. When she thought about it—which she tried not to—she felt affronted and hurt.
None of it had been her fault. She’d been doing her best for them—which was all she’d ever done. She’d worked hard at being the best mother possible. She’d made sure she’d equipped her children to deal with the real world. It wasn’t her fault that her girls had made bad choices. That they preferred the fairy tale to the reality. It wasn’t her fault that they were unable to appreciate how well she’d prepared them for adulthood.
Yes, relations between them were tense, but they weren’t estranged. That was a truly horrible word. A word with razor-sharp edges.
Cole appeared to be suffering from shock.
‘She has kids? But that means that she— I mean she must have had—’
The fact that he was struggling to picture her having sex wasn’t flattering. He clearly thought his boss was a robot.
‘All right. If you’re sure, then we should call the daughters.’ His voice was strangled. ‘Is there a phone number, Ms Mitchell?’
Would Samantha have changed her number?
She hadn’t called, so Gayle had no way of knowing. She’d been waiting for both of them to call her and apologise.
But if she admitted that, would her judgemental staff and the medical team decide she wasn’t worth saving?
Instea
d of answering, she moaned.
That caused more consternation among the people gathered around her.
‘She’s struggling to speak—can we find out her daughter’s number?’
‘I’m searching…’ Rachel tapped away on her phone. ‘One of her daughters is called Samantha.’
Gayle gasped as the EMT and his assistant transferred her to a gurney.
Cole was searching too. ‘There’s a Samantha Mitchell in New Jersey. Comedian. No way.’
Was he implying that she didn’t have a sense of humour? That laughter didn’t figure in her DNA?
‘There’s a Samantha Mitchell in Chicago…a Samantha Mitchell, dog walker, in Ohio. Samantha Mitchell CEO of a bespoke travel company in Boston…’ He looked up as Gayle made a sound. ‘That’s her? She runs a travel company?’
Boston? Samantha had moved cities? It wasn’t enough not to speak to her mother—she clearly didn’t want to risk running into her on the street.
Gayle tried to ignore the pain. She was willing to be the bigger person. Kids disappointed you. It was a fact of life. She would forgive and move on. She wanted to do that. She wanted them in her life. Their relationship never should have reached this point.
And CEO!
Gayle felt a glow. You go, girl.
Whether Samantha admitted it or not, there was plenty of her mother in her.
As they wheeled her through the office to the elevator she caught a glimpse of the shocked faces of her staff, who had never once seen GM vulnerable in all the time they’d worked at Mitchell and Associates.
But she felt vulnerable now. Not because of the head injury, and not even because of the photos that the wretched photographer had taken of her unfortunate accident, nor the prospect of headlines as painful as the injury itself.
No, she felt vulnerable because someone was about to contact Samantha.
And there was every possibility that her daughter wouldn’t even take the call.
Samantha
‘I suggest a European tour, focusing on the Christmas markets. Not only will you be steeped in holiday spirit, which is what you want, but you can buy all your gifts at the same time. It will be perfect.’
Samantha scrolled through the itinerary her team had prepared.
‘Start in Prague. You will never forget Wenceslas Square. At Christmas it’s filled with pretty wooden huts selling handcrafted goods and delicious treats—you have to try the warm gingerbread —and they always have an incredible tree. You’ll sip mulled wine while you watch the ice skaters, and there will probably be choirs singing in the background. It’s gloriously festive!’
Skilfully she painted a picture. She talked about the smell of baked apples in the famous markets of Cologne, the scent of Christmas spices in Vienna and the cobbled streets and beautiful medieval streets of Tallinn, Estonia.
‘That horse and cart ride you dreamed about? We can definitely make that happen. You’ll never want to come home. I’m emailing a plan across to you now. Take a look and let me know what you think. You might prefer to reduce the number of markets and spend a little longer in each place. We can tailor it in any way that works for you.’
She glanced up as her assistant opened her office door, her baby on her hip.
Samantha gave a brief shake of her head. Her staff knew better than to interrupt when she was on a call—especially when that call was to a client as important as Annabelle Wexford. Whoever it was could wait.
She waggled her fingers at the baby and carried on talking.
‘It will be fabulous, Annabelle. In Prague, we’ve reserved you a suite with a view of the Charles Bridge. After you’ve enjoyed the markets you’ll be able to relax and drink in the same view…’
She gave her the full benefit of her research and experience—which was extensive. No one knew more about making the best of the holiday season than she did. She’d been designing bespoke winter vacations for people since she’d graduated. First with a big travel company who offered tailormade holidays to anywhere and everywhere, and then for herself.
When she’d announced that she was setting up on her own, focusing exclusively on festive vacations, her competitors had predicted she’d last six months. She’d proved them wrong. There were people willing to pay a great deal of money to enjoy a bespoke magical holiday experience if it delivered what they wanted. And Samantha delivered every time.
Her company, RFH—Really Festive Holidays—was booming.
There was a card on her desk from a delighted client addressed to her as ‘The Queen of Christmas’. Another calling her ‘Mrs Santa’.
Was there anything better than making someone’s dreams of a magical festive season come true?
‘We’ve sent over a couple of hotel options in Vienna—take a look and let us know your preference.’
It was five minutes before she was able to end the call and follow up with her assistant.
She hit a button on the phone on her desk. ‘Charlotte? I’m done.’
Charlotte appeared in the doorway, a tablet in her hand. A large damp patch spread across her midnight-blue shirt, which clung to her breast.
‘Sorry, I forgot you were on the phone to Annabelle—and sorry about this.’ She tugged at her shirt. ‘Amy started yelling and my boobs took it as a hint to go into milk mode. Nature is an amazing but inconvenient thing. Fortunately there are no clients in the office at the moment. My mom is back tomorrow, so she won’t be in the office again.’
‘Where is she?’
‘My mom? Visiting my Granny in—’
‘The baby.’ Samantha was patient. ‘Amy.’
‘Oh. She fell asleep after I fed her, so I popped her under my desk in her seat and I’m going to make the most of it and get everything done. Truly sorry about this.’
‘It’s perfectly fine. This is an important time for both of you. Parent-child bonding is crucial—particularly in these early months. Family is everything. You need to spend as much time together as possible. Use my office to feed any time you need to.’
‘You’re the best boss on the planet and I might cry.’ Charlotte sniffed. ‘Yes, I’m going to cry. It’s your fault for being kind. I’m so emotional right now. Even the news makes me sob.’
‘The news makes me sob, too, and I’m not hormonal.’ Samantha pushed tissues across her desk. ‘Here. You’re doing great, Charlotte.’
‘I’m not as sharp as I used to be. My brain feels soggy. I cut Mr Davidson off instead of putting him through.’
‘And you immediately called him back and he was completely understanding—so don’t worry. He’s not likely to forget that you were the one who arranged to fly him home when he had a heart attack in India and that you visited him in hospital.’
‘He’s a dear man.’ Charlotte took a handful of tissues, stuffed a few into her bra and blew her nose with the others. ‘I’m worried I’ll lose you a client.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’ Samantha stood up and walked round her desk. ‘Are you doing okay? Are you just tired, or is it something more? Because if you need time off—’
‘No. Honestly, I’m fine. It’s an adjustment, that’s all. I love my job, and I want to be here, but I want to be with Amy, too. I feel like a terrible employee and a terrible mother.’
‘You’re wonderful at both—just very hard on yourself. You’ll get back into it. Don’t worry.’
‘That’s what my mom says…but I’m worried you’ll want me to leave.’
‘Charlotte!’ Samantha was horrified. ‘You were the first person I employed. We’ve been in this together from the beginning.’
Charlotte gave a watery smile. ‘Christmas every day, right?’
‘Exactly! You are brilliant at your job. I am never letting you leave! For a start, you know every single thing about every single client, which is a big part of the reason we’re doing so well. You masterminded the search for Mrs Davidson’s precious cat while she was in the Arctic, for goodness’ sake.’
Charlotte’s
smile turned to a laugh. ‘That cat was vicious. I’m sure the neighbours let it out on purpose.’
‘Maybe, but she loved that animal and you fixed it. It’s what you do. You’re just having a difficult time, that’s all. But you’ll get through it. We’ll get through it. You have a job as long as you want one, and I hope that’s a very long time.’
‘Thank you.’ Charlotte blew her nose hard and picked up one of the photos on Samantha’s desk. ‘New photo? I haven’t seen this one.’
‘Ellie sent it last week. Apparently Tab is going through a princess phase.’
‘And, knowing you, you’ve already sent her four sparkling princess costumes.’
‘Two…’ Had she gone over the top? ‘I just happened to see a couple on my way home. I wasn’t sure which one she’d prefer.’
‘The doting aunt.’ Charlotte put the photo back. ‘Your niece is gorgeous. I can’t imagine Amy being four and a half. Tab must be so excited about the holidays.’
‘She is. I’m going there this weekend and we’re going to make decorations for the tree.’
‘I can’t wait until Amy is old enough to do that. This will be her first Christmas and we’ve already bought way too much, considering she isn’t going to remember any of it.’
‘Did you have messages for me?’ Sam prompted gently, and Charlotte produced her tablet from under her arm.
‘Yes.’ She tapped the tablet. ‘Eight messages. The Wilsons called to give the go-ahead for Lapland. They want the whole package—reindeer, elves, Santa—but they’re not sure about the husky sled ride.’
‘They’d love it,’ Samantha murmured. ‘Providing they dress for the weather they’ll have a blast. I’ll give them a call and talk it through. Next?’
She sat down at her desk, dealing with each message in turn, scribbling a few notes to herself. Some she asked Charlotte to deal with; some she chose to deal with personally.
‘The Mortons are an adventurous family—they’d love Iceland. We’ll book them on a tour to see the Northern Lights, and they can do that snowmobile safari on a glacier that was such a hit with that family from Ohio.’