The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (4 page)

She had to admit that to be so dearly loved was more than
wonderful and made it so easy to love George right back, without question. She
wondered, in those rare moments she allowed herself a sliver of private
contemplation, whether it was too soon to hope that George could be her second
chance, her hope for real happiness? She did not have to wonder for too long.

By the time Christmas loomed on the horizon, Marianne and
George had been an item for a number of months. Their relationship had nurtured
gently. It was certainly no grand passion but in many ways she preferred it
that way. It was lovely to have someone to talk to and walk with, and nice not
to always eat dinner alone in front of the telly; or be obliged to go out with
the girls because there were no boys to go out with.

Her life had needed more balance, George had given her a
whole new aspect, other things to think about, another person to consider. Her
sex life had been non-existent for some time, and although she pretended it
never really bothered her, with George around, who was genuinely affectionate
and loving, she could enjoy how much or how little she needed. All things
considered, even though she still dare not admit it to herself, she had started
to hope again.

Without thinking, Marianne put her name down for the usual
skeleton staff rota over the festive period. She never bothered taking leave at
Christmas, it was not that she was un-Christian but the phones were quiet and
it gave her space to catch up. If the truth be told, she could not bear all the
feigned jollity, or worse, colleagues feeling obliged to invite her to join
them and their families. So she always worked through the holiday, only
stopping to treat herself to a nice cashmere sweater or smart pair of boots to
mark the occasion.

Then one morning, singing along with ‘
Last Christmas’
it occurred to her: what about George? Maybe George loved Christmas. Perhaps he
wanted them to enjoy it together. She felt immediately guilty, she was so used
to just doing her own thing; it was selfish not to consider George, especially
as he consulted her about everything, always hoping they could do things
together. By the time the song ended, she resolved to discuss their Christmas
plans that very evening. But Marianne was way too late. George had already made
plans of his own, for both of them - well all three of them, actually.

It was the week before Christmas. She
could see it was him through the coloured glass, standing large as a bear in
the doorway of her small, suburban house. George, in his huge dogtooth
overcoat, wearing the bright red scarf she had bought to cheer him up when he
had a dreadful cold. He held a picnic basket in his arms, having pushed the
doorbell with his nose. She opened the door; he seemed excited and nervous at
the same time. The tartan rug on top of the basket moved. She jumped. This was
not the offering of food and wine she had been expecting for their first
Christmas together. It moved again.

“Have a look!” he boomed.

She lifted the fabric to reveal the pointed ears, bright
eyes and shiny black nose of the tiniest puppy she had ever seen.

She gasped.

 “George, he’s adorable. Is it a he? Is he for me? What’s
his name?”

She lifted it out. The little bundle, a West Highland terrier,
squirmed with pleasure. Marianne noticed a large, ‘
Paddington Bear’
type, brown paper label attached to a ribbon around the puppy’s neck. In
George’s manic scrawl, it read:

“My name is Montgomery. I’m a Christmas present from George.
PS: He wants to know if you’ll marry him?”

Shock rendered her speechless; she looked from the large man
to the tiny animal. Her heart contracted, as both pairs of eyes radar-beamed
adoration at her. She turned away briefly, as her past life and loves ran like
a DVD on fast forward through her brain. George knew as much as she wanted him
to know about her previous relationships. When he had pressed her for an answer
about past loves, not long after they had met, she had merely recounted, “There
was someone once.”

“Someone special?”

“Seemed so at the time.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No, ancient history.”

“Married?”

“Nearly, I thought.”

“Children?”

“He has now.”

“Regrets?”

“No way.”

“Ah that’s my gritty, award-winning career woman,” he had
said kindly, squeezing her knee.

“And what have you hidden in the closet?” she had asked
brightly.

They had swapped early-life stories. She had spent the first
eighteen months of her life in a convent in the wilds of the Wicklow mountains,
while the nuns vetted various pairs of prospective parents. The couple who
finally adopted her had been older than the parents of her peers. They were
nice, well-educated people and she always thought of them fondly. Kind but
cool, was how she would describe them, especially when compared with the
parents of school friends who often invited her to stay during the holidays.
Her friends always seemed to belong to big, noisy, clans who would roar their
hatred of each other at the top of their voices and then squeeze each other
half to death with hugs, before leaving to go back as term time approached.

She had boarded at a good Dublin girl’s school while her
parents travelled with their work. Her father, a marine biologist, and her
mother his research assistant. Her special memories were their summers
together, spent sailing off the coast of their favourite island, Innishmahon, a
mile out to sea from Westport in County Mayo. Her parents, the Coltranes, had
made sure she had a good education. She studied English Literature and then
after a stint at a national newspaper, left for England to take up an
internship at a magazine group before moving to Chesterford and the Chronicle.

 Her parents were proud of her, they told her, and they met
up briefly whenever their schedules allowed. But they had both died relatively
young, first her father with cancer and then her mother, succumbing to
seemingly nothing specific, within months of each other. If Marianne were
romantically inclined, she would have said her mother died of a broken heart,
as she and her father had been inseparable all their adult lives.

George sighed and squeezed her hand when she had finished
her potted history. Topping up her glass, he said:

“And what of your birth parents, darling girl? What do you
know of them?”

Marianne flashed him a look.

“Nothing. Why would I? I was put up for adoption. No contact
ever made. No mention. Weirdly, there’s a black and white photo of me as a new
born baby attached to my adoption certificate, which the solicitor gave to me
when mother died, but that’s it, that’s all there is.”

He handed her the drink, sitting a little distance away to
look her directly in the eyes.

“Not curious? Not bothered?” He kept his tone light.

“Not at all, I’d feel disloyal to my parents. They brought
me up. They are my mother and father.” She lifted Monty onto her lap, wrapping
her arms around him.

“But you’re an investigative journalist, I wondered if you
were looking into your own background when you came upon the ‘Babies for Sale’
scam?”

“I was just doing my job, Jack Buchannon came up with the
lead anyway, his wife Isabelle knows a social worker who came across a girl who
was convinced her child had been stolen. I’m not a story, George.” She turned
her attention to the puppy. Subject closed.

George, on the other hand, could tell stories about himself
and his family ad infinitum. He adored his parents, long gone, and was part of
a large, rambling, flung-across-the-globe family. He had three brothers and one
elder sister, all talented, liberal and bohemian, yet differentially
conservative. His parents would have loved her, he often said.

“Ahem...” He coughed bringing them back to the present.
“Well, I’m sure the idea of us getting married is all a bit of a surprise, no
doubt. So why don’t you take your time and have a think about it? Don’t want to
fling everything at you all at once darling girl, but when you know something’s
right, no point hanging about, so to speak.” He tweaked her nose and then the
puppy’s. Marianne kissed George on the chin and carried the little bundle into
the kitchen for some warm milk. George followed, humming, ‘
How much is that
doggy in the window?
”

Later, after supper, the three of them lay sprawled on the
sofa. Marianne cuddled the little dog, burying her nose in the space between
his ears. She inhaled him, a wonderful, indescribable puppy-baby smell.
Montgomery and marriage? A future with George and Monty. An instant family.
Someone else to think about, care about, someone to love. Marianne looked from
one to the other, desperately hoping she was not being blinded by Christmas
lights, yet at this particular juncture, she considered the whole idea an
extremely appealing combination.

A few days later the three
of them were having sausages for supper on Christmas Eve.

“Oh George, hurry up, Monty’s starving.” Marianne laughed
watching the puppy run excitedly between George’s legs as he assembled the
meal.

“Well, you hurry up and jolly well give me an answer,” he
told her. “And then this poor little chap will know where he stands, who his
folks are and won’t fret so much about where his next meal is coming from.”

She went to stand beside him.

“George, there’s something I need you to know.”

He carried on frying the sausages.

“I did want to marry someone a long time ago. It would have
been a terrible mistake, I was young, foolish. It ended badly.”

“I know,” he replied, turning the gas off.

“You know?” she was shocked.

“Of course I know, I’m a politician, I want to marry you, if
there are any skeletons in the closet I need to know about them, so we can face
things together.” He pulled her to him, giving her a huge George hug. “Anything
else you want to tell me?”

Marianne sat down at the breakfast bar; George poked the
sausages around a bit.

“It was not long after my parents died. I was feeling pretty
low and my boss gave me a commission for a series of articles on young Brits
living in Paris. I fell madly in love with Paris and everything about it,
stepping out with a well-known celebrity photographer. You may have heard of
him, Claude Dubec?” George nodded to her to continue.

 “Well, it was a typical whirlwind romance. My parents had
left me a small legacy and my glamorous new boyfriend liked the high life, so
it was fun, for a while, sort of a rebellion thing, I guess. My folks had been
totally work-orientated, convinced their research would ultimately be for the
good of the planet, and I had always been such a well-behaved, dutiful
daughter. But they’d have spun in their graves, if they had one, if they’d
known I frittered a good chunk of my inheritance on sex, drugs and rock ‘n’
roll and a very inappropriate partner.” She smiled wryly.

“No grave?” George was surprised. “Your parents I mean, no
grave?”

“Oh, the association with convents doesn’t mean we’re
staunch Catholics, or anything like that. It just usually means things are done
properly, particularly where education is concerned. My parents were
eco-warriors before there was such a thing, so I scattered their ashes in the
sea off Innishmahon, the island where we used to holiday when I was young.”

“We should go there one day you, Montgomery and I, would you
like that?”

But Marianne was not listening.

“George, my relationship with Claude, do you know
everything? How it ended and everything? What it meant for me, how I can’t…”
Her voice cracked.

He went to her, taking her face in his hands, there were
tears in his eyes.

“Yes I do, and it’s you I love, you I want. If I have you
and Monty I have everything I need.” He kissed her softly on the mouth, “Put it
this way, we don’t have to make love in the dark on my account, unless that’s
because you can’t bear to witness my man boobs and wobbly tummy in the flesh!”

“Oh George, stop it,” she said solemnly, “You’re alright
about it then?  All of it?”

“Are you?” he asked. She stood up and returned his hug.

“I am now.”

“Good, because we’re starving.” He laughed, releasing her to
serve the food.

She said yes the following morning, still in her pyjamas,
squeezing George and Monty together as tightly as she could. She knew she
wanted every Christmas to be special from now on.

Christmas and New Year melted
into spring as she, George and Monty made plans. They had a new home to find,
George in particular wanted a large house, with a study for himself, and some
sort of area they could turn into a library-cum-music room for Marianne. He
played the piano badly and hoped Marianne would accompany him on the violin she
had started to learn as a school girl but had not touched for years. Monty
joined in too, making a strange yet tuneful snuffling noise.

“Watch out
Britain’s Got Talent
!” George regularly
pronounced.

To the amazement of her
colleagues and the amusement of Marianne herself, she had taken her foot off
the career accelerator to focus on building a life for the three of them, even
taking owed holiday to house hunt and shop for furnishings. Sophie, one of
Marianne’s oldest and severely neglected friends, was thrilled at the news her
career-driven chum was finally settling down to some semblance of domesticity.
She was also delighted to be roped in to help, as she was particularly adept at
internet research, being toddler-bound and freelance.

It was all coming together
nicely, and although George was under an enormous amount of pressure at work,
the three of them were having a lovely time, with Monty making the final
decision about anything they could not agree on. This was achieved by Marianne
laying cuttings from magazines or swatches of material in front of him and
saying fetch. He would always grab something and head off to his basket
triumphantly. Once retrieved, this would then be deemed their selection.