Christmas at Rosewood. Sophie Pembroke

       Chapter One

      The local radio station, the only one we could get decent reception for in the car, was playing Driving Home For Christmas. Outside, tiny flakes of snow were just starting to flutter down from the stone-grey clouds, coating the bare branches of the trees that lined the country road. It was one of those quintessential, perfect Christmas Eve moments.

      Except we weren’t driving home for Christmas. We were driving to Rosewood House, and that made everything feel different. All I could think about was how different this Christmas would be to all the others – all the familiar little traditions and rituals that wouldn’t happen, and the strange new ones we’d have to adopt. Not to mention the people who wouldn’t be there to share it.

      Christmas always made me a little nostalgic, wistful for the better years gone by – which probably weren’t as brilliant as I remembered them anyway, really. But this year it was hitting me harder than ever. All I really wanted to do this December twenty-fifth was curl up in a cocoon of blankets with a bottle of fizz and It’s a Wonderful Life on the telly. Mostly because it hadn’t been, lately – a wonderful life, that is.

      Oh, I had faith that it would be again – whatever my mother said. But still, I wasn’t much in the mood for socialising with strangers – let alone strangers who were apparently my little brother’s new family.

      Edward and his girlfriend, Saskia, had invited us to Saskia’s family home for Christmas three months ago, and it wasn’t really the sort of invitation I was in a position to say no to. Mum was so excited to see Edward happy again, and the cocoon plan would probably have meant sending Max to his dad’s for the festivities, and that wasn’t an option, either. If a man walks out on his family in September, you don’t reward him in December with the company of his only son for the big day itself. That’s a basic rule, right?

      Next year, maybe. If, by some freak chance, next year brought with it calm and order and less of the constant buzz of what happens next, what do I do now?

      Maybe by then my mother would have stopped going on about how important it was for a boy to have his father around, and mumsplaining why my marriage had failed and how she thought I should win it back. That would be nice.

      Anyway, the point was, even with all the family drama I had going on, nobody turned down an invitation to Rosewood. Especially now.

      So that’s how I found myself indicating to turn onto yet another long and winding country road that apparently led to Rosewood House, Mum in the passenger seat beside me and Max in the back seat.

      Mum’s phone rang in her hand, and she pressed the end call button without even answering. Instead, she reached out to fiddle with the radio dial, losing us Chris Rea in the hope of getting a decent reception for Radio 4. ‘Sales call,’ she said when I gave her a questioning look.

      Right. The third one she’d ignored since we left London.

      ‘You should change your number,’ I suggested, but she ignored me, still adjusting the static.

      ‘Anyway. All I’m saying, Freya, is that it’s never too late,’ Mum said, talking over the buzz.

      I glanced up at the rear-view mirror. Max sat in the back, eyes glued to his tablet the way they had been since we left