35

I finish cleaning my workshop and sit back to admire the order I’d managed to reinstate.

The workshop, like me, had been allowed to turn into a creative jumble, or rather a rat nest of packaging, paints, notes and boxes, in my last-minute rush to fill my festive season orders. This past twelve months had been my busiest ever as I’d concentrated on promoting my work on social media for the first time and marketing myself overseas.

I’d made more money than I ever have in my life, and had more fun doing it too.

But the room, and my appearance, were well overdue being put back to rights.

I groan as I press my hands into the small of my back, trying to bend my neck so it touches my shoulder, without success.

“Time for a drink,” I announce to the cats and my racoon, Trash Puppy. “And then I’m going to dye the grey out of my hair and book myself a long holiday. What do you think of that?”

I talk to the pets often since I’m alone so much, the same way I once talked to our dog before James took her. But this is a cat-lady house now. Although there are only the two cats, the other two left the same night as my angel. At least, I have to assume they went with him. I have no other explanation.

One cat opens its eyes now and promptly closes them again. The other doesn’t bother responding, but meows in discontent as I usher them out the door of my studio and into the cold snow. Trash Puppy bounds through the snow merrily, oblivious to the cold, but the cats bolt towards the house.

Heading straight to the kitchen bench I pour myself a gin, carefully slicing and adding blueberries and cherries, before taking a long sip as I look around my home. The open plan is so much more me. The fireplace and the twinkling of the Christmas tree lights on my small tree warm the whole area and make it seem to come alive, despite the only occupants being myself, two cats and the small racoon I’d rescued, half frozen, from the side of the road a few months back.

Adding more gin to my glass I sigh as I remember this time last year when the house was a chaos of children and grandchildren. When James had tried to reinsert himself into my life as though he was a piece of jigsaw puzzle, slipped down the back of the couch and forgotten, but retrieved in time to finish the picture.

Only he wasn’t the piece I was missing, not really. That perfect piece is still missing — it flew away without saying goodbye.

And even now, I sometimes think I imagined him.

Sauntering to the fireplace I place another log on the low flames before heading upstairs to shower and turn in for the night, satisfied that I’d done a full day’s work and could now enjoy a full night’s rest and see my angel again, in my dreams.