Carmel Harrington - Every Time a Bell Rings

Harper Impulse an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper Impulse 2015

Copyright © Carmel Harrington 2015

Cover photograph © Daniel Grill/Getty Images

Carmel Harrington asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © September 2015 ISBN: 9780008156541

Version 2018-06-25

‘Will make you see life in a different way’

Woman’s Way

‘Heartwrenching and heartwarming’

Evening Herald

‘Guaranteed to brighten your day’

Novelicious

‘Carmel Harrington has done it again! Brilliantly written … it surpasses all expectations’

Chicklit Club

‘A bittersweet, quietly brilliant novel that will make you cry, laugh and cry all over again’

Female First

‘Funny, poignant and bursting with heartfelt humour’

I Heart … Chick Lit

‘Completely stunning’

Reviewed the Book

‘It will stay with you well after, you have turned the last page’

Bleach House Library

For my family – the H’s,Roger, Amelia, Nate & Eva.

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

Khalil Gibran

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Acclaim for Carmel Harrington

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

PART TWO

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

PART THREE

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Tess’s Christmas Pudding

A Q & A With Carmel Harrington

Keep Reading...

About the Author

About the Publisher

Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.

Hamilton Wright Mabie

Christmas Eve, 2005

‘Happiness is …’ I exhale a long, deep, satisfied sigh, and the cold breath of winter floats out of my mouth up into the air.

‘ This is the best Christmas street lighting yet.’

I know I say the same thing every year, in this very same spot, at this very same time. I’ll probably say it again next year too.

In this moment, I’ve never seen anything more perfect. The Victorian-inspired decorations are from a bygone era that shine with goodwill to all men. I know, I know, that sounds all cheese on toast, but when it comes to Christmas, that’s allowed. With extra parmesan on top, as far as I’m concerned.

My city, my beloved Dublin, is sparkling in a festive glow. And its inhabitants are collectively holding their breaths, because Christmas is almost here.

And this year, I’ve been delivered an early Christmas present. The fact that it’s the same one I received when I was eight years old isn’t lost on me. Coincidence, fate, magic, I don’t know what forces are at play to make this happen, but I’m grateful.

Just two weeks ago, I was single, happily so too, living my best life, teaching kids in St Colmcille’s. I honest to goodness didn’t wake up each day lamenting the lack of love in my life. Because I had a good life, boyfriends coming and going. I figured that one day I would meet Mr Right. But now that he is here, I cannot believe that I ever got through each day without him by my side.

Here I am, at the foot of Grafton Street with Jim Looney of all people. If you would have suggested such a thing to me a mere few weeks ago, the words ‘look up’ and ‘flying pigs’ would have been uttered.

Jim Looney .

I sigh again as I take him in, standing beside the statue of Molly Malone, laughing at the tinsel that someone has draped over her cleavage.

An image of Jim strutting down a runway pops into my head and I giggle at the thought. He could give any male model a run for their money, but I think he’d rather pull his nails out one by one than do that.

I grab my phone and take a photo of him. I’ve already taken at least a dozen this evening. He could be modelling a new line in men’s winter clothing, he looks so good. I mean, not many could get away with that multi-coloured Dr Who-inspired scarf wrapped around his neck over and over. But on him it looks quirky and cool.

And, this is the bit that I still can’t quite believe.

He’s my boyfriend. All mine.

Don’t go getting too used to this, Belle. It never lasts.

I quickly banish the little voice inside my head. Go away nasty mean voice.

I know full well that I’m punching above my weight. I mean, for goodness sake, he’s even got a chiselled jawline. Seriously, I’m telling you, he’s fecking gorgeous. I can’t find ways to describe him to you without sounding like a big sap. But trust me when I say this. He’s, as we are want to say in Dublin about a good-looking man, a ‘ride’.

When I look into his big blue eyes, I’m done for. I keep forgetting what I’m about to say when he directs those baby blues at me.

And don’t get me started on his hair. That’s always been my Achilles heel. It makes me feel all protective and full of love. You see, it has this habit of just flopping over his right eye. I’m sure most would say it’s red or ginger, maybe even auburn. But I like to call it foxy.

Jim McFoxy Looney.

When it does that flopping thing, it’s as if my hands have a mind of their own and they involuntarily reach up to brush it back off his forehead. But there again, I’m not complaining about that, because I don’t need any excuse to touch Jim. And I’ve realised that when I do touch him, it seems to have a delicious knock-on effect. One minute I’m lightly touching his forearm, then the next we’re kissing.