Amanda Brooke - Yesterday’s Sun

She hoped she looked more tired than old. After all, she was only twenty-nine and she felt as if her life was just beginning. Married for only two years, this was the first place she and Tom had actually owned and the first chance they had had to put down proper roots.

Ignoring her reflection, Holly took in her new surroundings. The hall ran down the centre of the house, with a door on the left leading to a small reception room that would become Tom’s study. The door to the right led to a larger reception room, which would be their living room, and the half-open door gave teasing glimpses of familiar pieces of furniture in their new surroundings. The city-living furniture was a harsh contrast to the chintz-inspired wallpaper and hardwood floors, but Holly had rather eccentric tastes and liked the conflict in styles.

‘I’ve checked the list and I think it’s complete,’ Tom said, appearing in the doorway at the furthest end of the hall, which led from the kitchen.

Tom looked even more dishevelled than Holly in his well-worn jeans and T-shirt. The look did nothing to flatter his tall, wiry stature or show off the toned body which Holly knew lay beneath. The difference between the two of them was that this worn-out look was normal for Tom. He was far too interested in the world around him to pay any attention to himself. That was probably why he made such a good journalist. He was warm and approachable, never smarmy, never intimidating, and people opened up easily to him.

Holly had resisted the urge to smarten him up, not least because it was the contrast to her own style that appealed to her. Holly was an artist and, when she wasn’t knee-deep in plaster of Paris and paint, she liked to dress up in carefully contrasting combinations of vintage and contemporary clothes, a style which was also reflected in her artwork. The other reason Holly accepted Tom’s unkempt style was purely selfish. He spent a lot of time working away and she didn’t want him impressing the ladies too much.

‘What list?’ Holly asked suspiciously. ‘There’s still tons of work to do. It’s going to take weeks before we’re properly unpacked and that’s before we even start thinking about redecorating.’

‘Not the moving-house list,’ Tom corrected her, ‘THE LIST.’ He was stepping slowly towards her with his left hand out in front of him, inspecting an imaginary piece of paper on his upturned palm. He stopped two feet in front of her.

‘You do realize that you’re looking at an empty hand?’

Tom ignored her. ‘Find boyfriend. Tick! Find gallery to exhibit your artwork. Tick! Get married. Tick! Establish select clientele to buy said works of art. Tick! Earn enough to give up your job. Tick!’ Each time he said, ‘Tick!’ Tom was using the index finger on his other hand as an imaginary pen to mark off each accomplishment.

‘And finally?’ asked Holly, already knowing the answer.

Tom moved a step closer. ‘Move to the country and live happily ever after.’

‘Tick,’ whispered Holly just before Tom kissed her.

After an indecent amount of time, Tom took a breath. ‘And I do believe, Mrs Corrigan, that you’ve completed your list a whole six months ahead of schedule.’

‘I do believe you’re right, Mr Corrigan,’ Holly answered smugly.

Perhaps smug was the wrong word. Eternally grateful might be better. Holly had worked hard at her five-year life plan but, in truth, her success at finding the perfect husband and blossoming career had been more luck than management. In fact, she owed it all to a drunken accountant.

When Holly was twenty-five, having left art school with an armful of accolades but no real idea of how she was going to make a living out of her talent, she had found herself juggling countless part-time jobs to make ends meet. The jobs had been accumulated as she worked her way through college and, when she left, she’d carried on with them until they began to consume so much of her day that art became a luxury she couldn’t afford, let alone find the time or energy to work on.

Her epiphany arrived one night in the shape of a middle-aged city worker who staggered drunkenly into the backstreet bar she was working in. Her hero, after several attempts, claimed a seat at the bar and immediately took Holly hostage with a lengthy monologue about his wonderful life and recent promotion in a leading accountancy firm. It wasn’t until the drunk told her about how his promotion was all part of his five-year plan that Holly, the neurotic list maker, started to pay attention. Suddenly realizing how aimless her own life was, she had asked herself why, if this good-for-nothing drunk could succeed, couldn’t she? She went home that night and couldn’t sleep until she had set out on paper the goals she wanted to achieve in the next five years.

Within a year, Holly had a new direction. She had traded in her collection of part-time jobs for one full-time job in a television studio, working behind the scenes on production and finally putting her talents to good use. It had also meant that she had enough spare time to develop her artwork and earn occasional commissions through contacts with a local art gallery.

Next on her list was her love life. That wasn’t supposed to happen until year three, but Tom arrived ahead of schedule. He had been visiting the TV studio for a job interview, and left a few hours later not only with a new job but with a new girlfriend too.

Holly had spotted him wandering around the props section, obviously lost. He had emerged from the interview on a high, having being offered a job as a special correspondent on environmental issues, but what started out as a snooping expedition around the studio quickly turned into an endless journey through a maze.

Tom Corrigan wasn’t exactly what Holly had in mind for husband material. On the face of it, they couldn’t have been more different. There was the obvious contrast in their looks. Her pale, mousey complexion was even more pronounced in comparison to Tom’s tall, dark, handsome looks. There were other fundamental differences too. She was organized, he was not. She prepared for and expected failure; Tom saw every setback as an opportunity. She admitted when she needed help; Tom, the man who had just been given the opportun­ity to travel the country, wasn’t about to admit any time soon that he couldn’t even find his way out of the studio. After bumping into Holly on that fateful tour of the studio, he neglected to mention that he was lost and offered to hang around and help her until she was finished for the day, at which point he would escort her off the premises and take her to dinner.

‘I can see the cogs turning,’ Tom warned her, drawing her out of her reverie. ‘Starting the next five-year plan already?’

‘I’m quite happy working my way through my current lists, thank you,’ replied Holly. ‘The unpacking, the re­decorating, my new studio, not to mention the new commission for Mrs Bronson.’

‘Quite happy?’ Tom asked her with mock surprise.

Holly smiled. ‘Very happy. Quite possibly very, very happy.’

‘Quite possibly?’ he said, raising a mischievous eyebrow.

‘Give it up already,’ Holly scolded. ‘Are we going to stand here all day in the hall arguing about the scale of my happiness, or are we going to make use of some of the other rooms?’

‘What a good idea. How about I get the champagne and meet you in the bedroom in precisely two minutes?’

‘Sounds like a plan to me,’ answered Holly, but Tom was already heading back to the kitchen.

The next morning, Tom and Holly were as reluctant to leave their bed as they had been eager to jump into it the night before. Tom was on leave from work for two weeks, so there was no alarm clock demanding their attention, no fixed routine to comply with, nothing to do but finish their unpacking and explore their new surroundings. They just had to get out of bed first.