The Start of Something Wonderful: The heartwarming, feel-good novel from MILLION-COPY BESTSELLER Jessica Redland

1

The glass door to my manager Madeline’s office was wide open, as always. Her elbows were resting on her desk, with her fingers pressed against her temples, as she stared at something on her computer screen. Whatever she was looking at, it wasn’t good, stirring nervous butterflies in my stomach. Could there be restructure news already? We’d been warned there’d be changes in the New Year, but I’d assumed we’d have a couple of weeks to settle back in before any announcements were made. Only one way to find out! I straightened my shoulders, took a calming breath, and knocked on the glass.

Madeline raised her head and her face lit up instantly with a warm smile. ‘Autumn! Happy New Year!’

I slipped into the chair on the other side of her desk. ‘And to you. Have you had a good break?’

Madeline nearly always had a Christmas dinner disaster story to share, usually featuring either a burnt or raw turkey. This year had seemingly been the worst yet after a misunderstanding between her and her husband meant nobody actually collected the turkey from the butcher.

‘The pigs in blankets were coming from the butcher too,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘On a positive note, the roasties were a triumph, thanks to your grandma’s method. Thanks for sharing it.’

I smiled, thinking of Grandma’s amazing roast potatoes – light and fluffy on the inside and crunchy on the outside. Cooking had been one of her two greatest passions – the other being painting – and she’d always been happy to share her recipes and tips. I loved the thought of her legacy living on in recipes passed down through other families.

‘How was your Christmas?’ Madeline tilted her head to one side and looked at me with sad eyes. ‘How’s your granddad?’

‘He’s still with us,’ I said, my voice catching in my throat as the words for now floated round my mind. ‘It was good to see Maman and Papa.’

‘Have they gone back to Paris now?’

‘Yes, they were only here for a week. They always go to the New Year’s Eve show and fireworks on the Champs-Elysées and Granddad was adamant they mustn’t change their plans to be with him. He said he’d refuse to see them if they stayed any longer, so they left on the 30th.’

I’m half English, half French. My parents – Claudette and Darius – met and fell in love when Papa was undertaking a year out in Paris as part of his French and Politics degree. After graduating, he secured a job in the British Embassy in Paris, where he’s worked ever since. Maman’s passion is art and she has an amazing job as a senior curator for Le Musée du Louvre.

I was born in France and completed my primary education there, but my parents wanted me to go to senior school in the UK. I therefore spent school terms from the age of eleven living with Papa’s parents in Sutton – South London or Surrey depending on who you spoke to – and most of the holidays with my parents. I continued my further and higher education in the UK and the original plan had been to return to Paris after I graduated from university, but Grandma passed away at the start of my penultimate term there. I’d found it hard enough worrying about Granddad facing life without his beloved wife when I was only forty-five miles away from him in Brighton, so there was no way I could consider leaving him to return to France. Settling in the UK also meant there was no danger of seeing the man back in France who’d broken my heart, which was definitely a good thing because, if our paths ever did cross, I doubted I’d have the strength to resist him and would likely end up with my heart broken all over again.

‘Paris at New Year must be wonderful,’ Madeline said, a dreamy expression in her eyes. ‘Back to work, though, and I hate to start the New Year with bad news, but the restructuring plans have been confirmed and it’s as we suspected – there will be a headcount reduction.’

My stomach sank. ‘By how much?’

‘Twenty-five per cent,’ she said, with an apologetic shrug. ‘Across all levels.’

‘So we’re both at risk?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

I was a junior illustrator for the UK’s leading designer and manufacturer of greetings cards, Thoughtful Cards, where my specialism was woodland animals. Madeline had been my mentor when I secured the job ten years ago. She’d been promoted to head of department four years later and I… well, I hadn’t changed role in all that time. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to progress, but the past six years had been tough with Granddad getting sick too. Sometimes there were more important things than climbing the career ladder and I was glad I’d spent as much time with Granddad as I could.

‘What happens next?’ I asked.

‘We’re offering voluntary redundancy and early retirement but will have to make compulsory redundancies if there aren’t enough takers. Those who want to stay will be interviewed next week with Ross and me and asked to pitch one design for a brand-new range of greetings cards.’

I slumped back in the chair, shaking my head slowly, my stomach in knots. ‘A new design? I can’t. Not with everything… I just can’t.’

‘Autumn Laine!’ she cried, raising her eyebrows at me. ‘Don’t you dare take yourself out of the game like that!’

‘But—’

‘But nothing! I know the last few years have been tough and I know how hard it is to be creative with cute and cuddly woodland animals when your world is falling apart, but you’re still the most talented illustrator I’ve ever worked with and I know you can pull it out of the bag.’

Madeline was an amazing manager and had been so understanding with me that I’d have loved to reassure her and make her proud, but I couldn’t. My mind was blank.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice softening. ‘It’s not the welcome back I wanted to give you.’

I pushed the chair back. ‘I guess I’d better get back to the drawing board.’ I somehow managed to inject some positivity into my voice, even though I didn’t feel it.

‘I believe in you. You just need to believe in yourself,’ she said, as though reading my mind. ‘Dig deep and I know you’ll get your mojo back.’

I nodded and left the office. Dig deep? Even if I had a pneumatic drill, I wasn’t sure I could dig deep enough to retrieve my lost mojo. I’d been going through the motions over the past year, managing to add to my existing, familiar ranges – the animals I could draw with my eyes closed – but any attempts at creating something new had ended in failure. I had nothing. My creative well was empty. Madeline had gone above and beyond with her patience, but her empathy and belief in me weren’t going to count for anything when I stood in front of her and the Creative Director next week with nothing to show except a blank screen. I shuddered at the thought of it. I couldn’t do that to her or to me. I’d dig as deep as I possibly could and I’d find something. At least if I didn’t retain my job, I’d leave knowing I’d tried.

2

‘It’s freezing out there,’ I said when I arrived at Juniper Gardens after work – the hospice where Granddad had been staying since early November.

‘They’re predicting snow next week,’ the receptionist said, grimacing.

I shuddered at the thought of it and rubbed my cold hands together before picking up the pen and signing the visitors’ register.

Granddad’s room was on the first floor. I knocked softly but there was no answer, so I gently pushed the door open. A small table lamp cast a warm glow across the bed, catching the steady rise and fall of Granddad’s chest as he slept.

The curtains were still open so I slipped my coat off, unwound my scarf, and went over to the window. Granddad liked to watch the birds attracted to various feeders spread around the garden and gaze upon the enormous cherry blossom tree in the middle, but there was nothing to see in the darkness except a few lights in rooms across the quad, so I closed the curtains and settled into the armchair beside his bed.

Granddad’s eyes flickered then opened.

‘Hi, Granddad,’ I said, smiling at him.

He slowly turned his head on the stack of pillows so he could see me.

‘Hello.’ The word was low, husky and brought on a coughing fit.

I poured a fresh glass of water from the covered jug beside his bed and held it to his cracked lips so he could take a few sips.

‘So I’ve survived the first day back at work,’ I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘A shock to the system, but lovely to see everyone.’

‘Busy day?’

‘Always. Madeline’s asked me to come up with a design for a new range of cards to pitch to her and Ross Lyndon next week.’ My tone and accompanying smile conveyed excitement rather than fear. Granddad didn’t need to be burdened with the full picture.

‘So proud,’ he whispered.

‘I know you are, and it means the world to me. Good genes, you see. I’ve got you and Grandma to thank for that.’

Although neither of them had attempted to make a career from it, my grandparents had both been talented artists but with very different styles. Grandma loved watercolours and had been drawn to nature, spending hours in the garden with an easel or in local parks with her sketchpad. It broke her heart when her hands became so riddled with arthritis that holding a paintbrush was impossible. Granddad favoured pencil or charcoal and was drawn to industrial settings and people in a style reminiscent of the northern artist L. S. Lowry.

I took his hand in mine. It felt cold and the skin was so thin and pale that it was almost translucent.

‘Peggy would have loved your drawings,’ Granddad said. ‘She loved nature.’

‘When I’m drawing, I sometimes imagine her peering over my shoulder, giving me advice. She had such a great eye for detail.’

There wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t think about Grandma and wish she was still around. At home, she smiled at me from the many framed photos scattered round the rooms, and I was reminded of her talent in the watercolours hanging everywhere. Every time I looked in the mirror, I could see her gazing back at me. Around my birthday each year, she’d find a photo of herself at the same age and we’d joke that we were twins born two generations apart – same dark blonde hair, warm brown almond-shaped eyes, wide smile and square jaw.

Right now, I could really use her advice. I swear I’d learned more from her than any of my art tutors. She’d know how to put the sparkle back into my work, although, if she’d still been around, I wouldn’t have lost it.

Feeling the melancholy taking hold, I changed the subject. ‘I haven’t seen any of the nurses yet. How’ve you been today?’

‘Sleepy.’

His eyes were flickering already and I knew I wouldn’t have his attention for much longer.

‘I’m not sure what I’m going to make for dinner yet,’ I said. ‘I stocked the fridge yesterday but I don’t feel like cooking. I might pick up a crusty loaf on the way home and just have some soup. What do you think?’

He’d already drifted off. I lowered my head and closed my eyes, my fingers curling more tightly round his. Today had been a bad day and I wanted it to be over, but every moment I still had Granddad was so precious, so there was the contrasting desire to cling on and hope the day would never end.

Half an hour or so passed and the door opened. Adele, one of the senior nurses, smiled at me. ‘You were looking for an update?’

I released Granddad’s hand and tucked his arm under the covers, nodding my head towards the corridor to speak to her outside.

‘I can guess what you’re going to ask me,’ she said.

‘I didn’t want to ask over Christmas, but I know it can’t be long.’

‘He’s sleeping most of the time and we’re managing the pain. I’d say a couple of weeks at the most, but things can suddenly change. It’s impossible to say for definite. I’m sorry.’

‘Do my parents know?’

‘Yes.’

I thanked Adele and returned to Granddad’s bedside. Maman and Papa had stayed with me over Christmas, although we’d spent more time here than we had at home. Papa had told me he didn’t want to have the how long conversation but he was a planner and a pragmatist so there was no way he hadn’t asked the question. When the cancer in Granddad’s throat returned for a third time along with the diagnosis that it was now stage four, having spread to his lungs, he’d refused further treatment. At that point, I knew we were travelling the end-of-life road. I’d wanted to beg Granddad to reconsider but it was obvious he was too weak for another round of treatment. I had to prepare to let go and count my blessings that I’d had him in my life for so long. Ninety-five was a grand age.

I removed my iPad from my bag and started drawing, but my eyes were soon burning from fatigue and I had to accept defeat. I studied what I’d drawn and tutted. The woodland animals were carbon copies of everything else I’d created. Why was I finding it so hard to think differently?

‘Why the frown?’

I hadn’t noticed Granddad opening his eyes, so his voice startled me.

‘I’m not happy with my drawings.’

‘Show me.’

I put his glasses on for him and held up the iPad so he could see.

‘They’re good.’

‘Thank you, but I need to create something different, and this isn’t it.’ Realising I was in danger of unburdening, I flicked the cover over the iPad and placed it down on the bed with a smile. ‘Fresh start tomorrow, I think.’

Granddad opened his mouth to speak, but coughed instead, so I helped him with his water once more.

‘That thing,’ Granddad said, pointing a gnarly finger towards my iPad as he settled back onto his pillows.

‘I know you hate it, but the app I use is amazing and it’s not like I have much choice. Everyone at work uses it.’

Granddad had engaged me in several discussions over the years about whether drawing on an app really was drawing. He was immensely supportive of my work and full of praise every time I showed him one of my designs in its final form as a greetings card, but I was never going to convince him that anything other than a drawing on a piece of paper or a canvas was ‘real’.

‘Watercolours,’ he whispered, his eyelids heavy.

‘I can create watercolours on the app.’ Not that I used the watercolour tools because my remit at Thoughtful Cards was to use ‘bright colours that pop’.

‘Real ones.’ He’d closed his eyes and I could only just make out those two words.

It was my cue to leave. ‘You sleep well, Granddad,’ I said, slipping my iPad back into my bag. ‘I’ll see you after work tomorrow.’

‘Like Peggy’s,’ he whispered.

At home a little later, with my hands wrapped round a mug of tea, I stood in the lounge studying the large watercolour canvas above the fireplace. Grandma had painted it of me, aged six, on the long-gone wooden swing in the back garden when we’d visited during the summer holidays. She’d added glitter to the paints and thickened some to give more texture. The colours danced in a painting full of movement which instantly transported me back to childhood.

I thought about what Granddad had said. What if the design for my pitch used watercolours? That didn’t have to mean pastels. Watercolours could also be vibrant as one of my heroines, Beatrix Potter, had proved long ago with the bright blue of Peter Rabbit’s jacket.

I placed my mug on the mantelpiece and was about to go into the dining room to dig out my Beatrix Potter collection and anything else that might inspire me when the doorbell rang. It was nearly 9 p.m. so it was late for someone to be calling.

I approached the front door tentatively, then relaxed at the familiar sight of our next-door neighbour, Mrs Slade, peeking through the glass side panel.

‘I’m sorry to call round so late, dear,’ she said when I opened the door. ‘The postman delivered this letter to me by mistake.’

She handed me a small cream envelope and I smiled as I recognised the handwriting.

‘Is it from Rosie?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Thanks for dropping it round.’

‘I know I could have pushed it through your letterbox, but I wanted to ask if there’s any news about your granddad.’

‘He’s as well as can be. When I see him tomorrow, I’ll tell him you were asking after him.’ I waved the letter at her. ‘Thanks for dropping this round. I’d invite you in, but I’m on a deadline and I need to work.’

‘I understand. I need to get back to my programmes anyway. Give Arthur my love.’

‘I will.’

I adored Mrs Slade but I’d learned long ago that inviting her inside wasn’t a good idea unless I had several hours to spare to listen to the latest scandal about a bunch of people I didn’t know. It was best to visit her instead so I could catch up on how she was but leave when she started discussing the neighbours.

After deadlocking the door and pulling the chain across, I took the letter into the lounge, retrieved my part-drunk tea, and curled up on the sofa to read Rosie’s news. Rosie Jacobs and I had been penpals since my first year at senior school in the UK, aged eleven. My English teacher, Mrs Traske, had invited our class to participate in a penpal exchange with a class in Cumbria which her sister taught. Within a month, we’d sent initial letters and the first batch of replies had arrived.

As soon as I read Rosie’s first letter, I felt like I’d found a special friend. She was an only child like me, liked or hated most of the same subjects at school, and was into the same music and TV programmes, so we had plenty of common ground to write about. There were differences too. Rosie was heavily into horse riding and helped out at the riding stables her mother – who she called ‘Mam’ – managed, whereas horses scared me. I loved art and, by her own admission, Rosie couldn’t even draw a stickperson, but those differences made the letters even more interesting as we learned more about each other’s passions.

By the end of that school year, all the penpal relationships had fizzled out except ours. Our friendship grew and Rosie had remained my one consistent friend throughout senior school. Unlike my classmates, with whom I struggled to maintain friendships because I was never around to socialise during the holidays, it made no difference to her that I disappeared to Paris at the end of each term. It was simply a different address on the envelope.

Even when we both had email addresses and mobile phones and could have moved our contact onto tech, we agreed that there was something special about writing and receiving physical letters. Rosie and I had spoken on the phone when we’d really needed a friend, but most of our contact had remained via the post.

I slit open Rosie’s latest letter and began reading.

Dear Autumn

I’d normally have started this letter saying I hope you had a great Christmas and New Year but I know it’ll have been a tough one for you. I was thinking of you and I hope having your parents over brought some comfort at a difficult time.

It was just Mam and me for Christmas dinner – just as we like it. Mam felt she should ask his Lordship if he wanted to join us – just a courtesy thing, mind. He only went and said yes! Thankfully he dipped out at the last minute in favour of a liquid lunch. Big relief all round although I wish he’d got his act together sooner so we could have had a roast chicken instead of getting in a turkey – so much nicer in my opinion!

Anyway, thank you for the gorgeous Christmas gift, especially when gift shopping must have been the last thing on your mind.

Fun fact for the start of the New Year: the last letter you sent me was your 400th. How amazing is that? 24 years of friendship and 400 letters. Not bad for two people who’ve never met!

Apologies this is such a short one but I just wanted to let you know you’re in my thoughts and I don’t expect you to rush to write back to me as I know you have more than enough on your plate right now. I’ll write again in a week or so. If the worst has already happened or it happens soon and you feel you need to get away, you’ll always be welcome here. The horses won’t bite, although I can’t make the same promise for his Lordship.

In the meantime, if you want to talk about it, you’ve got my number. Call me any time.

Hugs

Rosie xx

It might be short but a letter of any length from Rosie never failed to lift my spirits. The man who she referred to as ‘his Lordship’ was the owner of the riding stables where Rosie and her mam both worked, and where Rosie had taken over as manager several years back. The stables and Horseshoe Cottage where Rosie and her mam lived were in the grounds of an old manor house called Willowdale Hall on the shores of Derwent Water. I’d never been to the Lake District but Rosie sometimes sent me photographs and it looked beautiful.

During my university years, we’d discussed me visiting after I graduated but with Grandma dying and me wanting to be there for Granddad, it never happened. When the subject was raised again, Granddad had received his first cancer diagnosis and there’d never been a right time since.

I re-read the letter and glanced at my watch. Was it too late to FaceTime her? I really wanted to talk to someone about today’s news, but Maman and Papa already had enough on their plates worrying about Granddad while living in another country.

‘Hi, Autumn,’ Rosie said, answering within three rings and smiling brightly.

‘Hi. I’ve just been reading your letter and I know it’s getting late, but you said to call you any time.’

‘And I meant it,’ she said softly. ‘How’s your granddad?’

‘Not so good. They reckon he only has a couple of weeks left and, on top of that, I’ve just found out that I’m probably going to lose my job…’

As I knew she would, Rosie listened as I spilled it all out.

‘I’m wondering if I should just tell Madeline to put me down for voluntary redundancy,’ I said.

Rosie raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Is that what you really want?’

‘I don’t know. It would be easier.’

‘Probably, but that doesn’t make it the best option. Have you got any ideas, even just a flicker of something?’

I shook my head. ‘Complete blank.’

‘You might feel differently after you’ve slept on it. Bear in mind, today was your first day back after a fortnight off. It might take a few days to get back into the swing of things.’

‘True, but time’s not on my side. The pitch is a week today and I don’t know if it’s worth the stress.’

‘You’ve always said in your letters that you love your job,’ Rosie said. ‘Is that still true?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it’s worth fighting for.’

‘But what if nothing comes? Or what if I present something and it’s dire?’

‘At least you’ll have tried,’ she said gently. ‘Remember when we were sixteen and we were obsessed with A Cinderella Story?’

I nodded, wondering where this was heading. We’d both watched the film repeatedly – a modern-day take on the Cinderella fairy tale – relating strongly to the Hilary Duff character being the outsider at school and wondering whether we’d ever meet our prince.

‘What’s that Babe Ruth baseball quote on the diner wall?’

I smiled at her. She knew exactly what the quote was, but it would have more impact if I was the one who said the words.

‘Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game,’ I said, picturing the scene in the film. The words had been covered up by the main character’s ‘wicked stepmother’ but were revealed at a key climax moment, giving her the strength to face a future on her own without her stepmother’s financial support.

‘So are you going to play the game?’ Rosie asked.

‘Okay. You’ve convinced me. I’ll give it my best shot. I’ll probably regret it if I didn’t try.’

‘There’s no probably about it! You’d definitely regret it. And even though I can’t draw, I’m here for you if you want to toss some ideas around.’

‘Thank you. I’m so glad I called you.’

‘I’m glad you did too. You’ve got this, Autumn. And if the outcome isn’t positive, then that’s because there’s something different waiting round the corner for you.’

We chatted for a little longer before saying our goodbyes. I felt so much lighter and more positive for talking to Rosie, especially that point she’d made about something different waiting round the corner for me if it was the end of the line at Thoughtful Cards. I had no idea what that could be, but the thought of it made ‘striking out’ seem a little less scary.

3

A week later, judgement day arrived. I was ‘playing the game’ but I would definitely be ‘striking out’.

I’d been through all my old designs – including those which hadn’t progressed to cards – hoping to find inspiration, but none came. I’d even gone back to my university portfolio and a box of flipbooks I’d made which I found at the back of my wardrobe – a short book with an illustration at the bottom right corner of each page which changed as the user flicked through the book, giving the appearance of animation – but nothing popped.

Desperate not to let Madeline or myself down, I’d finally cobbled something together using vibrant watercolours. It was good, but it wasn’t my best work. The only way to redeem it was to present the hell out of it, even though I knew impressive words and enthusiasm were not going to compensate for good rather than outstanding.

I ditched my usual work ‘uniform’ of jeans and a shirt in favour of a smart charcoal-grey shift dress, matching jacket and a pair of colourful Parisian designer stilettos – a gift from Maman which I never thought I’d find the occasion to wear. She swore the right clothes and a pair of good heels could give a woman inner strength and I was starting to believe her, although I’d had to parade round the house in them each evening, practising my presentation while trying to find my balance.

If they were handing out jobs on the basis of confidence and strength of pitch, I’d be safe. I almost believed what I was selling. But the reality was that they were looking for talent and innovation and I hadn’t delivered.

Presentation complete, Madeline gave me an encouraging smile and they both thanked me, but I already knew it was over and it didn’t matter what I said in the interview because my work had done the talking.

‘Dare I ask?’ my colleague Tim said, grimacing at my downcast expression as I returned to our office.

‘The pitch went brilliantly, but my design was rubbish.’

‘I don’t believe that for one minute.’

‘That’s sweet of you, Tim, but I’ve lost my spark since Granddad’s diagnosis. So maybe it wasn’t rubbish, but it wasn’t good enough. How did yours go?’

‘Okay,