The Perfect Gift Read online

  Copyright © 2016 Emma Hannigan

  Cover illustration by Lucy Grossmith.

  Author lettering: www.ruthrowland.co.uk

  Author photo © Marc O’Sullivan

  The right of Emma Hannigan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This Ebook edition first published in 2016

  by HEADLINE REVIEW

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 1 4722 3008 9

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by Emma Hannigan

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  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

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Acknowledgements

  Bonus material

  Discover more novels from Emma Hannigan

  About the Author

  Emma Hannigan is the author of ten bestselling novels, including The Summer Guest and The Heart of Winter, and a bestselling memoir, Talk to the Headscarf, which charts her journey through cancer. Emma lives in Bray, Ireland, with her husband and two children.

  For more about Emma, visit her website www.emmahannigan.com, find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/AuthorEmmaHannigan, or follow her on Twitter @MsEmmaHannigan.

  Discover Emma Hannigan.

  Stories you’ll want to share …

  ‘A glorious read … A wonderfully uplifting novel about women’s friendship by a writer who understands exactly how women think’ Cathy Kelly

  ‘Hannigan’s novel, much like the vivacious author herself, is brimming with hope, joy and inspiration’ Sunday Independent

  ‘A moving tale celebrating the bonds between women, Emma Hannigan beautifully captures the difficult and wondrous thing that is loving and learning to let go … just a little. An excellent read’ Irish Tatler

  ‘Emotional and heartbreaking … A fast-paced story with endearingly warm characters – you’ll savour this touching tale’ Candis Magazine, Book of the Month

  ‘This fast-paced and endearing novel is about friendship between women, accepting yourself and trusting your own judgement’ Belfast Telegraph

  ‘Restores our faith in human nature and makes us feel warm inside’ Writing Magazine

  ‘Moving, imaginative and believable, this emotional novel is the perfect read for a rainy day’ Reveal Magazine

  ‘This is her best novel yet. Her heart and soul was poured into every word of this story and it just radiates from the pages … a wonderful, heartfelt, emotive book’ Shaz’s Book Blog

  ‘Savour a novel from an author who knows what makes people tick’ Irish Independent

  ‘I didn’t just like it, I really LOVED it … grab this book, curl up on the couch and prepare to have a few lump in your throat moments too’ Celeste Loves Books

  ‘[T]he author deals with some hard-hitting and sensitive issues, giving the story a depth that I really did not expect … Emma Hannigan is a gifted storyteller’ Random Things Through My Letterbox

  ‘An inspirational novel … Warm, lovingly written and full of hope’ Bleach House Library

  ‘This was a feel-good read great for the cold winter nights ahead … This is yet another winner for me from Emma Hannigan … she has become a firm favourite of mine’ Rea Book Reviews

  ‘Emma Hannigan takes on the mantle left by Maeve Binchy … I enjoyed this book and would happily read more by the same author’ Lynda DeFreitas, Lovereading review

  ‘This was a great feel-good book which I just couldn’t put down! Emma Hannigan’s books just get better and better’ Chicklit Club

  ‘I was very moved at times by the writing and wisdom that this book contains … I’ll be treating myself to some more books from this author very, very soon’ Between My Lines

  By Emma Hannigan

  Keeping Mum

  The Pink Ladies Club

  Miss Conceived

  Designer Genes

  Driving Home for Christmas

  Perfect Wives

  The Summer Guest

  The Heart of Winter

  The Secrets We Share

  The Perfect Gift

  The Wedding Weekend (e-short)

  Talk to the Headscarf

  About the Book

  Happy Birthday, darling girl …

  Ever since she can remember, Roisin has received a birthday card in the post. Signed with love from the birth mother she has never met.

  Brought up by her adoptive parents, Keeley and Doug, Roisin has wanted for nothing. But on her thirtieth birthday a letter comes that shakes her world.

  For Keeley, who’s raised Roisin as her own, the letter reminds her of a secret she’s been holding for thirty years.

  And for Nell, keeping watch in the lighthouse, the past is a place she rarely goes. Until a young runaway arrives seeking shelter, and unwraps the gift of hope for them all …

  For the two most important women in my world:

  my mum Denise and my daughter Kim.

  And for the men who keep us smiling:

  my dad Philip, my husband Cian and my son Sacha.

  Together you are my perfect gifts.

  My darling, my beautiful, my daughter,

  You are ten days old and we don’t have long left together. Panic is a terrible thing. It takes away all rationale. But my love for you has spurred me on and helped me find a way to leave you a part of myself.

  Beside me on the bed sit twenty-nine cards, to be sent to you each year on your birthday. I want you to know that I am thinking of you always. You must have so many questions about me and the circumstances of your birth. The most impor
tant thing you need to know is this: I love you as only a mother can.

  What I want more than anything else is to stay, to watch you grow up, learn to walk and talk. To see you find happiness. To know you’ve found love.

  The truth is, I am dying. A large part of me wants to scream and throw things violently at the walls and let all the anger out at the injustice of it all. But I cannot waste the energy I have left. I want to cherish each and every moment I have left with you, my darling girl.

  Being pregnant with you, feeling those tiny flutters in the beginning as you grew, then bringing you into this world, holding you, feeding you – this has been the perfect finale before I go. All my life I have been weakened by my illness. So knowing that I defied the odds and you are here has made it all worthwhile.

  Being your mother has given me the greatest sense of achievement and happiness. I will never tire of stroking your cheek and watching your solemn eyes gazing purposefully back at me. Having you has made sense of everything. I now know my main purpose in life was to bring you into the world. And I know you were brought here to carry on where I’ve had to leave off. Live for us both and seize every moment. For me and, most of all, for you, my little miracle, just as I have been doing for these past nine months. Enjoy the scent of every flower, dance to every song, laugh until you cry, walk barefoot by the sea, but no matter what, let your passions soar.

  I will watch over you always and I know we will meet again some day. There is nothing more I can say except that I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you, my darling girl, my perfect gift.

  Mam

  Chapter 1

  Róisín stifled a yawn as she stretched up her arms and rose to the tips of her toes to engage the pole with the shutter in order to close her shop for the night. Well, Nourriture – Food For The Soul might be just a shop to the passing gaze of a tourist, but it was Róisín’s entire world.

  Clicking the sturdy padlock in place, she grinned at her own suspiciousness. The sleepy fishing village of Ballyshore was hardly up there with the crime hotspots of the world. As she turned and inhaled the damp saltiness of the early evening air, she closed her eyes momentarily. Her time away from her home village had made her appreciate the rugged west of Ireland beauty that surrounded her all the more.

  A spatter of fat raindrops plopping onto her cheeks dragged her from her reverie. Stooping to grab the bottle and the box of Sushi she’d swiped from her well-stocked food emporium, she slung her battered soft leather fringed bag over her shoulder. She knew all too well that the heavens could open and drench her with a chilly late spring shower. The cottage she shared with her oldest and best friend Jill was a ten minute walk at a brisk pace. Róisín had grown up at the other side of the bay, a short drive away, but she preferred living near the hub of the village.

  Despite the low temperature the air was unmistakably soft. Róisín could almost hear the kinks forming in her dark, glossy hair as the salty air worked its magic. Glad of the sturdy comfort of her scuffed Dr Martens black boots, she wished she’d brought a downy puffa coat instead of the leather biker jacket she’d paired with her pale pink tulle skirt today. The watered-down lemony sunshine this morning had lulled her into a false sense of summer.

  Balancing the shopping bag containing the wine bottle and Sushi in the crook of her arm, she wrestled with the jacket zip. The cross-over cardigan with flimsy tank top underneath was adequate while she ran from the kitchen to the counter and back up to her office in Nourriture during the busy working day, but it was no match for the now squalling rain.

  At a trot she passed the sharply curving stone wall that separated the narrow country road from the sea. Darting across to the other side, she hoped the overhanging trees might offer more shelter. In another few weeks the tiny buds that dotted the hedgerows would flourish and ripen into juice-laden blackberries. She licked her lips, longing to taste the rich jam she’d make from her pickings.

  Róisín sighed in grateful relief as she rounded the corner and saw the small white-washed cottage shining like a beacon through the rain. Bellows of grey smoke belched from the chimney and Róisín trotted happily towards the door.

  ‘Hi honey, I’m home!’ she called out, then started coughing. The open-plan kitchen-cum-living room was smokey from the fire and her friend was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Jill?’

  Setting her bag and wine on the kitchen table, she rushed to the potbellied stove and snatched up the poker. Shoving the single log and pyramid of peat briquettes into the back of the grate, she secured the door shut. She was too cold to open the windows and doors, so instead Róisín escaped into her bedroom. Too small to host a double bed as well as the wardrobe and dressing-table, she’d opted for an iron-framed single bed.

  ‘It’s not as if I’m entertaining queues of hot lovers,’ she had joked with Jill. ‘For the moment, a single bed with a feather duvet and a pile of pillows will do me nicely.’

  Jill, on the other hand, had said she’d rather hang her clothes on the floor than pass up her double bed.

  ‘I mightn’t have a steady boyfriend yet,’ she’d said, hands on hips, as they’d moved in together three years ago, ‘but I’ve every intention of interviewing for the post.’

  A teacher in the local primary school, Jill was vivacious and enthusiastic. From the time they’d held hands in the Montessori room in Ballyshore National aged three, she and Róisín had been inseparable.

  ‘That you, Ro?’ Jill called out now.

  ‘No, I’m a masked murderer.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Jill said, bursting into the bedroom and flinging herself onto the end of Róisín’s bed with her hair turbaned in a towel. ‘How’s it going? Good day at the office?’

  ‘Yeah, it was really busy. That burst of sunshine this morning brought the tourists and locals out in force.’

  ‘So aren’t you going to ask me how I got on last night?’ Jill said, eyes shining.

  ‘I heard how you got on,’ Róisín grinned. ‘You weren’t exactly keeping it to yourself last night.’

  ‘I know! And on a school night, too. I’m such a rebel.’ She sighed. ‘I was a bit hung-over this morning. Dreadful idea when there are twenty-five pairs of eyes squinting suspiciously at yours for six hours.’

  ‘I don’t know how you work as a teacher, but doing it with a hangover and very little sleep seems like self-inflicted torture to me.’

  ‘Gordon was worth it,’ she said dreamily.

  ‘Gordon? With a name like that he hardly sounds too rock ’n’ roll.’

  ‘He didn’t seem it either when we first met. He was at the enrolment for the summer evening classes. He’s not actually taking part, he was simply there to set up the computer for one of the lecturers. I enrolled for bird-watching.’

  ‘Bird-watching? You? Don’t you need to be quiet and still for that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she sighed and rolled onto her back while rubbing her damp hair with the towel. ‘I’ll call and say I’ve changed my mind. I really wanted to do Italian. But the woman enrolling that course was like an ancient little shrivelled person who’d been exhumed after the disaster in Pompeii.’ Róisín laughed and shook her head. Jill was incorrigible, but she adored her.

  ‘I brought Sushi for you to try,’ Róisín said. ‘And some delicious white wine. It’s a Riesling. A really special Spätlese to be precise.’

  ‘A who?’

  ‘Spätlese, or sweet wine from the Rhone valley. It’s usually served with desserts, but I think it’ll work magically with the fish and rice along with the pickled ginger.’

  ‘You’re not selling this to me, Róisín,’ Jill said, looking mildly disgusted. ‘I’m hankering after a bowl of creamy pasta or a bag of chipper chips.’

  ‘Trust me, you’ll love this. I’ll get it sorted while you get dressed.’

  She padded into the kitchen and waved her hand to try and clear the settling smoke. Róisín prepared a platter with the Sushi, hoping the pretty array of pinks and white would entice J
ill. She popped the cork on the wine just as Jill appeared in a rabbit onesie and snuggled into the sofa.

  ‘Let’s eat in here, by the stove,’ she said. ‘The chairs are too hard and upright for my poor body.’

  Róisín brought the platter to the coffee table and instructed Jill to remove the pile of corrections she’d flung there.

  With the encouragement of the glass of wine and Róisín’s earnest nods, Jill popped a piece of Sushi into her mouth. Grimacing, she held it there without chewing.

  ‘For crying out loud, you’re acting as if I’m feeding you slugs! Eat it, you goon!’

  As she chewed, Jill’s eyes popped open in surprise. ‘Wow,’ she said swallowing. ‘That’s really tasty.’

  ‘I know,’ Róisín said in mild exasperation.

  ‘Wine is divine too,’ she said, drinking greedily. ‘Looks like that time in France wasn’t a total waste after all. You know your gargle, my friend,’ she said, helping herself to another piece of sushi.

  Róisín smiled, because that was what Jill expected. But whenever France was mentioned, and specifically her time spent there in an exclusive French culinary school after she had graduated from university, it was as if Róisín had been punched in the gut. She had learned far more than wine appreciation in her time there. Over the two-year period she’d spent near Bordeaux she’d probably experienced every emotion known. But she knew the best policy was to keep France and all the events that had unfolded there to the back of her mind.

  ‘Looking forward to your party tomorrow?’ Jill asked, with a fresh look of glee in her eyes. ‘Do you feel old? I can’t believe you’re leaving your twenties behind and heading for your thirties,’ she teased.

  ‘Jill, I’m two months older than you. Enough of the old talk,’ she said. She tried to keep her tone light-hearted, but Róisín was actually dreading hitting the big 3-0. She glanced at Jill, who was horsing into the Sushi and making appreciative noises. She wished she shared her friend’s carefree attitude to life.

  ‘Touchy, touchy,’ Jill said. ‘So answer my question. Are you looking forward to the party or not?’