Page 1 of Lessons in Life

PROLOGUE

JANUARY 1964, MIRPUR, PAKISTAN

Junayd

‘I’m not going there,Ammi. I’m really not.’ Fifteen-year-old Junayd Sattar turned to face his mother. He pointed the old-fashioned Kodak 35 in her direction, knowing his memory of her was likely to fade if he was to do as she was now pleading, while knowing a photo would not.

‘But your father insists, Junayd. Allah only knows, I don’t want to lose you and your brothers as well as your father, but you can’t stay here. I can’t stay here much longer either with your sisters, but there is the opportunity foryouto go to England. The British government is inviting you – begging you to go to work there. It is a rich country – you will go to school there for a few years and then work hard and make money. And what an opportunity, Junayd, what a great thing it will be to join yourabbaand your uncles and make us all so proud. Once you are given a great education, you can maybe go to Oxford or Cambridge and become a doctor? Or, if not, you could make your fortune working in the grand textile mills they have over there, and then have money to bring back here and we will all go and live in Lahore…’

Junayd turned away from his mother and walked to the open door of the family’s simple three rooms, welcoming the arrival of the warm winter rain now falling gently onto the acres and acres of farmland and allotments of his village of Tangdew and the chessboard of surrounding villages, laid out like a painting in front of him. Beautiful land, his native land,hisland, which would soon be covered over by the black fathomless depths of the Mangla Dam. Here, where the Jhelum River met the heavily forested foothills of the Pir Panjal mountains, billions of gallons of water would be driven in to devour the haze of colour in front of him – shades of mauve, ochre and green – while he and his family were driven out.

Junayd raised his beloved camera once again, clicking for posterity his homeland that would soon be no more.

1

JANUARY 2024, BEDDINGFIELD, WEST YORKSHIRE

Robyn

‘Robyn, no, no, stay. Stay in mylurve nest.’ Fabian’s arm snaked seductively round my middle, his hands warm, searching, inviting as I started to move from the bed.

‘Oh God, if only.’ I eased my body back towards him, wanting nothing more than to remain. I was torn between tittering at the daft expression he’d just come out with, responding to this heavenly man’s hands or jumping out of saidlurve nest, aka Fabian’s bed, in his sister Jemima’s apartment in Harrogate. Glancing at my phone on the bedside table, I took the third option, horrible though it was, and headed for the shower.

‘Well, at least let me in there with you,’ Fabian called. ‘I don’t recall christening that shower yet.’

‘Fabian,’ I yelled over the Niagara Falls explosion of icy water that had me screeching like a banshee, ‘it’s almost 6a.m. and it’s… hell, it’s… freezing… I’ve to be in school by eight thirty… Oh, I can’t stand this… any longer… were you timing me…? Did I manage the full minute…?’ I stabbed at the temperature control, letting out a moan of pure ecstasy as warmth replaced the cold and my numb fingers started to return to life.

‘You’re such a drama queen.’ Fabian was at the basin now, cleaning his teeth.

‘Dramateacher.’ I grinned, pulling at the white towel around Fabian’s hips, eager as always to get a final glimpse of his toned buttocks to see me through the days ahead without his actual presence.

‘But it’s the first day of the new term. No kids in, you said. What’s the hurry?’

‘You know what that road out of Leeds is like on a Monday morning. And,’ I added primly, ‘I’m a professional. The kids might not actually be in school, but I can’t turn up to the morning’s staff meeting in last night’s little black dress and ridiculous heels.’ I rubbed at my right leg. It had just about recovered from the ACL accident that had brought me back to Yorkshire from my time in musical theatre in London, but did still give me some gyp, especially after subjecting it to several hours in my one and only pair of heels.

‘Give that headteacher of yours a hard-on if you did.’ Fabianwouldpersist in bringing up the fact that Mason Donoghue – the rather gorgeous and charismatic head of St Mede’s – and I had had a bit of a fling last term. Not overly professional of either of us but,as far as I knew, we’d been discreet, it had lasted only a few weeks and both of us had been aware that we’d sought each other out when the person we both really wanted to be with was unavailable.

‘Right, I’m off,’ I said, once I’d towelled myself dry and pulled on jeans and a jumper. ‘Got to go home and get changed before school. All my files are there too. What are you up to?’

‘Oh, the usual.’

‘The usual?’

‘Cooking, cleaning, shopping. Walking Boris on The Stray. A man’s work is never done…’

‘Do you miss it?’

‘What?’

‘You know what.’ I went to put my arms around this man I’d adored since first setting eyes on him defending in the Central Criminal Court in London eight months earlier. I’d taken myself along to Courtroom 4 hoping to find a woman barrister I could emulate for the part in a TV drama I’d been up for later that week. I hadn’t got the part, but had ended up losing my heart to Fabian Mansfield Carrington KC, son of Roland Carrington, Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales.

‘Hmm, sometimes. You know…’ Fabian broke off, nuzzling at my neck. I batted him away, simultaneously looking at my watch, but knowing I needed to understand what Fabian was thinking.

‘Oh, Fabian, it was your life. All you’d worked for.’ I held my breath. Was Fabian trying to tell me he wanted to go back to London? Back to the beautiful family-owned apartment overlooking Green Park? Back to his roots in Marlow in Buckinghamshire? Back to his burgeoning career in the Old Bailey? ‘AmIthe one stopping you returning south? I’ll come back with you, if that’s what you want?’ I took his hand. ‘Really.’

‘What and tear you away from St Mede’s, that most prestigious of educational establishments in the whole of West Yorkshire?’

‘Don’t scoff,’ I snapped crossly.

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