As time went on we grew closer together. Their names were Alison Grace, Nicola Jane and Keith Brian. I say was because when I was nearly eighteen I decided I was too old to carry on holidaying with my parents. No idea why I took that decision as we always went on fantastic trips. We often went to the US or skiing in some of the top European resorts. In 1996 they all went to the Amalfi Coast. Of course, on the morning they left for the airport I played my face saying how unfair it was. Dad just told me it was my decision and I had to live with it. And, no parties.

There was no way I would have a party, I hated them. Other teenagers were such a bore, all they wanted to do was get drunk and smoke weed in the day. I was never into any of that. I loved martial arts, boxing and, even, football. I was far less girlie than Ali and Nicki. They were, for want of a better description, pretty girls. I always wanted to do boys’ things and quite often would just call in at a men’s barbers and have my hair cropped short. That would annoy Mum and my sisters as I, according to them, had beautiful hair and never made the most of myself. Keith, although seven years younger, was beginning to take a keen interest in boys’ things. How I wished he could have been the second one, followed by the two girls. I think we would have been very close.

I had just got used to time on my own. I could play the music I wanted, watch the films I wanted and read the books I wanted without any fear of criticism. Then, when my family were about three or four days into their holiday there was a knock on the door. When I opened it I knew what the two people were there to tell me. My legs went weak, I started to shake and tears started to roll. The man and woman were police officers. My parents and siblings had been killed in a car crash on one of those bendy Southern Italian roads. They were brilliant, though. They offered me all sorts of help which, in course, I shunned. Mum and Dad had always brought the four of us up to be islands. No matter what the world threw at us we had to deal with it from within. No amount of counselling was going to make us strong enough to carry on with life. It was our own core strength which would see us through. Easier said than done but I did put it into practice. I spent the next few weeks crying my eyes out. I played my music loud, I cuddled cushions to my chest whilst films played in the background and I started going for long runs.

It was when I was on one of these runs that one boy, maybe a young man really in his early twenties, was acting all bullish in front of his mates. I was making my way along a pavement and he started mocking me for crying like a typical girl. I was furious and stared into his eyes. That was the first time I realised the power of my electric blue eyes as he recoiled from my stare. That didn’t hurt him anywhere near as the punch that caught him right on the end of the nose. Mind you, it hurt me equally as much as it did him. The following day my hand was bruised and swollen. I couldn’t hold a pen for over a week. My martial arts classes had always taught me to pick the right moment for a fight. That day my blood was boiling and I reacted without thinking. I didn’t have an ounce of sympathy for the boy. He had asked for it. I created an anger management course in my head and, to this day, I still put what I learned into action.

I continued at college. I continued living at the family home as my parents had paid the mortgage off. It was now mine. I also received a large amount of cash from their life insurances. I still own the house and rent it out to professional families. The life assurance was paid into a trust fund as I was too young to be given the entire lump. Trustees, for a fee of course, administered this and let me have a reasonable allowance. I still have some left which, one day, will help me with my retirement. At that time I will probably sell the house as well. I have no desire to move back to Essex. I love my life in Suffolk and, what is more important, I love the man I live with. One day, we might just pool our resources and get a place on the North Norfolk coast. We are very lucky and probably have enough assets to see us through two or three lifetimes. Why the hell do we carry on working and putting our lives at risk?

I still had a year to go of sixth form when my family were killed. I went to an all girls’ school in Colchester before doing “A” Levels at the local sixth form college. I had often walked past the Army Careers office and not really paid much attention to it. Then, in the spring of 1997 I decided to pop in and have a chat. It changed my life forever. I had found my replacement family. I finished my education before joining up. I got the right grades and went off to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. On completion I was a fully-fledged officer with the 1st Battalion, the Vikings, of the Royal Anglian Regiment as a lieutenant. Three-and-a-half years later I was promoted to Captain. It wasn’t until after the birth of my son that I made the rank of major. It was at this time I was, slightly, falling out of love with the army. What was my priority in life? Did I want to be a good officer or a good mother? I decided on the latter and left before Toby was two years old.

I was already a captain when I fell for the smooth-talking, gorgeous Major Nathan Walters. He was the only son of General Sir James and Lady Isobel Walters. I remember being very nervous about being introduced to them. I had never ever met anyone with those sort of titles before. They could not have been more welcoming. Isobel was always willing to stand in as a replacement mother for me and doted on Toby, their only grandchild. James, of course, got himself caught up with the wrong types and committed suicide after being embroiled with a right wing neo-Nazi group, unbelievably, as their leader. That was in the summer of 2011. By this time I had left the army and had joined a private security company. I had some great times with the Civil Protection Group but it all came crashing down when they had believed that I had leaked sensitive information to a journalist. The only link between me and the journo was that we happened to live in the same village. We had never met each other until after I had been accused of betraying one of the CPG’s main clients. It was all utter rubbish. Sean Bryant, the journalist, and his family have now become really good friends. Their eldest daughter, Poppy, is currently going out with Toby. She really is a lovely girl and I hope they go on to be very happy together. Early days, though.

I always refer to Toby as my son but, in truth, he was Nate’s son as well. Death has stalked me throughout and has never been far away. Just before Toby was born I was on maternity leave when I received another knock on the door from two people in uniform. Instead of blue these two wore khaki. Once again I knew, immediately, what they were there for. Nate, a Colonel by then, had been killed by an Improvised Explosive Device, IED, in Afghanistan. For the second time in my short life, I was still only 27, my life had been torn apart by tragedy. James and Isobel were so good about it and insisted I stay with them forever. In 2010 I had started a new relationship with another member of staff in the CPG, another ex-Army officer called Ben. He was also killed as a result of the neo-Nazi thing.

After the conclusion of the neo-Nazi thing I joined the Home Security Team. It is a specialist government agency working to secure the interests of the United Kingdom on many fronts including the war on terror. I was, and have been ever since, been partnered with a brilliant man named Curt Richardson. We are now partners in another sense. During the neo-Nazi thing he also lost someone he thought he was in love with. I am really not sure how he could tell for he only knew the dancing girl from Sorrento, ironically close to the Amalfi Coast for two days, before she was a victim of a co-ordinated terrorist attack, orchestrated by my late father-in-law’s organisation. He always maintains he was sure she was the one. Curt later married the headteacher of the small primary school in our village. She met a horrible end when she ended her own life following a vitriolic attack by a racist thug and they lost their unborn baby.

I had been living with Isobel and Toby in a rental in the centre of Oakshott when Our landlord decided he had had enough of renting out property. I could have bought it from him but following a heart-to-heart with Curt one evening all three of us moved in with him.

Curt and I live together and work together. I love this man and, I am pretty sure, he loves me too. At least that is what he says anyway. Our professional lives are dangerous and this is the reason we have never consummated our relationship. We are both terrified that if we take our love to the next level it will end in tragedy. This was brought home recently when we lost a very good friend on active service.

One day we will sell everything up and start that bed-and-breakfast in Norfolk.