The Happy Glampers
Part Three
Teepee for Two
DAISY TATE

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

The News Building

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in ebook format in 2019 by HarperCollinsPublishers

Copyright © Daisy Tate 2019

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover illustration © Jacqueline Bissett

Daisy Tate asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008312985

Version: 2019-07-19

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Acknowledgements

Are the friends finished with the outdoors for good, or are they ready for another weekend of secrets and unfinished business …? Find out in the next glamptabulous instalments available to buy now!

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

TO: Charlotte Mayfield

FROM: Lady Venetia of Sittingstone

RE: Christmas Cake Crisis!

Darling –

Venetia here. The crimbo cakes you made whilst ‘the girl’ is off on maternity are absolutely brilliant. What a clever thing you are. The crowd from the hunt scoffed the lot, greedy bastards. I know you’re off to Scotland in a few days to sample the delights of Hogmanay (and a bonnie laird or two?). Any chance you could restock The Larder with your delectable puds before you head to the land of heather and honey? (There’s a story there, darling. It involves a kilt, an icy loch and more than a dram of whisky. Remind me to tell all next time you’re round.) Have tucked your Christmas pressie behind till in Larder if our paths don’t cross. Happiest of hols and mwah from moi – V

PS – If you’re able to do me one of those gooey lemon drizzles of yours, I’d be eternally in your debt. (A sugar high is the only thing that will see me through my son’s return.)

‘Mum! Get out!’

‘Sorry, darling.’ Charlotte made a beeline for the washing basket. ‘I was just checking if you had anything that needed urgent washing before your ski trip tomorrow.’

Poppy glared at her then burst into tears.

Charlotte took some tissues off her daughter’s bedside table and carried them over to the beanbag, where Poppy had buried her forehead against her knees after flinging her phone to the floor. A lame joke about Boxing Day not having anything to do with tissue boxes briefly flared then fizzled.

A fortnight into the winter holidays, Charlotte had grown accustomed to expecting the unexpected when she dared open Poppy’s bedroom door. For the first few days she’d written off her kaleidoscoping moods as exhaustion, hormones, and the fact it was to be the first family Christmas without their father. Though Oli and Xanthe’s baby wasn’t due until mid-January, Oli had made it very clear his calendar was blocked out. Xanthe had put him on call for emergencies. Emergencies, Charlotte presumed, like proposing to his girlfriend before his divorce had gone through. Not that there’d been an announcement. A trip to Paris and a surprisingly large diamond had made an unexpected appearance on #CheekyLawGirl’s Instagram account a couple of weeks back. Izzy had since banned her from the site.

Now that they’d stumbled through Christmas Day (thank you Izzy and Luna for making Wii fun again!), Charlotte was acutely aware that there was definitely more to Poppy’s moods than her parents’ looming divorce. Unlike Jack, who was constantly out with friends or making plans with friends or gaming over his headsets with friends, Poppy seemed to be increasingly isolated. If she wasn’t reading, practising her flute, or thumbing through heaven-knew-what on her phone, she was rewatching Gilmore Girls with a near feverish dedication. She’d never once suggested inviting a friend over or going out.

Whenever Charlotte braved suggesting they watch television together or, heaven forbid, talk, there was either a total shutdown or a whirl and strop – Poppy’s new signature move. It had swept into their lives after this summer’s disastrous divorce announcement and showed few signs of departure.

If it weren’t so heartbreaking – the glare, dramatic whirl of hair and rapid-fire departure – it would be funny. ‘Classic teenager’, Izzy had laughed when she first bore witness to one. Hilarious!

If only she knew. She had a little girl who still liked holding hands.

In truth, the only time Poppy seemed truly at peace was when she was playing with Luna. Izzy’s ten year old absolutely adored her. Followed her around the same way Bonzer, the not-so-puppy-sized puppy, loped after Luna. She was always trying to copy her hair, giddily accepting hand-me-downs, absolutely loved being experimented on with Poppy’s increasingly large eyeliner collection. The genuine smiles and occasional laughs that Luna elicited were just one of the many pluses of having Izzy and Luna living in the granny flat above the garage.

They were just the injection of energy she’d needed to keep the huge family home from feeling like a mausoleum to a failed marriage. Selling the place and moving closer to the children’s boarding school had occurred to her more than once, but Jack hadn’t spoken to her for a week when she’d suggested as much. Poppy had given a world-weary shrug and said, ‘Whatever. It isn’t like we actually have a choice, is it?’

At this point, there was an element of truth to it. The past few months had been lived in limbo as the lawyers dug their claws into Charlotte and Oliver’s marital history. It was just the sort of thing Charlotte abhorred. Luckily, Emily had found Charlotte an extremely confident lawyer called Hazel Pryce – a quirkily dressed, rainbow-haired woman – whose sole remit seemed to be nailing Oli to the cross. All good things come at a Pryce!

The intensity of her crusade against Oli made Charlotte squeamish. She was, after all, entitled to stay in the house until the children were eighteen. She was earning some money of her own (who knew so many farm shops would pay her for her advice?). And there was the monthly direct debit Oli continued to pay into the household account. (His lawyers probably told him to do that so we couldn’t take him to the cleaners, Charlotte. Stay tough. Stay focused. We won’t stop until the Pryce is right.)

Normally she found speaking with someone who regularly referred to herself in the third person tricky terrain, but on days when her daughter was falling to bits in front of her? She was a card-carrying Hazel fan.

‘Darling,’ Charlotte rubbed Poppy’s back and gently wiggled the tissues in front of her. ‘Anything I can help with?’

‘Look!’ Poppy grabbed her phone and virtually flung it at Charlotte before hurling herself across the room onto her bed and curling into a small, weeping ball. Charlotte’s favourite cushion, one Freya had given her years ago, absorbed her daughter’s tears.

When Charlotte looked at the phone, her frustration with not being able to stem her daughter’s histrionics instantly shifted to pain.

CheekyLawGirl’s Instagram page.

Charlotte ran her tongue along her upper teeth as she flicked through the images. She wasn’t a vain woman, but she certainly wasn’t succumbing to lip wrinkles because of her husband’s pregnant lover.

Ah.

The chronicles of ‘Bump in the City’ had gone on holiday. ‘Le Bump dans Les Montagnes’ was the latest instalment. A swish chalet in France or Switzerland, from the looks of the gooey cheese she was selflessly forgoing. They must’ve taken the train as Xanthe wouldn’t be allowed to fly this late into her pregnancy. Honestly. Did the world really care if Xanthe and Oli were ‘seeing out the rest of the year à la française’? Charlotte wasn’t even sure that was a thing. Unless, of course, you were talking about peas.

As she absorbed the picture, the comments, the time, the date, the penny dropped.

Poppy and Jack were meant to be skiing with their father. Tomorrow. In Austria.

The plan had been to drop the children off at the airport with Oli before she, Izzy and Luna headed up to Scotland.

It was the one bit of normal the children had planned for the holidays. The annual Mayfield Family ski trip: new country, new pistes, new year. Oli’s parents, sister and her family went every year and had done so since the children were little.

They hired a huge chalet. The children took overpriced lessons, chased up by insanely priced cake and hot chocolate sessions. The adults had ridiculously boozy lunches. Everyone ate too much, drank too much, stayed up too late and annually declared New Year’s Eve the best time ever. Charlotte had never really taken to skiing, or the pressure of having the best time ever, so was ‘given a few days off to pamper herself at home’ every year. No one ever noticed that the house was always immaculate when they returned. Regardless, it was the one thing Oli had vowed would stay the same.

It appeared Oli had lied.

Charlotte scrolled down and saw yet another post.

Xanthe gazing thoughtfully out into the middle-distance. A mountainscape at sunset glowed beyond the gauzily curtained window, her diamond-ringed finger held just so … Her hair was down, she didn’t have on make-up and she was … oh … she was wearing a hospital gown.

And then the telephone rang.

EMMS: Happy Après Christmas from Ward Seven. Feasted on Twiglets and Christmas cake that tasted of old boot. Lotte: I would’ve paid handsomely for some of yours. Next year can you do mail order? How boozy are they? #Askingforafriend

IZZ: Hey woman! I’ll see if I can bring one up to Scotland with us tommoz. I’m sure there’s one kicking around Charlotte’s mahooosive pantry. You still taking the train?

EMMS: Yup. Surgeries through the rest of today and tomorrow, then off midday on the 27th. See you at cocktail o’clock?

IZZ: Deffo. Total chaos at Charlotte’s. Looney and I are hiding in the granny flat. ()£&%)ing Oli’s bit on the side has gone into labour! In FRANCE!

FREYA: Wot??????

EMMS: Way to bury the freaking lead! More deets please, Detective Yeats.

CHARLOTTE: Poppy and I are at Sittingstone delivering cakes. Will hold one back for you Emily. Izzy … perhaps it’s best to let the dust settle a bit before we air the details on Oliver’s situation?

IZZ: Sorry, Lotts! My bad! I just thought as skiing was off and we’re bringing Pops and Jack up to Scotland it was open news. *zips lips until further notice*

FREYA: WOT?????????

Freya put her phone down with a weary sigh. She’d been so excited for Izzy, Loons, Charlotte and Emily to arrive, but Charlotte’s children as well? Obviously it wasn’t nice to dislike other people’s children but plfffttt … they were just so … bleurgh.

She started making a mental list for extra bedding, pillows, hot-water bottles and whatever else the over-privileged little so-and-sos would be used to at their fancy boarding school. Chocolates on their pillows at night? A butler?

Freya caught her sourpuss expression as she passed the entrance hall mirror, backtracked then stuck her tongue out at herself. She was being envious, spiteful and ungracious. The perfect trilogy of holiday cheer!

Not.

Her shoulders sagged as the last twenty-four hours swept through her afresh. This wasn’t her. She loved huge, boisterous, holiday get-togethers. She loved Christmas! More to the point, she loved coming home. Her annual top-up of ‘Burns juju.’ Her mum had always made these sorts of unexpected arrivals an adventure, not a burden. Besides. What were a couple of bratty teens when the whole rest of her life was a shambles? She absolved herself with a sign of the cross then pressed her head to the cool front-door window.

She still couldn’t wrap her head round how her childhood home looked the same as it had last Christmas, but felt completely different. The tumbling remains of the stone tower still stood to the side of the huge old house. The grey-tiled roof was still visible from the main road into St Andrews. Well. The only road into St Andrews. The cowsheds still circled the yard abutting the back of the house. The grazing and fodder fields still sprawled on for acres and acres until they eventually dipped into the River Tay – a wide tidal river that ebbed and flowed with bracing North Sea water and the occasional pod of dolphins. Her mother had loved it when she saw the dolphins. The binoculars still hung from the nail by the kitchen window.

Yes, it all looked the same, but none of the comfort or beauty of her childhood home had distracted from just how tough Christmas Day had been.

In keeping with the Scottish style of not acknowledging the blatantly obvious – everyone desperately missing Freya’s mum – they’d all tiptoed over every scrap of minutiae instead.

We’re totally happy! We just thought we’d get pyjamas is all. We normally – doesn’t matter. Last year’s onesie was super big so …

If that look’s to make sure I kept the receipt—

No, sis. The turkey wasn’t dry, I just wanted more gravy is all. Is this a new recipe?

Are these chestnuts in the stuffing? No, no. They’re fine. Different. Good, but different.

After they’d slogged their way through Christmas dinner and retold all the jokes from the Christmas crackers, they’d retired to the sitting room to play a game. Everyone had been over-polite. Then snappy. Then wildly apologetic. Or, in Monty’s case … downright childish.

It turned out teasing him about bunking off paying a household bill so he could get her the rather lovely charm bracelet he’d given her had been exactly the wrong thing to say.

How was she meant to have known it was precisely what he’d done? The bracelet was nice, but it was hardly ‘The Gift of the Magi’. And it wasn’t as if she’d actually meant him to bugger off and give her space to think.

Driving through the night to his parents or, more likely, his brother’s as it was nearer to the pub, had been yet another show of Monty’s emotions outweighing his ever-decreasing common sense. It was taking what little remained of her fortitude to keep the terrifying thought at bay that her marriage may have absorbed its final blow.

She was so tired of it all. The fighting, the worrying, the fear.

She plodded back to the mirror and gave herself a wan smile. As much as she hated him leaving in a roiling cloud of hurt and fury, with Monty gone she had a few days to wrap her head round where they were as a couple and, more pressingly, where they stood as debtors.

Right now, both were looking grim.

They might have their car back, but chances were high it would disappear again. It turned out that Monty had put the debt collector’s fee on one of his secret stash credit cards. At least the regular minimum payments explained where the money had gone for the council tax, the water bills and the mortgage. She swallowed down the increasingly familiar tang of guilt, knowing the shop should’ve really been raking it in during the lead-up to Christmas, but … it was as if all the stress had tamped out any sort of creative fire that still might be flickering somewhere deep within her.

She stared at her phone, willing a message notification to ping up.

Nothing.

She supposed she could always text him. Find out if he was lying in a ditch somewhere.

No. She stuffed it back in her pocket. She wasn’t ready. The chances of a phone call degenerating into something she well and truly regretted were too high.

So here she was, listlessly making faces at herself, when a normal Boxing Day wouldn’t have seen so much as a moment to loiter. With Christmas over and done with, Freya’s mum would’ve roped her into some project or other (baking, sewing, painting name tags for the cows). The children and Monty would’ve been put to work, too. None of them would’ve had a moment to think about how awful it had truly been. Then again, it wouldn’t have been awful because her mum would have been alive, full of practical advice she would no doubt have followed, and everything would have been less … different.

She put a few stray ribbons back into the wrapping paper box and set it at the foot of the stairs along with Monty’s favourite jumper. The one with the worn elbows. He would be less than pleased when he realized he’d forgotten it.

She pulled her phone out again, willing a message to ping up. One full of misery and woe and, of course, fathomless apologies for being such a class-A twat on her first Christmas without her mother.

She sighed heavily and dropped onto the cold, stone stairwell. She hoped he felt as miserable as she did. There’d been no need to take the dog. Dumbledore adored it here. All of that cow poo to roll around in. New things to smell. But no. If Monty was miserable, everyone else had to be, too. Score one to Monty!

She’d actually looked up selling a kidney last night to see if that could put an end to their financial woes. It turned out, if she were able to find an organ broker and get herself to Brazil, she could pay their council tax, Felix’s school trip fees and, at a push, the water bill.

She pushed herself up again. The chores weren’t going to do themselves. As she crossed to the sitting room, she made a note to throw down a few of the lambs-wool rugs her mum used to dot about the place. The stone floor, so cool and wonderful in the summer, was a recipe for chilblains in winter.

‘Tea, Dad? I’ve got the spiced one that Auntie Helen gave you if you like. The chai?’

He wouldn’t. He was a traditionalist. She didn’t know what her auntie Helen had been thinking. White and two sugars from as far back as she could remember.

‘All right, sis?’ Rocco leant into the sitting room, one of his big paw hands spanning the thick doorframe. If ever a man had been born into a farmer’s body, it was her brother. Thick, lightly curled dark hair flopping over beautiful green eyes. A physique perfectly suited to wandering amidst their towering herd of Friesians. ‘Dad? I’m off to the cowshed, all right? Buttercup and Jessamyn won’t be long now.’

‘Mmm … what was that, son?’ Their father, Lachlan, looked up from his own large hands, which he’d been staring at since Freya had asked him about tea.

‘Okay, Dad? Are you all right there in your chair? Want some more wood on the fire?’

Bless. Rocco had just filled up the wood burner.

‘I was just asking him if he WANTED SOME TEA.’

Rocco wiggled his finger in his ear and made a goofy face. ‘He’s a bit forgetful, Frey. Not going deaf.’

‘Sorry.’

Rocco shrugged and flashed her that bright smile of his, a bit of straw in his hair from the morning. He never let things get to him, except when it came to the animals. The dairy herd was his pride and joy. If he looked after himself the way he looked after the barns, he might have himself a wife by now.

Only so many hours in the day, Frey.

‘So what’s my little sister up to, eh?’

‘Tea.’

Rocco gave her one of those ‘you’re fooling no one’ looks. ‘No big projects to tackle? No gingerbread villages to make?’

She laughed. A few years back, when the children had been six or seven, she’d been obsessed with building not just a gingerbread house but an entire village. St Andrew’s more like, their father had hooted, when he saw the large dining-room table covered in edible buildings.

‘Not this year.’ She steeled her face with a cheery smile so that she wouldn’t burst into tears and tell her big brother that everything was going horribly, horribly wrong. Her business was failing, her marriage was failing and she’d been absolutely completely idiotic to ever leave the farm and think she could make a success of her own business. Not that she was wallowing. (She was.) But if she confessed all her woes, she’d be admitting that the faith they’d put in her all those years ago when they’d packed her off to get her degree in art and textiles had been for nothing. And, of course, they would try to help. ‘Maybe we’ll do something when Charlotte gets here.’

Again she received one of those looks from her brother. The type that said he was watching her. That he had her back if she needed it. Little did he know.

‘I’m off to the cowshed, Dad. If you need anything—’

‘Off you go, fussbucket.’ Their father shooed him with his big, veiny hands. ‘Your sister’s got everything under control.’

Freya gave her brother’s bum a little play-kick and grinned at him. Best big brother ever. In the world. The universe. Perhaps she could nominate him for something. An OBE? Did they make dairy farmers caring for aging, Alzheimer’s-tinged parents Officers of the Order of the British Empire? She hoped so.

Regan came barrelling down the stairs. ‘Uncle Rocco! Are you going out to the cowshed? Can I come?’ She’d been obsessed with the winter calving.

‘That’s right, chicken.’ He pulled her plaits, which normally would have put her in paroxysms, but this time only elicited a beaming smile. ‘Put on your bibs. I’ll meet you in the boot room.’

Freya’s eyes drifted round the sitting room while she waited for her father to make up his mind about tea. The Christmas tree was glittering away in the corner. The stockings had been rehung by the vast inglenook fireplace without much care. She resisted rehanging them in a more aesthetically pleasing style. Regan had been trying to help.

Half the children’s presents were still strewn around the place. Books, of course, for Felix. Not the latest and greatest gaming console he’d been hoping for, but … Regan had been delighted with her stethoscope and veterinary dictionary. She’d been even more over the moon when she’d unwrapped her nan’s pedal-operated sewing machine. Freya wished she could’ve given her a few bolts of fabric to play around with. She smiled, remembering the endless trips her mum had made to the charity shops for old wool coats, satin dresses, cotton prints. Then on to the woollen mill, where they’d picked up reams of odd-shaped ends going for next to nothing. Their booty was the inspiration behind Freya’s first-ever pair of homemade throw pillows. She’d given a set to Charlotte for her wedding. Butterflies, if she remembered correctly.

‘Dad?’ Whether or not he wanted a cup of tea usually didn’t take this much consideration. Then again, normally she didn’t ask him. She just made one and he would scoop up the mug in one of his big old capable hands and give her a wink of thanks. This – the asking – was part of a series of cognitive tests she was trying to slip into their day-to-day chat as suggested by her own GP.

‘Aye,’ Freya’s father said. Then, ‘No.’

Crumbs. This was exactly the sort of thing Rocco had mentioned. Uncertainty in a man who never dithered. He was a doer. A farmer, first and foremost, but in whatever capacity, he was someone who always knew what to do. Rock solid. Vital. Even at the ripe old age of seventy-three which, suddenly, didn’t seem that old. A shiver shunted down Freya’s spine. This couldn’t be the beginning of the end. Even though it had been almost a year, it felt as if they’d only just lost her mum. She wasn’t up to losing her father, too.

She tried again, with a brighter smile this time. One she might have used for the children when they were toddlers.

‘I’m making one for Rocco and me.’

‘Sit down, love. Freya’ll do it. She’s probably got the kettle on already.’

Bollocks.

Chapter 2

Izzy opened the built-in wardrobe door and squealed. Talk about a Tardis. The wardrobe was actually a door leading to a bathroom with a huge clawfoot bath, beyond which was another door that led to yet another bedroom.

She clapped when she saw Charlotte waving at her from the second bedroom. ‘I can’t believe Freya didn’t mention the fact her house was a bloody mansion!’

Charlotte’s eyes dipped to Luna.

Izzy made an oops face.

Charlotte was much more exacting than her on the ‘no swearing in front of the children’ front. Luna, she regretted to say, had heard much, much worse. Anyhoodle. They were here now. No longer in the car with two squabbling teens, a car-sick dog (someone had left one of Charlotte’s cakes out and Bonzer had taken advantage), and a poor, sweet Luna wondering what the hell she’d done to deserve Poppy’s wrath. Izzy would explain to her later that – unlike her own daddy, who had wisely left Izzy to raise Luna on her own – some daddies, like Poppy and Jack’s, waited until their children were old enough to figure out that they were lying, cheating bastards who went on spontaneous ski trips. Ski trips in France that kyboshed their annual, real family trip because their bottle-blonde girlfriend had unexpectedly gone into labour destroying everyone’s holiday.

All of which made her wonder if Luna had any half-siblings. She shook the thought away, bone-achingly grateful for having a child who had yet to ask about her father. She knew it would come one day, but until it did? She’d relish this beautiful Izzy-Luna cocoon for all it was worth.

A niggle of guilt needled through her. She’d yet to register at the GP’s in Sussex. She’d told herself she’d put it off because Charlotte had mentioned, more than once, the possibility of selling the house and moving nearer to the children’s school, but honestly …? The last scan had been fine; she’d wanted to focus on that memory rather than facing a new one and the possible nightmare that would ensue. The whole idea of having to go through everything again and then, perhaps, again had … well, it had given Izzy the excuse she’d wanted to put it off. Who wanted to find out if their cancer had come back? Anybody? Anybody? Yeah. Thought so.

She stuck her face to the window.

This was Izzy’s first proper trip to Scotland. She’d been to a few book festivals with her mum as a kid, but those had been whirlwind events that, whilst occasionally laced with a bit of bagpipe music and some shortbread, weren’t strictly Scottish experiences.

This, however, was proving to be exactly what she’d hoped it would be. The huge old stone farmhouse had been part of the landscape for over three hundred years, according to Freya’s rather hunky brother. It was practical, well lived-in and unbelievably welcoming. The ruins from the old castle (!!!!) had been there twice as long. There wasn’t much left to it. A square, roofless tower, with an aesthetically pleasing tumble of moss-covered stones, was the only obvious structure. Apparently Freya’s mum had once planned to put a shop in it, but … Freya had changed the subject as quickly as she’d brought it up. There were cows, which were gorgeous. A smattering of calves. The whole place smelled of cow poo and crisp, Arctic air.

Some fairy lights were twinkling away on the rowan tree in front of the house. It had been planted a couple of hundred years ago to keep the demons at bay, according to Freya’s brilliantly Scottish father. She pressed her nose even closer to the window then screamed. ‘Looney! It’s snowing!!!’

She glanced round and couldn’t see her. Where was she? Hawaii didn’t come equipped with medieval ruins and snow. Izzy did a little happy dance. This was well worth the hours of Jack blithering on about how wretched Scotland was going to be when Austria was, obvs, going to be the absolute best time. Never mind the fact that Jack and Poppy were the ones who had refused to go with their grandparents. They were both obviously hurt, and vetoing the trip was their only means of sticking it to their father, but even so … Poppy had really hurt Luna’s feelings when she’d refused to sit next to her. Izzy had been impressed Charlotte hadn’t lost her temper or left them at the services. Her mother would’ve gone ballistic if she’d behaved so rudely. Theodora Yeats did not take to ingratitude. It was one of her mother’s perennial life lessons: Be grateful for what you do have, child. Not waste precious time aching for what you don’t.

Which was how, a year ago, when she’d had absolutely nothing, she’d forced herself to look beyond all that she had lost and ended up back here in the UK. It was amazing what looking for the good in life revealed.

Packing up their few possessions and moving back to the UK was probably the scariest thing Izzy had ever done. And that was saying something, considering her history. She’d naively thought what she had dubbed the ‘Nr Cardiff’ cottage would provide her with the most comfort. Solid evidence that her mother and father had shared something beyond an impassioned one-night stand. Proof family was the foundation of everything, even if it did come in non-traditional packaging.

It wasn’t the house, in the end, that had provided the comfort. It was her friendships. She’d been terrified that spring day, showing up with a child she hadn’t told anyone but Emily about. Holding so many secrets close to her chest. Apart from a bit of a catch-up, it had been like no time had passed at all. Everyone was exactly as she had remembered them. Emily, still sharp as a whip and scratchily caustic. Freya, able to turn her hand to anything and make it more beautiful. Charlotte was still the cake-maker. The organizer. The fixer.

Which was ultimately why she had accepted Charlotte’s offer to move into her granny flat, even after the ‘deadly mould’ in the Nr Cardiff cottage had turned out to be not so deadly. The black splotches had appeared courtesy of a dodgy bathroom fan and the damp Welsh weather. Emily had helped her sort an electrician and some hardcore cleaners. Freya had sent her countless emoticon messages and hilarious GIFs whenever her spirits had sagged, and Charlotte had organized for Izzy’s flat to become a holiday let, administered by a well-established company that had already booked several couples in for a ‘magical Welsh getaway’.

‘Look Mummy! Towels!’

Luna ran back into their room from heaven-knew-where with a set of well-worn towels. She placed them on the bed then dived straight into tidily unpacking her things into a heavy wooden chest of drawers. Luna was the nester of the two of them.

The niggles came back more powerfully. She really should reach out to Looney’s father. If Charlotte sold the house, there was no guarantee they’d be invited to move to her next place. Izzy’s house style (slob) was the total opposite to Charlotte’s (immaculate). Charlotte had been lovely about helping them out in a crisis, but they were out of sight in the granny flat. If she had to downsize and the Welsh cottage had already been let, then Izzy might well have to find yet another place to live.

Oh, well. There was nothing she could do about it right now, and Charlotte had said she wouldn’t think about selling the house until the spring if at all, so …

Izzy did a slow twirl in the centre of the room, soaking in the antler lighting fixtures, the dozen or so individually framed pressed flowers, the hand-carved lampstands shaped like owls. ‘It’s like staying in a quirky art museum.’ She shivered. ‘A museum without any heat.’

Charlotte, who’d just walked through from her room, tugged her gilet a bit closer round her. It was a lovely shade of maroon that really made her green eyes ping out against her pale skin. Pale skin made paler by the cold? Or worry about Freya, in the wake of Monty having buggered off to his brother’s place. Or was it to his parents’? Somewhere near Bristol anyway.

‘I suppose it must cost quite a lot to heat the whole house with only Freya’s father and brother here on their own.’

‘Good point.’ Izzy nodded at the four-poster bed. ‘I thought Freya was the only arty-farty one, but you said her brother made this bed?’

Charlotte nodded, a slightly wistful expression softening her features. Was it for the bed, or Freya’s hunky brother who had helped them haul in their nine thousand bags?

Izzy ran her hand along the thick silver birch tree branch that made up one of the four posters of the huge, fairy-tale bed, then pounced on the squeaky mattress, beckoning for Luna and Charlotte to join her. ‘Did you see these cushions? I bet Freya made them. They have that Frey-Frey touch, don’t they?’

She made fancy hand gestures round the flannel and wool throw pillows, as if she were a model on the shopping channel. They really were spectacular. Ink and tartan cut-outs stitched onto all sorts of different fabrics, with the odd embroidered embellishment. Red deer. Otters. Highland cattle. All of them anthropomorphized to look as though they were at some sort of Highland Mad Hatter’s tea party. They were wonderful. The embellishments showed off Freya’s amazing skill at capturing the tiniest details. A miniature kingfisher dipping its beak into an exquisite cup of tea. A stag, with its head cocked, as if it were listening to the sounds that the wind beyond the window was carrying.

Luna, who hadn’t taken up the invitation to jump on the bed, was still exploring the room. Opening doors and drawers, oohing and aahing as she went. ‘Mum! Look! It’s a secret passageway!’ She held open a door that Izzy hadn’t spied, took a step in then hesitated. ‘Can you go first?’

‘Of course, Booboo!’ Izzy bounced over to the door. This sort of bravery she could do.

She dramatically tiptoed along the short corridor and tried to open the door at the end of it. ‘Nope. Locked. Maybe it’s one of those olden days passages where the rich people snuck into one another’s rooms without the servants knowing.’

Charlotte laughed, ‘Izzy, your imagination is about a thousand times more fertile than mine. I would’ve thought it was for the servants to carry wood to each of the rooms for the fires in the morning.’

‘Do they still have servants?’ Luna was wide-eyed with wonder.

‘Fraid not, Booboo.’ Izzy fluffed her daughter’s billow of ringleted hair. ‘There aren’t many folk who have a fleet of servants to light their fires these days.’ Or men to sneak round and have secret affairs with, for that matter. Although if this led to Rocco’s room and she switched with Charlotte …

Izzy jumped when someone knocked on the door then opened it. Freya’s father. ‘All right girls? I was just wondering if you fancied me lighting the fires in your rooms? Take the edge off.’

Izzy and Charlotte burst out laughing. Charlotte instantly fell over herself apologizing, saying, yes, absolutely, that would be wonderful, but would it be a waste seeing as they were all going to be down in the kitchen soon enough?

‘Fair enough, then.’ Lachlan Burns, who still had a full thick shock of white hair and bright, engaged blue eyes, started to walk away and then doubled back on himself. ‘I think there are a few of those electric bar jobbies – you know, the heating elements. Any chance you fancy following me up to the attic and seeing if we can’t unearth them?’

‘Absolutely!’

Izzy, Charlotte and Luna trooped behind him as they worked their way round the twisty-turny corridors to yet another door at the far end of the house.

‘Where does that go?’ Luna asked, clearly in awe of Lachlan who had a vague resemblance to Sean Connery.

‘Up to the attic. Untold treasures up there.’ He wiggled his eyebrows to great effect. Luna, it was clear to see, was smitten. Izzy felt a bit sad Looney wasn’t meeting ‘the old Freya.’ The one who could whip up enthusiasm for a fancy-dress party in the blink of an eye. The one who took the phrase ‘I wonder if …’ as a thrilling challenge rather than yet another chore. Poor Freya. Life seemed to have sucked the whimsy out of her lately.

Charlotte whispered something about how Freya had wanted them to pay attention to whether or not he remembered things. Izzy nodded. Okay. She was worried about her dad. Her mum had died. Monty was weirdly gone. Bright side of the coin? She grew up in a freaking awesome house and – judging by Lachlan’s chitchat as he led them round the attic, pointing out his own grandmother’s rocking chair, an old saddle they used to put on a much-loved Highland cow and a huge stack of gilt frames Freya had bought with her ‘pin money’ at all of the old farm sales they’d been to – he had all his marbles in the right order.

One thing, at least, she could stop worrying about.

Would that Izzy could do the same. Maybe if she just told everyone, they’d take over like they had with the Welsh cottage. Make her appointments, nod wisely and ask the right questions of the consultants. Ensure her daughter was always loved and secure and never once had to worry about being anything other than being a little girl. If there was a next time. Maybe the consultant would give her the all clear. Perhaps the oncologist would playfully chide her for worrying about the tickly little cough she’d felt developing. Or the achiness that seemed to be creeping into her bones. Maybe he or she would smile and say, ‘This is Britain! The symptoms you’re experiencing are caused by the cold! Not cancer.’ Then they’d laugh and hug and never see each other ever again.

‘Don’t you think so, Izzy?’

‘Sorry, what’s that?’

‘The attic. Don’t you think it’s a lot like Lady Venetia’s?’ Charlotte gave her a funny look. One that intimated she thought Izzy had been off in cloud-cuckoo-land again. She was right, of course. Dreaming the impossible dream was one of her specialities.

Izzy forced herself to tune into Charlotte, who was nattering away to Lachlan now, telling him he would just love Lady Venetia. That the two of them should meet up one day. They’d really hit it off.

‘Oh, no,’ Lachlan waved her off. ‘There was only one woman for me and she’s alive and well in here.’ He patted his heart, then busied himself with handing them each an electric heater.

Bless. As if Freya’s dad would ever leave the farm. Freya said that since her mum had died, the only reason he even ventured to St Andrews – an entire mile away – was to have his monthly lunch with ‘the lads’. The same lunch he’d been having every month for the last fifty-six years. Roast beef, tatties and veg. But never as good as your mother’s. Freya had imitated as she told the story. No. Nothing beats your mother’s touch. Nothing at all.

They paused when Freya rang the bell hanging just outside the boot room to signal it was time to do the milking. As they followed Lachlan down the stairs, each of them went quiet, lost in their own thoughts. For the first time ever Izzy wondered if she would ever love someone – apart from Luna, obviously – as much as Lachlan had clearly loved his wife. Would Charlotte? Emily? She guiltily threw Freya into the mix then pulled her back out. From the fleeting explanation regarding Monty’s absence, she seemed to have enough on her plate.

Surely to god one of them deserved a happy ending.

Charlotte jumped. ‘What was that?’

‘Front door,’ explained Rocco.

‘Goodness. That’s … loud.’ Charlotte didn’t know if her heart was beating so quickly because of the sudden noise, or the way Rocco had passed the butter to her. Just one brush of his fingertips against hers and … goose bumps. Who knew that making garlic bread could be such a sensory experience?

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

‘Coming!’ Freya called as they pushed back their chairs and went to the door. It had to be Emily. She’d texted about an hour ago saying the train had just left Edinburgh.

Freya pulled the door open.

‘Wooooot! It’s time to par-taaaaay!’ Emily hoisted two clinky jute bags full of booze up as far as her arms would permit. ‘Guess who made friends with the serving chappie in the first-class carriage? Beverages,’ she explained, ‘come free.’

Her friends were staring at her. Izzy broke the silence. ‘Wow! Emms. Look at you. You’ve …’ Izzy floundered as whatever she was going to say was lost in a cough.

‘I have cut my hair. Thoughts?’ Emily quipped in her inimitable, ‘this is entirely rhetorical, feel free not to answer’ style. Or perhaps she genuinely did care and was masking it. She handed Izzy one of the clinky bags and shook her head to realign the choppy pixie cut. She looked like an anime character. With an eye-twitch.

Oh, bless. She did care. She also didn’t bother waiting for a response. ‘My mother abhors it. And you know what? It shouldn’t really matter what she thinks, but what do you know? It does.’

Charlotte gave her arm a squeeze. Emily appeared to have taken advantage of a few complimentary beverages prior to arrival. Talking about feelings straight off the bat was unusual for her, to say the least.

‘When does it stop?’ she wailed, dropping the rest of her bags to the ground. ‘I mean, how many forty-year-old orthopaedic surgeons worry what their mother is going to say after they have their hair trimmed?’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.