by Daisy Tate
‘THREE!’
‘In the cowshed.’ Rocco leant forward so that Izzy could hear him above the crowd noise. His hand slid along Charlotte’s shoulder to her lower back as he moved. ‘She and Dad are showing the other children the calves.’ His hand moved back into place on her shoulders, a bit more snugly if she wasn’t mistaken.
Izzy hiccoughed. ‘I can’t see Emily anywhere!’ Izzy cupped her mittened hands to her mouth. ‘Emmilly! Booboo!’
‘TWO!
Freya was jumping up and down. ‘Bring. It. On!’
‘ONE!’ The crowd went berserk. ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’
Roars and whoops surrounded them. Couples drew together. Friends kissed cheeks and laughed. The children danced around the crowd like lunatics, with poppers and environmentally friendly confetti. Izzy and Freya clinked bottles again, lurched forward, conked foreheads and dissolved into hysterics as the crowd consumed them.
Charlotte felt Rocco’s hand shift from her shoulder to her face. She turned to him. His other hand cupped her bare cheek. He tipped her face up so gently she felt like a baby lamb. Delicate. New. Surprisingly lusty. So perhaps not like a baby lamb at all.
The moment their lips touched, Charlotte felt such an explosion of pleasure she literally lost her balance. Rocco moved his arm to her waist and pulled her in to him, deepening his kiss as he did so. Charlotte had never felt safer or more desirable in her entire life.
‘Happy New Year, Charlotte,’ Rocco whispered against her lips.
‘Happy New Year,’ Charlotte breathed back.
‘MUM!’
Charlotte turned so quickly she pulled something in her neck.
Poppy was staring at her in horror. ‘What are you doing?’
Rocco dropped his hand from Charlotte’s cheek and took two large steps back, hands raised up in surrender position.
‘I’m sorry, I …’ Charlotte sought out her daughter’s retreating figure in the crowd.
‘You go on and find her,’ Rocco looked as deflated as Charlotte felt.
‘I …’ She wanted to apologize. To explain. But nothing would come out.
‘I know, lassie,’ Rocco stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘I know.’
Chapter 7
The cowshed was surprisingly warm.
Izzy wiped at the sheen of sweat on her face. She felt very, very peculiar. Emily would probably give her a lecture about mixing booze with cold medicine but … She wanted her Booboo.
She walked heavily, a quilt draped over her shoulders, an empty bottle of Prosecco dangling from her fingers as the cows looked up with only a vague interest as she passed.
‘Hello big brown cow.’ She stopped in front of one for a breather. It was so cosy in here. All the fresh straw and that heady green scent of poo and hay. She could be a cow. Lying around, eating snacks. The brown cow met her eyes and nodded. Yup. Kindred spirits.
‘Bye, bye cow.’ Izzy patted her big old cow head. The cow licked her face.
Scratchy.
Izzy made her way down to the far end of the shed where Rocco had built a crèche for the calves who had been rejected or, in one case, orphaned.
‘Oh!’
Izzy dropped the bottle, hands flying to her mouth. She felt like a clumsy wise man discovering baby Jesus, but perhaps a bit drunker. And, of course, a few days late.
Regan was leaning against the wall of the barn with a beautiful calf in her lap, both of them sound asleep, whilst Luna, Bonzer and the other calves were all curled up, asleep as well, in a huge whorl of fresh straw.
Izzy patted her sides for her phone. Nope. She obviously hadn’t transferred it to the snow suit.
She considered whether to wake the children and bundle their inevitably grumpy little selves into the house or just to leave them here. It was warm enough. A bit pooey, but … Would children’s services have her for neglect if she left them?
‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves some extra calves.’
‘Oh! Rocco. I didn’t even hear you come in.’ A mix of relief and disappointment yanked at her chest. She had happened upon the world’s best tableau and now it would change, but … Rocco would make the decision about the children. Izzy suddenly, urgently, wanted nothing more than a big brother just like Rocco to make decisions for her. Emily was great, and obviously knew medical stuff better than she did, but she didn’t want Emily to have to take on the role of carer. She just wanted Emily to be her friend. A person with whom she could escape from the harshness of reality. Not inspect it in painstaking detail.
Oh, god. Lachlan was right. She needed to start being honest. With everyone.
She gave Rocco a heavy nod. ‘What does one do in a situation like this, farmer man?’
Rocco smiled that kind smile of his, the crinkles by his eyes raying out like sunbeams. Charlotte should fall in love with him and marry him. They could all live here at the farm happily ever after, selling cake and milk. Then Izzy wouldn’t have to worry about waking Luna up and telling her that Mama wasn’t feeling so well.
Rocco shifted a pitchfork that had been leaning on the side of the pen to the wall rack.
Bonzer opened one eye, then abruptly sat up. He was wearing a rather striking holiday vest. A chunky-knit, cherry-red number with a gold star on the centre of his chest. He was going to be the size of a moose when he grew up, and the one constant in Luna’s life, if Izzy’s hunch about the pain in her armpit was anything to go by. He nuzzled Luna who blinked open her eyes, saw her mother and smiled. She did a luxurious little-girl stretch and yawn. ‘Did you make your New Year’s wishes?’
Oh, what a loaded question.
She tapped her head then her heart. ‘Got ’em in here.’
Regan woke up, then her calf and, mostly thanks to Rocco, they bundled the humans and the dog back into the house and up to their rooms with hot-water bottles and a reminder that they were heading back down the road to Sussex in the morning. Both girls, who’d asked to sleep together in a Bonzer sandwich, were too tired to protest.
With no Luna to cuddle up to, Izzy felt unexpectedly bereft. Her one resolution had been to tell the truth. She didn’t want to tell the truth because it meant being honest with herself. So she did what she’d always done when she felt this way. Made a pillow person and cuddled up to it. Maybe Emily would come and check on her later. Sniff. That would make her feel better. And then, perhaps, she’d be brave enough to tell everyone her news.
‘All right there, Mr Burns? Enjoyed your New Year’s party?’
Emily had enjoyed hers. Sort of. At midnight, Tansy had stuffed her number into Emily’s pocket and given her a delightfully lingering kiss on the cheek then *ping!* disappeared.
Lachlan looked away from the television where the revelry had passed its peak in London and moved on to New York. He said he’d been outside for a bit, but when things had got a bit overcrowded he’d opted for the comfort of the cosy sitting room.
He smiled and stroked his chin. ‘The children certainly enjoyed it.’ His gaze shifted to the window, where Rocco was gently encouraging people to find a new place to see out the rest of their Hogmanay. ‘It was good to see a smile on Mariella’s face tonight.’
That got Emily’s attention.
‘You mean Freya?’
‘Eh?’ He looked perplexed.
‘Tonight. Smiling. It was good to see a smile on Freya’s face.’
He looked at her as if she’d gone daft. ‘Ay, lassie. That’s what I said.’
Hmmm.
‘I’m heading off to bed,’ Emily told him. ‘Anything I can get you?’
‘No, thank you, darlin’. I’m a contented man.’
He looked it, too. Flanked by a Christmas tree and a modest pile of Christmas presents that he had yet to put away. A tin mug with Scottish birds on it. A sweater Freya had made. A book on whittling.
‘Made any resolutions?’ He pressed up and out of his worn armchair with a chesty groan.
‘Who? Me? Nooo.’ It wasn’t her thing. Emily’s entire life
had been about hitting goalposts. She’d balked at adding extra pressure to the New Year when her parents had already meticulously crafted her life to perfection in spreadsheet after spreadsheet.
‘You?’ She remembered to ask. It was something her professional cuddler had taught her. To ask a person the same question in return, even if you weren’t that interested.
‘Aye,’ he said, then smiled mysteriously and tapped the side of his head. ‘The main problem is remembering what it is.’
She was about to launch into a list of memory aids he could put to use, but stopped herself. He was a happy man. Why complicate things when there was no need?
Once in bed, Emily lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She was a grown woman, long since free of her parents’ spreadsheets. Why not make a resolution?
She thought of that tingling feeling she’d had when Tansy’s kiss had lit upon her cheek and the envy she’d felt when Brodie had swept in and pulled her into a conga line. If she had any sort of skill base in being footloose and fancy-free, Emily would’ve simply joined in with them. She was silly with Izzy, and had been known to fling the odd boa about with her former flatmate Callum. See? Silly. She replayed the scenes in her head then corrected herself. She had basked in the glow of their silly. Silly by proxy.
Which is why, no doubt, she’d not bothered to find Tansy again.
She stretched, then curled up into a ball under the covers. She knew what her resolution was. Find a way to feel comfortable enough in her own skin to let someone know her. Really know her. Like Izzy did. But different.
She squeezed her eyes tight until the little white dots appeared. When she opened them, her life appeared before her with crystal-clear clarity. She wasn’t silly because her parents had raised a little grown-up. Made a mini-them. Two earnest, hardworking academics whose sole quest – after recovering from the disappointment of having had a girl – had been to devote themselves to ensuring Emily excelled. At everything. They hadn’t done it because they were mean. Or horrid. Or masochistic. It was what they had been programmed to do. Muchos gracias, China.
Apart from failing to get married and give them a grandson, she’d done everything perfectly. Okay, she could’ve pushed it on the violin front, but they were happy enough with the focused, career-obsessed surgeon they’d made. The one whose goal in life was to do better than they had, to make all of their sacrifices worth their while.
Perhaps this was why Emily loved Izzy so much. Adored, really. Izzy was her polar opposite. Absolutely carefree and the least judgemental person she’d ever met. She never cackled at Emily’s stiff social demeanour. Never mocked her solemnity. Or teased her when she stuck her foot in it with Charlotte or Freya. She accepted Emily ‘as is’. You couldn’t really ask for more from a friend. She loved Izzy. At the beginning probably more than a friend, but that jagged path of unrequited never-gonna-happen had softened over the years into a deep, abiding friendship. Or maybe it was the fact that Izzy had lived in Hawaii for the last ten years and Emily hadn’t had to think about it.
She froze when she heard a cough at the door, then the creak of hinges. The Burns’ house could do with a bit of WD-40.
‘Emms?’ Izzy hissed from the doorway. ‘You awake?’
Emily faked being asleep. Thinking all of that mushy friend stuff about Izzy and then having her appear was too much.
Izzy tried again. ‘Emmillyy? Wanna cuddle?’
Emily held her breath. Izzy used to do this in uni before exams. She’d done it a lot more when her mum had got ill in that first round of breast cancer treatment. Emily had never slept a wink on those nights. Izzy always wove her limbs around, across and through Emily’s, as if she was in a pile of puppies.
Izzy tiptoed over to the bed, eased up the covers and spooned up against Emily. She was all warm and snuffly and a little bit squirmy.
It felt so nice.
Would this torture never end?
Once Izzy’s breath softened and slowed, Emily inched her telephone off the bed stand. She scanned the train times out of the nearest station, then sent an email to her registrar to let him know she’d be available to be rostered onto the surgical schedule by the afternoon. Work always made not thinking about personal stuff so much easier.
She stared out into the darkness.
She made a resolution to play mah-jong with her mother before the year was out.
She made another to bring her father to a karaoke bar over the Chinese New Year.
She made another she couldn’t quite articulate about Izzy.
She looked at her watch.
Only five more hours of not moving to go.
Freya looked at her list of resolutions and sighed.
It was more like a To Do list rather than something she could attack with zest and verve. Normally, she loved making resolution lists. Loved crossing things off. Revisiting lists of days gone by. Seeing how much she had or hadn’t achieved.
It was weird, doing it on her own. She and Monty had always done them together, no matter how blotto or exhausted they’d been. They would find their notebooks, curl up wherever and write.
His list would be full of things like ‘Do Parkour with Felix’, ‘Teach Regan how to make a kite’, ‘Run a 10k for a hedgehog charity’.
Hers were always a combination of artistic goals and practicalities. Strive for greater creative fulfilment. Change savings account. Try new colour scheme for woodland creature prints. Switch mortgage to fixed rate!
Her phone rang. She rolled over to Monty’s pillow, where the phone was lying, and smiled.
When the video call pixelated into focus, he still looked a bit bleary. There was a poster of a snowboarder behind him. He must be in one of his nephews’ bedrooms.
‘Hey, babe. Happy New Year.’ His voice was a bit scratchy. If he was here she would’ve instantly made him a hot toddy. Or at least told him to make one. Instantly.
‘Happy New Year to you, darlin’.’
‘Cameron and Marnie send their best. Did you have a good time?’
He sounded properly emosh. Was he regretting not coming back for Hogmanay?
‘Brilliant actually. We sold out of everything. The donations more than make up for the milk run the distributers couldn’t do. Rocco’s even got a couple of micro-distillers interested in doing a deal with him to make vodka. Apparently milk vodka is a thing.’
‘Great!’ Monty wasn’t enthusing with his usual verve.
‘I sold all of my cushions!’ She made a happy crowd noise.
‘Oh, love. That’s wonderful. The wildlife ones with the …’ He mimed pouring tea.
‘Yeah. The tea-party ones. Charlotte charged over forty quid a pop and got it!’ Freya was still in a bit of shock. They were time consuming, but if she could make a few each month, it would cover the minimum payment for the council tax. It was on her list, of course. Chipping away at the council tax.
‘Did you make your resolutions?’ Monty swept a hand across his face.
Was he sweating? Cameron always kept the house warm, but not sauna warm.
Freya held her notebook up so he could see the list. ‘You?’
‘Mmm. Yes.’ Monty looked terribly serious. And epically sad. She suddenly wanted him to be here in the bed beside her so much it physically hurt. Could a person who drove you mad become essential to your wellbeing if you loved them enough? That critical thread that held your proverbial cloth together?
She resolved then and there to tell him about the painting. She would talk to Rocco about selling it. Even if the painting wasn’t worth tens of thousands, it would help. She had brainstormed some great ideas with Charlotte about making tweaks in her shop and, of course, if Rocco could keep the farm shop open he might be able to update his clanky Land Rover one day. Or, at the very least, afford to take a day off and shag Charlotte.
‘Want to hear my resolutions?’ Freya asked.
‘Frey – I need to talk.’
His face was going a peculiar shade of red.
; ‘Monts, have you drunk too much? Are you going to be sick?’
‘Yes. No. Freya. Listen to me.’
Everything in her stilled. In a bad way.
‘I have to tell you something.’
She forced herself to stay quiet. Surely there could be nothing so bad they couldn’t fix it. Especially if they did it together.
‘I told my parents and Cameron about the credit cards.’
‘Everything?’ she whispered. They were cash only people. Like her family. Buy what you can afford and don’t if you can’t. They would have been horrified.
His forehead crinkled in on itself. ‘Everything. They wanted to know what the hell I was doing leaving you and the kids …’ He faltered then sobbed, ‘I’m not like you. I can’t turn ideas into money. I can’t juggle nineteen things at once. I tried so hard to make the money stretch out and I just … I can’t, Frey.’ He raked a hand through his hair as he choked back another sob. He looked a peculiar combination of young and old. But mostly he looked spent. ‘I told them everything. I told them about maxing out the credit cards. I told them about taking out more to pay off the maxed-out ones. I told them about emptying the children’s bank accounts.’
Oh, gosh. She hadn’t known about the children’s bank accounts.
She stopped hearing the details. A loud buzzing filled her head with the odd word popping through. Arrears. Bankruptcy. Collection officers.
‘They asked how much we owed and I told them.’
It was roughly equivalent to what they had paid into the house. This, after years of scraping and saving and economizing to get the deposit, whilst also supporting Monty through law school.
He sucked in a jagged breath then began to openly weep. Through his snot and tears and gasps for oxygen he confessed his fears about telling her. The anxiety about having let her down. The children down. His parents, his big brother; everyone he’d ever met or who had, for even the tiniest of moments, believed in him.
It was like watching someone have a breakdown. Actually. That was precisely what was happening. She was watching her husband have a breakdown and all she could do was sit there and wonder whether or not her phone service would last long enough to see it through.