A Winter's Wish Read online

  Phil blew out a slow breath of relief. Stopping the moment she asked: ‘Have you signed the final papers for the brewery yet?’

  Shit! You couldn’t get a thing past her. ‘Doing it tomorrow,’ he batted back. Even though he wasn’t.

  *

  Amelia had thankfully been spared the embarrassment of actually seeing Thomas’s “scary aunt” picture. Just as well, given how humiliated she’d felt after hearing the ensuing conversation. The only good thing to come out of that unfortunate occurrence was that it had temporarily distracted her thoughts from Doug. Very temporarily. Because the subsequent in-depth self-examination had led them right back to him.

  Annie had been correct when she’d said Amelia didn’t have any friends. She didn’t. At school and university – following the break-up with Doug – she’d been far too focused on exams to even think about having a social life. By the time she entered the world of work, she’d perfected the art of emotional self-sufficiency. Indeed, the only person in whose company she’d ever truly relaxed – the only person who’d ever seen the real Amelia – was Doug. But where had all this fierce independence got her? Absolutely nowhere, she concluded. Because there wasn’t a person in the world she felt close enough to to confide in. Not even her sister, who she’d unintentionally kept at arm’s length.

  No wonder Annie and her family found her scary. She was so scary, she was even a little afraid of herself. And if all that wasn’t depressing enough, Doug had called her that morning. As well as apologising profusely – again – he’d repeated the fact that he had “a lot going on”. And, due to these “goings on”, would call again in a couple of days. No further explanation had been forthcoming. And his brisk terminating of the conversation had deprived Amelia of any opportunity to ask.

  What she had detected, though, was that he’d sounded stressed – an emotion to which he normally didn’t succumb. Which served only to pique her suspicions. Not that she was in a position to do anything about this piqued-ness, other than conclude that something must have happened during his holiday with Imogen and her family in Antigua. Pure conjecture with absolutely no factual base. Until he decided to tell her, she could drive herself up all the high-ceilinged walls of The Cedars, conjuring up a veritable soap opera of scenarios. But what, frankly, would be the point? With that thought firmly affixed to the forefront of her mind, she pulled on some clothes and wandered down to the kitchen, ready to face the commotion of The Cedars’s breakfast routine.

  Sophie was at the table, in a white dress, with what appeared to be a bent coat hanger covered in silver tinsel on her head. Despite an initial surge of nerves, Amelia dragged in a deep breath, determining to banish her scary aunt image.

  ‘Wow,’ she began. ‘You look like an angel.’

  ‘That’s because I am,’ came back the solemn reply.

  Phew. Thank goodness she’d got that right. Surely that should earn her some nice aunt points. By the look on her niece’s face, though, it was doubtful. Undeterred, she ploughed on.

  ‘So, are you, um, in a play or something at school today?’

  Sophie shook her head causing her coat hanger to wobble precariously. ‘I’m not going to school. We’re on holiday now. Until after Santa has been.’

  Amelia nodded. Of course. Annie mentioned something about the school breaking up yesterday. She should have remembered. Oh well. At least Sophie had provided more than a one-word response. That had to be progress. Surely. She carried on.

  ‘Are you excited about Santa coming?’

  Sophie wrinkled her tiny nose, her expression implying Amelia was slightly barmy just for asking the question.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied matter-of-factly. ‘Aren’t you?’

  Before Amelia could reply, Annie dashed into the kitchen frantically waving her phone. A miniature Batman, and Pip – with a makeshift red cape attached to his collar – scampered in after her.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry, Amelia. I really don’t want to take advantage but Mrs Mackenzie, who was supposed to be looking after Thomas today, has just called to say she’s in bed with flu. So I was wondering if …’ She broke off, eyebrows raised, an imploring look on her face. ‘Just say if you don’t want to. I can always take him up to the tearoom with me. Which obviously isn’t ideal but …’

  Amelia’s usually razor-sharp brain took several seconds to compute exactly what it was her sister was asking. Oh God! She wanted her to look after Thomas. For the day. Her pulse rate began to climb. She’d survived the few minutes she’d been alone with him the other day – when Jake had driven Ella back to the manor – by reading to him. But she couldn’t read to him all day.

  ‘I’m going to my friend, Bethany’s,’ Sophie informed her, gazing solemnly across the table. ‘She has a hot tub.’

  ‘Right. That’s nice,’ said Amelia, chewing her bottom lip as her brain attempted to cobble together a response.

  ‘Thomas going to make a potato painting of Santa,’ pronounced Batman.

  Amelia’s eyes grew wide.

  ‘I know it’s a big ask,’ piped up Annie. ‘But it would be a massive, massive help.’

  Amelia looked at her sister’s expectant face, then at Batman. If it was a toss-up between spending a day with the Caped Crusader or driving herself to distraction conjuring up all kinds of reasons why Doug was sounding so uptight, then the superhero could just have the edge.

  Chapter Eight

  Following his meal with Bea at Aubergine, Stan was feeling much more positive about things. Not least of all, because conjugal relations in the house had been resumed. The moment the babysitter had left, Bea had all but dragged him upstairs and ravished him. Stan couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d discovered Santa conducting a Pilates class in the village hall. But he certainly wasn’t complaining. He’d enjoyed every minute of it.

  Their sex life had never been rampant, even when they’d first got together. Bea had never been particularly interested – with the exception of when they’d been “trying for a baby”. Stan hated that phrase with a passion. While Bea had proudly proclaimed it to, it had seemed, everyone within a three-mile radius, he’d cringed with embarrassment. It would’ve been less humiliating posting a notice on Facebook informing everyone they were shagging every night. Because, for the four months they’d “been trying”, they just about had been at it every night.

  Stan had adopted a relaxed approach to the situation, happy to discard their contraception and see what happened. If a baby came along, then fine. If it didn’t, then it obviously wasn’t meant to be. Bea, though, had morphed into one of those obsessive women who feature in Sunday night TV dramas, obsessing about her “cycle”, constantly taking her temperature, calculating dates and filling in boxes on spreadsheets. She’d launched herself at the mission with all the zeal of a sergeant major tasked with ensuring the future of the entire British nation, detonating any semblance of passion or spontaneity from their lovemaking in the process.

  But at least then they’d been making love. Since Maddy had crashed into their world, Stan could count on one hand how many times they’d had sex, which probably explained his lapse into mental infidelity with the shapely Molly at work. Courtesy of his and Bea’s hot and sweaty session the other night – and another slightly less hot and sweaty one this morning, though, he’d hardly stopped smiling. And Molly, despite tottering around in an obscenely short skirt, hadn’t entered his mind at all. Really.

  And there was an additional factor contributing to his sanguine mood. The atmosphere in the house was now much calmer. He and Bea appeared to have reached an unspoken truce, each giving a little instead of constantly battling. Part of Stan’s concession was that he’d make more effort to spend time with his daughter. Which was why he was now trundling Maddy along Buttersley’s high street in her pushchair. It was one of those winter mornings that Stan loved – crisp, with a brilliant blue sky, and colourful glittering evidence everywhere you looked, indicating the impending festive season.

 
‘We’re going to see the ducks on the pond,’ he informed his daughter with a smile.

  Trussed up in a pink snowsuit, arms jutting out like two overstuffed sausages, the beginnings of a frown appeared on Maddy’s face.

  ‘Or we could just walk right past the ducks, if you prefer,’ Stan offered instead.

  That suggestion obviously didn’t pass muster either: Maddy’s frown deepened and her bottom lip began to quiver.

  Stan came to an abrupt halt, quailing inwardly. Oh God. Surely she wasn’t going to kick off in the middle of the high street. The place was already bustling with bodies, people scurrying out of the florists with holly wreaths, from the newsagent’s with boxes of Mr Russell’s now half-price Christmas crackers, and from the craft shop with pretty little bags housing exquisite handmade gifts. He’d die of embarrassment if she started hollering here. Maybe he should execute a nifty about-turn and—

  ‘Oh, look at her.’

  Stan started slightly as a female figure appeared next to him. It was Annie O’Donnell. He breathed a sigh of relief. He really liked Annie. She’d been one of the first people he and Bea had met when they’d moved to the village. And because she had young children too, and had moved there from London just like them, they’d instantly bonded.

  ‘Wow! Aren’t you getting big,’ said Annie, bending down to the baby and tickling her under her chin. Maddy gurgled with laughter – something she never did for Stan.

  ‘She’s gorgeous,’ said Annie, straightening up and beaming at Stan. ‘She’s the double of Bea. And speaking of Bea, how is she? And how are you for that matter? I haven’t seen either of you for ages.’

  ‘We’re great, thanks,’ said Stan. It was his standard retort every time anyone asked how they were. But this time he meant it. ‘We’re all looking forward to this little one’s first Christmas.’

  Annie grinned. ‘So you should. It’s yet another milestone in her young life. Our two are hyper. But that’s par for the course in our house.’

  Stan laughed.

  ‘Anyway, must crack on,’ said Annie. ‘You and Bea should bring Maddy to the kids’ Christmas party at the Stables. It’ll be great fun. And you never know, if you’re good, Mr Claus himself may even put in an appearance.’

  Stan chuckled. ‘Sounds great. I’ll tell Bea.’

  ‘Brilliant. All the details are on the manor’s website. Look forward to seeing you both there. And I can’t wait to see you again.’ She bent down to Maddy and blew a raspberry. Maddy emitted a deep chuckle.

  ‘She’s a little smiler, isn’t she?’ said Annie, before waving Maddy goodbye and bustling off.

  Stan turned his attention to his daughter. “A smiler” was not a term he’d ever have applied to her. But perhaps that was because the smiles and chuckles she’d demonstrated in Annie’s presence had evaporated the moment Annie disappeared. Replaced with yet another scowl. Stan sighed. Maybe it was because he really didn’t spend much time with her. Surely, once they’d engaged in some proper father/daughter bonding she’d come round to him. Which was why he shouldn’t take her home right now. Today was all about new beginnings. And he and Maddy were going to have an enjoyable morning together – if it killed him.

  Half an hour later and Stan mentally retracted the bit about it killing him. Because it did feel like he might be suffering a slow death. Maddy had demonstrated not the slightest bit of interest in the ducks on the village green. If anything, she’d looked more horrified at them than she had when Stan had tugged her out of her pushchair – and that was saying something.

  Giving up on their feathered friends, he’d wheeled her down to the play area next to the river, doing his best to amuse her on the see-saw. Her indifference could not have been greater. He was just about to admit defeat and squeeze her back into her carriage, when a little boy ran up to him wearing a fun-fur hat in the shape of a chicken’s head.

  Stan’s spirits immediately rose when he realised who it was. ‘Hello, Thomas. What’re you up to?’

  ‘Playing,’ Thomas informed him proudly. ‘Maddy’s fat,’ he added, poking the baby who was perched on Stan’s knee. Stan held his breath, hoping she didn’t bawl. She didn’t. To his astonishment, she began chuckling. Evidently it was only him his child couldn’t stand.

  A couple of seconds later a Jack Russell, who Stan recognised as Jake and Annie’s dog, Pip, arrived on the scene, wearing a red cape with what looked to be a potato painting of Santa stamped on it. Attached to the other end of Pip’s lead appeared a decidedly harassed young woman in a stylish mustard-coloured coat and brown Cossack hat.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry,’ she gushed. ‘I didn’t mean for Thomas to run off like that.’ She attempted to unravel herself from Pip’s lead as the dog ran circles around her. ‘I’m new to this. As you can probably tell.’

  ‘Join the club,’ said Stan. ‘This is my first, and I’m still finding my feet.’

  ‘She’s called Maddy and she’s fat,’ said Thomas, poking the baby again, which set off another round of gurgling chuckles.

  ‘You shouldn’t call people fat, Thomas,’ said the woman. ‘It’s rude.’

  ‘It’s not wude when they are fat. It’s the twuth. And mum says we always have to tell the twuth.’

  From under her hat, the woman cocked a dubious eyebrow. ‘Well, I suppose I can’t really argue with that,’ she said, as Thomas scuttled over to the roundabout. ‘I take it he knows you.’

  ‘He does.’ Stan extended a hand to her. ‘Stan Suffolk. And this is my daughter, Maddy.’

  ‘Amelia Richards,’ she said, placing her gloved hand in his and smiling at him warmly. ‘Annie O’Donnell’s sister.’

  Chapter Nine

  Since Jake had given her a lift back to the tearooms the day she’d collected Thomas from nursery, Ella had been floating on air. Her initial mortification at confessing how wonderful she imagined him being running his writing course hadn’t lasted long. The moment he’d turned to her, dreamy dark eyes twinkling, luscious lips curved into a delectable smile, her head had begun to swim.

  ‘Thanks,’ he’d replied. So intimately, her insides had melted and a grin had appeared on her face, which she hadn’t been able to shift.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Dan, the waiter, had asked when she’d returned to the tearoom.

  ‘Nothing,’ she’d breezed. ‘Nothing at all.’

  Unfortunately, this state of euphoria was short-lived.

  ‘I’ve heard they’re looking for casual staff to start at the Job Centre in the New Year,’ her mother informed her over breakfast that morning.

  Despite chewing a mouthful of toast, Ella’s jaw dropped. ‘The Job Centre?’ she spluttered. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Why not?’ Mona tipped up the teapot and refilled her cup. ‘The pay will be better than waitressing. It’ll give you valuable admin experience. And you’ll still be working with the public, which you claim to love so much.’

  Ella pushed away her plate of unfinished toast, suddenly feeling sick. ‘But it’s hardly likely to be the same sort of people who come to the Stables, is it? It’ll be people who don’t have jobs.’

  ‘Indeed it will,’ Mona agreed, setting down the teapot. ‘And may I remind you that you could soon be joining their ranks if you don’t get your act together. I’ll have a look online and print off an application form for you.’

  By the time Ella arrived at the tearoom thirty minutes later, she was in a foul mood.

  ‘Got out of bed the wrong side, have we?’ enquired Dan, after she’d responded to his cheery “morning”, with an indecipherable grunt.

  ‘Mother on my case,’ she huffed, yanking the strings of her black barista apron around her slim waist. ‘Wants me to apply for a job at the Job Centre.’

  Dan cocked a dark eyebrow. ‘Well, if nothing else it’d give you first dibs on any new jobs. And there are worse places than the civil service to work.’

  ‘Are there?’ Ella retorted. ‘Because I can’t think of any.’

&n
bsp; But not being a fan of the civil service wasn’t the only reason Ella had no wish to work at the Job Centre. The main reason was that she didn’t want to leave the Stables. Because, along with the interesting people she so enjoyed being around, and the generous tips, she’d be saying goodbye to spending time with Jake. Her role in his and Annie’s lives would be seriously diminished. And, as crass as it sounded, when Jake had said they didn’t know what they’d have done without her recently, Ella had almost imploded with pride. No one had ever made her feel valued like that before. In fact, being the youngest of six kids, she’d always had the feeling her parents had had enough by the time she made an appearance – that they’d kind of lost interest. Not that they’d ever implied as much. But, thinking about it logically, who wouldn’t have? There had to be a limit to how much Postman Pat any parent could take. And likewise with her siblings, who had established a nicely bonded unit by the time Ella was old enough to join in their boisterous antics. Leaving her feeling like the proverbial gooseberry – a spare part devoid of purpose. A depressing fact that would be hammered home that evening.

  ‘Don’t forget that everyone – well, everyone apart from Harry who’ll no doubt be sitting down with the anteaters for his Christmas lunch - will be here when you finish work,’ Mona had informed her, as Ella pulled on her coat in the hall. ‘They’ll all be back from uni today.’

  As if the Job Centre announcement hadn’t been enough, that one had tipped Ella right over the edge. ‘Great,’ she’d muttered, wondering how much a one-way ticket to Lapland would cost. And if anyone would even notice if she jetted off.

  *

  ‘Wow!’ exclaimed Annie, the moment she entered The Cedars’s living room and found Thomas, clutching his toy Gruffalo, asleep in Amelia’s arms. ‘It looks like you two are getting on well.’

  Amelia laughed. Something, she realised, she’d done a lot of that day. ‘We’ve had a great time. But I think I’ve worn him out.’