was she kidding? She didn’t need to be minted, but a bit more money would help. Help to pay with the PGL trip that was coming up for Felix, in his last year at primary school. It would mean so much to him, but two hundred quid was a lot of money right now. Help fix the downstairs loo that never played ball despite (or because of) Monty’s efforts. Help them edge away from the relentless stream of bills that had them constantly teetering on the financial edge these days … and just like that she was choking against a fresh swarm of feelings bottlenecking in her throat.
Och away, darlin’. It’s no’ life and death, is it?
Her mother’s voice had a way of appearing at times like these. When things threatened to overwhelm her. Freya was having a bad year, was all. If her mum were still alive, she’d be the first to remind Freya that money wasn’t everything. That people don’t time their deaths. That fortieth birthday parties didn’t have to be all bells and whistles. Having her mum’s wake on the same day hadn’t been all bad. They’d plumped for St Andrews in the end as her mum had always joked that the wakes ‘up the road’ had much better sandwiches than the ones scrabbled together at the church hall, so … There’d be other birthdays. Other moments. This one, for instance. Freya shook her head, picturing as she did all of the negative thoughts physically leaving her head just as the grief counsellor had advised. Out of sight, out of mind.
This weekend was about Charlotte and friendship. Friendship she was certain Charlotte needed. As charmed as it looked on the outside, there was something off about her connection with Oli. Something off about Oli.
Freya thought back to his furtive behaviour outside the pub. Yep, definitely up to something. Maybe Monty would wheedle it out of him.
Anyway, a swish, catered reunion with her besties from the carefree days of uni was exactly what she needed. Cake and a campfire. What more could a girl ask for?
A husband who would dust off his law degree and do something with it.
Some actual free time to make art that mattered.
Children whose parents could afford school trips.
She thunked her head against the steering wheel.
It didn’t feel very progressive of her to make art no one would buy or for Monty to put on that old suit of his to go out and make some proper dosh at a city law firm knowing it would suck the very lifeblood out of him. She’d taken on the role of household earner long ago – by choice. The fact she was maybe, possibly, failing at it, wasn’t any fun to be around any more and was missing the bulk of her children’s actual childhood was … bleurgh. Maybe there was something to be said for the 1950s.
‘Mum? Are you okay?’
Regan, her little worrier, stuck her head between the two front seats. Felix was still engrossed in one of those doorstop fantasy books of his.
‘Yes, darlin’. Just got a little something in my eye.’ She made a show of trying to extract an invisible speck before rubbing her hands together and singing out, ‘Right, my beloved offspring! Let’s get glamping!’
She breathed in a huge lungful of sun-saturated wildflower meadow and cow poo, ignoring the little twist in her heart that the scent always brought.
The wafty, pungent aroma of home.
She pictured her brother Rocco getting ‘the girls’ in for the afternoon milking session. Her dad still helped, but at seventy-something and just a wee bit more absent-minded than he’d been since Mum had died, Rocco had started filling in the gaps until, over the Easter hols, it had become very clear he was running the farm on his own. The fact that their small farm had yet to be eaten by some big nameless, faceless conglomerate or turned into so-called affordable housing, well … thank god for big brothers.
She gave her head another short, sharp shake, watched the negativity drift away like dandelion fluff, and went around to the back of the car. A hybrid they’d leased through the business because she’d thought they should practise what they preached. Sustainability. Ah, sweet illusion.
Delusion, more like.
She waved her foot in front of the rear sensor and watched the hatch open like some sort of Star Wars portal. Charlotte’s quirkily wrapped present sat atop a jumble of duffel bags, Monty’s camera bag and last-minute panic packing.
She carefully set the camera gear to the side, praying Monty’s latest craze, Instagram ‘portraiture’ would finally bring some cash in. More than likely, the equipment would end up in the loft with the rest of his ‘sure things’ when yet another inspiration hit. Sure. He was busy with the kids, juggling the household finances and being the family chauffeur, but surely he could see it was time to start eBaying some (all) of his rejects. She’d have to find a more delicate way to suggest as much. Last December, after squeezing past the home-brewing kits, the cheese-making equipment, and the empty beehive in a vain attempt to find the Christmas tree decorations, she’d told Monty that the loft should be renamed The Attic of Unfulfilled Potential. He’d not spoken to her for the rest of the week. He was a sensitive little bear, her Monty.
She scanned the area for Charlotte. It was doubtful Emily had arrived yet. Not with her workload. Freya was still a bit shell-shocked Izzy was coming. And nervous. It had been ten years since she’d seen her last. At her and Monty’s wedding. She wished they hadn’t bickered, but who ran off with the bride’s toddlers to drop Pooh sticks in the river without telling anyone?
Okay. Fine. There was a part of her that would always be a bit funny about the fact Monty dated Izzy before her. Clarification. Monty and Izzy had hit all of the bases. Done it. Had actual sex. Hopefully enough time had passed that it would no longer be weird that one of the most beautiful women in the world had seen her husband’s penis. Sure. It had been actual years prior to Freya’s access to said penis, but still. Yup. Feeling extra grown-up now. She’d definitely moved on. That’s right. Moved on from the fact that her blue-eyed, Poldark-esque husband and one of her best mates had had sex. With each other. In the nude.
Her curls shifted from cheek to cheek as she shook the negative thoughts towards the meadow.
As she turned, something caught her attention. Was that …?
It looked like a drunken hedgehog.
They were nocturnal, so what was it doing out here in broad daylight? Surely, it wasn’t … was it?
Yes. It was definitely lurching around. Dehydrated? Starving?
Freya grabbed Monty’s Pearl Jam hoody from the pile of clothes he’d stuffed into the back of the car and scooped it up into the thick cotton.
She gave it a little examination, grateful for her father’s indulgence during her ‘I’m going to be a veterinarian’ phase. She was a female. There were a few ticks on her. Poor thing.
‘Kids!’ She beckoned for them to come out. ‘We’ve got a medical emergency here.’
Freya held the hedgehog’s tiny little face in front of her own and cooed, ‘It’s okay, darlin’. We’ve got you.’
A premonition jolted through her.
Babies.
It was technically too early, but … global warming. She gently tipped the hedgehog over and exposed her stomach. It looked swollen. She traced her finger along
