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?’
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