‘He’s terribly kind. He and Madeleine both are.’
‘Hmmm,’ Jason said again.
They rolled on in silence for a while, Tati enjoying the sensation of having Jason’s arm around her, of being the protected for once, rather than the protector. Out of the blue she heard herself saying:
‘Jason? Would you like us to have a baby?’
She could feel his body stiffen, like one of those heat packs where you click a button and the surrounding liquid suddenly transforms into a solid, hot mass. When he spoke, his voice sounded different too. Higher pitched. Strained.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘That would be lovely. One day.’
‘Yes,’ Tatiana agreed happily, lying down across his lap. ‘It would, wouldn’t it? One day.’
She’d been worrying about nothing. She and Jason were on exactly the same page.
Next time she saw her godmother, she must make sure she told her so.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Angela Cranley trod her way gingerly across the Wetherby Garden Centre car park, being careful not to slip on the icy tarmac. Winter had arrived in the Swell Valley in earnest about a week ago, but last night’s ground frost had been the coldest and deepest so far. All the lanes around Fittlescombe were slick with black ice, a biting east wind whistled in across the Downs and heavy snow was confidently forecast for later in the day.
‘Morning, Mrs Cranley. You all ready for Christmas, are you, up at the big house?’
Janice Wetherby, who ran the garden centre with her husband Jim, greeted Angela with the same relentless good cheer she showed to all her customers, especially at this time of year. The Wetherbys loved Christmas, not least because the business tripled its usual takings in the three weeks leading up to the big day. As well as trees and mistletoe, the garden centre stocked every conceivable kind of light, bauble, crib ornament and decoration, from outdoor reindeer sculptures to novelty snow globes at two pounds a pop. The café shifted tons of mince pies and Christmas cake, and this year had introduced homemade Yule log, a roaring success that was selling out daily at almost four pounds a slice! And if that didn’t fill one with Christmas cheer, then the glorious sounds of carols from King’s College wafting over the loudspeakers was surely enough to melt even the hardest and most cynical of winter hearts.
‘Sadly not, Mrs Wetherby,’ said Angela. ‘My daughter came home for the holidays last night from London with her new boyfriend, Tom. They’ve already complained that Furlings isn’t looking Christmassy enough. I’m here in search of supplies, the gaudier the better, apparently.’
‘Well you’re in the right place, Mrs Cranley, you’re in the right place!’ Janice Wetherby looked fit to burst with excitement and happiness from beneath her cheap fur-trimmed Santa hat. A house the size of Furlings would take a lot of decorating. Janice could already hear the festive sound of ringing tills.
‘Can I offer you a free mince pie?’
‘Thank you,’ said Angela, suddenly remembering that she’d had no breakfast as Logan and Tom had polished off the last of the milk, cereal and bread.
The mince pie was delicious, warm and sweet and satisfying. But pushing her trolley through row after row of tinsel and garlands and tasteful felt robins, Angela couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness. She’d been reading a book about separation and divorce in middle age – Michaela’s Journey it was called, written by an irritatingly earnest New Zealander. According to Michaela it was important to ‘walk through’ one’s feelings of sadness and loss, and not to try to ignore them. Angela Cranley disagreed. Thinking about Brett didn’t help. Nor did crying. It wasn’t cathartic, it was miserable. Angela was determined not to be miserable, whatever the future might hold. Especially not at Christmas.
She still found it hard to come to terms with the fact that Brett would not be home for Christmas this year. Part of the problem was that the decision had been taken almost accidentally. A conversation about nothing much – travel arrangements and some debate over Logan’s A-level choices – had ended with Angela agreeing that it ‘made sense’ for Brett to accept an invitation to Mustique with some old friends of theirs from Australia, rather than come home to Furlings.
‘You’ll be more relaxed without me,’ Brett said breezily. ‘It’s the first time Logan’s been home in months, and she’s bound to make a fuss if you and I sleep in separate bedrooms.’
‘I suppose so,’ Angela agreed vaguely, forgetting that Logan would make at least as much fuss about Brett not showing up at all.
‘I’m assuming you’re not ready for us to share the same bed again?’ said Brett.