‘Okay, time to hand the baby back,’ Lachie jokes.
‘No way,’ I say, snuggling the little bundle closer and smiling down on her angelic, sleeping face. ‘She’s adorable.’
‘Definitely time to hand the baby back,’ he says.
I glance at Lachie and narrow my eyes at him with not entirely mock annoyance.
‘Aw,’ Maggie says, the corners of her lips turning down as she gazes at her brother. ‘I thought you wanted kids?’
She has three boys upstairs – all asleep and ready for Father Christmas.
Lachie shrugs. ‘Yeah, one day.’ He pauses. ‘I think.’
I shoot him a quick look. He thinks?
‘But not for a few more years,’ he adds.
‘You shouldn’t leave it too long,’ Bea advises, avoiding my gaze.
The fact that I’m six years older than Lachie has escaped no one’s attention, I’m sure, but they’re too diplomatic to mention it.
‘We’ve got plenty of time for all that,’ Lachie replies calmly.
‘I hope you haven’t been hanging out with Elliot too much,’ Lydia chips in drily.
Lachie rolls his eyes at Lydia, while Maggie tactfully changes the subject, but his youngest sister’s comment is still playing on my mind later when we’ve retired to our tent.
‘Lachie?’ I’m lying in his arms, tracing my fingers across his ribcage.
‘Mmm?’ he replies sleepily.
‘Is Lydia right? Has El’s anti-kids stance rubbed off on you?’
I expect him to sigh or scoff or dismiss the conversation, but, when he doesn’t immediately reply, my fingers freeze in their tracks.
‘I love my nieces and nephews, but being around them just reminds me of how much work it all is.’ Lachie yawns, not seeming to notice how tense I suddenly feel.
‘I know, but everyone says it’s different when it’s your own,’ I point out.
He stills and then cranes his neck to look down at me. ‘Are you getting broody?’ He sounds apprehensive.
‘I don’t want to wait too much longer.’
‘How much longer are we talking here?’
‘I don’t know. A year or two?’
He slowly rests his head back onto his pillow and scratches his chin.
I wriggle onto my tummy and prop myself up on my elbows so he can’t escape my scrutiny. He looks pretty uncomfortable.
‘Lachie?’ I prompt.
‘I’m only twenty-eight,’ he replies eventually. ‘But thirty still seems way too young to me.’
I always wondered if our age gap would come back to bite me.
I think it just has.
‘I just… I don’t want to be an older mum. I’m already thirty-four. I thought I’d have children by now.’
‘I thought I’d get married one day, but you don’t believe in marriage, so that’s that, then…’ His slightly shirty voice trails off.
‘I’m not totally against it,’ I say with a frown. ‘I just don’t really see the point. Wait. Do you want to get married?’ I ask with surprise.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. ‘No. That’s not what I’m saying.’
His tone triggers a wave of nausea and I find myself sitting up in my sleeping bag.
‘But you do see a future with me, right?’ I ask cautiously.
‘Yeah. You know I love you. But…’ He’s not meeting my eyes.
‘What?’ I ask warily.
He sighs and my nausea ramps up a notch. ‘I guess I’ve felt a little… stifled lately.’
‘What?!’
‘You never want to go out any more,’ he says. ‘We’re becoming boring.’
‘You mean I’m becoming boring. You’ve been going out plenty,’ I snap.
‘I’m only twenty-eight, Bronte! We should be out every other night, having a laugh with our mates, not sitting at home relentlessly watching telly on the sofa.’
‘Do these mates include Fliss?’ I ask irately.
‘Don’t start that again,’ Lachie snaps.
A couple of weeks ago, I got a nasty surprise when I overheard Elliot asking Lachie if Fliss was okay.
‘What’s this?’ I interrupted, and it may have just been my imagination, but Lachie seemed to tense up.
‘Her ex has been harassing her,’ he divulged, reluctantly, I thought at the time.
‘Lachie’s been her knight in shining armour,’ Elliot teased.
‘It’s no big deal.’ Lachie brushed us off.
‘In what way?’ I persisted, forcing a smile, despite my unease.
‘He’s just been giving her a bit of shit, always ringing her, turning up at her flat uninvited, wanting her back. He rocked up at that wedding we were doing last weekend, so I told him where to go.’
‘Pow!’ Elliot interjected, smacking his fist against his other hand.
‘You punched him?’ I asked my boyfriend, shocked.
‘I didn’t punch him,’ he snapped infuriatedly, shooting Elliot a look. ‘I just gave him a bit of a shove.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked.
‘It wasn’t a big deal.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Elliot pulling a face, as though he’d belatedly realised he’d landed his mate in trouble. I chose to drop the subject, but couldn’t let it lie.
‘Why didn’t you tell me what was going on with Fliss?’ I asked later.
‘I told you, it wasn’t a big deal.’
‘Elliot knew. How was that, then?’
‘He came out that night with us, remember? You didn’t feel like it.’
‘Only because it was eleven o’clock by the time you finished that wedding!’ I exclaimed. ‘I was already in bed! I thought you were going to come home!’
It was not the first argument we’d had in recent months.
‘Do you find her attractive?’ I ask Lachie now. It’s time we got to the bottom of this.
‘Of course she’s attractive – any bloke would think so.’
‘No, do you find her attractive?’ I repeat.
‘What do you expect me to say?’ he responds eventually, his eyes glinting in the darkness.
‘Oh, shit,’ I mumble, fighting back tears as I unzip my sleeping bag.
‘What are you doing?’ he mutters, reaching for my arm.
I snatch it away from him. ‘Getting some fresh air.’
I sit on a garden bench in the damp night, staring up at the stars. Lachie is snoring lightly by the time I return half an hour later. At some point during the night, he tries to spoon me, but the distance between us is real, and not just because we’re in separate sleeping bags.
The next day, five children pile into our makeshift bedroom at seven in the morning and we manage to feign excitement as we vow to come straight in and open, or, rather, dish out our presents.
Once they’ve left us to get dressed, Lachie meets my eyes directly. ‘I don’t fancy Fliss,’ he states adamantly. ‘I fancy you. Only you. Just… chill out, okay?’
I try to, but the tension between us doesn’t dissipate.
A merry, merry Christmas that year it ain’t.
‘Say hello to Bronte!’
‘Hello, Bonty,’ a sweet little voice comes in reply before Bridget’s face is obscured by a small, chubby hand.
It’s a Saturday evening in late March and Bridget and I are FaceTiming.