LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      Anyway, a fancy, 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 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.

      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 hoodie from the pile of clothes he’d stuffed into the back of the car and scooped it up into the thick cotton.

      ‘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 … climate change. She gently tipped the hedgehog over and exposed her stomach. It looked swollen. She traced her finger along the creature’s tiny pink feet, then atop the soft white arc of her belly. ‘Do you have some hoglets growing inside you?’

      ‘She’s pregnant?’ Regan looked as if she’d found a treasure chest.

      Freya secretly wished her daughter would become a vet. Between the mice, the budgies, the runaway tortoise, and, of course, Dumbledore, the family Labradoodle, Regan was definitely the family’s number-one animal lover. Maybe a proper summer at her family’s farm would do the trick.

      ‘Should we ring the RSPCA?’ Her daughter’s delicate fingers hovered above the hedgehog’s spines.

      ‘Yes. Definitely. Unless they have a wildlife clinic here. Felix, love. Can you grab Dad’s woolly hat, please?’

      Her gangly son tripped on his way to the back of the car. Poor lad. All limbs and no coordination.

      ‘She’s soooooo cute!’ Regan lightly brushed her fingers along the hedgehog’s spines.

      ‘I’m pretty sure she’s pregnant.’

      ‘Can we call her Persephone?’ Felix asked.

      ‘We can call her whatever you like, darlin’’

      ‘This is great,’ Regan cooed. ‘I love it here already.’

      And just like that … the long weekend stretched before Freya as a place of wide, joyful possibility.

      Izzy couldn’t move.

       C’mon Yeats. Get out of the van!

      An overwhelming instinct to turn round and head straight back to the airport hit so powerfully it made her light-headed. Why was she doing this, again?

      ‘Mom?’ Luna whispered from the back seat, puppy firmly nestled in her lap despite Izzy’s entreaties to keep him in his newly purchased crate. ‘They’re staring at us.’

      Freya and Charlotte were, indeed, staring. Well. Smiling. Waving. Beckoning. Wondering why the hell Izzy wasn’t running towards them like a lunatic and joyously screaming her head off like she would’ve back in the day.

      Get a grip, big breath in and … she flung the car door open, ran towards her friends, arms wide open and shouting at the top of her voice. ‘Aloha, ladies!’ She threw in a whoop. Ten years in America taught her a whoop always helped.

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