Page 20 of A Brambleberry Manor Christmas
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At last, at a quarter past eleven, a text pings through. Igrab my phone and sure enough, it’s from Tavie.
Sorry I’m a bit late. Allie had a fall-out with herboyfriend and she was crying and I couldn’t just leave her. But I’m coming homenow.
I sink back against the pillows with a thankful sigh, my wholebody drooping with relief. I suddenly realise I’m freezing. The heating musthave clicked off a while ago. I snuggle down and switch off the light, and tenminutes later, I hear Tavie’s key in the door.
She pauses outside my door. ‘Night,’ she calls.
‘Goodnight, Tavie. Straight to bed, please,’ I say sternly.‘We’ll talk about this in the morning.’ I’ll have to ground her for being late.Although the fact that she was helping a friend is a good thing. Tavie’s such afiercely loyal soul. She always has been, ever since she was little. I can wellbelieve she lost track of the time because she was wanting to be there for herfriend. But I have to be firm with her, otherwise I’ll have no chance ofkeeping her safe.
I’ll chat to her in the morning about making sure to text meso I don’t have to worry about her when she’s out. (Not that we haven’t hadthat conversation a million times before.)
Once upon a time, when her dad was alive, he’d pick her upfrom a Saturday night sleep-over at Amy’s house and she’d always come straightin to see me, and we’d chat and laugh about what they’d been doing.
I wish she’d do that now…share her life, her funny littlestories with me. But obviously that’s not going to happen. The gulf that’sopened up between us is so wide, it scares me.
I close my eyes. But she’s home now and she’s safe. That’sall that matters.
I can sleep…
CHAPTER SEVEN
Menu – Day 2
A Taste of Spain
Seafood soup
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Slow-roasted Andalusian-style lamb and potatoes
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Crema Catalana
Served with a rhubarb and ginger compote
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Breakfast-time is an even more tense affair thanusual.
Tavie is up before me. She’s in the shower for ages, then Ihear the hairdryer start as she attempts to tame her wild red corkscrew curls.I like her hair best when she leaves it to dry naturally.
We collide in the kitchen, where she’s making a milkshake.
‘I can’t believe the snow, can you?’ I say lightly.
She glances out of the window. ‘It must have been comingdown all night. It looks quite deep out there.’
‘I’m making toast. Would you like some?’ I offer, already bracedfor a cold negative.
‘No, thanks.’
She stirs her drink, throws the spoon in the sink and headsfor the door.
‘Octavia, can you sit down for a minute, please?’
