“Well, if I’m going to be joining the business, then it’s in my interests to make sure it’s reaching the right people. I don’t put my name to any old Christmas Cracker company, you know.”
“Goodness, such a ruthless businesswoman. It’s like having our very own Samantha Jones in the family.”
“Who?”
“Never mind,” said Bella, throwing her empty crisp packet in the bin and putting her arm around Fred. “Let’s go build our empire.”
17
On Saturday evening, Bella wentout with Liam again and Fred felt pleased that he had company. She hated the thought of him being lonely.
It was not lost on her that her mum was out painting the town red on a Saturday night, while she was pottering around the house with her eighty-something aunts, but she was discovering that she enjoyed their company even more now than she had when she was younger. Teenage Fred had been so riddled with self-conscious angst that her aunts’ eccentricities and shenanigans were often a source of cringing embarrassment. Now she was beginning to view them as inspiration for her life goals.
When the aunts retired to the cottage, she settled down to finesse her marketing strategy for the business. She’d posted the first Hallow-Hart Crackers reel and post to Instagram late in the afternoon—a kind of “meet the family” introduction—and the likes had been growing slowly but steadily. She replied to a handful of comments, and checkedto see which hashtags were working and which she ought to change, then she added a couple of stories to get the engagement going. But left alone with her thoughts, by midnight she was restless and it was clear that sleep was a long way off. She’d heard her mum come home about a quarter of an hour ago and tiptoe upstairs to bed. Fred punched her pillows into submission and threw herself back onto them, sighing loudly. Ryan was, for some reason, on her mind. She didn’t know how to be around him anymore, not as grown-ups. It was a weird situation; in some ways they knew each other best of all, and yet in others not in the least. Could they really pick up a friendship they’d left behind seventeen years ago? Maybe she could do that with a woman. But with a man? A man who, whether she wanted to admit it or not, was undeniably attractive. Or in the words of Harry Burns: would the sex part always get in the way? Not that that was likely to be a problem for Ryan, he’d made his feelings crystal clear all those years ago.
She picked her phone up off the bedside table and began to scroll through social media to move her mindwaaaayaway from anything that put Ryan and sex in the same place in her mind. A skittering against the window made her jump and she got out of bed and pulled back the curtains. As if summoned by her thoughts, Ryan himself grinned up at her from the cabbage patch, and she sucked in a breath as her stomach did a backflip. The scene was so familiar and so ridiculous that she had to slap her hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh.
As quietly as she could, she pulled up the sash window, recoiling as the cold wind whipped in between the buttons on her pjs. She grabbed her dressing gown and pulled it tightly around her, before calling down in a shouty-whisper, “What are you doing?”
“Hey, Fred!” He smiled lopsidedly.
“Are you drunk?”
“Small bit.” He shrugged. “I’ve been out with Benj and Rab. And then I had the best idea ever. I think we should dig up the time capsule!”
The wind was whisking his voice away down the garden.
“Are you insane? It’s the middle of the night!”
“Exactly. There won’t be any golfers there to stop us. I’ll meet you down by the front gates.”
She took exactly five seconds to consider the situation, before saying to herself, “Fuck it!” and then leaning further out of the window and whisper-shouting, “Give me three minutes!”
—
After a quickwee and a change of clothes—agreeing to dig up a golf course in the dark was quite wild enough, she didn’t need to do it in her avocado-print pajamas—she tiptoed downstairs, almost giddy with the sense of nostalgia evoked by sneaking out with Ryan. The grandfather clock—bedecked in a holly and red berry garland—ticked on steadily in the entrance hall as she wiggled her bed-socked feet into her winter hiking boots and unhooked her Puffa jacketfrom the coat rack. She spied her mum’s red beanie hat poking out of a coat pocket and grabbed that too, pulling it low over her ears.
“Don’t forget gloves, it’s going to snow again tonight.”
“Holy shit!” Fred literally leaped into the air with fright, spinning a full 360 degrees as she whirled to see where the voice had come from.
The silhouette of Aunt Aggie stood in the kitchen doorway. She leaned back and nudged open the fridge with her elbow, bathing the hall in its cool blue light.
“Bloody hell, Aunty, you scared the crap out of me!”
Aunt Aggie shrugged and said, “Sorry,” in an unapologetic voice.
“What are you doing here?” Fred asked, taking in her aunt’s long velvet dressing gown and Wellington boots. The white splint bandages on her wrists poked out of the ends of her sleeves.
“I could ask you the same.” She winked.
“Is that cheese and crackers?” Fred asked, noticing the plate on the table.
“I had the midnight munchies; and your mum bought some of that nice Lancashire cheese from the market earlier. Your Aunt Cam won’t have it in the cottage.”
“That’s because you’re lactose intolerant and you have zero willpower. She’s trying to save you from yourself!”
Aunt Aggie pulled a miffed expression. “Oh, intolerant bingbollerant.”
