Hazel, who’s left Charlie in the other room presumably to be babysat by Amy, puts her arm around his shoulder. ‘It’s lovely, Bails. Even better than last year.’
Kate comes to join in, with her boob thankfully now covered, and holds up her baby to see the dessert. ‘Holly, meet Eve.’ I shake her bootee foot, and she gurgles, then burps up a spattering of breast milk.
Suddenly, the back door flies open, and a blast of wintery air cuts through the kitchen like a knife. Jennifer, Allan, and Sarah come stomping in, along with another guy who I assume is Simon, the eldest. I brace myself, not knowing where to look. But they’re all fully clothed, rugged up in winter coats and puffer jackets.
Sarah’s cheeks are ruddy under her pink beanie, and she has a matching scarf. She stamps her feet on the back-door mat to get the snow off her boots. ‘The sheep are OK, and the stream is still flowing in parts,’ she says. ‘I hope Mirabelle can make it through tomorrow. The snowbanks are getting high.’
She sees me staring at her open-mouthed. ‘Are you catching flies, Holly?’ she says in a teasing tone. I shut my mouth with a snap and look over at Bailey, who is rinsing dishes in the kitchen sink. His shoulders are heaving. He’s just told me a load of old bollocks about his family being naturists just to shock me. Now he’s laughing at my expense!
I clench my fists and say in a steely voice, ‘Bailey, can I talk to you in private?’
He turns and quickly wipes away tears of mirth with the back of his hand.
‘Oooh, lovers’ quarrel,’ drawls Kirk. He seems to be observing us rather closely, which is making me nervous. Maybe he’s picking up on something not being quite right.
Bailey edges towards the kitchen door, and I stalk after him.
In the hallway, I’m about to let loose when he sprints upstairs, laughing like a hyena. I take off after him, trying to grab his jumper, but he’s too quick.
Now I’m seeing red in all its glorious fury. He’s going to pay for this. Bailey nips into his bedroom and tries to close the door in my face. But I manage to force it open, huffing and puffing, and we stumble into the room. Crumpet yelps and makes a dash for it out the door.
Before I know what’s happening, Bailey’s grabbed a cushion and whacked me on the back with it, so I fall face down on the bed.
‘Why, you little ...!’ I growl.
I’m so mad I grab two cushions and start boxing him round the ears. He pummels me back, snickering in glee. I have to admit, it feels good to let out my anger about the TikTok, the Lewis betrayal, and Bailey himself for locking me into this situation.
One of my cushions splits, and a bunch of feathers swirl into the air, then start descending like soft snow. I discard the cushion as it starts losing impact and continue swinging wildly with the other one, managing to get in a few satisfying blows to his chest.
Feathers land on my cheeks, and I shake them off impatiently, intent on winning this fight. Bailey has feathers all over his hair. He looks like a plucked chicken, as, I suppose, do I.
We eye each other with our respective cushions held aloft, breathing hard. Then Bailey lowers his and holds out his hand.
‘Truce? Before we rip my room to shreds?’
I look at his hand in silence. Deliberately, I ignore it and reach out and swiftly pluck the two beady eyes from his gingerbread man that have been glued on to his jumper. Running round to the sash window, I heave it up, chuck them out, and shut it again with a whump.
I stand there, panting—take that.
Bailey gives me a slow clap. ‘Nice, veeeery mature.’
He goes over to his bag, unzips it, and pulls out another Christmas jumper—this one green. He takes off the red jumper intentionally slowly until he’s in snug Levi’s and a tight white T-shirt that hugs his bicep muscles. A flush of heat that has nothing to do with the recent exercise washes over me.
Bailey pulls on the other jumper just as deliberately slowly to annoy me. I’m now staring at a goofy Rudolph sporting a red nose and googly eyes.
I’m amused at his show of defiance. ‘How many Christmas jumpers do you have in there?’
‘More than enough to foil you. Bwahahaha.’ He chuckles evilly.
‘So I take it your family aren’t naturists then? You fibber.’
‘I think Mum did the odd bit of sunbathing in the garden when she was younger. But no, not as far as I’m aware. Your face when they walked in, though ...’ He starts laughing again.
‘Shut up.’ But I can’t help laughing a bit, and I feel lighter and more relaxed, as if thumping Bailey with a cushion has been cathartic in some way.
Chapter 9
After scooping up the feathers as best we can, Bailey tries to, unsuccessfully, stuff them back into the cushion.
