Alice Ross - A Winter's Wish

Another disparaging glare followed. ‘You can take over here while I sort out her supper. One of the girls from playgroup recommended Popeye Pasta with Savoy Spinach.’

Stan opened his mouth to enquire if Savoy Spinach was a class above Travelodge Spinach. But just as quickly he closed it again. Bea had that air of briskness about her that told him she wouldn’t find his quip the least bit amusing. At the mention of food, though, his stomach emitted a loud groan. He was starving. He’d driven all the way to Sheffield for a stupid twenty-minute meeting, then been stuck in traffic on the M1 for two hours on his way back to Leeds. His subsequent late arrival back at the office hadn’t gone down well with his boss, who’d been chomping at the bit to offload yet another heap of mind-numbingly dull spreadsheet requirements onto him.

Not that anyone appeared remotely interested in his day.

‘Here.’

He started as Bea tossed a towel in his direction. It had a penguin’s head attached to it.

‘She can have another five minutes in the water. She likes you to bob her pirate ship up and down. Oh. And make sure you dry her properly before you put her pyjamas on.’

Stan said nothing as he slipped off his watch, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and crouched down at the side of the bath to take over the propping up of his daughter.

‘Look now, darling, Daddy’s going to play pirates with you. Isn’t that lovely,’ cooed Bea, before whisking out of the room.

Maddy evidently thought otherwise. Her huge blue eyes grew wide. Her bottom lip quivered. And before Stan could utter any reassuring platitudes, she let out a blood-curdling scream.

As if by magic, Bea reappeared. ‘What have you done to her?’

Stan gawped. ‘Nothing. I just … Well, nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘You must’ve done something. She doesn’t bawl like that for no reason.’

‘I didn’t. She just – Well, I don’t know. I don’t think she likes me very much.’

Bea tutted – which, Stan had noticed, had become an increasingly frequent occurrence these days. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she chided, plucking the baby out of the water and swathing her in the towel, the penguin head perfectly perched atop Maddy’s damp blonde curls. ‘Of course she likes you. You’re her father, for heaven’s sake. The problem is that you don’t spend nearly enough time with her.’

Stan’s patience, already stretched to the limit by his crap day, began to twang dangerously. ‘And just when am I supposed to do that?’ he demanded, raising his voice above the wails of the baby. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m at work all bloody day.’

Bea narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t you dare swear in front of Maddy. And don’t raise your voice. You’ll upset her.’

The way the child was hollering, Stan couldn’t imagine her being more upset if Thomas the Tank Engine had run over Iggle Piggle. Not that he deemed it helpful to point that out.

‘I’ll have to settle her down,’ Bea huffed, strutting out of the room, baby and all. ‘It’s probably best if you stay out of the way.’

No change there then, Stan almost added. Since Maddy’s birth, he’d spent a great deal of time “out of the way”. He’d been relegated to the sidelines. Shown the red card. Sent off. His newly assigned role in the house, apart from the obvious one of provider, seemed purely to annoy the female contingent.

As the door to Maddy’s bedroom slammed shut, he sank down onto the bathroom floor, raked his hands through his thinning hair, and wondered how it had all gone so horribly wrong.

*

Goodness, mused Amelia, driving along Buttersley’s main street lined with quaint, tastefully adorned little shops, and trees twinkling with fairy lights in the dusky afternoon. She certainly hadn’t been expecting anything this pretty. Not that she’d been expecting anything really. Until the last few days, she’d never given a moment’s consideration to where her sister lived. She and Annie had never been close. With their parents emigrating to Goa the year Amelia started Cambridge, family get-togethers hadn’t featured much in their lives.

Then, of course, there was the age difference. Barrelling into the world almost a decade after her sister, Amelia always suspected she’d been a mistake rather than the “lovely surprise” her mother insisted. Nevertheless, the gap had resulted in the girls’ lives rarely colliding. Even in times of crisis – like when Annie had her first child and was subsequently dumped by her partner – Amelia played no part in the ensuing drama, far too focused on her university studies to permit any outside interference. It had been Annie’s best friend, Portia Pinkington-Smythe, who’d rescued her from that drama, offering Annie the job of caretaker at Buttersley Manor – her ancestral family pile. It was there Annie had met and subsequently married the celebrated author, Jake O’Donnell, and given birth to her second child two years ago. Amelia hadn’t made the wedding. She’d been on secondment in Providential’s Hong Kong office.

Indeed, the only time Amelia had made any date with Annie and her little family was when they trooped down to London, when Jake had an appointment with his agent, or a book launch. Amelia would meet them for lunch, although admittedly her mind was generally more on her pending afternoon schedule than forging familial bonds.

To be honest, she had no idea why she’d experienced the need to call Annie with the redundancy news. She certainly wasn’t in the habit of exchanging confidences with her sister. Or with anyone, for that matter. Over the years, she’d mastered the art of becoming emotionally self-sufficient – out of necessity, she acknowledged, rather than choice. But who was to blame for that? Nobody but herself, that was who.

Thankfully, before she could become even more maudlin, she spotted a sign pinned to the side of a huge oak tree, proudly bearing the name of The Cedars. Without further deliberation, she swung her Mercedes Coupe off the main road and up the narrow drive towards the house. And what a house, she concluded a minute later as she parked on the semi-circular sweep of gravel in front of the white two-storey Georgian villa. It looked utterly adorable; like it hadn’t changed at all in two hundred years; like Ms Austen herself could swan around the corner at any moment. But it wasn’t Ms Austen who sailed out of the bottle-green front door with an enormous holly wreath pinned to it. It was Amelia’s sister, Annie, looking effortlessly pretty in faded jeans, a white Arran jumper, and beige Ugg boots.

Amelia, in a grey tailored trouser suit and high heels, immediately wished she’d worn something more casual. But that thought was swiftly nudged aside by the warm, welcoming smile on her sister’s face. Such a warm, welcoming smile that a rush of unaccustomed affection surged through Amelia. Desperate to cling on to what was left of her equilibrium, she sucked in a deep breath, tucked the sides of her honey-blonde bob behind her ears, forced the corners of her lips upwards, and prepared to greet her sibling.

‘Hi,’ Annie gushed, as Amelia scrambled out of the car. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve arrived safely. And before it’s too dark. How was the drive?’

Before Amelia could reply, Annie enveloped her in an embrace. Amelia didn’t normally engage in shows of physical affection. She found it easier to keep people at arm’s length – to maintain a respectable distance between herself and her fellow man. But, with her sister’s arms around her, breathing in her subtle scent of roses and fresh bread, something tugged at her heart, bringing tears to her eyes.

Thankfully Annie didn’t seem to notice as, all at once, she released her hold and bent down to the car.