that?’
‘Nothing.’
But Hugo had heard her childish retort and was gripping her wrist so tightly that her hand was in danger of turning blue. In fact it was going to turn blue anyway as a sharp blizzard came whistling in through the cat-flap. Tash, wearing only the dressing gown, was beginning to shiver. Beetroot, the disloyal minx, had started to lick Hugo’s wrist now.
‘Flattered as I am by your lust, Tash,’ he drawled, ‘I think I must warn you that it’s rather misdirected.’
‘That’s my dog,’ she grunted, trying again to pull away. ‘Look, will you two just piss off? I’m not celebrating New Year this time.’
Sighing, Hugo let go of her wrist. ‘Fair enough. Not sure I fancy sharing space with you in this bloody-minded mood anyway. Can I have my present back, please?’
Gritting her teeth, Tash ejected it at speed through the flap. She only just stopped Beetroot from following it out.
‘Happy New Year!’ Kirsty called huskily as their snow-muffled footsteps retreated.
Tash hoped Kirsty’s heels sent her flying into a ditch. She crawled back to her sofa and wished that she didn’t always feel so monumentally anti-social whenever Niall went away.
That had been her chance to be conciliatory to bloody Hugo, she realised. Her opportunity to fulfil her promise to Zoe and be nicer to him. If only he wasn’t so effing arrogant. He’d made it perfectly clear that he’d only come to collect her under heavy duress. And he’d undoubtedly only agreed to do so because it gave him the opportunity to slope off with Kirsty for an illicit grope, far away from the eyes of so many gossipy friends. The sod!
She turned on the television to be confronted by Sir Harry Secombe warbling a hymn from on top of a Welsh mountain. She quickly turned it off again and flumped over to the fridge, which was almost bare because she’d already raided it twice that afternoon. Three cold roast potatoes and half a tub of brandy butter later and she felt no better. She just felt sick.
Penny phoned again twice to beg her to come over, but each time Tash just thanked her and told her gently and firmly that she was far happier at home waiting for Niall to call.
‘But that won’t be for hours – come over for just one drink at midnight, huh?’
Tash wouldn’t be persuaded.
It was ten to twelve before she changed her mind. She’d just polished off her fifth fig roll and was washing it down with one of Niall’s cans of Guinness – the only alcohol she could find. Burping with an indigestive spasm in her chest, she realised just how smug and snide Hugo would be over the next few weeks if she didn’t pole up at all. He’d call her gutless and childish. It was just the sort of ammunition he devoured, storing it up for the perfect opportunity to put her down and mob her up.
She had no time to lose.
Dragging on the first outfit that came to hand, she ripped the towel from her tangled, half-dry hair, stepped into her Doc Marten boots – which were the only ones she could walk on ice in – and threw a chew to Beetroot before legging it towards the farm.
The Doc Martens might have given her a great grip, but the undone laces tripped her up three times. Tash landed twice on her bottom in deep snow and once nose down in a hedge. She sat in the middle of the lane, her wet backside soaking up yet more icy dampness, and hastily criss-crossed the laces around her ankles, her frozen fingers slowing her down to a hopeless fumble. Then, slipping her way upright again, she felt her buttocks clench against the cold air as she slithered and tripped towards the farm gates.
She arrived just as they were about to count down the hour.
‘Thirty seconds to go!’ came a scream from the sitting room to the left.
‘Everyone into the sitting room – double quick,’ called Gus.
For a moment, Tash was swept on a tide of familiar faces towards the huge, candle-lit room. Despite its size, however, it simply could not accommodate all of
‘Nothing.’
But Hugo had heard her childish retort and was gripping her wrist so tightly that her hand was in danger of turning blue. In fact it was going to turn blue anyway as a sharp blizzard came whistling in through the cat-flap. Tash, wearing only the dressing gown, was beginning to shiver. Beetroot, the disloyal minx, had started to lick Hugo’s wrist now.
‘Flattered as I am by your lust, Tash,’ he drawled, ‘I think I must warn you that it’s rather misdirected.’
‘That’s my dog,’ she grunted, trying again to pull away. ‘Look, will you two just piss off? I’m not celebrating New Year this time.’
Sighing, Hugo let go of her wrist. ‘Fair enough. Not sure I fancy sharing space with you in this bloody-minded mood anyway. Can I have my present back, please?’
Gritting her teeth, Tash ejected it at speed through the flap. She only just stopped Beetroot from following it out.
‘Happy New Year!’ Kirsty called huskily as their snow-muffled footsteps retreated.
Tash hoped Kirsty’s heels sent her flying into a ditch. She crawled back to her sofa and wished that she didn’t always feel so monumentally anti-social whenever Niall went away.
That had been her chance to be conciliatory to bloody Hugo, she realised. Her opportunity to fulfil her promise to Zoe and be nicer to him. If only he wasn’t so effing arrogant. He’d made it perfectly clear that he’d only come to collect her under heavy duress. And he’d undoubtedly only agreed to do so because it gave him the opportunity to slope off with Kirsty for an illicit grope, far away from the eyes of so many gossipy friends. The sod!
She turned on the television to be confronted by Sir Harry Secombe warbling a hymn from on top of a Welsh mountain. She quickly turned it off again and flumped over to the fridge, which was almost bare because she’d already raided it twice that afternoon. Three cold roast potatoes and half a tub of brandy butter later and she felt no better. She just felt sick.
Penny phoned again twice to beg her to come over, but each time Tash just thanked her and told her gently and firmly that she was far happier at home waiting for Niall to call.
‘But that won’t be for hours – come over for just one drink at midnight, huh?’
Tash wouldn’t be persuaded.
It was ten to twelve before she changed her mind. She’d just polished off her fifth fig roll and was washing it down with one of Niall’s cans of Guinness – the only alcohol she could find. Burping with an indigestive spasm in her chest, she realised just how smug and snide Hugo would be over the next few weeks if she didn’t pole up at all. He’d call her gutless and childish. It was just the sort of ammunition he devoured, storing it up for the perfect opportunity to put her down and mob her up.
She had no time to lose.
Dragging on the first outfit that came to hand, she ripped the towel from her tangled, half-dry hair, stepped into her Doc Marten boots – which were the only ones she could walk on ice in – and threw a chew to Beetroot before legging it towards the farm.
The Doc Martens might have given her a great grip, but the undone laces tripped her up three times. Tash landed twice on her bottom in deep snow and once nose down in a hedge. She sat in the middle of the lane, her wet backside soaking up yet more icy dampness, and hastily criss-crossed the laces around her ankles, her frozen fingers slowing her down to a hopeless fumble. Then, slipping her way upright again, she felt her buttocks clench against the cold air as she slithered and tripped towards the farm gates.
She arrived just as they were about to count down the hour.
‘Thirty seconds to go!’ came a scream from the sitting room to the left.
‘Everyone into the sitting room – double quick,’ called Gus.
For a moment, Tash was swept on a tide of familiar faces towards the huge, candle-lit room. Despite its size, however, it simply could not accommodate all of
Similar Books
