Sophie ceased jumping and yanked the zip of her tiger onesie all the way up to her hairline.
Husband Jake’s cheese and pickle sandwich came to a halt midway to his mouth.
Two-year-old Thomas dunked Mr Potato Head into his full pot of yoghurt.
And Pip the dog rolled over and played dead.
The response was much as Annie had expected.
In her walk-in wardrobe, clutching the handle of her empty suitcase, a surge of panic swept over Amelia Richards.
What on earth had inspired her to accept her sister’s invitation to Yorkshire? Yorkshire for heaven’s sake. She couldn’t even recall the name of the out-in-the-sticks village where Annie lived. Buttersworth, or Butterton, or something resembling a low-fat spread. More to the point, what did people wear there? She very much doubted the residents of Butters-whatever-it-was-called would be tottering about in Ted Baker pencil skirts, fitted jackets and six-inch Manolos. Her usual weekday attire.
Not, she hastily reminded herself, that she would have need of such attire again. Not for a while at least. Because it wasn’t just sartorial problems triggering this fit of panic. Her job situation – or, rather, lack of job situation – was adding to her fragile state.
‘I’m so sorry, Amelia, but with the new restructure, we’re going to have to let you go.’
Have to let you go. For the last three days, ever since they’d floated across the managing director’s walnut desk, those words had rebounded around the confines of Amelia’s head like a snooker ball refusing to find a pocket.
‘And I know there’s never a good time for these things, but I hate to have to break the news just before Christmas,’ he’d added.
Amelia couldn’t have cared less about the timing. She was too busy beating herself black and blue. With the benefit of hindsight, she should have seen this coming; should have known that, in the cut-and-thrust world of finance, no one was safe; that even the enviable benefits package lavished on her by the UK’s largest insurer didn’t include job security – especially after the company had been gobbled up by a massive American corporation.
And gobbled it they had. But Amelia had seemingly not been to the usurper’s taste. She’d been spat out. Discarded. Abandoned. Her pride subjected to a monumental battering. She should have got out before being pushed, taken the initiative, followed her instincts. But she hadn’t. She’d sat back and let them screw her up and toss her aside like a used sandwich wrapper. Never, in all her twenty-nine years, had she felt more stupid.
Admittedly, though, stupid was one thing Amelia was not. Desperate to do well, she’d worked her socks off at school, her efforts being rewarded by an impressive stream of qualifications and accolades: Head Girl, Head of the Debating Society, President of the Chess Club – and, ultimately, a scholarship to Cambridge, where she added a double first in Mathematics to her collection.
Before she’d even left university, Providential Assurance had dangled a ridiculously juicy carrot before her. They’d spotted her potential, nurtured her career, supported her through the maze of actuarial exams, promoted her with astonishing regularity right up to head of department. Next step would be board member.
Except now it wouldn’t. At least not with Providential.
Of course Amelia knew once she put herself back on the job market, she would likely be bombarded with offers. But she couldn’t face it. Not yet.
She felt winded, like she’d been run over by a tank. Confidence crushed. Self-esteem shattered. Ego bruised. And she was tired. So very very tired.
She needed a break.
From London.
From Doug.
And for all she could afford to jet off to any of the world’s exotic, exclusive locations, she didn’t want to. The mere thought of facing a bustling noisy airport brought on a mild panic attack. Instead, a yearning for quite the opposite had overtaken her: one for all things familiar. England in winter might not be everyone’s ideal, but Amelia, in her present confused state, could think of nowhere more perfect. Frosty mornings, roaring log fires, steaming mugs of hot chocolate, long evenings curled up with a good book, and hearty country walks wrapped up in six layers of clothes was exactly what she needed.
She’d considered booking a little cottage where she could indulge in all of the above, but for all she couldn’t face swarms of people, neither could she face being alone. As pitiful as it sounded, she needed to be around people she knew – to feel cosseted and cared for. Not that she expected her sister, Annie, to cosset and care for her. Why would she when the two of them had never been close? Yet, for some reason, when she’d received the crushing redundancy news, Annie had been the first person, after Doug, that Amelia had wanted to speak to – had felt an overwhelming desire to speak to. And as soon as Annie had answered the phone, she’d known why. Her calming manner, sensible words and pragmatic advice had momentarily lifted Amelia’s spirits. And when Annie had invited her up to Yorkshire, she’d found herself accepting without a moment’s hesitation.
Of course, in hindsight, she realised Annie had probably only asked her out of politeness – probably hadn’t thought for a second that she’d say yes. But despite these misgivings, Amelia couldn’t think of a better place to escape to, to lick her wounds and regroup. And so, despite her sartorial deliberations, she’d made up her mind. She was going to Yorkshire.
*
‘Hi. I’m home.’
‘Hi. We’re upstairs. In the bathroom.’
Stan Suffolk heaved a weary sigh, before dumping his laptop case and jacket onto the sofa, and making his way up the creaky old staircase of Pear Tree Cottage.
In the bathroom, he found his wife, Bea, kneeling at the roll-top bath, propping up their nine-month-old daughter, Maddy, whose chubby form was surrounded by sweet-smelling bubbles.
‘Doesn’t she look adorable?’ sighed Bea, without so much as glancing at Stan. ‘She’s been brilliant today. I’m sure she even tried to say “mumma”. Some babies do talk as early as nine months, you know. I’ve been reading about it.’
‘Wow. That’s great,’ said Stan, sinking down onto the closed loo seat. And it was great. Every tiny thing their firstborn achieved was wonderful and Bea had every right to make a fuss about it. ‘So you’ve had a good day then?’
‘Amazing. We had a lovely time at playgroup. We sang Santa songs and made some Christmas cards with glitter. I took loads of pictures. Maddy looked so cute in her new Rudolph tights, didn’t you, munchkin.’ She swiped a bubble onto the child’s tiny nose. Maddy giggled, causing Stan to almost smile, before a yawn cut in first.
‘They’re all on Facebook.’
‘What are?’ Stan rubbed a hand over his face.
Bea turned to look at him and tutted. ‘The photos of Maddy in her new tights.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Aren’t you going to say hello to her?’
Stan stifled another yawn. ‘Of course. But I’ve only been in the house thirty seconds.’
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