Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop (24 page)

“I thought it was too good to be true,” said Angie. “I really did. Not that I don't think she deserves the world.”

“I know you think that,” said Desleigh. “You're a wonderful mother.”

“Thank you,” said Angie. “So are you”

They smiled happily at one another.

“But he's just . . . I mean, he's just not really going to be there for her, is he?”

Angie shook her head sorrowfully.

“And can you imagine THAT as a mother-­in-­law?”

Angie and Desleigh shared a giggle at how unfortunate other ­people could be with their in-­laws.

“No. It's not going to happen,” said Angie. “I think Rosie just has to face up to it. Not that he isn't a spunk.”

“He's a spunk,” agreed Desleigh, a little too vociferously. “But you know what they say: men don't get much keener than they are at the beginning.”

“That's right,” said Angie. “Oh yes, I know that.”

“So . . .”

“Yup,” said Angie. “I think we're going to get her to come back with us.”

Desleigh and Angie chinked glasses. There was the sound of loud screeching from upstairs.

“Muuum!” shouted Pip. “Can you come and settle these bloody buggers?”

Desleigh watched Angie go upstairs with much satisfaction. Having Auntie Rosie on hand would make things even easier. After all, she thought, refilling her glass, it took a village to raise a child.

 

Chapter 22

R
OSIE
AWOKE
WITH
a start. There was a noise. At first she didn't know where she was. Then she realized she must have fallen asleep. The fire was burning low in the grate, and the room was turning cold. The television was showing late-­night comedians making fun of the royal family, and she looked crossly at the empty sherry glass.

Then she realized what the noise was: the house phone was ringing. It stopped, then seconds later started again. She glanced at her watch; it was two
A
.
M
. Her heart skipped a beat; it must be Stephen. She grabbed the phone and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Rosie?”

The voice was masculine, but, she realized, it wasn't Stephen. Gradually, it filtered through her sleep-­fuddled head that it was Moray's soft tones.

“What?” she said. “What is it?”

“Are you sober?”

“What are you talking about? Of course I'm sober. Well. I had two glasses of sherry . . . five hours ago.”

“Fine, fine, that'll do.”

She heard the slight tension in his voice.

“What is it?”

“Only bloody Hester.”

Rosie blinked a few times before she realized who he meant.

“Edison's mother . . . Oh Christ, the baby.”

“Yes, the bloody baby. Deciding to make an appearance on the night when there are no doctors, no ambulances, two feet of bloody snow, midwife en route but not sounding over confident, and muggins here on call.”

Rosie struggled to her feet, looking around for her thick down coat. “I'm here . . . Can you pick me up?”

“Do you need time to get dressed?”

“No,” snapped Rosie, then, “Don't ask. Where's Hye?”

“Bahamas,” said Moray crossly. “Something about winter locality coverage payments.” He sniffed loudly. “See you in two.”

R
OSIE
THREW
SOME
water on her face and tried to comb her hair, then gave it up as a pointless job. It was hardly as if she were going to a photo shoot. It had been three years since she'd assisted at a birth, but hopefully it would come back to her.

“At least Hester's all into this natural birth stuff,” said Moray cheerfully in the car. “I don't know how we'd get an anesthetist out here, but I got the midwife to read her records over the phone, and the baby's fine, presented, turned the right way. I don't know about you, but I'm not exactly in the mood for performing an emergency section.”

“Jesus,” said Rosie.

“I'm joking,” said Moray. “Calm down. We'd get the helicopter out again. Three times in a month; they'll love us.”

Rosie half-­smiled, her heart beating fast, and checked her phone again. There was nothing from Stephen. Where the fuck was he? He could be dead in a ditch as far as she knew. He'd taken some clothes, so she'd figured he was lying low for a few days. But how long was that supposed to be? Or maybe he'd actually moved to London and was so damned posh he didn't need his stuff. She sighed.

“Seriously, I was joking,” said Moray. “I'm sure it's going to be fine. I've done this before, you know. See a bit of it in rural practice in the winter. It's like being a vet.”

“That totally makes me feel better, James Herriot,” said Rosie. “No, it's . . . oh God. It's Stephen.”

“Is he being . . . difficult?”

“He's ‘taking some time to figure things out.' ”

“Mmm,” said Moray. He knew that Rosie wanted him to call Stephen an arsehole to make her feel better, but he couldn't now.

Rosie sighed. The car drew up outside the pretty little eco house marooned among the trees. Rosie thought back to that dreadful morning she'd had to tell Hester the news about Edison. Thank God that boy was home for Christmas.

Inside, all the lights were on. Arthur was trying to fill up a leaking rubber paddling pool, which Rosie belatedly realized, after wondering whether this was a good time for paddling, was meant to be the birthing pool.

“Hello, Rosie,” said Edison happily from his chair. He was wearing bright red pajamas with Santas on them. “Are you here to sperience the miracle of natril birth?”

“Apparently, yes,” said Rosie. “Can I boil the kettle?”

Hester was upstairs, holding on to the side of the reclaimed bed, her huge belly seeming to move on its own. She was swearing like a trooper.

“Thank fuck,” she said. “Fuck this for a fucking game of fucking soldiers.”

“Hush, hush,” said Rosie, jumping into practical nurse mode with barely any effort. “Come on, let's get Moray to take a look at you, see where we're at.”

Hester eyed her balefully.

“Fuck off,” she said. “I've changed my mind. I don't want this fucking baby.”

Moray popped his head back outside.

“Arthur,” he yelled. “How long has your wife been in labor?”

“Four years,” shouted Arthur. “Oh, sorry. About twelve hours, I think.”

He straightened up from the pool.

“She was really mellow to begin with. Lots of yoga and stuff. Breathing and the rest of it. Then I think we . . . moved out of that stage.”

Rosie tried to help Hester back onto the bed, but Hester was having none of it.

“Why didn't you call us before?” Rosie said gently.

“Get to fuck,” said Hester.

“I think maybe just keep Edison downstairs?” said Moray, quickly scrubbing up. “Right. You. Sweary McLairy from Robertson's Dairy. On the bed.”

They managed to move Hester, moaning and grimacing and occasionally shrieking, to the bed, where Moray finally got to examine her without being kicked.

“This is where I wish I'd gone into small animal work,” he said briefly, then found what he was looking for.“Oh, excellent,” he said to Hester. “Eight centimeters. You're nearly there.”

Hester raised herself off the bed.

“I,” she said very slowly and carefully. “WOULD. LIKE. MY. FUCKING. EPIDURAL. NOW.”

Rosie went downstairs to pick up the hot water and fresh towels and to tell Arthur to turn up the heat in the bedrooms.

“How on earth,” she said very quickly and quietly, “did she manage to have Edison naturally?”

Arthur looked at her in consternation.

“Oh, she didn't,” he said. “Elective section at thirty-­eight weeks to keep the weight off.” He coughed. “Hester's changed a LOT since we got married.”

Rosie's eyes popped.

“I'll say,” she said.

She ran back upstairs and mopped Hester's brow.

“You're doing great,” she said.

“Fuck off,” said Hester. “This totally blows. ARGH!”

And she went into another contraction.

Rosie and Moray looked at each other.

“All normal,” said Moray. “Shouldn't be long now.”

But it was. And as Hester yelled and swore through the night, and Edison wheeled around downstairs in excitement, she and Moray talked and helped Hester breathe through contractions

“Why does ANYONE do this shit?” she was saying. “This is like being in a fucking car accident,” until Moray said that he had precisely one vial of diamorphine on him, and if she stopped the filthy language she could have it, which quieted her down a bit and he gave her half of it, whereupon the waves still came on her, stronger and stronger, but she felt more able to gather them in, to let the seas toss her and bend with the storm.

“A Christmas baby,” mused Rosie. “In sitcoms, this is always hilarious.”

Moray raised an eyebrow as Rosie squeezed Hester's hand.

“So,” said Moray. “It's not going so well with lover boy then?”

Rosie squeezed Hester's hand and felt mournful.

“Well, at least I'll never need to go through this,” she said, half-­joking.

“Oh, Rosie,” said Moray, sad that Stephen hadn't taken his advice. “I'm so sorry. If there's anything . . . Well, I never saw him happier than when I saw him with you.”

“Thanks,” said Rosie. “Tina said that too. But it doesn't appear to have been enough.”

“No,” said Moray. “I know a bit about that.”

Rosie looked at him curiously.

“I really thought he loved you, Rosie. I really did.” Moray looked at her straight on, and she wondered what had happened to his nice young house officer in Carningford. “But you can't ever
make
someone love you.”

“I know” said Rosie, her heart breaking at the sound of the words.

“I
love you,” said Moray.

“Thanks.”

Moray reached over Hester's huge bouncing sweaty knees and gently clasped Rosie's shoulder.

“Okay!” he said then, taking a fresh pair of gloves. “Let's have a look . . . YOUR reward,” he said to Hester, “for stopping being a total navvy is that . . . yup . . . I think it's time for you to have a baby.”

“Can I push now?” she asked, grunting.

“Yup! I'm going to count to three, and then I want you to push on a count of five for me then stop, okay? Rosie?”

“I'm on it,” said Rosie.

Then all was action as they focused on nothing else: not the snow, not the world outside, not Stephen, not anything except counting and Hester bearing down, and bearing down again, as their world contracted to the little circle of light in the forest.

 

Chapter 23

S
TEPHEN
LOOKED
AROUND
at the room. They were in the VIP lounge of a Chelsea nightclub. The air smelled of makeup, heavy perfume, young sweat. The girls looked unreal, like crazy fashion models from outer space. They wore incredibly pointy heels on long skinny legs, short, short skirts, and swishy Kate Middleton hair, and they were bronzed, shimmering creatures, throwing back their heads when they laughed—­though he didn't know how could they tell what was funny because the noise levels were deafening—­revealing long smooth throats, checking themselves out on the mirrored walls and ceilings. He had had a very long day.

“Come on,” his old mate Olly had said. “We'll take you out, show you a good time. That'll sort you out. Thought we'd lost you to being stuck in the country for the rest of your natural life, with some dumpy little ball and chain.”

Stephen had smiled uneasily. A few days, he had thought, catching up with his friends in London—­Cee Cee was always pleased to see him, although of course he wasn't rich enough for her; still, she liked having some breeding spread around. Olly was always going on about all the fun he was missing, and he needed to get away, so it seemed to make sense. Now he was here, though, it didn't seem like fun at all. Olly's plump ruddy cheeks were completely unchanged from prep school, likewise his rotund tummy, but he was wearing a very expensive watch and pricey shoes and was in here to begin with, and that seemed to be enough for the bronzed girl with the incredibly long hair, who was throwing back her head and laughing hysterically at everything he said, even as he snuck a plump pale arm around her slender waist.

Stephen rolled his eyes. When he glanced to his right, a beautiful girl he hadn't seen before was sitting there. She had glitter across her face and a wide smile that looked as if she'd never been so pleased to see anyone in her life.

“Merry Christmas!” she said. “Who are YOU?”

Stephen introduced himself.

“So are you at your London house or your country house tonight?” the girl asked brightly. “I like your shirt by the way.”

“Just staying with a friend,” said Stephen, indicating Olly. The girl glanced over. “Oh, Olly. EVERYONE knows Olly, he's such a laugh.”

That was hardly surprising, thought Stephen, since he'd inherited twenty million from his grandfather. Champagne was always on Olly.

“I'm Mills. So what do you do?” she said, biting her lip suggestively and giving him a look through lashes so heavily fringed they weighed down her huge blue eyes.

Stephen smiled.

“I'm a primary teacher.”

Her languid expression changed immediately.

“Oh yes?” she said. She glanced over his shoulder, looking around the room.

“Yes,” said Stephen. “I love it.”

He watched her gaze fall on his wooden stick, lying just beside him.

“You know,” she said, “I think I've just seen my friend come in.” She shimmied her perfect body away from him, the sequins sparkling.

Olly stuck his arm around her as she stood up.

“Hey Mills, not enjoying talking to Lord Lipton? Sixty-­room manor house not enough for you these days?”

The girl's face changed immediately from disdain to renewed interest to clear disappointment as Stephen did not return her gaze but instead moved up for Olly, who scooched in next to him, the girl he'd been talking to by his side, then suddenly on his lap.

“Meet . . .”

“Della,” the girl supplied helpfully. She was gorgeous and looked about twenty-­two, and it was Christmas Eve and she was hanging out with a fat bloke fifteen years older than her who didn't even know her name. Suddenly Stephen felt unutterably weary and about a hundred years old.

“You look down, old boy. Fancy a toot?”

Stephen glanced at him. “God, no. Do you know how many lives are ruined to get that filthy stuff to you?”

Olly rolled his eyes

“Oh God, yes, I forgot about activist Stephen. Having a good time? Aren't the girls classic?”

“They're very pretty,” said Stephen wearily. “But no, I'm not having a good time.”

He realized as he said it how true it was.

“Oh man, Olly. I miss Rosie. I really do. I think I might have fucked it up beyond recovery.”

“Plenty more fish in the sea,” said Olly, who found this sort of talk very embarrassing.

Stephen looked around.

“Well, I suppose so. But she's the one I want.”

“You're going to bury yourself up there then?” said Olly. “With that fat shop girl?”

Stephen looked around the room and made a decision. He stood up.

“If she'll have me,” said Stephen. “And by the way, speak about her like that one more time and I'll punch you in the face.”

“Sorry, sorry, bit pissed, only joking, only my way,” said Olly hastily. He knew what Stephen was like in a fight, never mind his leg. He softened his tone.

“Under your bloody mother's roof? Are you sure you can bear that?” In the end, he had known Stephen for a long time and was kinder than his bluff exterior would suggest.

“Might have to,” said Stephen.

One of Mills's friends had sidled up to him.

“Mills was wondering if you wanted to take her to dinner.”

Stephen glanced over to where Mills was sitting at a table looking both unutterably ravishing and utterly penitent.

“Christ, no,” he said.

He grabbed hold of his stick and went out into the freezing London night.

There wasn't a cab to be found anywhere, and his leg was giving him trouble, but he wanted to walk. Chelsea looked pretty under a little blanket of snow, but he found it hunched together and annoying; traffic noise everywhere, concrete, concrete, noisy ­people spilling out of bars and shouting; nightclubs and restaurants pouring out light and music everywhere you turned. Where did ­people get peace and quiet? Where did they escape the crazy twenty-­four hours of the world? He passed two men fighting over a woman who was screaming at them that it wasn't worth it. It wasn't, of course. He couldn't see a single star above his head in the city's fake orange glow.

He craved Rosie suddenly. Craved her like a glass of cold water after a long hot day; or a warm cup of hot chocolate after a snowy afternoon playing outside with eleven five-­year-­olds; exactly, in fact, the kind of hot chocolate she'd made him just over a week ago. He needed her. He took out his phone, scrolled down. He couldn't call, it was one
A
.
M
. He wouldn't get through anyway; she wouldn't have a signal, and if he rang the house phone, he might wake Lilian. . . . He was still on the point of ringing when something else struck him, a better idea. He'd need to get out of Olly's way anyway; if he knew his friend, he'd be carting that girl home to examine his gleaming Aston Martin any minute. He texted quickly to say thanks, but he was cutting his London trip short, then headed for his car, parked outside Olly's mews house. He was going to go home.