One Christmas Morning & One Summer's Afternoon Read Free

even set a place for herself, she kicked off her shoes, grabbed four more chocolate biscuits out of the jar and trudged upstairs to run a bath. In London she’d always kept her flat scrupulously clean, just in case John decided to pop in unannounced. Here she thought nothing of dropping her clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor and leaving a trail of biscuit crumbs on the stairs. No one was going to see the mess, any more than anyone was going to see her unshaven legs and woefully unpedicured toes, or the small but definitely there roll of fat that had formed around her middle like a flotation device.
Saving me from drowning in heartbreak
,
thought Laura. Then she thought how much fatter she’d be if she were still pregnant – she’d be almost ready to pop by now – and had to splash water on her face to stop herself from crying.
    Five minutes later the bath was ready. Sinking her aching limbs into the hot, lavender-scented bathwater, Laura exhaled deeply, relaxed for the first time all day. Dangling her hand over the side of the bath, so Peggy could lick the chocolate from her fingers, she thought idly about Gabriel Baxter and Lisa James – Joseph and Mary. They were probably back at Gabe’s farm, having wild sex right this minute. For a split second Laura felt a pang of envy. Not because she had the slightest desire to sleep with Gabe, but because, since John and losing the baby, she hadn’t the slightest desire, full stop. She was only twenty-eight. But there were days when she couldn’t imagine ever being sexual again.
    ‘I’m turning into an old woman, Peggy.’
    The pug snuffled dismissively. Or perhaps it was supportively. Peggy did a lot of snuffling. Lying back, Laura immersed her whole head in the water, allowing her dark curls to spread out around her like a mermaid’s locks, luxuriating in the warmth and peace. When she sat up again, the phone was ringing.
    ‘Goddamn it.’ She contemplated not answering. It was probably just that old pervert Harry Hotham, trying to pin her down for a dinner date. Disgusting old goat. But years spent in the cut and thrust of a TV studio had left her congenitally incapable of leaving telephones to ring. Pulling herself up out of the bath like a Kraken, dripping lavender water all over the oak floorboards, she skidded down the corridor into her bedroom. Just as she was about to pick up the phone, the answer machine kicked in. She heard her own voice played back to her.
    ‘This is Laura. Please leave a message.’
    God, I sound awful. So depressed! I must remember to do a perkier version in the morning.
    ‘Laura, hi. This is Daniel.’
    She froze.
Daniel. Daniel Smart?
Daniel Smart was an old flame – a very old flame – from her student days at Oxford. Head of the Boat Club, and president of OUDS, the prestigious university dramatic society, Daniel had always been destined to do great things. They’d had a fling in the Christmas of Laura’s second year – they’d actually spent the holiday at Fittlescombe, in the cottage at Mill House, the year before Laura’s parents sold it. When the romance fizzled out, Laura had been briefly heartbroken. But it all felt like a lifetime ago now. Last she heard, Daniel was a wildly successful West End theatre producer. Married. Happy.
    ‘Look, one of our old Oxford lot told me you were in Fittlescombe.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I know I shouldn’t. But I came over all nostalgic. Anyway, probably silly of me. I just thought I’d get back in touch, see how you are.’
    Laura sank down on the bed, shivering. In her haste, she’d forgotten a towel. The Aga kept the kitchen warm, but what little central heating there was upstairs at Briar Cottage all seeped out through the warped and rotting windows. Laura’s bedroom was as cold as any polar base camp. Pulling the knitted bedspread off the bed, she wrapped it around herself.
    ‘Well.’ Daniel laughed again. ‘If you
do
want to call, I’m on 07891 991 686. But if not,