‘You really do,’ she replied with a grin, taking a couple of steps towards the pavement. ‘See you on Monday.’
He took a step after her.
‘You’re not walking home by yourself, are you?’
‘I live above the Post Office, it’s fifty metres away,’ she called.
‘Text me when you get home.’ Why the hell had that come out of his mouth? But what if George Hibbert was somewhere around?
He watched her walk for a few seconds, before attempting to manhandle Anwar onto the bus.
Laurel
Laurel’s mouth felt like she’d stuffed ten thousand crackers into it. She reached for the pint of water Drunk Laurel had put on the bedside table. She was a good one sometimes, Drunk Laurel. But she hadn’t been all that drunk, had she? She’d taken off her makeup, she wasn’t sleeping in her clothes, she’d plugged her phone in to charge, so those were all wins. But Drunk Laurel had forgotten to draw the curtains and she hissed like a vampire as she turned over into the blinding, warm sun.
She sat up gingerly. Okay, good. No spinning, no pounding. Drink the water, take two paracetamol, just to be on the safe side, and everything would be right with the world.
Laurel drained her water and checked her phone.
She texted back quickly.
What had happened to make calm, collected, stare-down-hardened-criminals Rebecca needy? Laurel frowned at the phone, concerned. She was never needy, never insecure, always on top of things.
Laurel dragged herself out of bed. Walking had always been their saving grace, a way of keeping their sanity and getting away from, well, everything.
Laurel considered texting Jack. See, that was the problem when your best friend was your brother’s wife; split loyalties. Laurel had learned the hard way that the best thing to do was to keep way, way, way out of their relationship and never, ever mention it to Jack. Ever.
Quick shower and brush of teeth, and Laurel was out of the door with big sunglasses covering her face. Surely, the unfeasibly hot British summer had to give way to furious storm clouds at some point.
When she arrived at the start of the footpath, Rebecca was already wearing out the path, pacing back and forth in her expensive trainers.
‘Hey,’ she waved.
‘Oh, Laurel, there you are,’ Rebecca said, hugging her tightly. ‘You look kind of alright for going out last night.’
‘Yeah, I know!’ Laurel was as surprised as Rebecca. ‘There was only one brandy, and that was Nate Daley’s fault.’
‘Brandy?’ Rebecca scrunched up her nose.
‘Don’t ask.’ This wasn’t about her; this was about her best friend.
Rebecca linked her arm through Laurel’s and they started along the footpath. There were picnickers, a family playing cricket, dogs chasing balls, kites flying. It was a quintessential British summer day, but Laurel didn’t see any of it, because her friend marched her unrelentingly along the pathway to the hill.
‘Come on, don’t be a baby, the twins walk up this hill,’ she said when Laurel started to moan.
They could have easily sat on the bench at the bottom and talked, but no. Rebecca obviously needed to burn some energy, work something out in her mind by making her legs hurt.
‘Fine, but I’m stopping halfway up,’ Laurel huffed. Rebecca strode ahead.
It wasn’t a big hill but still, bigger than she wanted this particular Saturday morning. Laurel was red faced and puffy when she collapsed on the bench at the top.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Or are you just going to punish me for the rest of the day?’ Laurel said, turning her back to the sun and pushing her sunglasses into her hair. Rebecca twisted her fingers in her lap and avoided Laurel’s eyes. ‘Did something happen last night? What’s Jack done? You know he’s a complete idiot sometimes.’
Rebecca shrugged and looked over Little Houghton.
‘He wants another baby,’ she said, deflated.
‘Oh.’ Laurel blew out a breath. ‘I thought you guys were done after the twins?’
