Well, fuck him.
‘Sylvie,’ Laurel called on her way past her assistant’s office. ‘Can you buzz Jack to make sure he’s down in the farmyard to show the plant machinery where to go?’
‘On it, boss,’ Sylvie answered.
Laurel headed into her office and closed the door quietly behind her, leaning on it with her eyes closed.
This was not how today was supposed to go.
Professor Rowlands was supposed to be running the dig, probably with the aid of a post grad or two. Laurel had not banked on Nate Daley being here as well. How quickly did he turn from a gruff ‘I need to get to the site’ to ‘oh yes, let’s have afternoon tea’. What was that about? She wanted to pry open that nailed-shut box of dreams in the bottom drawer of her desk and let them out, bit by bit, just to see what it would feel like if she didn’t have to run Little Willow Farm. Instead, her dreams of being on-site, helping out a little, being involved, drooped with her shoulders.
Laurel had helped with the funding, she’d lobbied for Professor Rowlands and his team, she was putting them up, it was her fucking land. But no, with Nate I-don’t-say-please Daley in charge, it was unlikely that she’d be able to enter her own field, let alone get her hands dirty. She certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking.
No thank you. Her shoulders drooped.
Well, now that her afternoon plans of helping and coordinating with Professor Rowlands were scuppered, what was she supposed to do? Laurel had crammed as much as she could into this morning to ensure that she had some spare time this afternoon, and now she would be sitting at her desk watching the clock ticking. Sure, she could recheck the Single Farm Payment paperwork or have a look at the preliminary maize maze designs, but that had been planned for tomorrow and next week, and quite frankly, she didn’t want to.
Laurel slumped at her desk and checked her phone.
It was her best friend and Jack’s wife, Rebecca.
Rebecca was Jack’s true love, his one and only, the girl he first kissed when he was fourteen. He waited and pined and wrote terrible poetry until he was sixteen and Rebecca noticed him again. Rebecca had fallen hard for her brother and Laurel’s heart grew every time she thought about their Grand Passion. Not that their life had been without ups and downs. It had been difficult when Rebecca went to university and Jack stayed on the farm. But what was Jack’s loss was Laurel’s gain.
By the time Rebecca had absolutely smashed her Legal Practice Certificate – to enable her to be the best lawyer that county had ever seen – and Laurel’s BA was completed, and they both returned to the farm, Rebecca was no longer just her brother’s girlfriend. They were fast, firm, best friends. Much to Jack’s disappointment. He didn’t like sharing, especially not when it came to Rebecca, but there were worse people to share her with than his sister.
And it was Rebecca. Not Becca, not Reba, not Becky, not Beck. REBECCA.
Thing was though, Rebecca didn’t know what had happened with Nate Daley and Alex Woollard. Well, she obviously knew that Laurel had the most heart-wrenching, dry-mouthed, beetroot-red crush on Nate because twenty-year-old Laurel was about as subtle as two bricks smashing together. But Laurel had been too embarrassed to ever tell her, or anyone, what happened in the student union bar that afternoon ten years ago.
After, Laurel had taken a long, hard look at herself and resolved never to put herself on the line like that again. She’d protected herself and her heart by wrapping it in that magnificent iron ribbon in her chest, locked the ends together and swallowed the key.
Not that she’d completely given up. A Grand Passion was out there somewhere, but that iron ribbon was not being unwound unless she was absolutely sure. Tinder, and her favourite toys in the bedside drawer, helped. A lot.
Laurel wandered around her office, trailing her fingers across her large meeting table. She straightened the black and white photograph of the farmhouse from the 1860s and made sure all the ring binders on the shelves were neatly aligned.
The car park below was filling, and Laurel watched a mother try to navigate a pram around a massive pile of cow shit.
Could Robin do any less around the farm? Their father let him get away with anything, and he certainly didn’t listen to Laurel. She’d have to get Jack to have a word with him, because this was less than acceptable.
‘Sylvie,’ Laurel called, unbuckling her sandals. ‘Did you speak to Robin about the yard? The car park?’
Her assistant appeared in the doorway.
‘Yes, I did. He promised he would do it.’ Sylvie wrung her hands in front of her.
Laurel clicked her tongue.
‘It’s not your fault. It’s my absolute dickhead of a little brother, don’t worry.’ She’d read enough management books to know that her highly strung temperament wasn’t usually the most conducive for building a good working environment. ‘I’m sorry for swearing,’ she said, giving Sylvie what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Give me an hour, and then come and see me and give me an update on the social media campaign for the Pick Your Own.’
Laurel pulled socks over her beautifully manicured feet and shuffled them into her Hunters wellies.
‘But, I...’ Sylvie took a breath. ‘That meeting is set for tomorrow. I haven’t quite finished everything.’
Laurel regarded Sylvie and smiled kindly, because Sylvie had grown as an employee as well.
‘Yes, you’re quite right. Thanks for reminding me.’
Sylvie let out a breath and turned back to her office.
