“Look, I know you’re supporting me, Mrs M. But if we’re going to get through this holiday, let’s keep our thoughts to ourselves and try to struggle through with the minimum of casualties.”
After a glance, she chuckled a steamy breath into the morning.
“You’re really selling this holiday, aren’t you? But I’m deadly serious, Trevor. If you want to back out now, we’re with you all the way.”
He stared into the distance and thought about something Cheryl had said recently to him. Quoting the five stages of grief, she believed Trevor should be going through the anger stage by now, showing signs of betrayal or issuing threats of revenge. But that was never going to be his style. Others had made their thoughts and feelings known about Karl, but Trevor wasn’t built that way. Yes, of course he had wallowed in self-pity at first, but he had also had nine months to use up those emotions and now felt wrung out, emotionally exhausted, and resigned to living outthe rest of his days as a bachelor gay. And a holiday far away from the city smoke could be just what the therapist ordered—if he’d had one.
“Stuff it, no. Let’s do it, Mrs M. If not for us, for Monica. She loved this time of year. And we’re gathering in the land of her ancestors, the Caledonian Celts.”
“Oh, baby,” she said, putting her arm around his shoulders and hugging him tightly. “You have such a good heart. I promise never to mention this again for the duration of the holiday, but Karl was neither right nor good enough for you.”
“You’re obligated to say that. It’s written into the mother charter under the ‘Cheryl’s best friend’ subsection. So how many are we now?”
“You, me and Cheryl.”
“Three.”
“Karl and his new—is she his girlfriend?” asked Mrs M.
“Partner, I think.”
“What’s her name?”
“No idea. But that makes us five.”
“Jessica and this guy she’s bringing. From Hannah’s office.”
“Seven then. Are they a couple?”
“Not according to Hannah.”
“How are they travelling there?”
“Train, I think. Not our problem, is it? They have the address.”
“Are they even gay?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Heaven help us,” Trevor said, shaking his head. “This keeps getting better and better. Seven of us in a seven-bedroom converted lakeside lodge—sorry,lochsidelodge—that sleeps up to eighteen. Obscene, really. Mind you, the place looks amazing, especially the kitchen. Did Cheryl show you the latest website photos? Modernised, but they’ve still maintained its vintage charm, especially with that huge Aga cooker.”
“Never trust photographs. Remember the Lake District? All mod cons, my foot. Just because they provided a four-slice toaster and a heated towel rack. And I’ve tried cooking on many an Aga, and recall what a temperamental pain in the backside they can be.”
“That’s your superpower, Mrs M. Wrestling temperamental pains in the backside. I suppose you’ve packed enough food to feed the whole village?”
“You might thank me if we’re snowed in.”
“The way the weather’s been playing up, we’re more likely to experience heat stroke.”
At that very moment, Cheryl emerged from the house, juggling three mugs of something hot and steaming. Decked out in her faux-Versace beige-and-burgundy silk dressing gown and pink slippers, she came to a stop before the garden gate. With a mimed roar, she issued a steamy yawn into the morning.
“Trevor Oswald McTavish,” came her familiar voice. She was the only person he would allow to use his full name. Sometimes his friends called him Mac, because nobody—nobody—ever referred to him as Trev. Not unless they wanted to be ghosted. Considering everything that had gone down over the past twenty-four hours, she did not look too bad. “Thought I heard your dulcet tones. Well, don’t sit there like pigeons on a pole. One of you open the gate for poor, lonesome old me. Can’t you see my hands are full?”
“Someone’s cheered up,” whispered her mother. “Must be hearing your voice, Trevor.” Standing up from the tailgate, she went over and unlatched the access. “I thought you were showering. You told me we needed to be on the road early, to beat the traffic.”
“I didn’t know if you and Trevor had decided to pull the plug. But judging by your smiling faces, I guess not. And anyway, there’s no rush now. I just checked the satnav app and listenedto the latest traffic report.” Cheryl handed a mug of deep brown tea to her mother, and a milkier version to Trevor. “Looks as though people stayed home. So we may as well do the M25, M40 then hit the M6. If we leave by nine, with an hour’s stop for lunch, we’ll reach the lodge between eight and nine this evening.”
“Perfect,” said Mrs M, taking a sip from her mug and pulling a face. “Means we’ll arrive in time for a quick shower and a bite to eat before bedtime. Then a whole day getting things ready before the others arrive.”
