Eventually, she wanders back downstairs, dressed in clean pyjamas, hair still wrapped in a towel because God knows whether Christopher would have a hairdryer.
To her relief, Kit has got the fire going in the living room. She and the dogs are curled up in a nest of cushions and (clean) blankets in front of the fire. Stella lies on her back, belly warm and pink. Kit lies with her head propped up by a cushion, Luna curled up against her chest. Her eyes are closed, but she’s gently massaging Luna’s ears.
It’s such a sweet moment that Haf wants to stand in the doorway and watch quietly, committing this softness to memory.
But the house is too damn cold.
‘You lifesaver,’ she says, walking in. ‘Need anything?’
‘I’m good right now. Come join us,’ Kit murmurs, sleepily patting the covers.
Too tired for grace, Haf flops down and buries herself in the nest. There’s an underlayer of a duvet that Kit must have dragged from somewhere.
Sensing the opportunity for fussing, Stella wriggles herself over. Haf strokes her soft warm belly, and when she gets the right spot, the dog’s little foot kicks.
‘Look at you. You’re practically the patron saint of small mammals,’ says Kit.
‘What about you?’ she replies, nodding towards Luna who is now snoring deeply. ‘You could be too.’
‘I don’t think I’m as dedicated as you are.’
‘Hmm, okay. Is that my official title? Do I get bonuses, like days off?’
‘It should be. And I don’t think saints get days off. Come to think of it, most of them are dead.’
‘The ultimate day off?’
‘Dark,’ laughs Kit. ‘You’re no Ferris Bueller.’
‘Thank the saints for that.’
‘Do you want some wine?’ Kit asks, indicating a bottle and two glasses on the step in front of the fireplace. ‘I know something hot is probably better when we’ve got so cold, but this Malbec is the first thing I grabbed.’
‘God, yes,’ says Haf. ‘I’ll take anything that’s wine and drinkable.’
‘A real connoisseur then.’ Kit laughs. She slops a good amount into both glasses and passes one to Haf. ‘Cheers.’
‘Iechyd da’ Haf says.
‘Is that Welsh?’
She nods. ‘It means cheers.Yeah, then you’ve got to get a nice guttural sound for thechi, and thendar.’
Kit sounds out a plausible version of her own and looks very pleased with herself.
Their glasses clink together, sparkling in the flame light. Haf takes a sip, and it’s delicious, much nicer than the heavy cheap red wine she occasionally drank at uni. That always gave her headaches, in addition to the general hangover.
‘You surprised me today,’ Kit says after a while. ‘I don’t know many people who’d willingly wade into a bog in the middle of winter to rescue a reindeer that probably didn’t really need rescuing.’
‘He was scared! You’re going to make ababyswim in frozen waters?’
Kit takes a sip of her wine, her lips curved into a smirk.
‘Stop teasing me.’ Haf huffs.
‘You just make it very easy.’
Haf unwraps her hair from the towel, letting it hang in loose, damp curls which she periodically scrunches with the towel. She’s pretty sure whatever she scrubbed her head with is not going to be curly-hair friendly and she is going to end up with a megaton of frizz that she can hopefully fix in the morning. Perhaps she’ll get lucky and find out duck shit has secret nutritious hair-curling powers.
