A Brambleberry Manor Christmas - Rosie Green Page 0,5

be so late!

‘Thank goodness you reminded me. Right. I’m off.’

Did I bang my head when Noah Jackson knocked me to the ground? How else to explain forgetting my meeting with Marjery?

I give Noah and Melanie an awkward little wave and stumble off in my heels, returning the way I came.

I’m almost back at the manor when my mobile rings. It’s Tavie.

‘Can I borrow your cream top? The one with the sequins round the neckline?’

‘Erm, maybe. Why? Are you going out?’

‘Yes. I’m going out.’ Her reply is terse. ‘In about five minutes. So could you just give me an answer?’

‘Where are you going, love?’

There’s a brief pause and I picture her impatient eye flick. ‘To Amy’s?’

I stifle a sigh. Trying to get the facts can be like wading through treacle. ‘And where are you going later?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you wouldn’t normally be wearing sequins to go over to Amy’s at ten in the morning. So I’m assuming you’re planning to go somewhere else tonight – with Amy?’

Another revealing pause. ‘Mal’s having a thing at his later.’

A thing?

‘Right. Who’s Mal?’

‘A boy in the sixth form?’ She heaves a sigh. ‘I’ve mentioned him before but you probably weren’t listening.’

I steel myself to ask. ‘Is he…your boyfriend?’

‘No!’ she protests, and relief rushes through me. ‘He’s just a mate. But don’t worry, he doesn’t do drugs or anything. I’ll be absolutely fine.’

I feel nauseous. I don’t want to be a party pooper but I hate it when Tavie’s out and I’m not one hundred per cent certain where she is. I always tell her to text me and she always sighs and says she will, but she invariably forgets, I guess because she’s having too good a time to remember her boring old step-mum.

Oh, Harvey, why did you have to die? Your daughter needs you!

I take a breath. ‘Okay. Listen, Tavie, I need you to be back home by ten.’ I say it softly but firmly, bracing myself for the cries of protest that will inevitably follow.

‘Fine. Ten o’clock,’ she says nonchalantly, completely blindsiding me. (She does this a lot. I’ve learned to always expect the unexpected.) ‘But please stop calling me Tavie. I hate it. I’m not eleven anymore.’

She ends the call and I breathe a sigh of relief. No battle this time. Maybe she’s getting used to me in the role of anxious protector. I really hope so. All I want is a return to the easy way it used to be between us, before funny, adorable, bright-eyed ‘Tavie’ was replaced almost overnight by the sulky fifteen-year-old version, full of glowering angst.

However much she protests, to me she will always be ‘Tavie’.

I picture her as she was when Harvey first introduced us four years ago. I was captivated by this talkative and sparky eleven-year-old with the flaming corkscrew hair and dazzling blue eyes. She was tall for her age and a little self-conscious about it, but Harvey and I made a point of telling her how great it was to be tall. And eventually, she held her head high in any situation. She missed her mum, Vivian, who’d moved to Wales with her new partner, Wesley, and I’ve always aimed to fill the gap by being her friend, but not trying to be a mother substitute.

After Vivian left, Harvey and Tavie were on their own for four years, until I came into their lives and eventually moved in with them when Tavie was twelve.

Vivian and Wesley have since had a boy and a girl – Danny, aged five, and four-year-old Megan – who Tavie adores. I know she wishes she could see her half-brother and sister more often, but Wesley is a high-powered executive, working long hours, and their weekends are precious.

Losing her dad last Christmas hit Tavie so hard, and she couldn’t even rely on her mum as a shoulder to cry on. Vivian always sighs and says she wishes their house in Wales had another bedroom because then Tavie could come and stay more often. But I can’t help thinking that’s just an excuse. Vivian is too focused on her new family to have time for a teenager’s problems, and my heart aches for my step-daughter.

I feel a pang of sorrow, thinking of what Tavie’s been through. If she’s home by ten, as she promised, I’ll give her more leeway next time, to show her I trust her…

I ring the doorbell and pick up the cake box, crossing my fingers that it will be Fen who answers the door, and