Christmas for Beginners - Carole Matthews Page 0,17

horror.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Very sorry. Animal issues.’

‘What else?’ He shuts his car door with more of a slam than I think necessary.

Lucas, leaning on the gate, says, ‘Jesus, Molly. Even for you . . .’

‘I know. I know.’ I try brushing myself down, but I’m not sure how much difference it makes. Whatever the opposite is of ‘immaculately groomed’, I’m it. ‘I could have done with an extra pair of hands. Four tiny goats overpowered me.’

In fairness to Shelby, his eyes say that he might like to hug me, but his body is backing away from me.

‘I’ll take a quick shower,’ I promise – fully appreciating how easy it is for me to do that these days. ‘Dinner is ready. I won’t be five minutes.’

Shelby stifles a sigh. It’s obviously not the welcome he’d hoped for either – though it may have been the one he expected. I think Bev’s right when she says he likes to have top billing rather than be at the bottom behind alpacas, pigs, sheep, cats, dogs, horses, ducks, goats, hens, etc.

We head to the caravan and I try to keep downwind of him. Goat wee has a fragrance all of its own. When we’re inside, I say, ‘I’ll literally be five minutes. Help yourself to tea, a glass of plonk or whatever. I’ll dish up dinner when I’m back.’

I leave Shelby and Lucas looking awkward with each other.

In the bedroom, I strip off and realise that I don’t have any clean jeans or shirts. I go through at least one set of clothes a day and my mammoth laundry session was planned for tomorrow. As I jump into the shower, I wonder what I can wear. I can hardly go out there in my pyjamas. I quickly wash myself down, using a ton of minty shower gel to try to minimise the eau de goat wee. I do my hair too just in case Dumb’s aim wasn’t true. When I’m dry, I fling my wardrobe door open and look despairingly at the contents. The only thing still hanging there is the beautiful charity shop dress that I bought back in the summer for Shelby’s posh fundraiser. It’s a gorgeous wisp of a dress – black with pastel-coloured roses and with a floaty skirt. I put it on and feel a million dollars, if slightly overdressed for the occasion of Mexican-style wraps in a caravan.

I pull a brush through my wet hair – it will have to air-dry – and venture back out into the living area. Shelby and Lucas are sitting by the window, both of them on their phones. They look up when I enter and both of them seem rather startled.

‘Going somewhere nice?’ Shelby asks.

‘I’ve run out of clothes,’ I admit. ‘It was this or nothing.’

His smile and the twinkle in his eyes say that he might have liked it to be nothing but as Lucas is here – even if he is engrossed in social media once again – we check ourselves.

‘I could take the three of us out,’ Shelby offers. ‘You look beautiful. Seems a shame to waste it. We could go to the local pub?’

‘No.’ Lucas looks up from his phone. ‘I can’t bear the pantomime of you turning up in a pub. Everyone stares at us.’

I have to say that Lucas is right. You can’t go anywhere with Shelby and him not be recognised. Even if people don’t directly approach him, they giggle behind their hands and try to take surreptitious selfies with him in the background. Shelby doesn’t seem to mind all that much. I guess he’s got used to it, but I find it traumatising and I know that Lucas absolutely hates it too. He’s had many years of being overshadowed by his father’s fame and, while things are on a reasonably stable footing, I don’t want to put their fragile relationship in jeopardy.

‘The food’s ready,’ I say. ‘All I have to do is dish up.’

Lucas returns to his phone and I make a placating face at Shelby. ‘Do you mind?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Not at all.’ But he does sound a bit grudging. ‘It will be nice to have some family time.’

I put the wraps, the rice and the veggies on the table between us. I like it when we eat together. It’s a rare occasion and sometimes Lucas forgets to be cross and actually talks to his father. This is one of those times – though they steer clear of Lucas’s poetry, which is