Chapter 22
Florrie was warm in front of the McIntyres’ kitchen Aga. Her hair was being brushed and plaited into a coronet by Roz, and she was drinking seriously good coffee and eating a second slice of warm panettone, the good kind with the candied fruits and chocolate chips.
She’d turned a few pages of the magazine, not taxing herself too much with the business of taking any of it in, and she’d drunk all the cranberry juice while up in that bathtub, and afterwards she’d been helped into her cosiest lounge clothes, a soft peachy-pink co-ord of joggers and a sweat shirt, and Roz had presented her with the Fair Isle socks she’d knitted her as a leaving gift, and those were keeping her toes warm right now while, across the table, McIntyre read his newspaper and kept their mugs topped up.
The radio was playing Christmas music, and the dog, a floppy black Labrador teenager called Wayward, was watching every morsel of cake anyone lifted to their mouths in case any should fall to the floor.
Everything was good and peaceful and warm. Until she asked if McIntyre minded bringing over her laptop so she could arrange her flights for tomorrow and, when he’d obliged, her email inbox brought her crashing back to reality with a sickening bump.
Excellent report, Florrie. Thank you for sending it to me first. You’re really making your old man proud.
I return it to you (attached) with the section on recommendations for Mr Skelton’s future deleted.
It’s outside our remit as auditors to recommend future pathways for redundant workers.
I know you are soft-hearted like your mother, but the Regional Authority only asked for your recommendations for the future of the business.
You made the correct call for closure with effect December 25th.
From your figures and projections there’s no way the business could survive beyond the new year.
So, you’re free to send this (amended) report on to the Regional Authority now.
Empressa tells me you haven’t asked her to book your flight out yet? Are you still in Scotland? My advice is get out now. Remember, no friendships, no niceties, no promises.
P.S. Aspen is very beautiful at Christmas.
She closed her laptop and stumbled to her feet, just as Roz was settling down to her breakfast in the chair beside her. For a moment, Florrie had almost let herself be convinced she wasn’t an intruder in yet another family’s cosy home.
She made her excuses and struggled back to the Mezzanine Bunk in the barn, wanting somewhere to hide until tomorrow when she was cleared for flying. She didn’t belong here, even if the community seemed so willing to overlook all of her faults and unkindness. This wasn’t her home.