Made With Love

Chapter 7

Last night I’d curled into bed, never more ready for that overdue lie in, and I’d tossed and turned till I finally fell asleep, head crushed by the awful quiet. At that dawn break moment between hard sleep and lucid dream, I roll onto my side, and the actual dawn was glaring in through the naked window.

‘Oh, for the love of...’

I hug my knees to my chest and turn to the wall. Two beating red spots loom behind my eyelids. I snap them open. No blinds?! Really? What time is it? I feel about on the floor for my bag and fish out my phone. Midnight in New York. Five in the flipping morning?! Oh, this just gets better and better.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to will myself to sleep. Not happening. I pull myself out of bed and rummage through my suitcase for a sweater. It’s freezing!

‘Seriously, I didn’t pack one sweater?’ Way to go, Julie.

I yank on a pair of jeans, two knit tops, and tiptoe downstairs and into the kitchen.

Pot of coffee and I’ll be golden.

I riffle through the presses. If it was anything else, I wouldn’t think of taking such liberties, but you do not want to see me decaffeinated.

Tea. More tea. Is that all they drink?

I let out a little gasp. A dented tin of instant sits, almost mockingly, on the top shelf. Is that the coffee?

‘You’re up!’ Dermot’s voice seems to fill the room up entirely. I spin round like a kid caught stealing.

‘Yeah, oh yeah. Up and at ’em.’

Dermot smiles and taps a folded paper on the table top. He’s wearing a canvas jacket and wellies and smells very faintly of cow shit.

‘I’ll put the kettle on so.’

‘Thanks.’ I settle into a chair, rubbing at my goose-pimpled arms. ‘Do you have any coffee, by any chance?’

‘Absolutely!’

Oh thank God.

He plunks the tin down in front of me.

Instant coffee. Gag me.

‘Thanks...’ I sigh.

‘Care to see the paper?’

‘I’d love to, actually. I haven’t had a chance to read one in days!’

He hands me the paper.

The Farmers’ Journal.

I have to look at it twice to be sure. Yep. Farmers’Journal. I crack it open to a full page spread on the latest Massey Ferguson tractor—the 7600.

‘Massey’s classy, but Zetor’s better,’ Dermot chuckles and needles me in the side. ‘Jayzus, you’re half froze! I’ll grab you a jumper of Clare’s.’

‘No, really, that’s—’

He’s already disappeared down the hall.

Oh, this’ll be good. Reeeeal good. Morning Clare! Never mind me. Just wearing your clothes and snaking your birthright.

‘Here we are, so.’ Dermot reappears with a knobby wool sweater that could easily fit me, him, and Clare. ‘She won’t miss it at all, at all.’

‘I can’t imagine why,’ I mumble and pull it over my head.

He leans on the countertop and peers out the window at a low cloudbank.