Teepee for Two. Daisy Tate

then pulled her back out. From the fleeting explanation regarding Monty’s absence, she seemed to have enough on her plate.

      Surely to god one of them deserved a happy ending.

      Charlotte jumped. ‘What was that?’

      ‘Front door,’ explained Rocco.

      ‘Goodness. That’s … loud.’ Charlotte didn’t know if her heart was beating so quickly because of the sudden noise, or the way Rocco had passed the butter to her. Just one brush of his fingertips against hers and … goose bumps. Who knew that making garlic bread could be such a sensory experience?

      Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

      ‘Coming!’ Freya called as they pushed back their chairs and went to the door. It had to be Emily. She’d texted about an hour ago saying the train had just left Edinburgh.

      Freya pulled the door open.

      ‘Wooooot! It’s time to par-taaaaay!’ Emily hoisted two clinky jute bags full of booze up as far as her arms would permit. ‘Guess who made friends with the serving chappie in the first-class carriage? Beverages,’ she explained, ‘come free.’

      Her friends were staring at her. Izzy broke the silence. ‘Wow! Emms. Look at you. You’ve …’ Izzy floundered as whatever she was going to say was lost in a cough.

      ‘I have cut my hair. Thoughts?’ Emily quipped in her inimitable, ‘this is entirely rhetorical, feel free not to answer’ style. Or perhaps she genuinely did care and was masking it. She handed Izzy one of the clinky bags and shook her head to realign the choppy pixie cut. She looked like an anime character. With an eye-twitch.

      Oh, bless. She did care. She also didn’t bother waiting for a response. ‘My mother abhors it. And you know what? It shouldn’t really matter what she thinks, but what do you know? It does.’

      Charlotte gave her arm a squeeze. Emily appeared to have taken advantage of a few complimentary beverages prior to arrival. Talking about feelings straight off the bat was unusual for her, to say the least.

      ‘When does it stop?’ she wailed, dropping the rest of her bags to the ground. ‘I mean, how many forty-year-old orthopaedic surgeons worry what their mother is going to say after they have their hair trimmed?’