You Make Me Feel Like Glamping

‘Kids!’ She beckoned for them to come out. ‘We’ve got a medical emergency here.’

Freya held the hedgehog’s tiny little face in front of her own and cooed, ‘It’s okay, darlin’. We’ve got you.’

A premonition jolted through her.

Babies.

It was technically too early, but … global warming. She gently tipped the hedgehog over and exposed her stomach. It looked swollen. She traced her finger along the creature’s tiny pink feet, then atop the soft white arc of her belly. ‘Do you have some hoglets growing inside you?’

‘She’s pregnant?’ Regan looked as if she’d found a treasure chest.

Freya secretly wished her daughter would become a vet. Between the mice, the budgies, the runaway tortoise, and, of course, Dumbledore, the family Labradoodle, Regan was definitely the family’s number-one animal lover. Maybe a proper summer at her family’s farm would do the trick.

‘Should we ring the RSPCA?’ Her daughter’s delicate fingers hovered above the hedgehog’s spines.

‘Yes. Definitely. Unless they have a wildlife clinic here.’

‘Is it hungry? Should we feed it milk or something?’

‘No. Not milk. Upsets their poor wee tummies. Water’s good. Cat or dog food works.’

Regan moaned. ‘I should’ve brought some of Dumbledore’s.’

‘Not to worry. I’m sure we’ll be able to rustle something up.’ Freya popped a kiss on her daughter’s head. ‘Felix, love. Can you grab Dad’s woolly hat, please?’

Her gangly son tripped on his way to the back of the car. Poor lad. All limbs and no coordination.

‘She’s soooooo cute!’ Regan lightly brushed her fingers along the hedgehog’s spines.

‘I’m pretty sure she’s pregnant.’

‘Can we call her Persephone?’ Felix asked.

‘We can call her whatever you like.’

‘This is great.’ Regan cooed. ‘I love it here already.’

And just like that … the long weekend stretched before Freya as a place of wide, joyful possibility.

Late, late, late, late, late, late!

Why hadn’t Callum talked Emily out of stopping by the hospital? He should’ve known she was completely incapable of turning down a displaced compound hip fracture. Catnip. Just as her had father predicted when they’d decided she should pursue orthopaedic surgery. Her mother had, of course, supplied the statistics. Hip fractures alone were a soaring industry, never mind the huge number of knee replacements. They were expected to rise nearly 700 per cent in the next twenty years. Just as well she loved putting things back together. Far better than Lego.

She glanced at her watch. Oh, God.

Charlotte was going to go mental. Well. Not mental exactly, because Charlotte didn’t go mental, but she made plans. Exacting plans. Plans with arrival times. And departure times. And yurt assignments.

Callum poked her in the thigh. ‘Chill, woman. There isn’t an accelerator pedal on your side of the car.’

‘Why aren’t you overtaking that car? Get out of this lane. It’s full of slowcoaches and geriatric, Radio-Four-listening dawdle-pants.’

‘You listen to Radio Four.’

‘Yeah. Whatever. Just go.’

Callum obliged her. ‘Did you grab the booze bag?’

‘What booze bag?’

‘The one by the front door filled with vodka, gin and Aperol? The one you said was essential for surviving a weekend in the wilderness?’

She unleashed a torrent of language upon him. ‘It’ll have to be services.’ Not ideal, but it would have to do.

‘There’s a diddy one before we hit the M25. One of those petrol station ones where your feet stick to the floor.’

They both shuddered.

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