Page 38 of Confessions of a Christmasholic

And wasn’t that the understatement of the year? ‘I know,’ she admitted, scowling at the leftover dough she’d yet to roll. ‘I also miscalculated the twins’ interest and their attention span.’ Sutton waved the mistletoe. ‘What should I do with these?

Moira pretended to think. ‘Well, you could put a sprig above every doorway in the house…’ she suggested.

Oh, she’d seen the nudge, nudge wink, wink glances she, Eli and Will exchanged and chose to ignore them. Firstly, because she and Gus agreed nothing could happen between them, and secondly because nothing had happened since the night they’d decorated the tree. She’d caught a couple of his hot looks, he probably caught a few of hers, but they’d kept their hands to themselves.

‘I can see that you and Gus have some chemistry,’ Moira quietly stated.

Ah,jeez. She sometimes forgot that Moira was Kate’s mother, and that she had to want to curse God or fate because her daughter should be standing in this kitchen, making a mess of baking Christmas cookies. Though, from what she knew of Kate, she’d probably make the exact right amount, no mess and she’d be able to keep the kids engaged in the process.

‘I don’t want him to be alone forever, Sutton. Kate is gone, but he’s here. He’s a good guy and he deserves some happiness.’ Moira picked up a biscuit and nibbled the end. She looked at the biscuit, disgust flittering across her face. ‘That’s quite an interesting flavour.’

‘Too much bicarb,’ Sutton admitted. She nodded to the iced biscuits. ‘Try one with icing.’

‘Not much better,’ Moira told her.

Damn. ‘Anyway, I’m not staying in Conningworth, Moira, I can’t. I want to work in London, with people who’ve had traumatic brain injuries, mostly adults.’

‘London is only a few hours from here,’ Moira observed.

Oh, man, this was going from bad to terrible. ‘Moira, I’m only the twins’ nanny, and I’m not interested in a serious relationship.’

Moira waved her protestation away. ‘Whatevs.’ Whatevs? Where had she learnt that? Next, she’d be using words likeboujeeandshook.

She placed her forearms on the island and pushed Sutton’s phone across the granite. It lit up and Moira looked down. ‘Ooh, who’s in Mauritius? I love Mauritius!’

Mauritius? Nobody she knew of. Sutton leaned across the biscuits to scoop up her phone and stared down at her screen, unable to believe what she was seeing. Layla lay by rolling waves on a beach, wearing a designer swimming costume, so small it barely mattered. She held an expensive multi-coloured cocktail. The bright blue water and white beaches suggested she was in the tropics.

Sutton forced the words out. ‘That’s Layla…a friend.’Mybestfriend. ‘It’s not Mauritius, she’s on Clifton Beach.’

‘No, that’s Grand Baie Beach,’ Moira insisted. ‘My husband and I went to Mauritius the year before he died.’

Wanting to prove her wrong, Sutton read Layla’s captions…Mauritius vibes! #cocktails #sunandsea #partypartyparty

She swiped down, and saw another photo of her on a yacht, in another bikini, posing à laTitanicat the end of the yacht.Holiday vibes. So needed this ten-day break.

Layla was in Mauritius? On holiday? She was somewhere lovely, and warm, while she was stuck in freezing England, living in someone’s house to pull together enough money to get back on her feet. What the fuck? What the actual, actual fucking fuck?

Sutton resisted the urge to throw her phone against the wall, before remembering she couldn’t afford to replace it. Furious, she pulled up the comment section of Layla’s post and banged out her reply.Enjoying yourself on my money?Then she realised Layla had disabled the comments on her post. Of course she had. Why would she want someone calling her out for spending money that wasn’t hers?

‘Sutton? Is everything all right?’

No, Moira, it sure as hell isn’t.

Sutton pushed away a bag filled with nuclear-yellow icing and gripped the edges of the island, staring at her trainers and trying not to cry. They’d been friends all their lives, they knew the good the bad and the ugly parts of their personalities and their lives. Layla was the keeper of her secrets, and she always felt confident her name was safe in Layla’s mouth. Her name might be, but her money sure as hell wasn’t.

Sutton didn’t recognise the woman in the pictures online, the selfish, carelessthief. Needing an explanation, or to vent, she placed a call to Layla’s phone, but, as she expected, it went straight to voicemail. ‘You can’t pay me back, but you can take a holiday? You can party on a yacht and boast about it? Who the hell areyou?’

‘Sutton? Honey?’

‘I need to be alone,Moira. Please.’

Sutton switched to Instagram and sent Layla a direct message.

I just want you to know you have broken my heart. I never thought, never imagined, you could do this to me.

The icon changed and Sutton knew her message was being read. She waited but Layla didn’t reply.

What had gone wrong? How could they have gone from being each other’s confidants, their safe harbours, to this? She’d left Cape Town thinking nothing would come between them. They’d be each other’s bridesmaids. They’d raise their kids together and be godmothers to each other’s kids. Their husbands would play golf together. They’d meet for coffee and lunch, for girl days at the spa, bitch about their boyfriends, husbands and kids. Sutton believed they’d end up in a care home together, causing mayhem.

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