Fiona couldn’t sit still. She was disappointed at herself for being in the position she now found herself in and furious at her so-called friends for being the cause of her dilemma.

She paced up and down the confined space of the doctor’s office, rehearsing the best way to tell the doctor why she was there and what she was after. Would he want all the details? If so, he was shit out of luck ‘cos seriously; she’d been so wasted and had no idea what had gone down at the bar last night or after. Waking alone this morning had been a relief until she’d undressed, ready to climb in the shower and realised she was wearing man-boxers over her G-string; this wasn’t how she’d dressed before leaving the house last night. What the hell! She couldn’t think straight with her head pounding with the worst hangover ever! How much alcohol had she consumed? She vaguely remembered a row of shot glasses along the bar. Throwing back painkillers and stepping into the hot stream, she realised that she had quite the ache between her thighs, and the sting of water was smarting where someone had rubbed her skin nearly raw in her nether regions; then the real panic had set in. Fiona had washed carefully and left the bathroom, wrapped in a massive bath sheet. What she discovered in the hallway had her blood turning to ice in her veins, and her earlier alarm became a full-on freak-out. Somebody had secured the front door; the key slipped beneath. Her imagination ran amok with the worst possible scenarios. Someone had been in her home and between her legs. Oh, God! What had she done? And with whom?

One foot in front of the other, eleven paces, turned and returned along the same route, her feet continually moving, her hands no better as her fingers plucked nervously at the fringe of her jacket. She was so immersed in thought, internally practising her speech for the doctor, that she jumped and let out a yell as the door was thrust open.

“Maxwe ...” the voice cut off abruptly as she spun to face the man. “Oh, you’re not Maxwell,” he grinned.

“Obviously,” she snapped, finally coming to a standstill with feet apart, her clenched fists settled on her hips. She hadn’t meant to be obnoxious to the Doc; it wasn’t his fault she was tiptoeing the walk of shame, but he was here, and her anger needed an outlet. Pointing to the sheet of paper in his hand, she shrilled, “The name is Fiona! Maybe you should read your patient notes before barging in on them.”

“What? No, um,” he floundered, glancing down at the page in his hand. Notes yes, her notes? No! Or were they? The title on the page was ‘Regrets’, and this outraged woman before him certainly looked like she had a few of those tucked up her sleeve.

“Look, Doctor, I apologise, I’m a little…,” she stopped and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling as they filled, and she blinked to stop the tears from overflowing, “Okay, maybe more than a little upset about being here, can we just get on with the exam?”

“I’m not, err, Oh God; you’re crying! Here let me get you a tissue,” he said, dropping the papers he held onto the desk and reaching for the box. Plucking a couple of sheets, he moved closer and dabbed at the tears sliding down her cheek.

“I-I’m sorry,” Fiona sniffed, flapping her hands in front of her eyes as if that would help her gain control; she gave him a small, grateful smile.

“No harm, um.”

“Fiona,” she supplied for him.

“Fiona, yes,” he grinned back at her making her insides melt just a little and then ruining it completely when he added, “So would that make me your knight in shining Shrek, rescuing you from your flood of tears?”

She stepped back, scowling, and in a flash, her mood took another turn. Anger made her pupils dilate, eyes appeared almost black as she released a verbal attack. “Are you making fun of me, Doctor?” She’d had enough of the Shrek jokes after the damn movie came out. “Okay, so I’m a little curvier than many women, but I’m by no means an ogre. I’ve had it with people and their idiosyncrasies and expectation of what a female’s size should or shouldn’t be. People like you are why I’m in this damn predicament now.”

Her nicely rehearsed speech hadn’t gone like this at all, but hell, there was no going back now. “My friends are just like you; they figured the reason I don’t meet the right people is because of my size, which was why they dragged me into ‘Bernie’s last night and got me drunk.”

“Wait, hold on a sec.” he held up his hand to stop the rampage and then folded one finger inwards at a time as he counted down. “First, people like me. What does that even mean? And second, your ‘friends’”, he air quoted’ “got you drunk. What did they do? Hold your mouth open and tip the alcohol down your throat?”

Penelope, who only ever flew first class, ran her hands down her white, lace-covered dress and drew her soft red coat up her arms, fluffing the light grey fur surrounding the wrists and collar before reaching for her handbag. The weight of it on her forearm felt wrong without Cappuccino snuggling inside. Her first stop after passport control would be to collect her constant companion, a tiny, loving Chihuahua, who had been gifted to her by a former boyfriend; she’d kept the dog and waved farewell to the man. With her handbag on her arm, passport and arrivals document in one hand and the handle of a small carry-on bag in the other, she disembarked from first class without having to queue to leave the aircraft. Whereas behind the curtained-off partition, she could hear the stampede of those in cattle class as they stood waiting, jostling and complaining to one another. Thankfully, those in her cabin space were not so uncouth, and she could escape to solid ground, only imagining the horror of being squashed, trapped and trampled by strangers. Until, oh god, she hit the arrivals hall inside the airport. There she lost the peaceful sense of escape as Penelope was surrounded, swallowed amidst the boisterous crowd waiting in long queues for the passport check; yes, even the first-class booths had lines waiting. How many planes landed at once for this many people to have amassed?

Finally, Penelope was next in line and moved to the shielded desk.

“Passport, please,” the woman requested, her hand motioning towards the hole in the screen. Penelope pushed her passport through the hand-sized slot and waited, conscious of the crowd behind her as the official studied her photograph.

“Purpose for your visit?” she asked, eyes scanning the card tucked inside the passport.

Penelope contained the need to roll her eyes at the heavily made-up woman, imbecile, she thought, couldn’t she read? Why the hell was she asking questions when the answers were right in front of her? Penelope had filled in her arrival card whilst still on the plane. Business. Family. Pleasure. Other. She’d ticked the business box. She had no family in England, and the only joy of being here at this time of year would be when the papers to sell the homestead bequeathed by her late aunt were signed, sealed and delivered to the lawyer.

It appeared Penelope was the only living relative left. She’d been stunned to discover she was the beneficiary; her aunt knew nothing about her. If they’d been close, it would have been a totally different kettle of fish, but damn it, her aunt and her father had never seen eye to eye; why, Penelope hadn’t met the woman until she introduced herself at her father’s wake twelve years ago, and they hadn’t kept in touch after.

The woman in the booth cleared her throat, bringing Penelope back to the here and now. Sighing, she raised her eyebrows at the woman in uniform, wanting to grimace at the added antlered headband thrown in for a touch of Christmas cheer, and grumbled, “Business.”

“Oh well, now that’s a shame. I’m sure you’d have enjoyed a good family vacation at this time of year.” She shook her head as if tutting at the lovely-looking woman standing before her. “A real shame! Ms Cunningham, have a pleasant stay.” And with that, she stamped and passed Penelope back her passport and waved her through the turnstile.

Penelope moved with the multitude, breaking away when she found the corridor to the location she’d memorised off the airport website, which housed Cappuccino and several other animals. She waited in yet another queue, God, these Brits must spend their lives queuing and was finally handed her carrier. Blowing kisses to her little friend through the bars, the excited dog barked as she was loaded onto a trolley and pushed to the luggage carousel.

Penelope’s bag was taking its second turn around the conveyor belt as she reached out to claim her bag. Grabbing the handle of her suitcase before it could start on its third rotation, she hauled it free, flashing her fellow passengers a glimpse of lacy underwear in the process. Shuffling the heavy case, she hoisted it beside Cappuccino on the trolley, straightened her clothing, and started for the doors. Now, to find a shuttle to take her to her rental car. God, what a hassle; she should have ordered a driver, someone, to pick her up, carry her luggage and get her down to the homestead, but she wasn’t in New York now, and it was far too late in the journey.

She was here now and would fend for herself and see what adventures this trip could offer her. So far, it offered bugger all. As if struggling through an expensive period of vet checks for Cappuccino, so her health certificate passed muster wasn’t bad enough, each test had slowed down to a snail’s pace as Christmas loomed closer, the lab technicians were short-staffed thanks to their colleagues leaving early for vacation. She was also missing all the Christmas seasonal parties she had been so looking forward to, as the high-end clothing boutique clothed the rich, the famous and the wannabe to raise the boutique’s name and rating to greater heights than it already was. She struggled to organise time off at such a late date and finally succumbed to taking leave without pay. Penelope should have been in the centre of dressing her clients to stand out this Christmas, not driving along the Southwest coast of the UK.

Right now, she’d be happy to reach the homestead. Take measure of what was to be shipped home, what was to go to charity and to begin the search in finding a decent buyer to take the stress of the property and the nearly seventy tenants who inhabited the large farm area off her hands. She couldn’t believe her aunt owned such a place and was a landlady to so many people. She wondered why her father had never mentioned it, but then he’d rarely mentioned his family.

Her aunt’s lawyer, Mr Barnaby, who visited at the office above the largest of the boutiques she managed on Mercer Street, had been of little assistance. He’d merely thrust the document into her hand, and in his stiff British accent, he informed her that Ms Eliza Cunningham had inserted a particular clause that needed immediate attention.

The clause stated that to receive the inheritance of all her aunt’s belongings, Penelope must reside at The Homestead within the same year as her death and stay for at least two months. After that, the decision was hers, keep or sell the property.

Two months in England, in the middle of winter without knowing a damn soul, wasn’t how Penelope envisioned finishing 2022 and ushering in 2023.

Following the arrows marked for the shuttle bays, she finally arrived at Hertz rentals, and with heels slip-sliding on the wet tiled floor, she exited the warm, bustling building and into the frigid temperatures outside. She shivered in her coat, wishing she’d packed her scarf and gloves in her carry-on luggage for easy access. Instead, she’d have to freeze because there was no way in this universe that she would dive into her suitcase where everyone could see her belongings. Pushing the trolley toward the queue waiting for the shuttle to arrive, she stopped at the end, tapping her toes to keep the blood flowing and scowling at the other people in the line as they stood in heavy coats, scarves and warm, wool-lined boots.

As the shuttle pulled up, the trolleys were deserted on the sidewalk as everyone grabbed their bags, eager to be first into the heater-warmed vehicle.

Penelope waited her turn, glancing furtively at the driver who sat watching the people climb the steps and take a seat until, finally, it was her turn. She stepped forward, her luggage still stacked on the trolley and unloaded her poor, shaking Cappuccino onto a seat before returning to grab her carry-on and suitcase sitting outside. Glancing once more at the driver, who stared back for a moment and then, raising his eyebrows, sighed and left his seat, grabbing at the suitcase, lugging it up the steps and delivering it with a heavy thud on the luggage rack, sat back down and continued to watch as the shuttle filled. Once the doors were closed, he drove around the airport driveways at breakneck speed, narrowly missing scraping oncoming cars and buses. Penelope almost closed her eyes, thinking it might be safer not to watch the accident about to happen, but Ccino barking switched her attention from the awful driving and turning; she shushed her dog as the other passengers grumbled at the noise.

The driver steered into the hire-car terminal, pulling up near a ramp and pointed out where the office lay beyond the automatic doors. He then assisted Penelope with her things, pointing towards the trolleys against a wall, she smiled her thanks, and he bobbed a turban-wrapped head and climbed back behind the wheel.

With the paperwork signed, insurance covered, and the documents in hand, she headed into the cold misty morning and surveyed the parking lot, searching for bay number 37. Ah, there it was her chariot awaits. A morning mist appeared to cover the cherry red Nissan Juke, but as she pushed her trolley closer, she realised the dewy drops were frozen solid; it made her shiver and huddled a little deeper into her coat, and not for the first time since setting foot in good old Blighty, wished she’d dressed for the north pole. God, the wind was bitter even with the sliver of sunlight battling the clouds, thick grey attempting to obliviate the rays. She popped the trunk and pushed and pulled at her suitcase until she could finally get the lid closed, and then opening the back door, she placed the dog carrier on the back seat. The little dog shivered through her little coat; she wasn’t used to being out in the cold either. She wined pitifully at Penelope. “I’ve got you, my darling. Come to Mummy!” Penelope exclaimed as she opened the cage door. Cappuccino surged out of her enclosure and into the waiting arms, burrowing her head into Penelope’s coat, happy and content at being held again. Penelope knew this wouldn’t last; her tiny dog had a mind of her own, and give her a few minutes, she would turn away to sulk, giving her the silent treatment for locking her in a cage and stowing her in the hold of a plane like an animal, I mean, how dare she! With the pet carrier and her cabin bag stored on the back seat, she was ready to move. Opening the left-hand door, Penelope slipped inside, still coddling her poor little ‘Ccino in her arms, and then the thought struck. Oh shit, she was in the wrong seat. The steering wheel taunted her from the opposite side of the car. She’d forgotten that the British drove on the wrong side of the road!

When a loud knock sounded on the window beside her, she let out a sharp girlie scream, and Cappuccino took her head from the warmth of her coat. Spinning her body, Penelope glared out of the window at an older man dressed for the cold in heavy boots, and she could see the thick woollen jersey he wore through the V of his yellow hi-vis coat. He wore a woollen beanie pulled low, and his thin grey hair hung in tuffs by his ears.

“Ye alright?” he bellowed through the glass. Penelope shushed the little dog and opened the door a crack.

“I’m fine, thank you, um, just getting my dog here settled; it was a long flight for her.”

The man sniffed and nodded. “Aye, right ye are then,” he said as he stuffed his cold, reddened hands deep into his pockets, “I’ll away and leave ye to it.” He nodded and walked off.

“Well, Ccino, that was a little weird, huh? But also, sweet.”

She rubbed the dog’s ears for a moment before climbing back into the cold and bending to deposit the still-shaking dog onto the seat, clipping the tiny coat hook to the seatbelt for safety. She closed the door, walked around the vehicle, and climbed in the wrong side, or should it be the right side? And shut the door.

“How hard can it be?”

Starting the motor, she set the heat on high, warming the car quickly and watching the window as the frost slowly began to disperse as the heat crept up the screen from the blowers in the dash. Quickly familiarising herself with the controls and punching the coordinates into the car’s built-in GPS unit, she was ready to go. Flicking the windshield wipers on, she cleared the remainder of the ice and then threw the car into drive and slowly accelerated, following the arrows painted on the road showing the direction of the exit barrier. Huh, who’d have thought it? Right-hand driving was easy. She reached the exit with no problems whatsoever, and then she was free as she drove beneath the striped pole as it lifted. She eased onto the dual carriageway and followed the verbal instructions of the voice coming from the console.

“In five hundred meters at the roundabout, take the second exit.” Silence descended for a few moments, just the hissing of the wheels and the thrum of the motor. “In three hundred meters, keep to the right lane, at the roundabout, take the second exit.” Really? The damn computer would navigate and narrate every metre of the cursed journey? Penelope sighed; this was going to be a long trip. She pushed the button on the steering wheel, and the radio blared to life, making her jump and Cappuccino bark, “Feliz Navidad, Feliz Navidad.” The Christmas carol vibrated in the speakers. The music drowned out the nasal voice of her GPS, but then the music quieted to background sound as the GPS overrode it. “In one hundred metres at the roundabout, take the second exit.” Penelope rolled her eyes.

She was in hell. And she had two whole months of it ahead of her; she drove on feeling like she’d been convicted and was beginning a life sentence.

By the end of the dual carriageway, she was beginning to relax into the journey until, with no centre line barrier between herself and the extremely close oncoming traffic, she found herself flinching and leaning to the centre console. When a truck looked like it was going to take up her share of the road, she shrieked and swung the wheel to the left, barely missing a fence, but a shrub growing from between the pickets screeched along the passenger window and scratched her door, and the truck driver continued his merry way without a backward glance. God, this was just nerve-wracking, and as a horn blew behind her, she readjusted her speed and, clinging desperately to the steering wheel, continued onward.

Once out of the heavier traffic, she slowly relaxed and noticed what was around her for the first time. Paddock upon paddocks, appearing to grow crooked stone walls as they sprang up everywhere, and long driveways led to large red, brick structures. Those she could see were adorned with Christmas decorations, and where the building lay in shadow, the twinkling lights flashed merrily on and off. A thin layer of snow lay here and there, obviously having fallen during the night; the sun’s rays were not quite warm enough to melt it. The area was peaceful, and yes, if Penelope was being truthful, it was beautiful.

She drove past paddocks of sheep and cows, donkeys and ponies sharing the shelters built along the fence line and horses standing snorting and harrumphing mist into the frigid air, bodies warmed by the thick woollen coats on their backs.

The GPS loudly announced, “Destination on the left in 300 metres”. Penelope searched the vast paddocks for signs of a large building. She’d pictured that ‘The Homestead’ would be akin to the manor houses she’d passed on her journey. Maybe one with high brick walls guarding the perimeter, or like the three-storied place she’d seen from the road a few miles back, surrounded by high fences, housing deer. It had been like a real-life flipbook, where each page held a slightly different scene as was viewed from a moving vehicle and trees interspersed what lay beyond. She could most definitely live in a place like that for a short period.

There didn’t seem to be any towering chimney stacks from three-story homesteads anywhere in sight. No large brick manor houses and no long and winding privacy fencing. “Destination on the left in 100 metres”. There was nothing.