The Twelve Dates of Christmas

by Jenny Bayliss

  After three weeks of being treated like an infectious disease, Kate traveled to Manchester to have it out with him.

  “I’m not saying it meant anything,” said Kate. “But it was something. It did happen. And I think we should discuss it.”

  “Can’t we just forget it ever happened?” asked Matt.

  “Fine, then,” said Kate. “Why don’t we talk about what’s going on with you instead? Even before this you were distant, I rarely see you anymore and when we do meet up, you’re always moody!”

  “Oh, I’m always moody,” said Matt. “I wonder why that could be?”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Kate. “I know it’s been horrific, but . . .”

  “But what?” said Matt. “How do you know what’s it been like for me? Is your family dead?”

  “Matt, I . . .” Kate started, but Matt cut her off.

  “Is your family dead?”

  “No,” said Kate. “But . . .”

  “No,” said Matt. “They’re not. When they are, you can lecture me on mood swings.”

  Kate closed her eyes. “You’re right that I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through, or how much pain you’ve been in. But your grief is not an excuse to behave like an arsehole, Matt! Sooner or later you’ve got to start taking responsibility for your actions.”

  “Ahh, there it is!” said Matt. “That’s what this is really about: taking responsibility. So we had sex. So what? Now you want to be my girlfriend? You want to get married? What, Kate? What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to stop being such a selfish twat!” Kate yelled.

  “Shit happens,” said Matt.

  “Brilliant,” said Kate. “Let’s just sweep it under the carpet and pretend like everything’s normal. For Christ’s sake, Matt, I just want my friend back.”

  “But I don’t want you,” said Matt.

  “What?” Kate asked. His statement knocked the wind out of her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t want to be your friend,” said Matt. “It’s time to grow up, Kate. Did you really think we’d be best friends forever? Me, you, Ben, and Laura? All living in a big house together in Blexford like the fucking Brady Bunch?”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” said Kate. “We’re too old to be friends anymore? That’s stupid!”

  “Stupid or not,” said Matt, “that’s the way it is.”

  He was as good as his word. He ignored Kate’s phone calls and emails until she had no choice but to accept that they were indeed no longer friends.

  It knocked her confidence. He’d always been there. And now suddenly he wasn’t, like an annoying brother who you fought with all the time and then missed when he wasn’t there to spar with.

  It wasn’t just Matt. It was Laura too. Kate leaned on them both. They were her support system. But what if one day Laura disappeared too? What then? Kate realized she needed to be good enough on her own. And the only way to do that was to put herself in a situation where she was all she had. Eventually Kate would look back at that time as a defining moment: the end of her childhood.

  “You don’t have to leave the country to find yourself!” Laura had said.

  “Actually,” said Kate, “that is precisely what I need to do.”

  Kate spent a lot of time going over it with Laura in the old Victorian town house they shared with three other girls. They sat in her bedroom, chain-smoking out of the window, the woodchip wallpaper peeled and the carpet threadbare.

  “Will you write to me?” Laura asked.

  “All the time,” said Kate. “And we’ll keep each other’s letters and read them back when we’re old.”

  Kate had saved enough money to last her for three months, by her own meticulous calculations but had blown it all on cheap beer, cigarettes, and nightclubs after two. So she found work. She pulled pints, instead of drinking them, in France and Belgium; and she waited tables in restaurants, across Germany, Austria, and Switzerland.

  She stayed in youth hostels and occasionally in digs that came with the jobs. Kate absorbed her surroundings, felt the beating hearts of cities and towns, through their stone walls and dusty piazzas.

  She took her sketchbook everywhere she went, and what she didn’t get time to sketch, she photographed. Her mind became a library, collating the stories of strangers and new friends, alive and dead. And she made her own stories and lived them through her experiences.

  Kate had only intended to spend six months traveling around Europe, but six months became a year and one year became a two-year globe-trotting adventure. When Laura had Skyped her to tell her that Matt had gotten married, Kate had barely flinched; her friendship with Matt had become just another jigsaw piece of her past . . . until her unanticipated move back to Blexford a decade later fetched it into her present.

  * * *

  • • • • •

  It was late by the time Kate dropped the last truffle into the last star-embossed cellophane bag and tied it with red and green ribbon. She stood all sixteen bags—each containing eight truffles—upright on the marble shelf and closed the larder door.

  Over the course of the evening she’d received a dozen apology texts from Matt. In the end she’d stopped replying. She wasn’t going to take responsibility for his guilt. He would have to work it out for himself. Perhaps he should try talking to his girlfriend instead.

  The unease in Kate’s stomach rolled to the surface, like a water snake coming up for air. Was Sarah having second thoughts about Matt? The idea of him being hurt made Kate’s chest ache.

  Kate lay in bed nursing worrisome thoughts that wouldn’t let her sleep: Would Sarah leave Matt and go back to Oliver? How would Matt feel? What could she do to stop it from happening? Why was she worrying so much about it? It wasn’t her heart that would be broken.

  Kate flicked the lamp on. She shook herself, as if by doing so she could shake off the unwanted thoughts like a mosquito. For goodness’ sake! she scolded herself. Pull yourself together! This is not your problem; concentrate on your own love life!

  She tried to infuse her mind with thoughts of the deliciously scented Richard, but Matt’s stupid puppy eyes kept ruining her fantasy. It was like being distracted by a stray cat meowing at the door; it wasn’t her responsibility, but she couldn’t ignore it either.

  Surely Sarah wouldn’t leave Matt and go back to Oliver? Kate remembered the adoring look Sarah had bestowed upon Matt that night in the snow; that was genuine. But so was the look of desperation when she’d seen Oliver at Dates with Mates night.

  Kate gave herself a mental kick up the bum and slapped both her cheeks. “You are not responsible for Matt!” she said out loud. “He is big enough and ugly enough to look after himself.”

  But still a feeling of unease coiled around her chest.

  Annoyed with herself, she padded downstairs in the darkness. In the scant light given off by the hob, she made herself a hot chocolate and sploshed in some brandy for medicinal purposes. Then she crept back upstairs, snuggled under the duvet, switched on the TV, and settled down with an old movie; the black-and-white images threw flickering shadows against the walls.

  An unwanted thought swam into her mind and took root as she lay there, propped up against the pillows: Were her concerns for Matt born purely out of friendship? And if not, it raised the question: Was she so struck by Sarah’s loving gaze at Matt because she longed for a love like theirs? Or because secretly, she longed to be loved by Matt?

  At some point in the wee small hours, Kate had fallen asleep with the TV on and the empty mug still in her hand.

  She woke early and got ready to meet Matt, making a conscious effort to forget her brandy-induced musings.

  The Christmas fair opened at eleven a.m., but stallholders were allowed in to get set up from eight a.m. Kate had said she’d meet Matt at the café to help load the p
roduce into the van. Carla would run the Pear Tree, and Petula was doing an extra shift to cover the busy lunch period.

  Kate decided to ignore last night’s awkward conversation and pretend it had never happened. Matt was obviously of the same mind.

  “Here!” he said, thrusting a takeaway coffee into her hand as she reached the side entrance to the café. “Get this down your neck, or you’ll be no good to man nor beast.”

  Kate took it and drank gratefully. The blue skies of yesterday had been overpowered by thick pewter clouds that threatened snow. She hoped it would hold off long enough for her to get to her date with Richard tonight. She also hoped they didn’t cancel her hiking date tomorrow.

  Sarah was noticeable by her absence.

  “Where’s Sarah?” Kate asked.

  “She’s gone to her mum’s for the day,” he said, heaving a crate full of jam jars into the back of the van. “Christmas stuff to organize, apparently.”

  “Oh,” said Kate. “Who’s helping you with the stall, then?”

  Matt grinned.

  “I was hoping you might,” he said.

  He flashed her a lost-puppy look and she almost caved, but instead she mentally slapped herself hard across the cheek and said, “Sorry, I’m busy today.”

  “What, getting ready for tomorrow’s date?” asked Matt.

  “Tonight’s, actually,” said Kate.

  “You can’t go hiking in the dark,” said Matt.

  “I’m not,” Kate replied. “I’m hiking tomorrow. Tonight is a different date, not part of the twelve dates.”

  Matt blustered.

  “What, two dates in two days?” he said.

  “Since when did you become the date police?” asked Kate.

  “It’s that Richard bloke, isn’t it,” said Matt. “The one with the cauliflower ear.”

  “Not that it matters,” said Kate. “But he doesn’t have cauliflower ear. And yes, it is that Richard bloke: hero of the hour.”

  “Ooh, all hail Richard!” said Matt in a snarky voice.

  “If he hadn’t come to my rescue, I’d have had to call you,” said Kate.

  “I’d have let you freeze,” said Matt.

  “Then it’s just as well Richard came along when he did,” said Kate.

  Matt grinned.

  Carla called out from the café, “Do you need more coffee, Kate?”

  “She hasn’t done anything yet!” shouted Matt.

  “Yes, please, Carla,” called Kate sweetly.

  Kate strode into the storeroom at the back of the kitchen and began to transport various crates and plastic containers filled with Christmas goodies to the van. At the back of the van, surrounded by rolled-up rugs—presumably for buffering during transit—was a coffee machine. He’s doing coffee as well! thought Kate. No wonder he asked for help. When the van was thoroughly loaded, Kate laid the box containing her truffle bags gently on top of Evelyn’s Christmas cakes.

  “Sure I can’t change your mind?” asked Matt.

  “Quite sure,” said Kate.

  She waved Matt off as the van disappeared down the lane behind the café and joined the track to the manor. Then she went back in through the side door to get her second caffeine fix.

  “It’s going to be insane up there today,” said Carla. “There’s two coach companies running Christmas market visits from Chelmsford and Watford, and one from Calais! And that’s before people coming by car.”

  “Ah,” said Kate. “One second.”

  Kate pulled her phone out of her pocket and fired off a text to Matt.

  If it gets too busy give me a ring. I’ll come and help.

  Carla raised her eyebrows at Kate.

  “You just caved and said you’d help him, didn’t you,” she said.

  “Maybe,” said Kate.

  Carla shook her head laughing.

  “You are such a sucker.”

  Kate was about to argue when the door chime jangled and continued to do so incessantly, as the café filled up with early-bird Christmas shoppers needing a fix before hitting the mall in Great Blexley. The noise level rose instantly from quiet to carnival.

  “Oh my God!” Carla paled. “Petula’s not in till half ten!”

  Kate sighed.

  “Give me a check pad and pen,” she said.

  Carla grinned and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I wouldn’t want you thinking I was only a sucker for Matt,” said Kate.

  Kate ran around taking orders and serving, while Carla worked up a head of steam at the coffee machine and doled out cakes. An hour passed by and they still hadn’t stopped.

  Christmas tunes belted out of the stereo, kids drew pictures on the steamy windows, and the Christmas tree jangled as friends jostled past it, greeting one another. Woolen hats and gloves were strewn across every table and the backs of chairs bulged with parkas and puffers and wax jackets.

  At ten o’clock there was a short lull as the regulars left for their day of shopping mayhem. Kate and Carla attacked the clearing up; the dishwasher pushed out great clouds of steam.

  At ten fifteen the café was besieged again, this time with townies dropping in for a pit stop on their way to the manor, having walked up the hill from Great Blexley. It was bedlam, but good-humored bedlam. Many remarked how they’d never been to the Pear Tree Café but that they’d definitely be back.

  By eleven o’clock the Pear Tree was quiet again and Petula had arrived with a homemade roulade, a mincemeat tart, and a batch of spice biscuits, which was just as well as the chiller had been almost cleaned out already.

  Petula whipped a tape measure out of her pocket and quick as a flash wrapped it around Kate’s chest.

  “I want to make sure these haven’t grown since last year,” she said, nodding at Kate’s boobs. “I’ve come up with something this year that will blow your socks off!”

  Kate laughed.

  “I’m intrigued,” she said. She genuinely was.

  “It’ll be ready in a couple of days,” said Petula. “I had to order in more sequins.”

  Kate left just as the first snowflakes began to flurry around the green and squeezed herself through a hole in the fence behind the Duke’s Head that led out near her dad’s cottage.

  “What’ll you do if I ever get that fence fixed?” shouted Barry. Kate looked up. Barry was leaning over the top of the fire escape, with a steaming mug in one hand that read The Boss and a fat cigar in the other. Kate grinned and waved.

  “Hi, Barry,” she called.

  “You’re not too old for me to put you across my knee,” he said.

  “You’ll have to catch me first!” she shouted back, and disappeared through the hole and into the alley on the other side.

  “Say hello to Mac for me!” Barry bellowed after her. He chuckled and rubbed the back of his head with his cigar hand. “Some things never change,” he said to himself.

  * * *

  • • • • •

  Kate knocked three times on her dad’s front door and then let herself in with her key. His cottage was what she’d call chintzy; she never really understood why he didn’t change it, but he said he didn’t want it to lose its essence. William Morris wallpaper covered most of the walls and the furniture was Laura Ashley floral, as were the curtains. The carpet was a most luxurious weave with underlay so soft, your feet sank as you walked.

  He rented it from Evelyn, who’d inherited it from her aunt, but Evelyn had always lived in the large flat above the shop and was determined to stay there. She liked being at the heart of everything that happened in the village, in mind, spirit, and body.

  Kate kicked her boots off. The scent of fried smoked bacon wafted into the hallway. Her stomach growled.

  “Hallo, love,” Mac called from the kitchen. “I’ve just thrown a few more rashers in. I hope yo
u’re hungry.”

  They sat at the small table by the kitchen window and ate bacon doorstop sandwiches, hugging their mugs of tea, and watched the snow settle on the rhododendron leaves in the garden. A robin took shelter under the bird table roof.

  “I’ve been thinking about Christmas,” said Mac.

  “Aha,” said Kate, ripping off a crust with her teeth.

  “I was thinking maybe we could have Christmas dinner here this year?”

  Kate was surprised. They’d always had Christmas at her house.

  “Because I’d like to invite someone,” said Mac.

  “You can invite someone to mine,” said Kate. “You know you’re always welcome to bring guests. It was your house before it was mine.”

  “But this is different,” he said. “I would like this guest to not eat dinner in the house I used to share with your mother.”

  Kate spluttered into her tea.

  “Dad, are we talking about a woman guest?”

  Mac winced.

  “How would you feel about that?” he asked, avoiding the question and Kate’s eyes.

  “Dad!” said Kate, reaching over and holding his hand. “I would feel brilliant about it! More than brilliant. I would be over the moon.”

  “Really?” said Mac. He visibly relaxed.

  “Of course really,” said Kate. “I’m so happy you’ve met someone. Who is she? Do I know her?”

  Mac smiled.

  “Evelyn,” he said.

  Kate slapped her forehead and laughed.

  “How did I not see that coming?” she said. “Well, that settles it then. You, me, and Evelyn for Christmas dinner here! Oh, but what about Matt? He and Evelyn always spend Christmas Day together.”

  Mac put his hand on Kate’s.

  “I don’t think Matt will be lonely, love,” he said.

  * * *

  • • • • •

  By two o’clock, Kate was ensconced in one of her dad’s armchairs: legs stretched out across the ottoman feet toasting gently in the warmth of the fire, an old black-and-white movie with impossibly well-spoken actors on the TV.