“I know she would,” said Kate.
“You were right,” said Matt. “I should bring back the autumn pear parties. It’s been long enough.”
“I know a lot of people who will be very pleased about that,” said Kate.
She didn’t know why, but the idea that she could still get through to Matt after all these years made her chest feel warm. Or maybe it was the alcohol. She smiled to herself either way.
“Sarah has made me realize that I need to stop clinging on to the past,” said Matt. “It’s time to move forward.”
And just like that the warm feeling inexplicably drained out of Kate’s chest.
“Mum wouldn’t want the tree kept as a shrine to her,” Matt went on. “She’d want everyone to enjoy it.”
“Mmm,” Kate agreed.
But all she kept hearing in her head were the words It’s time to move forward. What did he mean? Was he trying to tell her something? Was it code for I’m going to propose to Sarah? And why did she care?
“I need to go home,” said Kate.
“What? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. And then, “I just feel a bit sick.”
“Oh,” said Matt. “Okay. Well, I’ll walk you home.”
“There’s no need,” said Kate. “I’m a big girl.”
“You know, sometimes I think you argue with me out of pure habit,” said Matt.
The village was asleep as they wandered home. Even the pub was dark and quiet. The bright moon lit their way as they made their marks on the virgin snow. The air was still now, as if it had worn itself out and the accumulating snow made the village feel somehow insulated from the cold.
They walked side by side, and the similarity between this scene and the one Kate had witnessed the other night between Matt and Sarah was not lost on her. But they would not wrap their arms around each other or kiss tenderly under the moon because that was not what friends did.
They reached Kate’s house. It looked like a Christmas card. Her dad had placed two poinsettias in green clay pots on either side of the front door, protected by the gabled porch roof, white with a layer of gingerbread-house snow. Kate’s footprints from that morning had been completely covered over.
“Thanks for your help tonight,” said Matt. “I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” said Kate. “I had a nice time.”
“Me too,” said Matt. “I miss that sometimes . . . you and me, just larking about.”
“Me too,” said Kate.
“Well,” said Matt. “I’ll be off. Early start as usual.”
“Yep,” said Kate.
Matt put his arms out and pulled Kate into a bear hug. He kissed her on the top of her head and trudged back down the garden path, pulling her gate closed behind him. He turned back and waved once as he wandered back down the snowy road and disappeared into Potters Copse. Kate watched him go and stood there a good while after he’d disappeared from view.
Later, Kate lay in bed thinking. She was thinking about Matt and Sarah getting married. She was thinking that her feelings about such a happy imagining weren’t as joyful as they ought to be. Her phone blipped and the thoughts dropped away into the abyss. It was a text from Drew:
Steven the Home Office hottie is a heartbreaker! it said.
Oh no! texted Kate. What happened?
He’s married, came the reply. To a woman.
Arsehole! Kate replied.
Totally. Drew responded. How about you?
Two great dates, two great kissers. Kate replied.
Slut! texted Drew, followed by I’m jealous! xxx
* * *
• • • • •
“I can’t believe it!” said Laura. “And you kissed both of them! Amazing! I’d have passed out from all the romance. I don’t have romance anymore. Ben’s idea of romance is not nodding off during sex.”
Laura was spoon-feeding mashed banana to Charley for his breakfast, but she was wearing most of it down her T-shirt. Laura and Ben lived in one of a row of cottages that used to house the married servants of Blexford Manor; Laura enjoyed the historical juxtaposition of her life with that of the previous tenants.
The television was playing the children’s channel; strange brightly colored creatures were singing nursery rhymes in a psychedelic woodland. Charley was transfixed. A gaudy Christmas tree, clearly decorated by Mina, dwarfed the tiny sitting room.
“So, did you hear from either of them yet?” Laura asked.
“Both,” said Kate, grinning sheepishly.
“Oh my God,” said Laura.
“Richard sent me flowers this morning,” said Kate.
Laura clutched her hand to her heart and sucked in her breath.
“They’re beautiful,” Kate went on. “All winter blooms and Christmas foliage; he’s really thought about it.”
“Wow,” said Laura in a dreamy voice. “Ben only buys me flowers when they’ve been marked down at the garage, or if he wants me to partake of some sexual deviance.”
Kate pulled a face.
“But sadly, even that’s not as often as it used to be,” said Laura wistfully.
“Anyway,” said Kate. “On the card in the flowers, it said: Be ready at your gate for 9.30pm. I’m taking you out for a hot toddy. Wear layers.”
“Oh my God,” said Laura. “How are you still upright? I feel dizzy just hearing about it.”
“And,” Kate went on, “Phil and I have been texting back and forth quite a bit. He’s hilarious, you’ll love him, oh and he called me last night to arrange a date after Christmas.”
“Blimey,” said Laura. “They’re like buses!”
Kate laughed. Charley shouted “BUS!” and slapped his hands on his highchair table, flicking banana in Laura’s hair.
Ben’s office had closed down for Christmas and he’d taken Mina out for a father-daughter breakfast at the Pear Tree, where they drank babyccinos and read princess magazines together.
“I popped into the café yesterday,” said Laura. “Had one of your mince pies. You can tell which ones are yours,” she said. “Matt’s are somewhat rustic-looking. He said you had a love bite that you were trying to pass off as an accident.”
“That man gossips like an old woman,” said Kate.
“Are you doing the gingerbread house date at the manor?” Laura asked.
“Yes,” Kate replied. “But first I’ve got that dinner date, tomorrow night, near Leicester Square. I’m going in to the office for a few hours during the day and then I’ll head over. In fact, I’d better get off, I’ve got to be at the Pear Tree for half ten to help out with Petula’s craft morning and then go home and do some work, and then go on a hot-toddy date.”
“You are racking those men up,” said Laura.
“It was a bit of a slow start,” said Kate. “But it’s certainly picking up speed now.”
“Did you get your car back yet?” Laura asked.
“Patrick’s bringing it back on the tow truck tomorrow,” said Kate. “Poor old girl, she’ll never make it up the hill in this.”
* * *
• • • • •
Kate left Laura’s armed with a bag full of bay tree leaves freshly pinched from her garden and some dark green ivy she’d pulled from the back fence.
The roads were clear down in Great Blexley, but Blexford was still a winter wonderland. Most people were using being cut off by the hill as an excuse to start their Christmas holidays early. Parents pulled toddlers along on sledges, which doubled as handy shopping trolleys, and men whose summer rituals consisted of charring meat over hot coals now indulged their winter customs by lagging pipes and setting up Christmas laser-light projectors in their front gardens.
The Pear Tree was buzzing with activity, not least because of the three tables taken up at the back by Petula’s crafters. Ben and Mi
na waved from the easy chairs; Ben was reading National Geographic and Mina was deeply involved in sticking unicorn stickers on her tights. Mina was sporting a chocolate Musketeer beard and mustache, which was transferring to her pink jumper from her chin in scuffs of brown that Kate felt sure Laura would disapprove of.
“Hello, stranger!” called Matt. “What strength coffee can I get you this fine morning? Rocket fuel or nuclear?”
“Nuclear, please,” said Kate.
Matt was happiest when he was ridiculously busy; something about bedlam brought him out in deep joy.
Petula rushed at Kate and manhandled her to the craft area.
“Here she is!” Petula trilled. “Our very own Liberty designer.”
Kate flushed as twelve curious crafters turned their eyes expectantly upon her. She was surprised to find that none of the faces were familiar; Petula must have been advertising her classes farther afield.
Kate surveyed the paraphernalia on the tables and added her own greenery to the mix. Some of the crafters were already inspired and concentrated on their projects, while others sifted through the festive bits and bobs with expressions of mild panic.
Matt brought her coffee over.
“I really enjoyed the other night,” he said. “We ought to do it more often.”
Kate felt the inquisitive ping of ears suddenly standing to attention all over the café.
“You can’t say things like that,” said Kate. “People will gossip.”
“Let them.” He grinned. “I’m well used to being sport for idle tongues; gossip is the Blexford currency.”
“Don’t I know it,” said Kate.
“By the way,” said Matt, raising his voice for the audience. “How’s that love bite from the Aussie surf dude coming on?”
He lifted her hair and inspected the mauve bruise near her throat, making interested noises as he did so. Kate could swear she heard a collective intake of breath from the café. She slapped his hand away.
“There are times when I don’t like you at all,” she hissed.
Matt flashed her a wicked grin and went back to work. Kate pulled off her coat and jumper—leaving her scarf on—and fanned herself with a blank Christmas card from the table.
Kate pulled a chair to the end of the middle table and sat down. She plucked three large bay leaves from the middle of the table, positioned them together by their stalks in a fan arrangement, and tied the stalks securely with a piece of thread.
“The great thing about using nature for decorations is that Mother Nature has done all the hard work for us,” said Kate. “And all we need do is add the slightest embellishments to make something that looks like we’ve got bags of style.”
Kate took a length of raffia, wrapped it twice around the stalks, and knotted it. Two women at the table scrabbled about for bay leaves and followed suit, as did a man seated at the next table, craning his neck to see what Kate was doing.
Kate threaded a gold jingle bell onto the raffia lengths and pushed it up to the knot; she followed this with a small tartan bow and then another bell and then a slice of dried orange, before tying the raffia into a big bow to secure them all in place. She took a gold pen and wrote Mina in curly script along the length of the middle bay leaf.
“One place card,” said Kate, holding the decoration up. “Or a fancy gift label,” she added.
Kate went on to produce variations on this theme, using cinnamon sticks, star anise, dried apple slices, and sprigs of rosemary and trailing ivy. The crafters quickly caught on and produced their own adaptations.
Matt brought Kate over a piece of roulade and a gingerbread latte.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked.
Kate ate a forkful of roulade.
“Just,” she said.
Ben and Mina came over to say good-bye. Mina’s face was now chocolate free, but her jumper looked like the victim of a dirty protest.
“Laura’s going to kill me!” said Ben.
Kate laughed.
“I’d say that’s a fair assessment,” she said.
Kate gave Mina her handcrafted name tag.
“You can put this outside your door on Christmas Eve so that Father Christmas knows which stocking is yours,” said Kate.
Mina, who took all things Father Christmas related very seriously, considered the name tag with a look of such deep reverence that Kate had to stifle a giggle.
“Thank you, Aunty Kate,” said Mina. “This is very good. Now I won’t get Charley’s baby toys. Because Charley’s a baby and I am a big girl!”
An hour later and the class was over. The crafters left with bags of handmade treasures and stomachs full of cake. Kate helped Petula pack away her equipment into the plastic chests of drawers on wheels.
“Just put those out the back!” shouted Matt from behind the counter. “I’ll drop them round to you later, Lula.”
“Are you sure?” asked Petula.
“Absolutely,” said Matt. “You can’t be dragging those great things through the snow like some kind of craft-crazed hobo!”
Kate looked at her watch. The day was getting away from her and she really needed to get cracking on her work. She felt a familiar buzzing in her legs, the adrenaline running through them as she mentally calculated how much work she had to get done against how many hours there were left in the day.
“Go on with you,” said Petula with a smile. “I can finish up here.”
“It’s no bother,” said Kate.
“I can see you’ve got ants in your pants,” said Petula. “You’ve got better things to do than hunt glue-stick lids!”
Kate kissed Petula on the cheek and gathered up her things. Through the steamed-up windows of the café, Kate could see that it had begun snowing again.
“You not staying for lunch?” asked Matt.
Kate shook her head.
“I’ve got to work,” she said.
“Pity,” he said. “I’m just about to go on my break, you could’ve kept me company.”
Kate smiled.
“Maybe next time,” she said.
* * *
• • • • •
Back home, Kate got the log burner going in the kitchen and printed off the photographs from Epping Forest. She’d been sent a last-minute brief for a winter fabric to come out at the end of January, so she shelved her spring designs for the time being and set to work on some post-Christmas sketches.
She pulled an old tome from her bookshelf and began to leaf through the pages. It was an encyclopedia of flowers she had picked up in a secondhand bookshop: well-thumbed, with that musty attic scent that never leaves once it has impregnated the paper.
Kate found what she was looking for and settled down with paper and palette and began to sketch: dusky pink hellebores with tissue-thin petals and pale starburst middles. And Japanese quince flowers, the color of watermelon flesh: neat little bell-shaped blooms with sunshine centers. To these she added patches of snowy woodland backdrop, inspired by her photographs: frosted ferns and iced berries.
It was important to get the base color right; too red or too green and it risked looking like a Christmas design. Too pale and it would look cold and uninviting, when what she wanted to portray was the beauty of the wild, even in darkest winter. She needed a shade that would invoke warm blankets and comfort food and TV movies. She settled on a warm taupe, the color of deer in winter.
Late afternoon became early evening. Kate flicked on her desk lamp and continued to work as daylight left the world outside entirely and all that could be seen through the windows was darkness. A steady stream of coffee, mince pies, and crisps had kept her going. But now she was properly hungry.
She didn’t feel like cooking. Her mind was too much on making sure she had her spring designs perfected and her last-minute winter brief completed ready for tomorrow. Instead, Kate made
herself a very full cheese-and-pickle toasted sandwich and a mug of tea and went into the living room to eat it in front of the TV. She knew from bitter experience not to eat messy foods near her workspace.
Halfway through an episode of a Christmas baking show, Kate’s phone bleeped. It was a text from Phil.
Can I call you? it said. Kate replied that he could. Two minutes later he called. There was something strange about his voice. He didn’t sound like the happy-go-lucky man she’d kissed in the forest.
“I wanted to tell you that I’ve got to go back to Australia,” he said. “I wanted to let you know because I thought we got on really well. And I wanted to see you again. And I didn’t want you to think that I was just blocking you or anything like that.”
“Is everything all right?” asked Kate. “You don’t seem like, well, you!”
“My son called,” said Phil. “His mum’s sick. Like really sick. Suspected meningitis. I’ve gotta get over there.”
“Of course you have,” said Kate. “Absolutely, don’t give it another thought. I hope she’s okay. We can catch up when you get back.”
“That’s the thing,” said Phil. “There won’t be any catching up. When I heard she was sick I . . .”
“You realized you were still in love with her?” said Kate gently.
“I’m sorry,” said Phil.
“For what?” asked Kate. “For being honest?”
“I’m sorry if you feel I led you on,” said Phil.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” said Kate. “When do you fly out?”
“Tonight.”
“I’ll be sending positive vibes your way,” said Kate.
“In another time . . .” said Phil. “Things might have been different.”
“In another time,” said Kate. “They might have been.”
“Take care of yourself, Kate.”
“You too.”
Kate felt a little pang of disappointment, but she wasn’t entirely surprised; he had spoken about his ex with such reverence on their date that the only real surprise was Phil himself not realizing he was still in love with her.
The Twelve Dates of Christmas Page 18