“There is no way you’re going to get down that hill, in the ice, with a suitcase, and not fall arse over tit,” he said.
Kate conceded that he was probably right.
“I need to go to the cash-and-carry anyway,” he said. They left Carla and Petula holding the fort.
“So how is work going?” Matt asked.
“Good, thanks,” said Kate. “I’ve got the first batch of spring designs ready and a last-minute winter one ready to submit.”
“I’d like to see them sometime,” said Matt. “I feel like I’ve been so busy recently, I haven’t seen your work for ages.”
“Well,” said Kate. “It’s good that the café’s doing so well. And fabric’s not greatly interesting to you, is it.”
“I’m always interested in what you do,” said Matt. He seemed strangely offended. “You’re really talented, Kate. I’ve always admired your work.”
Kate was a little taken aback.
“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.” She changed the subject. “How’s Sarah?”
“She’s great!” said Matt. “She’s so busy with work at the moment, but the schools break up soon, so she’ll be around a lot more.”
“That’ll be nice.”
“I was thinking of cooking a pre-Christmas meal for us,” he told her. “With you and Laura and Ben, and Sarah obviously. You could bring one of your Shagmas dates.” He grinned.
Kate felt her chagrin rise, but she let it fall again. She would not give Matt the satisfaction. She wondered if it was too soon to invite Richard.
“I might have someone I could invite,” she said.
“Who? The rugby player?” asked Matt.
“Yeah,” said Kate. “Maybe.”
“Getting along quite well with him, aren’t you,” said Matt. “Do you think it could be something?”
“Oh, it’s definitely something.” Kate smiled as last night’s heavy petting session in the forest swam back into her mind. “I’m just not exactly sure what yet.”
“Bring him along,” said Matt. “And then I can grill him about his intentions.”
“Oh, that’s bound to encourage him to ask me out on further dates,” said Kate.
Matt laughed.
“It’ll be the first time all of us will have had partners at the same time,” he said. “At least when we’re all living in the same place.”
* * *
• • • • •
The train was packed. Kate only just managed to get a seat. She sat next to a man who picked his nose relentlessly and laughed out loud at the cartoons in his newspaper. Opposite were two women, off to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. They steeled themselves for the task by drinking gin and tonic out of plastic tumblers, which one of the women produced from a Harrods tote bag.
Moaning children were subdued with sweets and magazines, and sullen youths looked blankly out of the windows or kept their faces close to their phones; a tst-tst-tst sound emanated from their headphones. Most of the adults were no different; finger pads danced lightning fast over phones and tablets and laptops.
Kate watched the snowy landscape whoosh by. White roofs, white fields, white hills, the gray sky threatening more to come. They passed by a cemetery: flashes of red from poinsettias laid for the gone-but-not-forgotten. Lucky children on a snow day sledged down slopes, while sheep and cows huddled in groups respectively against the cold; a bright green tractor laden with hay bales chugged across the white terrain.
As they came closer to London the scenery changed. Snow-capped billboards enticed consumers with promises of a perfect Christmas. A sea of brick chimney stacks stretched as far as the eye could see, a maze of snowy streets below them, alive and buzzing with activity. Busy high streets with Christmas decorations strung above. Pubs on corners and tented market stalls that ran the length of town centers.
Closer still and the world morphed into a new kind of animal, a bigger, hungrier, more demanding creature. Here was a land of giants: towers that reached for the skies, power and poverty living side by side. Industrial blocks with mirrored windows and revolving restaurants in the clouds. Old stone and glinting steel; history and history in the making. The glorious muddle of a million humans rubbing along together.
Kate loved the city. She loved the grit and the grime and the streets paved with possibilities. If Blexford was her wife, then London was her mistress.
The station was bustling, the tube was rammed, and Carnaby Street was insanity, but it was worth every nudge, squeeze, and jostle to find herself outside her beloved Liberty at Christmas.
It bloomed, mirage-like at the top of Carnaby Street, in a carnival of Tudor resplendence. Christmas trees lined the balconies on the first floor and the leaded windows beckoned people in with glittering ribbons, vibrantly wrapped packages, and delicately constructed sugar plum wishes, plucked from the dreams of Christmas lovers everywhere.
Kate ambled through the festive decked halls and departments and soaked in the Christmas shop wonderland, adorned with more glitter and sparkle per square inch than the whole of Las Vegas put together. She picked out a few new baubles—to add to her already extensive collection—in anticipation of the tree Evelyn and Patrick would be picking up for her that night and made her way to the art department behind the scenes.
Her spring designs were approved, and she emailed them to the fabric printers. Her boss suggested one or two tweaks to the winter fabric and asked her to make an exact copy of the design on a different-colored background as well.
Kate made the required tweaks. She set up her easel and painted in some corkscrew ferns in frosted olive green between the hellebores and the quince, and dotted about clusters of pale brown honey fungus mushrooms. She scanned the final draft into the computer and made a copy with a duck-egg-blue background, so that she had one taupe and one blue fabric of the same design. Then she sent both to the printers.
It was dark by the time she’d finished, but the store beyond the studio was still frenzied with late-night shoppers. She slipped into the staff restroom and changed into her date clothes. She’d packed a racing-car-green knitted dress that had a pretty V-neck wrap-around top, long sleeves, and a tie belt and fell into soft pleats from the waist down. It was warm and flattering and went well with her practical knee-high tan leather boots. After a quick application of eyeliner and lipstick, she decreed herself date-ready.
Tonight she was meeting Jim. Jim was thirty-seven, divorced, with no children, and worked in the city; according to his profile he was something big in investments. His photograph showed him in a slick tailored suit; his hair was short and dirty-straw blond and he grinned in a way that was both charming and mischievous.
Kate stood almost cheek to cheek with the other commuters on the tube to Leicester Square and considered the phone call she’d had with Richard before she’d descended the stairs to the station and lost signal.
“I can’t stand the idea of you meeting another man,” said Richard.
“I want to get my money’s worth,” said Kate. “I’ve paid for this dinner, so I’m going to eat it. And anyway”—Kate laughed—“you’re meeting other women! That is, after all, the nature of the twelve dates.”
“But I’m thinking of you the whole time,” he said.
“Really?” she said. “The whole time?”
“Scout’s honor,” he said.
Kate felt a little twinge of guilt about locking lips with Phil so soon after kissing Richard. She had to admit, it made life a lot simpler now that Phil had gone back to Australia; if he’d stayed, she wasn’t sure she’d have been up to the task of choosing between them.
“Who’s your date tonight?” Kate asked.
Richard was signed up for Bond Night at a casino. He’d sent her pictures of himself in his tux; he looked delicious and she’d made no bones about telling him so.
“Gerda,” sa
id Richard. “She works in accounts and plays netball and hockey.”
“She sounds like your cup of tea,” said Kate.
“I’ve found my cup of tea,” said Richard. His voice was deep and smooth and Kate’s stomach flipped.
Kate and Richard had spoken on the phone daily since their perfect date at the Smugglers Inn, sometimes more than once. They often texted several times a day: funny things they’d seen or heard, silly videos, thoughtful little texts that showed one was thinking of the other.
She’d woken to a text from him at five a.m. this morning, saying how much he’d enjoyed last night. It was, Kate had to admit, very romantic. Sometimes Kate had to remind herself that she’d only actually seen Richard three times in the flesh and one of those times was technically a rescue mission. It was easy to feel she knew him better than she actually did.
“It’s like in the old days when people would fall in love with their pen pals,” said Laura, swooning. “They fell in love over their letters without ever having met in real life.”
“What? Like those women who write to men on death row?” Kate laughed.
“Exactly like that,” said Laura. “But with less murder.”
“It’s moving so quickly,” Kate mused. “I mean, it’s fun and it’s flirty, but sometimes it feels like we’re beyond where we should be at. As if we’ve skipped a whole chapter.”
“Well,” said Laura, “just make sure you keep things at a pace you’re happy with. A few saucy texts doesn’t entitle him to the keys to your knickers—unless of course you want him to have them.”
“It’s been so long,” said Kate. “I don’t remember where the keys are!”
Though after last night’s close call, she’d vowed to keep all her hairy bits shaved and trimmed, just in case the need for knicker keys should arise unexpectedly. However, she didn’t expect to be needing them for tonight’s date.
She had more or less decided that the dates from here on were just honoring her financial commitment to Lightning Strikes. The thrill in her chest every time she thought of Richard seemed to confirm that she had already found what she’d been searching for. She almost felt sorry for Jim, her dinner date for the evening.
* * *
• • • • •
The restaurant was situated in a side road just off Leicester Square. It was low-lit and warm and smelled deeply of garlic and fresh bread. The walls were lined with dark oak boiserie paneling and the ceiling was ornately plastered to match the wood detail. Each table had a tea light in a burgundy-and-gold-patterned votive candle holder and a long-necked table lamp, with a smoked glass shade in the shape of a bluebell, which cast a warm glow over the table and kept its occupants in soft focus.
The building was narrow but went back a long way. A third of the tables were on the flat as you walked into the restaurant and the rest were up four steps, with a typical French bar to the right and the door to the kitchens at the far end. The sounds of Django Reinhardt’s jazz guitar drifted around the restaurant and reminded Kate of summer evenings spent on the Left Bank in Paris.
Kate recognized the rep from her ill-fated cocktail-making date with Oliver and headed over.
“Hi, Kate!” said the rep. “Eighth date in. How’s it going?” She ran her finger down a list of names on her clipboard, stopping at Kate’s and drawing a line through it.
“It’s going well,” said Kate. “I’ve met some really nice people.”
“Oh good,” said the rep with a sigh of relief. “We’ve had a few teething problems,” she went on. “But this is the first time we’ve ever offered something on such a large scale. We’ll know better next time.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kate.
“Well . . .” The rep bit her lip. “Not everyone has been completely honest about who they are, or their relationship status.”
“Oh dear.” Kate laughed. “I’ll bet that’s led to some awkward conversations.”
“You have no idea.” The rep’s eyes were wide as if trying to communicate information she wasn’t allowed to divulge. “We’re going to have to improve our vetting process for next time.”
“I’ve heard it referred to as ‘the Twelve Shags of Christmas,’” said Kate.
“Yes,” said the rep. She pursed her lips. “That’s not been ideal either.”
The rep pointed to a table by the window where Jim twizzled his glass of wine as he looked out of the window.
Kate made her way over.
“Jim,” she said, smiling and holding out her hand.
“Kate.” He smiled and stood and shook her hand, and then he hesitated for a moment and leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks.
“When in France,” he said. And then, “Oh God, that was awful.” He laughed. “It sounded much smoother in my head. I never know how we’re meant to greet each other.”
Kate laughed too.
“Neither do I,” she said. “It’s so awkward, isn’t it? Is a handshake too dismissive? Or is a kiss on the cheek too familiar?”
“And if you go for the cheek kiss,” said Jim, “do you go for one cheek or two? If one of you goes for a two-er and the other for a one, the two-er is going to end up leaning in midair, all puckered up with nowhere to go.”
“They really should design a standard etiquette procedure and have it on the website,” said Kate. “It would save a lot of red faces.”
“From now on I’m going in with a high five,” said Jim. “It’s the safest way.”
“But what if they leave you hanging?” said Kate.
“Oh no!” said Jim covering his face in horror. “Oh, the shame of it!”
* * *
• • • • •
The food was wonderful and Jim made very good company. He was confident and clever, yet self-effacing enough to be endearing and charming.
They started with French onion soup, rich with beef stock and topped with toasted Gruyère croutons. And for the main course, Jim went for the beef bourguignon and Kate had coq au vin.
The conversation flowed easily, too easily. Kate was beginning to wonder if the Lightning Strikes team were getting a bit too good at their jobs. At this rate she could end her Twelve Dates experience with more potential partners than she’d bargained for. With Phil out of the running, Richard was out in front, but Jim was looking like he could be a close second and she still had four more dates to go. Some of her confidence in her budding relationship with Richard had slipped a little after a couple of hours in the company of Jim.
Jim had been divorced for three years and hadn’t had any serious relationships since.
“It’s time I got back out there,” he said. “I like being part of a team of two. I miss that. Does that sound too sappy?”
“Not at all!” said Kate. “I suppose we all want the same thing, or we wouldn’t have signed up.”
“I guess so,” he said. “I don’t know when it happened; I was living the life, out being a lad, drinking and chasing women, and then I woke up one morning and it’s not enough anymore.”
“I think that’s called maturing,” Kate said.
“What about you?” Jim asked.
“Oh, no such epiphany, I’m afraid,” said Kate. “I am a walking cliché of just haven’t met the right man yet. Boring, huh?”
“I don’t think you’re boring at all, Kate,” said Jim. He leaned across the table conspiratorially and whispered, “I think you’re quite the dark horse.” He smiled and his eyes glinted something that made Kate’s thighs feel hot.
They talked about London: their favorite restaurants, their favorite places to walk in the city, and their shared love for the South Bank of the Thames, and rather bizarrely, they had both frequented the same karaoke bar in Islington.
“I sing best when I’m horribly drunk,” said Jim.
“Me too,” said Kate. “It’s amazing, the mo
re cocktails I drink, the better singer I think I am.”
“The people who work there must have to sign some sort of confidentiality clause, or there’d be videos of people like us all over the Internet,” said Jim.
Kate covered her face.
“Oh God, can you imagine?” she said.
“I also think I’m a cross between Fred Astaire and Usher on the dance floor after a few pints,” said Jim. “Unfortunately, I think the reality is more Mr. Blobby on acid.”
“I take it you didn’t sign up for any of the salsa dates, then?” said Kate.
“I’m trying to attract women,” said Jim. “Not repel them.”
Kate laughed. They’d finished their main courses and the waiter brought over more wine.
“Have you got work in the morning?” asked Kate. Jim had drunk twice as much as she had and it was starting to show.
“Nope,” he said. “I booked the morning off. How about you?”
Kate shook her head.
“Well, in that case,” said Jim with a smile, “we’ve got the whole night to get to know each other.”
He poured Kate another glass of wine, which she determined not to drink.
* * *
• • • • •
“Oh God,” said Kate.
She’d excused herself from the table and was sitting in a toilet cubicle talking to Laura on the phone.
“I don’t understand what the problem is,” said Laura. “You signed up to this thing to help you meet men and that’s exactly what it’s done.”
“Yes, but I didn’t expect to like anyone else,” said Kate. “What about Richard?”
“What about Richard?” Laura asked. “A couple of dates and a few cheeky phone calls does not an exclusive relationship make. Richard’s tuned in to your horny wavelength, that’s all.”
“Oh, you’re right.” Kate sighed. “Of course you’re right. I’ve just always been a one-man-at-a-time type of gal.”
“Did you never watch Sex and the City?” asked Laura. “Dates are not relationships. Dates are the prelude to a relationship. You go on the dates first to see if it’s worth pursuing as a relationship.”
The Twelve Dates of Christmas Page 20