“By what?” asked Kate. “It wasn’t a bit of fun to Edward; he looked bloody terrified to be near me!”
Kate thought she saw Richard’s mouth twitch and repress a smile.
“Tell me the truth or I leave right now,” said Kate.
“Babe!” he exclaimed. “Honestly, it was just a bit of a laugh.”
Kate got up and started to put her coat on.
“All right! All right,” Richard said. “I might’ve told him I’d rough him up if he got near you . . . or words to that effect.”
He must have seen Kate’s expression darken because he hastily added, “I didn’t think he’d take me so seriously!”
“Well, he did,” said Kate. “How dare you! How dare you presume the right to threaten a person on my behalf. You have no claim on me. None.”
Kate was livid. She finished putting her coat on and left, despite Richard’s pleading and calling after her. At one point he caught up with her on her the street; he blocked her path but one look from Kate and he stepped aside and let her pass. Just you try it, she thought.
She determined to write an apology email to Edward as soon as she got home. Hopefully the Lightning Strikes team would forward it along to him. Above all she felt embarrassed. What must Edward have thought of her? She was not some damsel who needed protecting, nor a gangster’s moll to be possessed.
Kate walked through the town center with its Christmas windows and strings of lights, which looped back and forth above the shops from one end of the precinct to the other. There was hardly any snow here at all. She found a convenience store open and purchased several chocolate bars and a family-sized bag of kettle chips before jumping into a taxi at the rank and going home. “Two more weeks,” she said to herself. “Just two more weeks.”
THE TENTH DATE OF CHRISTMAS
• • • • •
Gingerbread Tantrums and Secrets Outed
Kate cradled her coffee mug as she checked her emails the next morning. The printers had sent her a photograph of the winter fabric. She wouldn’t get an actual sample until after the holidays, but she was happy with what she could see. They had a little more grace on the second phase of spring fabrics, so Kate didn’t expect copies of those until maybe the second week of January, by which time, she thought, she’d be back in London.
The thought reminded her that she’d done nothing yet to facilitate such a move. She fired off a couple of emails to some friends who had spare rooms and wouldn’t mind a bit of rent money coming in. She would need to tell her dad and Laura soon. Finding the right time wasn’t going to be easy.
Also in her inbox was a reply the Lightning Strikes team had forwarded along from Edward. Kate had emailed a sincere apology as soon as she’d gotten home the night before.
Hi, Kate,
Thanks for your message. I guess we got off on the wrong footing.
I probably didn’t handle the situation as well as I might have, but I’ve never been threatened like that before and it took me by surprise. I was also unsure as to whether you might have been a party to it in some way (I’ve had some strange experiences on this Twelve Dates merry-go-round). I am relieved to know that you weren’t.
If you’re ever in London, give me a call and we’ll meet for a drink.
This probably isn’t my place but I would advise caution where Richard is concerned. I don’t think he’s what he appears.
All the best
Edward
Kate decided to ignore Edward’s parting comment. He’d only met Richard once; if she’d judged Edward against first appearances, he wouldn’t have come out too favorably either. She probably would like to meet up with him for a drink sometime, though; I’ll be in London sooner than you think, Kate mused.
It had snowed again last night and it was still snowing. Kate checked her phone. Several messages from Richard. Two from Laura. One from her dad. None from Matt. She looked out through the French doors to where her Christmas tree still sat in its bucket. Can’t put it off forever, she thought.
Half an hour later the tree was in the bay window in the sitting room, screwed into its stand with a good glug of water in the bucket. Kate cut through the mesh, and the bendy boughs gently bounced down into their natural positions. It was a lovely tree. Matt might not like her at the moment, but at least he hadn’t punished her with a shoddy tree. The branches were full with soft olive-green needles, and a smell of fresh pine perfumed the room.
Her collection of tree ornaments was as eclectic as it was large. She sourced baubles from anywhere and everywhere: from the places she had traveled like Venice, Greece, and New York, and from anywhere where a Christmas display would catch her eye. And of course there was Liberty: so many, many purchases from Liberty.
Laura came round having left the children with Ben and sat and watched Kate finish the tree; she knew better than to try to help.
“Have you spoken to Matt?” Laura asked.
“Nope,” said Kate.
“It’ll blow over,” said Laura. “He never stays angry for long.”
“I don’t care either way,” said Kate.
“Really?” Laura asked.
“What do you think?” said Kate.
When the tree was finished Kate made them each an Irish coffee and they toasted the light switching on.
“Don’t skimp on the Irish bit,” said Laura. “I’ve given up breastfeeding. Happy Christmas to me!”
“It’s not even lunchtime,” said Kate. “And you haven’t drunk in over a year; are you sure you want that much booze?”
“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s Christmas?” asked Laura. “None of the usual alcohol rules apply. Also, Ben’s home with the children. And also, I just got my boobs back; no more nibbled nipples! Now hit me with booze, baby.”
The tree was lovely. The lights twinkled through the branches and danced off the surfaces of the baubles. It was barely midday, but the sky outside was so dark that the tree didn’t look out of place being lit.
Kate told Laura about Richard.
“I don’t like the sound of it,” said Laura.
“He’s got this work hard, play hard thing going on,” said Kate. “You know, with all the rugby and stuff, I think he thought it was just banter and that Edward wouldn’t take him seriously.”
“I don’t buy that for a second,” said Laura.
Kate put her head in her hands.
“Oh God!” she said, her voice muffled beneath her hands. “You’re completely right. The old me wouldn’t buy it either. But this me is . . .”
“Desperate?” said Laura. “Pathetic?”
“I was going to say hopeful,” said Kate. “I really felt like we might have had something, you know? I’m not sure I’m ready to give up on him just because he got a bit overzealous.”
Laura stayed for another hour and another Irish coffee with extra Irish and a bit more Irish, before walking in zigzags home.
“I’ll see you at the manor tomorrow,” she called from the end of the path. “I bloody love you, Kate!”
Kate nodded and waved.
Tomorrow was the Twelve Dates gingerbread house competition. It was being held at Blexford Manor, in one of the dining rooms. After last night’s debacle, Kate had little enthusiasm for meeting any man again. Ever. But the twelve dates were almost at an end and she wanted to see it through, just to be sure she was giving fate a fair chance.
Her date was called Adam; he was forty-five, he had three children, and he was divorced. Adam was an architect and belonged to a rowing club. This all sounded very promising, Kate thought, and it couldn’t hurt to have an architect on hand when putting together a gingerbread house.
Kate scrolled through her phone to Adam’s photograph. Adam stood beside his kayak, grinning proudly as he held aloft a trophy. He was wearing a wet suit, and a kayak and two discarded paddles lay at hi
s feet. He had shoulder-length brown hair shot through with streaks of gray and a gingery-colored beard.
Kate wondered why so many of her dates had used sporty photographs of themselves; was it a chance to show off their physiques in their scanty hobby attire? She had submitted a picture of herself in a winter coat, grinning maniacally at last year’s caroling procession, with a glass of mulled wine raised to the camera and a sprig of holly in her hair. Perhaps she should have sent in a photo of herself rock wall climbing in tight leggings and a Lycra vest top.
Her phone blipped. It was Richard. Again.
Kate, I got it wrong. I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to do. I’d had a few drinks and then I’d seen you and you looked so hot and I couldn’t stand the idea of someone else putting their hands on you. There’s no excuse. I was a jealous idiot. Rxx
Kate sighed. Part of her agreed with Laura, and ordinarily behavior like his last night would have spelled the end of any man for her, but right now she needed something, anything, to take her mind off Matt. She knew Richard wasn’t the cure, but maybe he could numb the pain for a little while: a human paracetamol. Kate messaged back:
Consider yourself out on parole. x
He messaged back immediately:
Dinner tonight? My treat.
Kate flopped about the house for the remainder of the afternoon. She couldn’t settle on anything. Films didn’t hold her attention and she wasn’t in the mood for baking or painting. Ordinarily an afternoon like this would have found her ensconced in the Pear Tree, sipping coffee and organizing mood boards for work, and annoying Matt. Matt, Matt, Matt. It all came down to Matt. She stood by the French windows and watched the snowflakes tumble down. “Two more weeks,” she said to herself. “Just two more weeks.”
A knock at the door provided a welcome distraction from the morose turnings of her mind. It was Petula. She had a potted poinsettia plant in her hand and a tissue paper package tucked under her arm.
Kate smiled.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked, nodding toward the package.
Petula smiled with something like sympathy in her eyes.
“Put the kettle on and we’ll find out, shall we?” she said.
They took tea in the sitting room. Petula handed the package to Kate and sat on the edge of the armchair, her hands clasped in her lap in anticipation. Kate gently unstuck the tabs that held the tissue paper in place and let the sheets fall open.
Kate gasped. It was a thick knit: black with flecks of gold running through it, as soft as cotton wool balls and so smooth it shone in the light given off by the Christmas tree.
Kate held it up in front of her. It felt like silk in her hands. Across the front, in a mixture of knit and appliqué, was a village snow scene: tartan fir trees interspersed with brightly colored patchwork buildings; tall town houses beside squat cottages, with snow-clad roofs and chimneys curling out spirals of silver smoke. White snow banked up against the front walls. Tiny sequin stars dotted the sky around one large gold star with gold-thread-and-sequin beams that stretched to the edges of the scene.
“Oh, Petula,” said Kate. “This is beautiful. It’s your best ever.”
Petula beamed.
“Thank you so much,” Kate continued. “I absolutely love it! You’ve made my day.”
And with that Kate began to cry. Petula went to her and put her arms around her.
“There, there,” said Petula, patting Kate’s back. “He’ll come round.”
“He won’t,” said Kate. “Not this time.”
“Oh, tsk!” said Petula. “Such nonsense. Him moping around the café like a wet dishcloth and you dripping all over the place. What’s it all about, eh? Lot of silly nonsense.”
Kate recovered herself.
“You’re right, of course,” said Kate, giving away none of her plans. “Thank you for the jumper, I love it.”
“Perhaps you should wear it on one of your dates,” said Petula.
“Oh, I will,” said Kate. “As a matter of fact, I have a date tonight.”
“Well then,” said Petula. “You’d better blow your nose and start getting ready.”
* * *
• • • • •
Kate and Richard had arranged to meet at a gastropub on the outskirts of Great Blexley, just round the corner from the bottom of Blexford hill. Kate walked down, because she couldn’t be bothered to dig the car out of the snow, and the hill was becoming dangerous, despite the salt on the road.
She was wearing her new jumper over the top of a silk camisole; the wool felt warm and soft against her skin. She’d taken the time to curl her hair back off her face; it meant she couldn’t wear a hat without ruining the effect, but she decided to forgo warm ears for good hair. She had slathered herself in some expensive perfumed body lotion her mum had sent over, and even through her thick coat, she got wafts of it as she walked.
Kate used to come to this pub when she was younger—much younger, trying her luck at buying drinks underage and frequently getting served. The pub had gone through many incarnations since then and two years ago a chef from London bought it, renamed it the Tipsy Goose, and put it and Great Blexley on the culinary map. It was almost impossible to get a table without booking weeks in advance, and Kate wondered what Richard had had to do get one at such short notice.
Richard stood at the bar, opposite the door, and he smiled appreciatively when Kate walked in. Kate was pleased. She could do with the ego boost.
“Kate,” he said, laying a warm kiss on her frozen cheek. “You look lovely. I’m so glad you agreed to see me.”
“Well,” said Kate breezily. “Far be it from me to turn down a swanky dinner. You normally have to put your name down at birth to get a table.”
“I have connections,” said Richard. His confidence made Kate’s stomach flip, and she had to rein in the urge to toss her hair about and giggle.
As it turned out, Richard knew the restaurant manager—Richard seemed to know a lot of people; they played rugby together on Sundays and the manager owed Richard a favor.
The pub was old and had been restored sensitively. Dried hops hung from the oak ceiling beams, and the floors and door frames were as reassuringly wonky as Kate remembered.
They sat at the bar and Kate bought the first round. They talked amiably enough, consciously ignoring Richard’s major faux pas with Edward, although Kate determined she would broach the subject before the evening was out.
“Both the kids have got parts in their Christmas plays,” said Richard. “Plus, they’ve each got matinees and evening performances and you can’t not have someone in the audience for each one, so me and their mum are on a kind of mad shift rotation all next week, dashing between school and preschool.”
“Never a dull moment,” said Kate.
“Chance would be a fine thing,” said Richard.
“You get along well with your ex, then?” Kate asked.
“Oh God yeah, amazingly well,” said Richard. “I mean you’ve got to really, haven’t you, for the kids. It’s not their fault their parents fucked it up.”
“I’ve met three fathers on the dates so far, all of whom get on really well with their exes,” said Kate. “It’s been a revelation; I have a newfound respect for single fathers.”
“Well, I don’t say we’re the norm,” said Richard. “I suppose it’s down to maturity. And, you know, social evolution: men not having to be stiff-upper-lipped anymore.”
Kate was about ready to throw her knickers at Richard-the-new-age-father when a waitress came and ushered them to a table near the open fire. Kate noticed the way the waitress looked at Richard: all hooded eyes and suggestive red lips that pouted whenever he spoke to her. Kate was gratified to note that this peacocking was lost on Richard. In fact he seemed to take every opportunity to touch Kate in a way that announced to everyone that she was
his sole focus: his hand on the small of her back as they walked, a brush of her hand with his, a touch to her cheek, gentle fingers that teased her hair back off her face.
They sat down and perused the handwritten menus.
“Kate,” said Richard. “About Edward.”
“We don’t have to talk about that now,” said Kate, whose mind was weighing up the creamy garlic mushrooms on sourdough toast against the salt-and-pepper calamari to start.
“I don’t it want it hanging in the air above our heads,” said Richard.
Kate reluctantly put the menu down. All right then, she thought, we are doing this now.
“I don’t usually behave like that,” said Richard.
“Good,” said Kate. “I wasn’t impressed. Macho bullshit has never done it for me, I’m afraid.”
“At the time,” said Richard, “I suppose I thought it was a bit of a romantic gesture?”
“Threatening someone with violence is not my idea of romance,” said Kate. “It smacks of being a stalker. I won’t lie to you, I seriously considered giving us a miss after that performance.”
“I know,” said Richard. “And you’d have had every right to. I don’t know what I was thinking. But I want you to know it will never happen again and I’m sorry.”
Kate looked at him. His expression was contrite, his dark eyes genuine, pleading.
“Apology accepted,” said Kate.
“Does this mean I’m off probation?” he asked.
“Let’s leave that in place until we’ve gone a couple more dates without you threatening to maim anyone,” said Kate.
“Fair enough,” said Richard.
Kate went for the calamari followed by the slow-roasted pork belly. Richard had pâté crostini to start and pan-fried duck breasts with cherries for his main course.
The conversation between them was easy now that he had allayed her fears, and Kate’s mind wandered to an imaginary dinner table where Richard regaled their guests with the funny story of how they got together, against the odds, despite his having to stand Kate up on their first date.
The Twelve Dates of Christmas Page 25