by Sandy Barker
The chuckle turned into a full-blown laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mum described quite like that, but now that I think about it, you’re absolutely dead on. And, yes, she did.”
Chloe shook her head, still wrapping her brain around Archer’s big reveal. “But how did she come up with it?”
“It’s her maiden name.”
“Ooohhh. Well, that make sense then.”
“And, apparently, she’d wanted to call me Archer when I was born, but my dad thought it was a terrible name for a baby, so I was named Alan after his dad.”
“Hmm, he does have a point. Archer’s a heavy moniker to give an infant. It sits rather perfectly on you, though.” She met his eyes and didn’t flinch as he stared back into hers.
I am going to have my way with you, you beautiful man, she thought. Just then, Mrs D, retired schoolteacher, arrived with the drinks then bustled away to greet a family of four who’d just arrived, wet and harried looking.
“It’s awfully good of you, stepping in like this—with the fair, I mean,” said Archer. “It’s your holiday after all.”
Chloe shrugged. “Honestly and, I promise I am not playing the martyr here, it’s fine. Your mother seems to have everything organised, so I’ll just be like a conductor of a symphony, you know, keeping everything to time. They probably don’t even need me, but I’m happy to help. Besides, I’m a total Christmas freak.”
“Oh, really?” He seemed amused.
“I am. I am a bona fide, diehard fan of Christmas. And as a bona fide diehard fan of Christmas …” She affected a melodramatic voice and a terrible British accent and, with one hand on her chest, one held aloft, asked, “How could I leave the fate of the fete in anyone else’s hands? How, I ask you?”
She dropped her hands and gave Archer a self-satisfied smile.
“Impressive.”
“Yes.”
“Have you had training?”
“Self-taught.” She sipped her wine.
“Hmm. I would never have known if you hadn’t said.”
“It’s a talent too powerful to share, you see. The world is not ready for Chloe Sims, act-tor.”
“No, I imagine not. So, Chloe Sims, act-tor, tell me, as a diehard fan of Christmas, do you think Die Hard is a Christmas movie?”
She nodded as though in deep contemplation. “Yes, yes, that is a question for the ages.”
He nodded along, stroking his chin, stifling a grin which seemed to break free of its own volition. “You’re quite funny,” he said, his voice tinged with admiration.
“Me? Oh, I’m frigging hilarious.” She flashed him a huge grin. “And yes, of course Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”
It was about halfway through her glass of wine—a typical British pub pour of about a third of a bottle—that Chloe forgot that Archer was one of the most famous people on the planet.
He was just a very funny, sweet, charming guy who she had an enormous crush on. He was also staying with his parents, so if she was going to have her way with him, she’d have to figure out some logistics. Fortunately, logistics were just her thing.
*
The Christmas Fair was in full swing and it was incredible.
Admittedly, when Lucy had first mentioned it back in July, Chloe hadn’t imagined this. She’d thought of twenty people showing up at the church hall for tepid tea and carols around an out-of-tune piano, like something out of The Vicar of Dibley.
This was entirely different.
The committee had appropriated the empty field across from the church and it was brimming with small marquees, all in neat rows and each decorated to the hilt by the vendors. And although they had put their own flair into the decorations, they’d all adhered to the instructions—traditional Christmas decorations only.
No tacky tinsel, no plastic Santas or Rudolphs. Instead, burgundy velvet bows and forest green garlands prevailed, and thousands of fairy lights brightened the grey, but dry, day. Chloe wondered if there were any Christmas decorations left in all of England.
She had been onsite, as requested, at 4:30am, impervious to the hour because her body clock had no idea what time it was. Cecily had nodded at her curtly, then handed over a travel cup brimming with strong, milky tea, a small torch, and a clipboard.
As Chloe had learnt in the meeting the day before, her main task was to help supervise the set-up. First, there was the installation of proper event lighting, which made the rest of the set-up possible in the dead of night, and then the assembly of the stalls.
She’d sipped her tea with gratitude. It was cold outside and with the jet lag, she had been feeling more than a little out of it. The tea had helped. While she sipped, she’d squinted at the plan on the clipboard, impressed with how detailed it was, then lifted her head to survey the field.
Even in the dim light, which emitted from some of the surrounding houses, it had been easy to envision what was planned and the fair had started to unfold in her mind’s eye. She’d experienced this kind of vision dozens of times before, and it was one of the traits that had had her rising through the event management ranks faster than most. That and her freakish organisation skills and excellent comms.
As the lighting technicians had arrived and got to work and as the marquees were delivered and assembled, she’d switched seamlessly into work mode, directing the team of workers just as she’d described to Archer in the pub, like the conductor of a symphony.
Hours after her early morning start, Chloe surveyed the cheerful crowd milling about—some, she’d been told, had come from as far away as Oxford.
They sipped mulled wine as they listened to the choir sing carols, jumping from foot to foot to keep warm. They pored over unique gifts at the artisan stalls and munched on roasted chestnuts and chocolate truffles. There was even a stall selling Christmas pudding cupcakes. Chloe had indulged in one for a late breakfast and it was so frigging good. Not surprisingly, the children seemed to be having the most fun, running between the stalls laughing, hopped up on sugar and their faces painted like Christmas elves or reindeer.
And despite the jet lag and being outside in the biting cold—ill-equipped in her Melbourne winter attire—and despite being deprived of a decent shower that morning, Chloe was in her element and feeling the satisfaction of a job done well. She was also basking in the Christmassy goodness of it all, glad that she’d come all this way.
She felt a presence beside her. Archer—another reason to be glad.
“You’ve done a wonderful job.”
“Honestly, it’s run like clockwork. That’s kudos to your mum.”
“You’ve impressed her, and she likes you, I can tell.”
“Well, I think she’s amazing. She must have done this as her career, right?”
“Running events?”
“Yeah.”
“No, not as a career, but she’s always been the organiser for village events, ever since I can remember.”
“That makes sense. She clearly knows her stuff and she’s very well respected. I’ve learnt so much from her today. I’ve loved it; it’s been reinvigorating.”
“How so?”
“Just that a lot of the events I run back home can be kind of tick-a-box, you know? I’m starting to contemplate a move to something else career-wise. Maybe dirty-dish-tourism will take off.”
That sparked a loud laugh. “But seriously, well done you for today.”
She dipped in a tiny curtsey and shrugged one shoulder in mock modesty.
“Chloe?” Cecily. Chloe dropped the little performance and subconsciously stood to attention.
“Hi, yes, Cecily. It’s all going so well. I was just saying to Archer.”
“Quite.” Still no smile. Chloe doubted Archer was right about Cecily liking her—respecting her, maybe. “You’ve been very helpful, but I do need one more thing, dear.”
“Sure, yeah, no problem.”
“Actually, I need you, too, Archer. It seems that Mrs Capel has wandered off and got herself all t
he way to The Lord Nelson. They’ve just telephoned. Can you go and collect her? I’ve got to find Mr Capel. He’s somewhere in this crowd and he must be frantic.”
Chloe and Archer shared a quick look before they both responded in the affirmative. “Best to take the Range Rover. Your car won’t really do, will it?” Archer’s car, as Chloe had discovered the day before, was a vintage MG—beautiful, but hardly suitable for collecting a wayward pensioner.
Cecily held out a set of keys and Archer took them from her. “I’ll take that, dear. No need of it now.” She indicated the clipboard and Chloe handed it over.
“This way.” Archer weaved through the crowd and Chloe struggled to keep up. At least she could see his head above most others, carving a path. They cleared the field and he strode around the back of his mother’s house to the garage. “It’s a tight fit, so I’ll back out before you climb in.”
“Has she done this before?” Chloe asked as they zoomed down the narrow lane. She remembered the day before when she’d nearly been hit by a car and how Archer said that everyone sped around here. Including you, she thought.
“Mrs Capel? Yes. More and more these days, I’m told.”
“But why?”
“Why does she go off like this?”
“Yeah.”
“There hasn’t been an official diagnosis, as far as Mum knows, but she says it’s most likely dementia.”
“Oh, that’s so sad.”
“It is, especially considering that before she started to forget where she is, or even who she is, Eloise Capel was something of a legend. Quite the character, really.”
“In what way?”
“Well, for many years—decades—she would go off travelling by herself—safaris in Africa, sailing down the Mekong, that sort of thing. She even walked the Camino de Santiago when she was sixty-something. By herself.”
“Wow. And what, her husband just stayed here?”
“Yes.”
“And that worked for them?”
“Apparently. He said his job was to keep the home fires burning.”
“What an extraordinary marriage.”
“It is.”
“And how do you know so much about all of this? I suppose it must be local lore.”
“Definitely, but also, when I was old enough to start caring about people other than myself”—he gave her a quick self-deprecating smile—“that was just before drama school, I became a little obsessed with them, especially Mrs Capel.
“I started doing some research, you know, back issues of the local paper, that sort of thing. She was well lauded in this part of Oxfordshire, a local celebrity of sorts. Actually, I’ve always thought her story—their love story, especially—would make an exceptional film.”
Chloe nodded to herself as they pulled off the road and into the car park of a pub called The Lord Nelson. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
He exited the pub minutes later escorting Mrs Capel, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. She was tall and slim and wore a soft pink woollen coat tied tightly around her waist. Unlike many women her age, she walked tall, shoulders back and her strong chin lifted proudly. Her silver hair was pulled into a high, loose bun and her high cheekbones had a hint of colour.
“She’s beautiful,” Chloe whispered to herself.
Archer opened the back door for Mrs Capel and when she was buckled into the seat, Chloe turned around and smiled. “Hello, Mrs Capel, I’m Chloe.”
The older woman’s eyes met hers and Chloe could see her straining to pull her focus back to the present. The moment wrenched Chloe’s heart, but she didn’t flinch, instead letting her gaze be a tether to the here and now. A blink and a smile, then, “Hello, Chloe. You remind me of my Daphne.”
Chloe beamed and turning back to face the front, she caught Archer’s eye. In his look, she could see the compassion and affection he felt for the elderly woman. It turned out that the world’s biggest film star was also a spectacularly nice human being.
I’m a goner.
Back in Penham, as they turned off the main road, Chloe saw Cecily standing at the entrance of the fair with a tall man, who Chloe assumed was Mr Capel. He was wringing his hands and he nodded at something Cecily was saying to him. The poor man, Chloe thought.
“That’s my Richard,” said the voice behind her. “Stop. Stop the car.”
Archer did as he was told, pulling the car to the side of the road. There were safer places to stop, but perhaps he’d also heard the urgency in Mrs Capel’s voice.
Mrs Capel was charging across the road even before Chloe and Archer got out of the car. “Good thing no one was coming,” said Archer, looking both ways before they crossed.
On the other side of the road, Chloe and Archer pulled up short at the sight of two octogenarians locked in a passionate embrace. Cecily was tactfully looking at the ground, but Chloe couldn’t stop staring at the love scene playing out in front of her.
“Where did you go, my love?” said Mr Capel peppering his wife’s face with kisses.
“I got lost.”
He pulled her to him, his chin resting on her head. “Oh, darling, you mustn’t wander off like that. I was beside myself.”
“I’m so sorry, Richard.” He pulled back and tipped her chin so she was looking into his eyes.
“Now, now, no tears. You’re safe with me, now.” He leant down and kissed her. Chloe had to look away at that point; it was too much of an intrusion not to.
When they finally pulled apart, Mr Capel stepped forward and shook Archer’s hand. “Thank you, Alan. And you, love.” Chloe smiled shyly, unwilling to take any credit for Mrs Capel’s return, but also not wanting to downplay his concern.
“Honestly,” said Archer, “it was no trouble at all. We were happy to help. She was quite safe at The Lord Nelson.”
“Indeed, but it is her journey there that troubles me … the way people drive on these roads.” There was a sombre pause and Chloe assumed they were all thinking the worst, just like she was.
“Right,” said Cecily, her tone brightening the moment. “Would anyone care for some mulled wine?”
Everyone seemed to welcome the distraction and as the couple followed Cecily back into the fair, Mrs Capel clung to her husband’s hand and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“Wow,” said Chloe, almost to herself. I want a love like that. The thought arrived with a jolt. Chloe was essentially a card-carrying pragmatist when it came to love, never once longing for it and always assuming that it would come along, or it wouldn’t.
“Now you know what I was talking about,” said a quiet voice in her ear. She nodded slowly, only able to tear her gaze away from their retreating backs when they were absorbed by the crowd. When she turned to look up at Archer, he was watching her intently. “You caught me,” he whispered.
“You were watching me.”
“I was.” In the moment of stillness that followed, Chloe’s breath caught. Then Archer blinked, seeming to remember himself, and the moment dissipated. “I should move the Range Rover.”
“Oh, right.” Another moment. “I’ll come with you.” If she’d thought logically, even for a second, she would have realised how ridiculous and—worse—obvious her offer was. Cecily’s garage was literally around the corner but for some reason, Chloe felt compelled to stay with Archer.
The situation was made all the more ridiculous because almost as soon as she got into the car, she had to get back out again while Archer tucked it into the tight space of the carport. She waited on the gravel, her heart and her mind racing.
It was one thing to have a crush on a gorgeous celebrity, but in the short time she’d known him, Archer had revealed himself as so much more.
“Shall we get back to the fair?” she heard herself say as he climbed out of the car. He didn’t answer, instead striding towards her and stopping only a foot away. His eyes searched hers, almost as if he were asking if she felt it too. She had no idea who moved first, but as his head dipped
towards hers, her arms reached up around his neck and she felt the firmness of his hands on the small of her back. Then his mouth was on hers in a kiss so fervent, so all consuming, that her mind started shouting, This is the best kiss of your life!
Chapter 13
Jules
“Oh, my god. Seriously, that is good.”
“I told ya. They do the best coffee here. Chloe and I joke about getting a drone so we can call in our order, then fly the drone down to pick up our coffees.”
Jules laughed. “It’s not even a two-minute walk.”
“Yeah, but sometimes you want to have your coffee and lounge about in your PJs.”
“That’s fair.”
They were at Cargo, a restaurant shaped like a boat that jutted out over the water, with both port and starboard made up of wide floor-to-ceiling windows. Ash had taken the seat that looked back at the kitchen so Jules could have the view.
Jules took another sip—a flat white, it was called. Who knew such a thing even existed? In Boulder it was all “caramel mocha lattes with whipped and a pump of vanilla”. You couldn’t even taste the coffee. This was a whole new level—the best coffee she’d ever had. “You do realise that you’ve ruined me for life, right? With the coffee and the view.”
“The view yes—it’s Docklands. I love it. But the coffee? Come on. You’ve travelled. Didn’t you go to Italy a few years back with Chloe and Lucy?”
“Yeah, and the coffee was good. I mean, hello, Italy. But I stuck to espressos and they’re crazy strong—like, stand-your-spoon-up-in-it strong. Anyway, I’ve always thought of coffee as just a caffeine-delivery device. I’ve never thought of it as … as this.”
“Yeah, well, if I’m spending a thousand dollars a year on something, it’s gonna be good.”
“A thousand …? Oh, yeah, I guess that’s right. Four bucks a day.”
“Yep.”
Jules savoured the coffee and took in the view. In the middle of the harbour was a long pier with what looked like converted warehouses—bars and function venues, by the look of them. Across the water on the other side of the harbour were more buildings—a mix of businesses and residences, and each distinct. Some were mostly glass tinted in blue or brown, and one building had brightly coloured accents as though a child had decorated it. On their left was the marina, and Jules spied a family of ducks paddling among the boats in the murky water. It reminded her of Vancouver, and she adored Vancouver.