Christmas at the Vicarage

by Rebecca Boxall

  ‘It’s weird how you’ve barely aged,’ remarked Stephen. ‘Look at you. Still as slender as you always were.’

  ‘I wasn’t always slim,’ Rosamunde reminded him. ‘I went through a chubby stage when I was about thirteen or fourteen. I remember feeling terribly self-conscious.’

  ‘I’d forgotten that,’ chuckled Stephen. ‘But you’ve always been beautiful.’ He reached out and stroked Rosamunde’s arm from shoulder to wrist. She turned to him.

  ‘Was it the same?’ she asked. ‘When you met your wife? Did you have that feeling as though you were always meant to be together?’

  They had skirted around the issue of relationships until now, but suddenly Rosamunde was overcome with curiosity. Stephen propped himself up on his elbows and looked pensively out to sea.

  ‘I’ve never had that same connection with anyone,’ he said. ‘Not that I knew there was anything to compare things to until three years ago and then I put the feelings I remembered I’d had for you down to the intensity of youth. I’ve felt deeply for a few women over the years, especially Jodie. But there’s never been quite that same passion or . . . well, affinity, I suppose you’d call it. Of course I had no idea what I was missing at the time and for the last three years I told myself if I ever saw you again I wouldn’t feel a thing. How wrong I was,’ he marvelled, shaking his head. ‘And you?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I pretty much shut up shop after I thought you’d died,’ Rosamunde explained. ‘I used to date the odd person while I was at university but nothing serious. It wasn’t until I met Giles that I started to think I might be capable of another relationship after all. I was immediately taken with him,’ she told Stephen honestly. ‘He wasn’t terribly attractive but he had this goodness about him. I was pretty much sold on him the very first day we met.’

  ‘You’re making me jealous.’ Stephen grinned. ‘I wish I hadn’t asked.’

  ‘It’s worse for me!’ Rosamunde laughed. ‘You’ve been married for five years, for heaven’s sake! I still can’t believe it. What made you marry so young? You must have been, what, twenty-three?’

  ‘I met Jodie soon after starting my first job at Ernst & Young. I’d had a couple of relationships at university but when I met her I was in a rushing phase of life. I wanted to climb the corporate ladder as quickly as possible. To get married and have children. I don’t know why I wanted everything to happen so quickly. Perhaps it was the fear that my life had been spared once and I might not be so lucky the next time. I needed to live life quickly, fiercely. Jodie was working on reception at my office. It was just to earn some money – she’s an actress, really.’

  ‘An actress?’ Rosamunde interrupted. Oh dear. So glamorous.

  ‘Yes, she’s still to have her lucky break but she’s had bit parts on TV and worked in several large productions on the stage. Anyway, we started dating and we got on well. There were no thunderbolts but she was beautiful and we really loved each other. Actually, I still love her,’ Stephen amended. ‘The trouble is, I love you more.’

  Rosamunde breathed a difficult breath and rolled onto her stomach, her face turned to Stephen. ‘What does she look like?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing like you,’ Stephen told her. ‘Funny, really. When my memories started to come back to me it surprised me that I’d gone for someone so different from you. She’s very tall – my height. She has dark brown hair that she has cut into a bob, and hazel eyes. She’s slim but sort of sturdier than you. She has a lovely smile.’

  ‘Okay, stop there, Mister. You’re killing me.’

  ‘It’s all right, Rosamunde. You don’t need to worry. I love Jodie and she’s beautiful but you and I are meant for each other, without question. I’ve no doubt in my mind.’

  Rosamunde jumped up from the sand and put her hands out to pull Stephen up. ‘Thank you,’ she told him, simply, and, relieved, she raced down the sand into the shimmering sea again. ‘Come on!’ she shouted, and Stephen ran towards her, screeching at the cold and laughing, his dimples visible, his blond hair soaked.

  ‘I love you, Stephen Jameson!’ Rosamunde bellowed at him and he swam towards her, grabbing hold of her and squashing her cold, salty lips with his own.

  ‘I love you too, babe,’ he told her. ‘More than anything.’

  31.

  WEDNESDAY 17TH DECEMBER 2014

  Rosamunde woke up with a banging headache and that feeling of dread that inevitably accompanies a hangover.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she grumbled to herself as she tried to recall the events of the night before. They were a little hazy in parts. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ she croaked.

  ‘Morning, Rosamunde,’ chirped Mrs Garfield. ‘Beautiful day out there. Crisp as you like. Here, I’ve brought you a cuppa. Bernie’s just gone across to the church hall to help get it ready for Saturday’s Christmas market. He said you were out late. Thought you might like a good brew,’ she said as she placed the steaming mug on Rosamunde’s bedside table and drew back the curtains.

  Rosamunde’s eyes protested at the glittering morning sunshine but she heaved herself out of bed to look out of the window, and even in her washed-out state she was able to appreciate the beauty of the day. There was a frost on the last of the autumn leaves, making them sparkle like precious jewels.

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed, flopping back down into bed again.

  ‘Heavy night?’ asked Mrs Garfield with a knowing look. ‘I remember hangovers like that from my younger days,’ she added. ‘There was one night,’ she told Rosamunde, confidentially, ‘when I was that drunk Mr Garfield had to carry me home from the pub. When I got back I was sick all over the clean laundry. Had to wash it all again.’ Rosamunde smiled weakly.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Mrs Garfield told her and she was out just as swiftly as she’d bustled in.

  The date had started well enough. Ed had arrived at the Vicarage and chatted affably to Bernie whilst Rosamunde abided by Coco Chanel’s rule of taking off one accessory before she descended the narrow staircase. She was greeted by her date, who’d complimented her on her outfit, an emerald-green jumper dress with thick tights and chestnut boots, with her mother’s old pearl earrings and a gold bracelet, but no necklace – the accessory she’d forsaken. Rosamunde had used some of the make-up Rachel had persuaded her to buy in London and she felt good, if a little nervous. It had been some time since she’d last gone on a date.

  Ed was quick to put her at ease, politely holding out her coat for her and then the door of his old MG.

  ‘I thought we’d go into Thatchley,’ he said. ‘Benedict told me about a nice Italian there – La Barca?’

  ‘My favourite,’ replied Rosamunde as she snuggled into her faux-fur coat. Good old Benedict. He knew how she loved that restaurant. She adored Italian food.

  The restaurant was warm and inviting and the Italian waiters fussed around Rosamunde with kisses, taking her coat and leading the couple to a corner table near the window. The lights were dim, candles had been lit and a festive atmosphere filled the bistro. It couldn’t have been a better venue for a first date and Rosamunde found Ed an easy companion, full of thrilling stories and interested in her without being too probing.

  ‘Benedict tells me you’re a lawyer,’ he said as they tucked into salty calamari.

  ‘Was,’ explained Rosamunde. ‘I haven’t worked in a law firm for fifteen years, although I suppose technically I’m still a lawyer.’

  ‘So what have the last fifteen years entailed?’ he asked. Rosamunde could tell he was genuinely interested from his alert blue eyes and steady gaze. And all at once he reminded her of someone. Taken aback, she found herself gulping down a large slurp of wine. She hadn’t noticed the similarity until now but there was a confidence in his manner and a twinkle in his eyes that was exactly like Stephen. All of a sudden Rosamunde knew she had to get away from the table. She excused herself and rushed upstairs to the ladies where she splashed her face with cool water, giving herself a stern
telling off – it was crazy to be so affected by the memory of Stephen after all these years. She thought about him now, picturing his face, and bit her lip. But then she smiled. It had been a shock to be so suddenly reminded of Stephen by Ed, but she realised now that she could look back peacefully. She returned, better composed, to a rather bemused-looking Ed.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all. I hope it wasn’t something you ate? Or, worse, something I said?’

  ‘Oh gosh, no – neither,’ Rosamunde replied and she proceeded to tell him about the last fifteen years. How she’d started her travels in France before heading to more exotic destinations – India, then Cambodia, Thailand, Singapore, Borneo, Indonesia and finally Australia.

  ‘Were you working?’

  ‘Sometimes. I worked as a volunteer at orphanages in India and Cambodia, which was heartbreaking and wonderful all at the same time. Then I conducted myself like an eighteen-year-old in Thailand before calming down again and getting jobs in wildlife parks all over the show. I worked at an orang-utan rehabilitation centre in Borneo and ended up with a job in Australia working with koalas. I really felt I’d found my vocation. I also managed to get some quite lucrative work at a mining company in Perth, but it was working with animals that I really loved.’

  Ed, as a vet, was interested in the work Rosamunde had been involved in at wildlife centres, and the evening was soon back on an even keel.

  They ate spaghetti and then shared a scrumptious homemade tiramisu, which was presented to them with a sparkler on top even though it was neither of their birthdays. By the time their coffee arrived Rosamunde was feeling rather drunk. Ed was driving so she’d enjoyed the lion’s share of the wine. She downed her coffee but it did little to sober her up and she found herself feeling a little unsteady on her feet.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ asked Ed as they made their way into the arctic night air. ‘It’s only half ten. Fancy a quick drink back at The Dragon’s Head?’

  Ed had been abstemious but he was keen to catch up with Rosamunde and so as soon as they entered the warmth of the pub he ordered some shots as well as long drinks for them both.

  It had been many years since Rosamunde had downed shots and she’d forgotten how much fun it could be. By the time the pub closed Rosamunde was sure she was making little sense but Ed didn’t seem to mind. He’d walked her up the hill to the Vicarage and, at this point, Rosamunde’s memories became a little foggy.

  Rosamunde eventually clambered out of bed and padded to the bathroom where she ran a bath and poured in some oil scented with eucalyptus, which she hoped would help her head. As she lay back in the steaming, scented water she tried to remember the end of the evening before to no avail. It wasn’t until she was sitting at the kitchen table with a large mug of coffee that she recalled the kiss. She hadn’t invited Ed in but they’d enjoyed a very lengthy kiss on the doorstep, like teenagers. At the memory Rosamunde found her hangover becoming decidedly worse. There had been nothing wrong with the kiss – in fact, it had been quite nice. But she knew she wasn’t interested in Ed, perfect though he was; she wished she were. The reality was she was in love with Benedict – it was crystal clear to her now, no matter how futile it was. Rosamunde was staggered at how quickly she’d managed to get herself into a romantic mess considering she was now the grand old age of forty-four and only a few days ago had been more than content to be single for the rest of her days.

  She would have liked to hide away all day but she’d promised Ed last night she’d help him decorate Benedict’s cottage for Christmas while he was taking Humphrey for a mid-morning walk – that she did remember: Benedict never bothered with Christmas decorations and both she and Ed thought that was rather ‘bah, humbug’ of him. She’d assured Ed (several times) that she’d be there at eleven o’clock and it was now a quarter to, so she brushed her teeth for the third time and found her coat. Here goes, she thought to herself as she drove Bernie’s car the short distance to Benedict’s cottage.

  She knocked on the door with trepidation but was relieved to find that Ed didn’t draw her into a clinch. Instead, he briefly dropped a kiss on her cheek before offering her a coffee and leading the way to the sitting room where he’d just erected a Christmas tree. Thankfully there was no talk of the evening before and they bustled about decorating the tree with tinsel and some baubles Rosamunde had brought with her that hadn’t been used at the Vicarage. Ed had bought some Christmas lights and had also been out and about collecting holly and ivy, which they now balanced on picture frames and between beams. As a final touch, Ed produced some mistletoe, which he fixed to one of the beams with a drawing pin.

  ‘There!’ he announced, smiling his crinkly-eyed smile at Rosamunde. ‘Now come here, you,’ he said pulling her firmly into his arms and kissing her with an unmistakably intense passion. Again, there was nothing wrong with the kiss – it was actually quite wonderful – but Rosamunde knew she was getting herself into deep water.

  ‘I take it last night was a success, then!’ exclaimed Benedict as he entered the room to find his friend and Rosamunde entwined. Rosamunde, who had jumped back from Ed like a scalded cat, hurriedly showed Benedict the details of their festive handiwork. Ed said he would make more coffee and pottered off to the kitchen.

  ‘You really do like him, then?’ asked Benedict as he put a match to the fire to make the sitting room even more festive.

  ‘I like him, yes, but not like that,’ Rosamunde whispered.

  ‘Well, call me old-fashioned but I suspect Ed may be thinking otherwise right now,’ replied Benedict with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘It always was with you,’ Benedict remarked, without his usual teasing humour. He turned away from her. It occurred to her then that perhaps Benedict had feelings for Ed that were more than just platonic, in the same way she did for him. She also felt hurt. She’d always put her disastrous love life down to bad luck but perhaps it was just her? It certainly seemed she was incapable of enjoying a simple life free of relationship concerns. Why – when she was perfectly happy single – did she have to fall in love with a gay man and lead his perfect-for-her best friend up the garden path, all in the space of a few short days?

  ‘I have to go,’ she said and before anyone could persuade her otherwise she grabbed her coat and keys and left. She arrived home and promptly burst into tears.

  Mrs Garfield returned to the Vicarage for her afternoon stint of cleaning to find Rosamunde blowing her nose. In typical Mrs Garfield fashion she was quick to comfort and dole out more tissues but she wouldn’t allow Rosamunde to languish.

  ‘I’m baking mince pies before I set about my cleaning, so you come through to the kitchen with me and get started on the pastry,’ she ordered. ‘There’s nothing as therapeutic as baking and you can tell me all about this mess you’ve got yourself into.’ She didn’t add ‘this time’ but Rosamunde wondered if she, too, thought Rosamunde was more than a little disaster prone.

  The two of them were soon ensconced in the homely task of weighing out ingredients and by the time the mince pies were in the Aga Mrs Garfield had listened to Rosamunde’s plight. She was silent for a moment and then she turned to Rosamunde, placed her hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

  ‘I’ll tell you what you must do, Rosamunde, though I think you know this yourself. You must go and see Ed this evening and tell him the truth. You have to be brave.’

  Rosamunde nodded and sank into Mrs Garfield’s embrace. ‘Thank you,’ she told her. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘Get away with you!’ Mrs Garfield replied, swatting Rosamunde with a tea towel, then yelping as she realised the mince pies had been in the Aga for too long and would soon burn to a crisp.

  At six o’clock Rosamunde rang Ed and arranged to meet him in a quiet corner of The Dragon’s Head.

  ‘What’s all this about, then?’ asked Ed. ‘Not that I’m not pleased to see you,’ he added, with h
is wide, confident smile. Rosamunde took a deep breath and started to explain that she didn’t want to string him along any more than she had already; that she liked him very much but that she was in love with someone else. Ed’s pride must have been a little dented but he was very gentlemanly. He looked at her ruefully.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘You’re in love with Benedict?’ Rosamunde was taken aback. Her silence said it all.

  ‘Story of my life recently,’ Ed shrugged. ‘The number of women I’ve met since my divorce who’ve ended up falling for Benedict when he’s been staying with me.’ Rosamunde felt dreadful.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for us ridiculous women, too, falling for someone who’s gay.’

  Ed looked up, his piercing eyes confused.

  ‘But, Rosamunde,’ he said. ‘Benedict’s not gay.’

  32.

  JULY 1999

  Rosamunde spent what should have been her wedding day on tenterhooks as she counted down the hours until she would see Stephen again – until, finally, the two of them would be at liberty to start all over again as a couple. She knew it was too soon for such thoughts but she found herself daydreaming about a house in the country, dogs and children.

  Stephen had left the night before and Jodie was due to arrive back at their house in Putney this morning. It had been agreed that Stephen would immediately explain everything to Jodie before meeting Rosamunde at Paddington station at three o’clock. From there they planned to have a half restoring, half celebratory afternoon tea at a plush London hotel before returning to Potter’s Cove.