Home for the Holidays

by Sue Moorcroft

  What was he up to?

  He glanced at Alexia. ‘Certain you don’t want to go around by the road?’

  In the backwash of the light he saw her brows lift. ‘What, walk three miles instead of one? The bridleways are safe.’ She reminded him of the cartoon character Betty Boop with her dark curls and mischievous smile. And her curves.

  She also possessed the easy confidence and self-sufficiency that made him see why, by trying to look after her, her old boyfriend had been doing exactly what was most likely to aggravate her.

  ‘OK, if you’re sure.’ He set off again, deciding to accept it all as part of this strange ending to an odd day.

  It had begun badly.

  Opening his mail, he’d discovered he’d been granted his decree nisi.

  Just plain white paper with typing on, he hadn’t even realised what it was at first. He’d stood on the old flags of Woodward Cottage reading the words that symbolised his failure and loss. Grief had risen up and made him want to break things, which was the only reason he’d given in to Gabe’s urging to attend the wrecking party.

  He’d hurled stuff into the skips as if each bent curtain rod or cracked mirror had caused the end of his marriage. He’d only meant to hang about for one drink to wash the dust from his throat but then Alexia had arrived in front of him with big eyes and a wide smile and launched friendliness at him like a missile. When he’d tried discouraging her with boorishness he’d found himself apologising the instant hurt and dismay had filtered across her features.

  When her infectious smile forgave him it had been as if she’d released one of his inner knots of tension.

  Fun seemed to radiate from Alexia at a time when he’d all but forgotten what fun was. It had made him feel the first inclination to reclaim that distant, half-forgotten Ben, the one who’d liked a good time.

  As the evening had progressed he’d found himself enjoying her company, wanting to know more about her, being interested in what she had to say.

  Finally, she’d made him think about the decree nisi not as a symbol of failure but of liberty. A strange topsy-turvy instinct had seemed to pop the invitation to Woodward Cottage out of his mouth and he’d probably looked just as surprised as she had.

  Maybe it was just basic need, but now a startling question was revolving in his mind. Could he still pull? It had been eight years since he’d made love to anyone but Imogen. Then for two years he’d gone without sex in a daze of pain and grief. Strange that the urge should flood back today but it was swamping him, compelling him to ease the need.

  This woman beside him, with her smile and fitted T-shirt, was paying attention to him. It wasn’t that she was the only woman who’d done that since Imogen and Lloyd had ripped his guts out … just the only one he’d responded to.

  He was man enough to admit to himself that her being commitment-averse and aiming to get out of the village at no distant date was attractive, too.

  He cleared his throat. ‘So tell me more about your career plans.’ He might be rusty but he was pretty sure asking a girl about herself was a safe conversational gambit.

  Alexia gave a little skip as if the subject put springs in her heels. ‘I’m an interior decorator.’

  ‘Painting and wallpapering?’ He could envisage her up a ladder wielding a paint roller. She’d seemed completely at home getting her hands dirty at the wrecking party.

  ‘No, that’s a painter and decorator. I do some of the same hands-on things but also project manage, come up with ideas and overviews, and produce some one-off and bespoke decorative items. In DIY, a householder decides on the look they want, sources the materials and carries out the decorating. I’m kind of the alternative option, working with clients to give them ideas and help them decide what they want. Then I create it, either via sub-contractors or by doing the work myself. Sometimes it’s a redecoration of a single room; sometimes it’s a much bigger project, particularly refurbishments. I’ve made it my business to build up a fantastic network of tradesmen who like working with me because I listen to them and properly utilise their skills. Do you know how vastly tradesmen are underrated? Especially by certain architects and designers.’

  Taking the right-hand fork in the path, she climbed the stile that marked the beginning of Carlysle land, dropping down lightly on the other side. ‘My friend, Elton, started training at the same time I did. He stayed the course and became an interior designer, making him vastly superior to me – he thinks.’

  He swung himself over the stile in her wake. ‘But didn’t you just say you are an interior designer?’

  ‘No.’ She came to a halt as if she couldn’t make him understand while she was in motion. ‘I’m an interior decorator. An interior designer has a professional qualification, a degree. As Elton never ceases to remind me, I dropped out of uni.’ She sent Ben a conspiratorial grin. ‘But I put up with his superiority because he’s working for an investment property developer. He wants to concentrate on acquiring the properties and he’s looking for someone else to oversee projects – which could be me! So I’m working hard on getting my portfolio and website “looking great and up-to-date”. Elton won’t present me to the investor until he’s completely happy.’

  They started off again, Ben following Alexia along the narrow path, and soon approached the point where the path curved round the small lake. Ben realised he was training the beam from his phone onto Alexia’s behind, and angled it down to her feet. ‘But it’s all dependent on one money man?’

  Glancing over her shoulder, she sent him a look of slight reproof. ‘Money woman. She’s made a lot in industry, apparently, and now she’s making more by investing her money via Elton and telling him to spin it into gold.’

  ‘I can see why you’d want to be part of that. Will your parents mind you leaving the village?’

  ‘Mum lives in Bettsbrough and Dad moved to Bolton with his new wife.’ She stopped short as the path swerved to the left. ‘Wow!’

  They stepped further into the clearing where the silent cottage waited in the moonlight. Ben had permission to make a garden in the clearing if he wanted but he liked the woodland floor as it was, the great horse chestnut trees rising up from a leaf-mould carpet.

  Alexia gazed at the tiny building. ‘I can’t believe this is Woodward Cottage! When I used to come here you could see more ivy than walls. There were no windows or doors, the stone was crumbling and in the end the roof fell in. What a great renovation! It looks as if it came from a fairy tale.’ She took her time, studying the stonework, admiring the dormers in the roof. Then, wandering on past the log store, she paused where a framework leant against the back of the cottage, a roll of netting on the ground alongside. ‘What are you building?’

  ‘Barney’s aviary. He’ll be ready to move in to it in a few weeks.’

  ‘But it’s enormous.’

  ‘Not compared to the entire wood, which is what he should have been flying around.’

  ‘True. Loss of mobility means loss of freedom.’

  His throat was suddenly dry. ‘That’s right.’

  She turned to give him a smile. ‘Gabe must think a lot of you to trust you with one of his animals.’

  He nodded. ‘My uncle can usually find room for a creature in need.’ When Ben had been unable to stay on in Didbury, where everything he’d thought was his was his no longer, Gabe had provided a refuge. When Ben had been a kid in the shadow of his golden big brother, Gabe had given him time. If anyone had stopped Ben turning his second-child grievances into teenage troublemaking, it had been Gabe.

  ‘Come and meet Barney,’ he suggested, turning on his heel and almost mowing Alexia down in his haste to get away from his personal darkness and into the light.

  Alexia had to hurry to keep up with Ben as he led her to his front door and directly into a sitting room.

  She blinked as he hit the light switch. Revolving in the middle of the room, she admired the beams, the staircase rising up from one corner, the black woodstove on the hearth. Two
chairs that didn’t match stood either side of the fire on a rug of silver grey and willow green. ‘The inside doesn’t disappoint.’

  ‘Make yourself at home. Coffee?’ Ben went on into the next room.

  ‘Tea, please.’ Alexia heard a tap run then the unmistakeable sound of a kettle beginning to heat up.

  ‘Can we light the stove in here?’ she called. ‘I know September’s a bit early but I love firelight.’

  ‘Go for it. Matches on the mantel. One thing I’m not short of is firewood.’

  The stove door screeched when Alexia opened it. Crouching, she swiftly made a bed of screwed-up newspaper to criss-cross with kindling from the basket in the hearth. There was something satisfying about striking a match and watching the blackening newspaper shrink as the flames grew brighter and bigger.

  Ben arrived with two mugs, a whisky bottle and two glasses. ‘Nightcap?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Alexia settled on the rug with her back against an armchair so she could feed the dancing fire as Ben poured the whisky.

  He settled himself against the opposite chair. ‘So you’re completely done, you and Sebastian?’

  She was suddenly conscious that his legs had come to rest close to hers. She took a sip of the neat whisky, feeling its fiery kiss in her throat. ‘Completely. Jodie always said I’d settled for him because he was nice and kind. Maybe she was right.’

  Ben snorted. ‘I’m pretty sure most men would hate that description. Might as well say “dull and boring”.’ His eyes glittered at her over the rim of his glass, the reflection of the fire flickering like flames in the whisky.

  She took another sip, feeling lassitude weigh her limbs as it combined its effects with the beer she’d drunk earlier. ‘Aren’t you “nice and kind”?’

  ‘Not so you’d notice. Why did you “settle” for Sebastian?’ He shifted slightly and their legs brushed.

  Alexia felt a tightness in her belly. Was he doing it on purpose? ‘The boyfriend before him was “high maintenance and awkward”. It was exhausting.’ She circled back to the question he’d side stepped. ‘I’d describe myself as “bright and bubbly”. Your turn.’

  He screwed up his face in a mock-ferocious frown. ‘I’m “prickly and disorientated”.’ The frown faded. After several moments he added, thoughtfully, ‘And horny.’

  Alexia, taking a sip of whisky, choked.

  Ben flushed fierily, giving a laugh that ended on a groan. ‘And cringingly out of practice! Sorry, that was dire. Wipe it from your memory. I’ve obviously forgotten how to do this.’

  Alexia giggled. Despite his show of embarrassment, she noted that his gaze didn’t drop entirely, hinting that he was interested in her reaction.

  His legs still grazed hers. Heat reached her through the fabric of their jeans, a heat Alexia doubted came from either stove or alcohol – though the latter probably encouraged her to be more airily direct than she would usually have been. ‘You haven’t, erm, put in any “practice” since your marriage ended?’

  He sobered. ‘I needed recovery time. And now I’m floundering.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Hints and clues gratefully received.’

  Alexia was entertained by his frank request. ‘Well,’ she mused, lounging a little more deeply against the armchair. ‘Bringing the tea and whisky on one tray was smooth but not pushy, allowing me the opportunity to choose whether to drink more alcohol. And mirroring the way I’m sitting is supposed to be the right thing to do to make me trust you, isn’t it? So you’ve got that right as well.’

  ‘Ticks in two boxes.’ His eyes smiled.

  Alexia turned her expression reproving. ‘But, seriously, if you invite a girl home to see your barn owl, you really ought to have one.’

  He jerked upright. ‘Barney! He’s in his box. I haven’t fed him yet.’

  He dumped his glass on the tray, scrambled up and shot into the next room.

  Rolling to her feet more slowly, possibly because the room was getting a little fuzzy, Alexia followed him into his kitchen in time to see him ease an open box of translucent white plastic out from under the counter. An indignant rustling came from within. Carefully, Ben positioned the box on the red quarry tiles. ‘Alexia, meet Barney. Barney, you just wait in your tub for a minute while I get your supper. Alexia’s going to keep you company.’

  Ben busied himself elsewhere in the kitchen while Alexia sank down beside the tub and peeped inside. ‘Ohhhhhh …’ she breathed. Peeping back was a pair of round black button eyes topping a hooked beak that looked way too big for the little plate-flat face and ball-of-fluff body. One wing hung badly, like an empty sleeve.

  The beak opened and emitted a surprisingly loud HEHHHH, like gas leaking under pressure.

  Delighted, she laughed. ‘You are so gorgeous.’ Extending a cautious finger, she touched the off-white fluff of Barney’s chest. ‘As soft as down.’

  ‘I suppose it is down. He’s a bit young for feathers.’ Ben was still occupied with whatever he’d taken from the tall white fridge. ‘Look away if raw stuff upsets you. He eats mice and chicks. I buy them frozen from a pet food supplier.’

  ‘I’m a country girl. I know animals have to eat and that they eat each other.’

  Ben returned to kneel beside her, in his hand the red lid of a sandwich box covered in chopped meat. Delicately manipulating a pair of tweezers he lifted Barney out, and touched a tiny piece to Barney’s beak. Barney, with a bob of his head, grabbed it quick and scoffed it down with much chomping of his beak.

  ‘Cute!’ The slightly acrid smell of Barney warred in Alexia’s nostrils with the much nicer man-and-whisky smell of Ben as he patiently fed the youngster. Barney bobbed energetically and made little breathy noises that sounded to Alexia as if he were trying to squawk with a sore throat.

  Ben murmured soothingly as Barney’s supper vanished, addressing him solemnly as ‘little guy’. Alexia watched, fascinated by the contrast of Ben’s strong tanned hands and the tiny ball of fuzz snatching at every morsel of food that came his way.

  Finally, Ben put down the now-empty lid and pulled a towel from a drawer. He spread it over Alexia’s lap where she sat cross-legged on the floor. ‘Now, little guy, you look after our guest for a few minutes while I do your housework.’ Gently, he scooped up the baby bird and transferred him to the hands Alexia instinctively cupped to receive him. ‘Put your hands low on the towel. Relax your fingers and let him putter about.’

  Alexia marvelled at the almost weightless warmth in her hands. ‘Barney Owl, you’re so soft and cuddly.’

  Barney breathed hehhh companionably and peeped all about the kitchen, head twitching this way and that as his gaze fixed on each new thing, one stumpy wing waving. Alexia breathed a sad sigh over the other, broken, wing, but then if Barney hadn’t been injured she would never have known him, never felt his tiny talons scraping across her skin under his dandelion-clock fuzz.

  Filling a bucket with water, Ben removed a soiled towel from Barney’s tub to drop in it then retired to the sink to scrub his hands. He returned to carefully relieve Alexia of the near nothingness of the young owl’s weight, their fingers touching as Barney made it from one to another. Then Ben sat beside her on the floor and set Barney on the flagstones to stretch his legs and explore. Alexia giggled as Barney pecked at drawer handles or paddled his feet on the floor as if finding it odd beneath his feet. ‘He’s so cute!’

  At length, Ben took the towel that had been draped over Alexia’s knees to line the tub before collecting Barney up. ‘Bedtime, Barney. Maybe Alexia will come back and see you another day.’

  ‘I’d love to.’ Alexia rose reluctantly. While Ben slid the tub back in place with Barney in it she glanced around the kitchen, noting the natural oak cupboards and drawers, the plain worktops. ‘Did you really fit this kitchen? It has a charming lack of artifice.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m not the kind for fads or frills.’

  ‘So I see.’ Everywhere were unfussy lines, no pictures and no ornaments. She wandered back into the
equally sparse sitting room. All the shape and movement in the room came from the minimal furnishings and the unevenness of the walls – warm but making ‘plain’ an art form.

  Following her in, Ben stopped in front of the stove and fed another log into the flames, though the room felt warm compared to Alexia’s recent perch on the kitchen floor. ‘Do you want to see the upstairs?’ His back remained to her but his voice held an undercurrent that made Alexia’s heart trip on its next beat.

  Did ‘seeing the upstairs’ mean simply viewing what he’d done with the upper storey? Or something more to do with his hesitant move on her, the interest in his eyes whenever he looked her way?

  She was quite confident that if she responded, ‘I think I’d better go home,’ he’d just nod and walk her back to the village.

  But being with him was like being in the thrall of an absorbing film: not knowing what would happen next and gripped by the urge to find out. She decided on a neutral reply. ‘That would be interesting.’

  Ben turned away from the fire with a smile of what might have been relief. Flipping the light switch at the foot of the stairs, he stood back to allow her ahead of him. The practical, mushroom-coloured stair carpet looked new and, remembering that she’d spent the evening disturbing dust and spiders, Alexia kicked off her trainers before treading up the stairs.

  At the top, she halted as she found herself on a postage stamp of a landing under a slanting ceiling. The uncurtained window framed a rectangle of black night. ‘Bijou,’ she observed. A door to her left was closed, then the landing simply opened out into a bedroom. Much of that bedroom was taken up by a double bed. Two small windows in the wall beyond it rose either side of a stone fireplace laid with newspaper and kindling.

  As Ben reached the landing too she could feel his warmth crossing the few inches of air between them. He cleared his throat. ‘At least the bed’s made. Kind of.’

  Alexia glanced at the forest green quilt dragged untidily up to a heap of pillows and had no idea what to do next. It felt equally wrong to barge through the closed door or lead the way into Ben’s bedroom. There was no room to stand back and let him go first yet if she suggested they go straight back downstairs he’d probably think she was feeling worried or threatened.