Home for the Holidays

by Sue Moorcroft

  ‘That would be great. I only need your initial reaction.’ She closed up the workshop and led him into the house, shucking off her coat and making him coffee and her tea while he wandered into the sitting room. He looked about himself with curiosity, half-expecting it to bear testament to her profession and be starkly monochrome or be full of strange-shaped furniture and odd art. Instead, she’d used a colour on the walls that wasn’t green or white but somehow in between, then plain bold colours for curtains, different for each room.

  It was warm and bright and at least half as large again as Woodward Cottage. The stairs rose from a proper hall rather than out of the sitting room and he knew there were at least two bedrooms because of Jodie having been her housemate. She left him on the sofa while she fetched her drawings then settled a decorous few inches away from him.

  ‘Here’s the original plan.’ She handed him an A3 sheet of paper. ‘The kitchen was going to be where it was when The Angel was a pub, with both the Bar Parlour and the Public abutting it. We’ve always known the kitchen’s too big. Even with our original budget our equipment would have only filled a corner, and now we’re strapped for cash I think there’s a better way.’ She unrolled her new drawing and spread it across their laps. ‘I see this as an efficient and economical alternative – expanding the counter area in the Bar Parlour and housing our now more modest equipment needs behind it. It would mean carrying drinks and snacks through to the Public instead of passing them directly from the kitchen. Or we could make a hatch.’

  ‘Neither seems insurmountable. How much money will it save?’

  ‘Lots.’ She gave him a brief contrast of costs between the two schemes. ‘It would give rise to the issue of what to do with the existing kitchen though.’

  ‘Shut it off until some unspecified time when it’s needed again?’

  ‘Construction’s never that simple. That room has to come into the scheme of works so far as the electrics and plumbing are concerned. Loosely speaking, both work on a principle of circuits.’

  He’d edged closer to her to get a better view of the drawing, and the warmth of his leg was brushing hers, banishing any residual chill from hurrying from Gabe’s. He continued to study the drawing. ‘Do you have a suggestion?’

  ‘Before we even get to the suggestion stage there are things to think about. For example, that room’s big enough, especially as it has its own pantry, to be a working kitchen in its own right, so maybe we could rent it to a local business. Someone who bakes cakes or packs lunches to sell around the offices.’

  ‘Are there many offices in Middledip?’ He turned his teasing smile on her.

  ‘No, there’s that big industrial estate just on this side of Bettsbrough, which must contain a lot of hungry mouths to feed, but I’m just throwing ideas around. The point I’m getting at is that if we thought that room would ever be a kitchen we need to know now. Commercial ovens are high-powered electrical appliances and require a circuit with a high rate, or even three-phase. We don’t want to be burying the wrong cable in the plaster and then have to redo it all. In any event, it would probably be best for that area of the property to have its own circuit.’

  ‘Right.’ He stooped to pick up his coffee mug from where he’d left it on the floor. ‘So, to summarise, you can save money with one hand but we have to spend it with the other.’

  She shrugged. ‘No. You can have that room as anything you want. Make it and the pantry into a studio flat and rent it out as domestic. That would work well with your plans for accommodation upstairs if you can get it past the planning authorities but, again, you’d want it to have its own circuit for billing purposes. You could keep it commercial but make it into a gift shop – customers can access it through the Public already. I’m just saying that it would be helpful to have some idea of where we’re heading before rewiring downstairs, and that room could be made to earn its keep.’

  He turned to look at her but there was no laughter lurking in his eyes this time. ‘You’re good at this.’

  Pleasure prickled up her spine. ‘I expect you’re good at looking after trees.’

  ‘True. But they only occasionally prompt quick decisions. One of the few predictable things in my life.’

  Alexia read sadness in the set of his mouth. ‘How are things with you apart from your worry over Gabe?’ The thought popped out as words before she realised she was going to voice it.

  He looked back to the drawing across their laps. ‘You mean Imogen?’

  She felt that wriggle of something again when he said Imogen’s name. Not guilt precisely, but regret. And not regret that their night together had ever taken place, but that it had been so quickly and thoroughly tarnished.

  She’d looked no further than the fact of his imminent divorce, heedless of the complexity of it or him, but their level of physical intimacy must have been in stark contrast to the degree of emotional engagement. Before that night Alexia hadn’t experienced a post-coital polar-change of attitude and now she knew what to look for she’d be a lot more wary of the ‘I’m up for a no-strings thing’ conversation. It did mean no strings, despite its disguise of caresses and gentle words.

  She gave herself a shake. So she didn’t want anything heavy but she didn’t like the consequences of ‘no strings’ either? ‘Not just Imogen – I suppose I meant everything. You haven’t had a great time.’

  He smoothed the drawing with both hands and took so long to answer that she expected him to look at his watch and make going home noises. Instead, he watched his hands smoothing, over and over. Finally, he smiled a crooked smile. ‘I worry about my family and its dynamics. I see a dilemma on the horizon with Lloyd. Imogen has phoned to apologise for abandoning me in that pub and hinted she’d misread my invitation to talk. When I demanded – her word – more information, she ran away from the situation.’

  ‘She’s been through a lot.’ Alexia tried to sound sage and sympathetic.

  He nodded, still absently smoothing the drawing. ‘It was her who said that if I couldn’t forgive her I ought to divorce her but I got the impression she’d been hoping …’

  ‘… that you could forgive after all? I suppose it would be an easy conclusion to reach.’ Playing devil’s advocate on behalf of Ben’s particular devil wasn’t a role Alexia relished. Gently, she pulled her drawings free of his hands while they still had some ink on them.

  He turned to watch her roll them up. ‘Living in Woodward Cottage I sometimes have a romantic vision of myself as an animal hiding out in the woods to lick my wounds. Yet when I talk to you I see myself more as a bear with a sore head.’

  She blinked at him, feeling the back of her neck gather in indignation. ‘What? Why? It’s you who called yourself grumpy! I didn’t mention it. I’ve been nice.’

  His eyes smiled. ‘Nice or not, when I talk to you I see my own shortcomings in your generosity. Considering our history you’d be quite justified in telling me to shut the front door about my ex-wife. Instead, you ask me if I’m OK and seem to care whether I am. I find such big-heartedness rare. You’re caring towards Gabe, Carola, Jodie and the village as a whole at the same time as soldiering on with everything that happens to you. I admire you for it at the same time as feeling bad that it doesn’t occur to me to return the compliment.’

  He hooked his elbow on the sofa back and turned in his seat to face her. ‘So now I’m asking. Are you OK, Alexia?’

  For a stupid moment her eyes burned. She could have laughed it off with a ‘Fine, thank you!’ But something about the warmth of the moment trickled through her, soothing and comforting, encouraging her to answer honestly. ‘I’m coping,’ she said. ‘But I’m finding life a bit tough. Building up my order book, keeping everyone going full guns on The Angel. Getting used to Jodie not being around.’ She told him about Jodie’s pregnancy and the note Shane had left about Jodie trapping him. ‘I haven’t told Gabe while he’s poorly. It’s interesting background information but it doesn’t make any difference to the situation we’re
facing.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Shane’s a total shit.’ He hesitated. ‘If you get another opportunity to leave the village, will you take it?’

  She beat back a compulsion to demand, ‘Why? Are you thinking of lining up another no-strings thing as a parting gift?’ Instead she answered, ‘It would depend upon the opportunity. I’m not desperate to leave but I do regret losing the chance to work with that property investor. I liked her ethos – not doing a bodged job then flipping a property full of problems to make a quick buck. She could be tempted by the odd quirky project, too, like turning old industrial properties into contemporary residential. And I would have been happy to contribute to her portfolio of smaller properties for families in need.’ She sighed but forced a smile. ‘But other opportunities might crop up.’

  He was watching her gravely. ‘I really hope they do, if that’s what you want.’

  Touched, she tried to repay his kind thought. ‘And if you want to patch things up with Imogen at some time in the future, I hope that it happens for you.’

  His eyebrows snapped into a frown. ‘I just want the truth. “Closure”, as they say.’ He rolled to his feet in an easy movement. ‘Nearly time for Gabe’s meds. See you soon. Thanks for the coffee.’

  Alexia listened to him letting himself out, allowing herself to wonder, just for a minute, what might have happened if she and Ben didn’t have an ill-advised one-night stand and his pain over his ex-wife between them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Oh, go on, let me come.’ Carola wore a streak of sea green satin paint in her blonde hair and liberally on her hands and clothes. The culprits, the four wheelback chairs, gleamed prettily under the lights of the workshop, as smart as … well, paint.

  Alexia inspected them critically. ‘They’re wearing more paint than you, though I think it’s a close-run contest. You’ve done a fantastic job. Even the fiddly bits don’t have a single run in them.’ Having spent most of the year in a hostile stand-off, Alexia was still getting used to the friendly and enthusiastic Carola who turned up most days to rub down or paint a steady procession of pre-loved chairs and tables.

  Carola glowed with pride, scratching a speckle of paint off the end of her nose. ‘So you’re going to take me on the radio with you as a reward?’

  ‘How can I? You’re not invited. There are two guests on the show, each talking about a different angle to property improvement. It’s not in my gift to invite you,’ Alexia protested, glancing at her watch. She’d only paused at the workshop on her way out to check how Carola was doing. She’d never been on the radio before and, tingling with nerves, had taken pains with her outfit and her make-up, which was stupid as nobody outside the radio station would be able to see her.

  Carola dropped her brush into a jar and grabbed a cloth to wipe her hands. ‘I’ll just come into reception and wait while you’re on air. I won’t be pushy, I promise. I’ve always wanted to visit a radio station.’

  Alexia smothered a sigh. ‘But I don’t have time to wait for you to get cleaned up.’

  Beaming, Carola rubbed her hands more vigorously. ‘No need! We can go in my car so I don’t get paint on your seats. Nobody’s going to care what I look like.’

  This time the sigh found a way out. ‘Come on then. You can drive me to Cambridge in your husband’s countryside status symbol.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ Carola grabbed her keys.

  Alexia was shocked when Carola opened the door to the Land Rover and jumped into the driver’s seat without even a dustsheet. ‘You’re getting paint all over the leather! Look at that steering wheel! Your husband’s going to go mad.’

  ‘It was painty already.’

  It was true. The driver’s seat, the steering wheel and even inside the driver’s door were spattered liberally with sea green satin and white undercoat, reflecting Carola’s progress in furniture refurbishment.

  The passenger seat was unsullied so Alexia climbed in and they bowled off on the hour’s drive across the county to Cambridge.

  All went well until they arrived at the radio station and couldn’t find a parking spot. Carola reversed the oversized vehicle out of the car park – and into a street sign. ‘Oops!’ Changing gear and waving away Alexia’s yelp of horror with, ‘It’s OK. I didn’t knock it down,’ she whizzed off to find street parking.

  Alexia jumped out and tried to check the damage to the corner of the Land Rover but Carola cried, ‘We’ll look at it after; you can’t be late!’ So they ran back, arriving at BBC Cambridge out of breath just in time for the producer to come in search of the afternoon show guests.

  Alexia puffed out her name and the producer held the door wide in welcome. ‘You’ve got time to catch your breath; one of the guests hasn’t turned up yet. And is this your friend? Would you like to come through and watch through the glass?’

  Carola beamed. ‘I’d love to!’

  Leaving Carola on a sofa near the producer’s workstation while music played to the listeners, the producer ushered Alexia into the studio. Glass formed one side and the rest of the walls were covered in what looked like red carpet. Quinn, earphones clamped over her long dark hair and plus-sized figure nestled comfortably in a plus-sized chair, waved and grinned and did something on one of the computer screens before her. Alexia, heartbeat trotting excitedly, seated herself at the guests’ side of the desk.

  Quinn stopped clicking her computer mouse and beamed, pulling off her headphones. ‘Hiya! Great to see you here!’ She gave Alexia a quick briefing on what to expect, waving at the equipment with, ‘Just ignore this lot. You’re on the green mic.’ She glanced at the clock as she slid her headphones back into place. ‘We’re waiting for a lady who’s restoring an old mill near Waterbeach.’

  As if on cue the producer stuck his head into the studio. ‘Lady with the mill won’t make it today, Quinn. Currently waiting for roadside rescue. Car conked out.’ He ushered another figure into the room. A small, blonde figure bespattered with sea green paint. ‘But this lovely lady is Carola who works with Alexia. She says she’s happy to step in.’

  ‘And it looks as if she’s working her hard, judging by the state of her!’ Quinn treated Carola to her thousand-watt smile. ‘Can I get you on blue mic then, Carola? Thanks so much.’ She glanced at the clock again and began to move sliders up and down the console. ‘Here we go everybody. I’ll do the weather, then we go to traffic, then we’ll get you on.’

  Carola wriggled in her seat, wearing a huge grin. ‘I wasn’t pushy, honestly,’ she mouthed at Alexia. ‘He asked me.’

  Alexia shook her head in mock despair, but she was secretly quite glad for the friendly presence.

  In no time they were caught up in the singular experience that’s radio, cocooned by Quinn’s ability to create rapport with her guests and draw out their stories.

  Alexia went first, talking about the original plans for The Angel and the brutal way they’d been forced to change direction.

  Quinn was all sympathy. ‘Oh, no! How terrible. I had no idea that stripping a building could be that profitable.’

  ‘If you pick the right building. There can only be so many genuine Victorian cast iron fireplaces. And as for the etched glass! Irreplaceable. With so much gone, we had to rethink.’

  Quinn turned to Carola. ‘And where do you come in, Carola? Have you and Alexia been working together all along?’

  ‘Gosh, no. We began at loggerheads.’ Carola beamed cheerfully. ‘We were hardly speaking. I thought their fundraising was inappropriate and we had a couple of public fall outs.’

  Alexia’s jaw dropped at Carola’s blunt reply.

  ‘Oho,’ said Quinn, beaming right back at Carola. ‘Fall outs? Tell me what naughty Alexia had done.’

  ‘Nothing wrong,’ Alexia managed to put in hastily, with visions of bad publicity instead of the good she was hoping for.

  Carola laughed her tinkling laugh but, to Alexia’s relief, was quick to deny Quinn the controversy she’d perhaps scented. ‘It wasn’t Alexi
a’s fault. I’d just been involved with our village hall for so long that I wasn’t keen when another community project came on the scene. It’s only recently that I’ve begun to work for The Angel. Alexia’s doing an amazing job and I count it a privilege that she gives me the run of her workshop while she’s out being a wage slave.’

  So the baton was passed back to Alexia and, relaxing, she began to get into the swing, contrasting what they were doing to the sympathetic restoration they’d hoped for at The Angel, managing to weave in information about her work as an interior decorator with the familiar explanation of how that differed from being a) a painter and decorator and b) an interior designer.

  Carola jumped in to disclose that she was currently covered in sea green paint in her quest to repurpose sufficient chairs and tables to fill both rooms of The Angel and Alexia jumped in with, ‘And you should see the inside of her car!’ Soon it had become the Alexia and Carola show with Quinn only putting in occasional questions and witticisms to keep the ball rolling.

  The chat was punctuated with music tracks, weather, traffic, and messages coming in from listeners, and when Quinn handed over to the presenter in the next studio and took her headphones off with a ‘phew!’ Alexia couldn’t believe an entire hour had flown by.

  ‘That was brilliant.’ Quinn smiled her beautiful white smile, coming out from behind the desk. ‘You two have such a fab human interest story and I’m sure we’ve alerted listeners to the conmen out there.’ With a quick hug each she handed them back to the producer at the studio door, the producer ushered them back the way they’d come and in startlingly short order they were outside, blinking in the daylight and breathing in fresh air.

  ‘That,’ pronounced Carola with satisfaction, ‘was thrilling. And I’ve googled recycling centres and there’s one in Butts Lane, only nine minutes from here. Shall we go and see if they’ve got any tables and chairs while I’ve got the Land Rover?’

  Alexia followed Carola’s eager footsteps back towards where they’d parked, suddenly feeling a fondness towards the other woman who was not only giving up so much time and labour to The Angel but had also just resisted Quinn’s fairly open invitation to have a little dig at Alexia. ‘Don’t you ever run out of energy?’