A Country Village Christmas

by Suzanne Snow

  ‘Because I’ve just discovered the most brilliant thing and seeing as you’ve more or less got the day off you could come with me and do it.’ He glanced down at her feet. ‘Change your boots, though. And definitely your coat.’

  She swapped her boots and coat back at the car and they left it in the village, retracing Tom’s steps. After fifteen minutes they arrived in a farmyard and instead of the sheep and cattle she was expecting, she was astonished to find the fields full of woolly alpacas.

  ‘We’re visiting an alpaca farm?’

  ‘We’re doing more than that, we’re going walking with them.’ He halted, his eyes tangled with hers and she felt her breath catch at the new excitement in his.

  ‘Walking with alpacas? I didn’t even know you could.’

  ‘I saw it earlier and thought it would be fun. You up for it?’

  ‘I think so. How hard can it be?’

  They’d arrived just in time to join a group walk of three others, all women and friends who’d travelled together. Olivia was nervous when she approached the animal she was soon to get to know. He was called Stevie Wonder, a brown and white alpaca with a fluffy topknot flopping over his halter, and he seemed as suspicious of her as she was of him.

  There was a safety talk from their enthusiastic leader, who was sporting a cheery Santa hat, and then they were off, walking in single file along a grassy track on the edge of a wood with Tom behind, and Stevie stomping beside Olivia. He was a bit skittish, planting his feet to stare from time to time and she lengthened her lead rope, until he stuck his head down into a patch of grass and she nearly lost him.

  She looked back to see Tom laughing at her, his own little white alpaca much better behaved, and her attempt at a scowl turned into a grin. She started to get the hang of leading Stevie, forgetting about her phone until they were back in the yard three quarters of an hour later.

  He seemed quite reluctant to leave her now and she stroked his woolly coat, content to stand with him for a few minutes. A young girl came to take the alpacas away and Olivia was quite sad to see Stevie go as he stomped off, his little legs heading happily for the feed she’d been told he was expecting. She pulled her phone from her bag, checking for messages, and was happy to see there were no new ones.

  ‘Well? Did you enjoy a bit of time out?’

  ‘I did, it was fun, although I did wonder if you’d lined up the naughty one just for me.’ Olivia leaned into Tom as they left the yard, pushing his shoulder. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Pleasure. That’s what friends are for. He just needed a strong woman to lead him.’

  ‘Good job he found one, then,’ she murmured. She was enjoying Tom’s company, playing truant from work for an hour, something that would have astonished her a week ago.

  He pulled the beanie off now they were free of the yard, running a hand through his hair. She realised that the hat was another layer of disguise, another means of hiding the character she was sure people sometimes saw instead of the man, his words from yesterday morning coming back to her. They ate a quick lunch at the cafe, the only customers, before setting off back to Thorndale.

  Tom was making notes as she drove, scribbling on the pad resting on one bended leg, chewing the top of his pen absently. ‘Sorry, bit antisocial of me.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Olivia was quick to reassure him. ‘I’ve been working too, and we both know you came for a change of scenery and a chance to think. I hope it’s helped.’

  ‘Not as much as I thought.’

  He sounded frustrated and she was disappointed. She had enjoyed the day with him even more than she’d expected, appreciating how he understood that she too needed time to think, time to be quiet and work.

  ‘I’m sorry. Can I help at all?’

  ‘Not unless you know anything about Irish ferry timetables in November.’

  ‘Nope, you got me there, sorry. Good old Google, I guess.’ She voiced a thought that was bothering her. ‘Why don’t you write in the library in the house, Tom? It’s so cold and bleak in the dining room. Didn’t my dad suggest the library?’

  Tom flipped over a page on his notepad, stared at the blank lines. ‘He did. But I didn’t want to invade his privacy: it’s such a personal room. He was always so at home there.’

  ‘I think he’d love the thought of you in there, writing your bestseller.’ Olivia was picturing her dad in the library, glasses at hand or on his head, piles of books at his feet. She blinked back a quick rush of hurt as she saw his new flat in her mind. How did he bear it, living there alone after the life he had shared with her mum in Thorndale, the friends he had around him?

  ‘It’s a bit early to suggest it’ll be a bestseller.’ Tom’s laugh was wry. ‘Next you’ll be wanting to know what the book’s about.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Hasn’t your dad ever told you that you should never ask a writer what their book is about? Terrifying question.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. Just tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’ There was an innocence in Tom’s question, a smile she guessed he was hiding by looking out of the window at the landscape flashing by.

  ‘If you’re planning to publish it then you’re going to need an answer, don’t you think, Tom?’ She was gentler now, mischievous. ‘As your wife wouldn’t I know what you’re writing?’

  ‘Invoking marital status now, I see.’

  ‘Of course. There’s got to be some upsides to being married to a heartthrob even if his heyday was years ago.’

  ‘You really know how to flatter me, don’t you? I’d hate to see you try and put someone down.’

  ‘Oh, I think you’ve probably had more than your share of flattery.’ Olivia loved teasing him. ‘Stop changing the subject.’

  ‘It’s a thriller,’ Tom eventually replied. ‘A body is discovered on an abandoned monastic island off the coast of Ireland. When a second one is found on another holy island five hundred miles away, my guy’s brought in to help find the connection and the killer.’

  ‘Who’s your guy?’

  ‘Niall Costello, a former Olympic marksman and bodyguard who works in counter-intelligence in the SDU, the Irish national security agency.’

  ‘You’re going to need that pitch,’ she said, indulging the rush of happiness she felt now that Tom had shared the premise of his book with her. ‘A lot. I think it sounds fantastic. When will it be out?’

  His shoulders rose in a shrug. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘The publishers haven’t told you yet?’

  ‘It’s not that. I don’t have a publisher, Olivia. Or an agent, or a publicist. When I’ve finished it, edited it enough to know I’m happy to send it out, I’ll just have to submit like everyone else and hope for the best. Or maybe go straight to self-publish.’

  ‘I hope you’re not planning to use a pseudonym when you do publish or submit?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you already have a profile that people recognise, Tom.’ The traffic was heavier now as rain followed the thaw and she slowed the car as spray hit the windscreen time after time. ‘You can use it.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m right back at the beginning.’ There was a resignation in Tom’s voice, a new flatness. ‘No career to speak of any more.’

  ‘What happened?’ Olivia was glad to turn off the motorway, leaving the heavier traffic behind. She thought of him growing up taking care of his dad, the lack of support, her heart softening once again.

  ‘Why don’t you just check Google?’

  ‘You’d seriously prefer me to do that?’ She tried to keep the disappointment from her response. ‘When we both know that not everything I’ll discover online is the absolute truth.’

  ‘Fine, Olivia.’ The resignation was back and she was already regretting pushing him. ‘Playing Harrington led to some great opportunities and my US agent was pressing me to do a pilot for a comedy series. I wanted to play a psychiatrist in a movie instead and the agent dropped me when I didn’t get it and turned down
the comedy because I didn’t want to be tied down for more than a season. There’s only so many times you can fail or say no when there’s thirty other guys ready to jump in front of you.

  ‘The parts were gradually drying up but I was focused on writing my first book, about an American family across five generations, and didn’t really notice until my agent in London dropped me too. I handed the book in and signed up to produce and take the lead in a new play, thinking it would be good to let people know I was still there.’ Tom sighed. ‘Didn’t quite work out that way. The play bombed, closed after two weeks and I haven’t performed since. Then the book didn’t sell well, and the publishers dropped me before I finished the second. Suddenly my career was pretty much over.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Olivia wasn’t sure what else to add, how to properly express her sadness for what he had experienced.

  ‘Thanks, Olivia. Acting’s such a tough business and you get used to the rejections, but the book was hard to take. I thought a writer is who I really am now.’

  They weren’t very far from Thorndale and she slowed to avoid the snow still lingering, piled up in drifts on the sides of the lanes. ‘And you still want to write?’

  ‘Yeah. Crazy, I know, given my previous experience. But I love it, I feel most like myself when I’m writing. Creating the characters, building their world and telling the story, and this is definitely my genre now.’ He shrugged. ‘In theory.’

  ‘What about acting?’

  ‘Think that’s done for me. Not sure I’d go back.’

  ‘You must be a fantastic actor, Tom,’ she told him gently. The screen on her dashboard lit up with a call and she saw her assistant’s name. Olivia didn’t want to take it right now and risk snapping the thread of the thoughts Tom was sharing with her.

  ‘I imagine characters like Harrington don’t come around very often and it takes a brilliant performance to keep on resonating with people down the years. And your new book sounds wonderful and I’m sure it will be a success.’ Her hand reached out, found his. ‘As your friend I have every confidence in you and I’m not just saying that to make you feel better.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because you don’t know me well, Olivia. I’m not a great bet.’

  She didn’t want to let his hand go and he stopped her when she tried, lifting it to kiss her fingers quickly. She knew he meant it as a thank you but it was impossible to halt the way her stomach plunged in desire, taking her straight back to that night in the pub. He released her and she tried to concentrate on the drive, ignoring thoughts of a voicemail she expected to follow that missed call.

  ‘Promise me you won’t write the book and then lock it up in a cloud somewhere, Tom, my dad would be horrified. He’s always said that books are for reading. Sharing, talking about, disagreeing over, but above all reading. He wouldn’t want you to write a book you don’t want anyone to read.’

  ‘I know, he’s told me that too. I will think about it, writing in the library.’ Tom’s voice was casual now as he asked, ‘So when you did that online shop did you order the ingredients for spaghetti carbonara?’

  ‘What, spaghetti and carbonara?’ She wasn’t surprised that Tom had changed the subject after sharing some of the story of his career with her. ‘Isn’t that all you need?’

  ‘Very funny. Do we have eggs, parmesan, spaghetti, bacon or pancetta?’

  ‘“We”?’ She tried not to love how that sounded. ‘“We” don’t.’

  ‘Then stop somewhere, I’ll pick up the ingredients and show you how to make it.’

  ‘I know how to make it. You pierce the film and put in the microwave for three minutes. Job done.’

  Chapter Nine

  Olivia’s call with her client about the Penrith property took longer than the scheduled forty-five minutes and it was over an hour later when she finished. When her dad had been at home they would settle in the library, the fire blazing, content. But she and Tom seemed to gravitate to the kitchen, and she was beginning to think of it as the new hub of the house. She saw that he had set out ingredients and was writing on his notepad. He looked up as she walked in.

  ‘All done?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.’ She put her phone down on the table, reached into the fridge for the bottle of white he’d already opened and poured some into the second glass he’d left out for her. ‘My client is happy to proceed so we’ll be onto contracts and conveyancing soon.’

  ‘Based on your visit today? They don’t want to see it in person?’

  She savoured a mouthful of Pinot Grigio before giving him an answer. ‘They haven’t got time. They’re both professional athletes who want a private plot and the old coach house will be perfect for the gym they need since it’s already been converted for another use.’

  ‘They must really trust you, Olivia. Making that choice for them.’

  ‘I suppose they do.’ She caught Tom’s gaze, held it. ‘It’s usually about the time clients don’t have and what they can do to a property. They almost always bring in architects, designers, and create something different. And very often they move on. New club, new company, new country. They don’t see it like home in the way most of us do.’

  ‘Right.’ Tom sounded brisk as he pointed to the range and the ingredients he had already prepared. ‘Time for your cookery lesson.’

  ‘You’ll need more wine.’ She refilled his glass and wondered if he had changed the subject on purpose when they had been talking of a home, one he didn’t have. She hated the thought even more than when she had first heard it. ‘This could test your patience.’

  ‘We’ll have to see.’

  When they sat down to eat supper twenty minutes later Olivia knew for sure she was in trouble. Tom had been funny – and patient – as he explained how to make spaghetti carbonara, dropping into a different character once or twice and making her laugh. Thankfully not his most famous one, Harrington. That she would have found far too distracting, had he turned the full force of his power on her.

  It was a shock to realise how much she liked having Tom here, sharing the simplest of chores the way they already did after so few days together. Thoughts of her taking care of him two nights ago – curling herself around him, trying to warm him – continued to pop, unprompted, into her head and it was an effort to shake them off. Her attraction to him hadn’t changed and she could feel herself wanting to be with him, to see his eyes linger on her.

  ‘This is amazing,’ Olivia said hungrily, winding spaghetti around her fork and trying to find a way to eat it with more elegance. ‘You do realise you’re ruining me for microwave meals for ever?’

  ‘That’s not seriously all you live on?’ Tom was staring at her, his expression unfathomable.

  ‘No. Actually I have a confession to make.’

  ‘Now you’re going to tell me you’re an accomplished cook who knows her way backwards around a kitchen?’

  ‘Not quite.’ She tilted her glass towards him, liking the smile hovering on his lips. ‘I have all my meals delivered and I cook them myself. I only usually resort to the microwave when I’m desperate. When my daughter Ellie was small I batch-cooked everything and froze it. Busy working mum, see.’

  ‘And you let me stand there, blathering on about egg yolks and when to add the water from the pasta? You’re a fraud, Olivia Bradshaw.’

  She ducked, the tea towel he’d lobbed sailing past her head, and savoured his pretend outrage and the teasing layered beneath it. ‘I am not! I’ve just never made spaghetti carbonara from scratch before.’

  ‘You can cook supper next time,’ Tom told her. He’d almost finished eating and leaned back in his seat. ‘I’ll do lunch instead. No wonder you offered to make sandwiches or heat up soup. I’m going for the easy job tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll soon change your mind,’ she told him smoothly. ‘If I cook, you wash up and you won’t want to do that again when you’ve seen the state of the kitchen afterwards.’ She stood up to clear their plates to the sink, filling the
bowl with hot water. ‘My cooking ability doesn’t stretch that far.’

  Tom joined her, drying the dishes she was washing. It was all so unfamiliar and yet so comfortable.

  ‘Have you been divorced a long time, Olivia?’

  It took her a couple of seconds to remember the answer, her previous marriage seeming very far in her past in this moment. She drew in a breath, let it out. ‘Yes. My marriage was over pretty much before we’d even begun. I met Jared at a gig. He’s a musician and we eloped six weeks later.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’ Tom was staring at her, the cloth stilled in his hand. ‘I didn’t have you down as someone quite so impulsive.’

  ‘I was younger and more reckless then.’ She raised a shoulder. ‘It lasted until I was seven months pregnant and Jared was gone before Ellie, our daughter, was born.’

  Olivia held the hurt in, trying not to remember the fear, the worry about the days ahead and how she would cope on her own, the living she needed to make. The empty promises her ex had made to do better, the sporadic financial support and the flying visits. The disruption, the loneliness, the occasional frightening midnight dash to A&E with a poorly toddler.

  ‘I’m sorry. It must’ve been very tough for you both.’

  ‘It was.’ She knew in that instant Tom recognised that their lives were mirrored in some way through their different experiences. ‘But we got through it, so much more than that, and I have a wonderful daughter whom I’ll always be incredibly thankful for, however feckless her father is. His career was taking off when we met, and he was already public property. You learn very quickly that you’re already in the background of someone’s life, with people looking straight past you to see him.’ She paused. ‘You must know what that’s like, Tom.’

  ‘Yes. Nicole, my ex-wife, felt it too sometimes, especially after the series came out. The attention, the demands. Somehow it changed us without us even realising. I don’t think I changed because of it but people treat you differently when they think they know you. When they can’t find the boundary between me and the character.’