Once Upon A Christmas Night.... Annie Claydon

here. He’d brought her here. On some level he must be aware of that, and that the seemingly complicated tangle of his relationship with his father wasn’t going to straighten itself out all on its own.

      ‘So this is where you grew up?’ She settled herself onto one of a long row of kitchen stools.

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘And you didn’t see much of your father.’

      ‘Nope. Not a lot.’

      She’d hit a sore spot, but she kept pressing. Sometimes you had to do that. ‘But your parents were on good terms?’

      He barked out a short laugh. ‘Yeah. She loved him, and in his way he loved her. They just had very different priorities. And it’s not particularly easy to maintain a relationship with someone who only has about five uninterrupted minutes a day to spend with you.’

      ‘No. I imagine not.’ Jess wondered whether Greg was talking about his mother’s relationship with his father or his own. Probably a bit of both. ‘Neither of them married again?’

      ‘Not straight away. But that doesn’t mean they were secretly yearning to get back together. My father had his share of women friends. They loved the lifestyle for a while and then realised that they’d always be playing second fiddle to his work. And my mother remarried when I was fifteen. The local doctor. You’ll meet Ted when we go over there.’ There was sudden warmth in his voice.

      ‘So it was his footsteps you followed in.’

      ‘Guess so. Mum made him wait, but he was always there when I was a kid. He’d take us out somewhere every weekend, we used to have great adventures together.’

      ‘But they never moved away from here?’

      ‘Why should they? Ted’s practice is down in the village. This is my mother’s home much more than it ever was my father’s.’ He shrugged. ‘Although he came back here at the end.’

      ‘You mean he died here?’

      Greg nodded. ‘He hadn’t told anyone that he had cancer. But when he turned up here, two days after Christmas last year, it was obvious that he was ill. My mother called me, and I arranged for him to be seen by a specialist. My mother looked after him, right up until the end.’

      ‘That was a nice thing to do.’

      ‘Yeah. She’s a nice person. I think somehow my father reckoned that he could correct some of the mistakes he’d made, but it was too late.’ He poured the tea and set a cup in front of her on the marble worktop. ‘Does that cover it?’

      ‘I don’t know. Does it?’ Greg’s secrets ran deeper than this. Nothing that he’d said explained the eight-month absence after his father’s death. Or the air of weariness that broke through whenever he talked about his father.

      ‘Difficult to say. Would you like to see the house?’

      ‘Why not?’

       CHAPTER FOUR

      THE HOUSE WAS full of large, chilly rooms that could have been light if it weren’t for the heavy drapes at the windows and the dark wood panelling everywhere. Jess smiled politely and tried to see the best in it all.

      ‘What’s through here?’ She pointed to the door at the end of the corridor that led from the top of the stairs. If she could find some corner of this house that she could genuinely own up to liking, she was determined to do so.

      ‘It’s the inside of the old turret. I used to play in there when I was a kid.’ He strode forward, opening the door. ‘No one’s been in here for a while.’

      The room was circular, with tall narrow windows that curved to a point at the top and a complex, many-angled ceiling above their heads. Dust sheets covered what looked like seating and occasional tables.

      ‘This is great, Greg.’ This time she could give unqualified praise.

      ‘You like it? It’s not very practical.’

      ‘It’s fun, though.’

      ‘Yeah, it’s definitely fun. I used to fight my way up and down those stairs quite regularly when I was a kid.’ He nodded towards the stone stairway, which followed the curve of the wall down to the ground floor.

      ‘Your very own medieval castle.’ Complete with a few ghosts from the past, if the memories flickering in Greg’s eyes were anything to go by.

      ‘Yeah.’ He was looking around, seeing things she couldn’t. ‘We had a film crew here once. It was just a B movie and I don’t think they set much store by historical accuracy but I loved it. I made my mother bring me here every day, just to watch.’ He grinned proudly. ‘I had a bit part.’

      ‘Really? Who did you play?’

      ‘A nameless, grubby urchin. Didn’t get any lines, but I gave it my all.’

      ‘I’m sure you did. So what’s the film?’

      ‘My mother has a copy. I dare say if you ask her, she’ll let you savour every moment of my time on the silver screen in glorious slow-mo.’ He went to turn but something stopped him. The ghosts weren’t done with him yet, and he seemed caught, unable to move, his breath misting white in the chill of the air.

      ‘Those memories are important.’

      ‘They’re… ’ He was making a visible effort to resist some beguiling force, but Jess couldn’t tell what, and it was difficult to imagine what Greg could want that he didn’t already have. His attention was suddenly focussed back onto her. ‘It’s cold in here. You’re shivering.’

      So do something about it. Hold me. Keep me warm. ‘I should have packed a warmer sweater.’

      ‘I have a few here.’ He turned abruptly. ‘Come and pick one out.’

      His sweater didn’t fit, but it was warm, and Jess could fold the cuffs so that her hands didn’t disappear completely. And it smelled of him. Warm and sexy, and not really hers. She’d packed her best jeans, on the off chance she might need them, and Greg produced a pair of wellingtons along with a pair of thick woollen socks from the cloakroom.

      ‘Are you sure it’s okay for me to turn up at your mother’s looking like this?’

      ‘I think you look rather fetching. Red suits you.’ Greg’s smile would have made her feel fabulous, even if she’d been wearing rags. ‘Anyway, you wouldn’t want to make me feel underdressed, would you?’

      The idea was faintly ludicrous. His jeans were a shade of something between indigo and black, which you generally didn’t find on the high street. His sweater wasn’t new, but it was soft, thick cashmere, like the one he’d lent her. Coupled with those dark good looks, he was quality from head to toe and would have fitted in anywhere.

      He caught his car keys up from the hall table. ‘I’ll get your coat from the car.’

      They tramped across the fields, keeping up a brisk pace against the cold. Jess was glad of the woollen scarf and gloves that Greg had produced from the cloakroom, which was beginning to take on the nature of a magician’s cubby hole, from which it was possible to conjure up all manner of useful things that appeared to belong to no one in particular.

      ‘That’s where we’re headed.’ He pointed towards a house, standing on the outskirts of the village.

      ‘It looks lovely.’ Jess didn’t have to search for something nice to say this time. The yellow-brick, rambling farmhouse was everything that Greg’s father’s house wasn’t. Blending in with the trees and evergreen bushes that surrounded it, as if it had just grown there instead of having been brutally hewn from the countryside. ‘This was your real home, then.’

      ‘Yeah.’ His pace seemed to quicken, the nearer they got. As if he was leaving