Christmas at Strand House: A gorgeously uplifting festive romance!. Linda Mitchelmore

7

      Bobbie

      ‘Could I take a look at that one, please?’ Bobbie said to the assistant in a shop called Silver Linings opposite the railway station.

      Still in her travelling clothes, but having changed her stilettos for low, wedge-heeled black leather ankle boots, Bobbie had walked the half-mile into town. Xander was yet to arrive but she didn’t think for a second he’d mind that she wasn’t at Strand House when he did get there. She told Lissy and Janey that after an almost six-hour journey in a taxi she was sorely in need of exercise and fresh air. And the air was certainly fresh, colder than London, but then there was always a heat to London from the lights of buildings and the traffic and the general thrum of the place.

      ‘I’ll open the case for you,’ the assistant said. ‘I’ll just find the key.’

      Bobbie had spent a good half hour browsing the shop and the assistant had left her to it, not pressured her at all to hurry up and choose because – Bobbie, realised now – it was almost closing time. Bobbie liked that – the space to be left to make her own choices. Okay, so Silver Dollar wasn’t Oxford Street or Regent Street, but this little shop in a typical seaside town had some good things. She’d been spoilt for choice really. There were watches in a number of styles, hip flasks, and medallions (necklaces for men really) and quirky little desk ornaments but in the end Bobbie had settled on a watch. It was hardly Philippe Patek but she hoped Oliver would like it, or at least accept it for the love in which it was given. Whenever that giving might be. Certainly not over the Christmas period while she was at Strand House.

      Lissy had said there were to be no exchanges of presents at Strand House but that didn’t mean Bobbie didn’t have a present to buy. She did. For Oliver. Like she’d done every Christmas for the past forty-four years. Forty-four!

      ‘A good choice,’ the assistant said, unlocking the cabinet and lifting out the watch Bobbie had pointed to. ‘Timeless design but with a slightly quirky edge. For someone special?’

      ‘Oh yes. Someone very special,’ Bobbie said, her voice suddenly husky. It still surprised her that it always went husky, and her heartbeat quickened, and sometimes she even felt a little faint, whenever she voiced that she’d had Oliver in her life for forty-four years, and while she’d not seen him for almost all of those forty-four years he was never far from her mind. He came to her in odd moments: in a supermarket queue when she might see a man around the age Oliver was at that time and wonder if her son wore his hair like that, or had a fancy for a pink shirt, or brogues; when she was washing up a few dishes and imagining Oliver reaching for a teatowel to help – such a companionable thing to do, washing up and drying dishes with someone; when she saw a pregnant woman, holding hands with her man, who was proudly carrying a bag from Mothercare or some other baby clothes shop.

      ‘Gift-wrapped, then?’ the assistant said. She turned her head slightly to glance at the clock over her desk. ‘Oh, I’ll just close up. But I’m not hurrying you. Gift-wrapping won’t be problem. You can browse a bit more while I do it if you like.’

      ‘I will,’ Bobbie said. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice and her heartbeat returned to normal now.

      But there was nothing else she wanted or needed really. She had enough jewellery – precious and costume – to stock a shop of her own.

       Chapter 8

      Janey

      ‘This feels a bit strange, doesn’t it?’ Janey said now she was alone with Xander. Bobbie had gone for a walk saying she needed exercise and fresh air after the journey, but Janey had the suspicion she’d gone present-buying for them all, which Janey hoped she hadn’t as she had no money with which to reciprocate. Lissy was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to the evening meal, so she said, and she’d also said she didn’t need help doing it. She’d told Janey to sit with Xander and chat. She’d given Janey a bottle of Pinot Grigio and two glasses to chat over. ‘That’ll loosen my tongue,’ Janey had said nervously. She wasn’t used to small talk, or very much talk at all to be honest.

      ‘Would that be good strange, or bad strange?’ Xander said. ‘Hey, give me that bottle because you’re in dire danger of snapping the neck off. Your knuckles have gone white.’ He reached towards her for the bottle that Lissy had already uncorked. ‘And the glasses, Janey. They look like rather fragile, quality glasses from where I’m standing.’

      Janey did as she was told. She was used to doing what she was told around Stuart because to resist only exacerbated whatever terrible situation she was in.

      ‘I think, Janey,’ Xander said, setting the glasses down on a side-table in the sitting room and filling them, and handing one to Janey, ‘that Lissy won’t mind if we sit down.’ He patted the couch nearest him, but there were four in the vast room from which to choose, plus a single arm chair by the window. All were covered in some sort of white linen, like the boiled and bleached teatowels Janey remembered from visits to her grandmother when she’d been small.

      Janey sat on the nearest one.

      ‘So, back to strange – what’s strange, Janey?’

      ‘Us being here,’ Janey said, taking a sip of wine. ‘I mean, we’ve been friends on Facebook and you’ve messaged me about my paintings, so we sort of know one another, but not really.’

      ‘Time to make amends, then. And four days to do it in.’

      Janey pressed her lips together, fearful emotion would spill out. Xander was being so kind, so courteous of her, and doing his best to put her at her ease when ease was the last thing she felt at that moment – she was tense, everyting pulled tight, wondering if Stuart had found her note yet and what his reaction would be when he did.

      ‘I only had four days getting to know Claire, but it felt as though I’d known her forever,’ Janey said. ‘She was so kind inviting me to join her and Lissy for a drink after the first class. Bobbie came, too, because Claire said the others seemed in awe of her, how beautiful she was to paint. People were going off in little groups to go for a meal or a drink or a walk or something and Claire said Bobbie looked lonely so she invited her along too and … oh God, sorry. It must hurt to have her name brought up at every turn and now I have.’

      Janey took a huge gulp of wine so words that perhaps ought not to be said didn’t come splurting out.

      ‘It’s okay. People around me, who knew Claire well, and who break their necks not to mention her so that it seems for them, and me, she never existed, upset me more. You’ve mentioned her name for the first time and I haven’t gone to pieces, have I?’

      Janey shook her head.

      ‘And I expect, over this Christmas break we’re all on, her name will be mentioned a few more times as well before we all leave again on the 27^th. Shall we have a little toast, you and me?’ Xander sat down beside Janey and raised his glass. ‘To memories of Claire, whatever form those memories take.’

      God, how kind he was. His kindness was like some sort of balm to Janey’s bruised soul. She hadn’t known men as kind as this existed.

      ‘To memories of Claire,’ Janey said, as they clinked glasses. Her memories of Claire were all good ones. How vibrant and full of life she’d been. How beautiful. How she was absolutely rubbish at art on that weekend workshop but it didn’t seem to matter. She was with her friend, Lissy, and learning something new, and she was having fun. And laughing. It seemed to Janey that Claire had laughed constantly that weekend, her head thrown back with the weight of her laugh so that her café au lait curls rippled. And she’d been generous in her praise of Janey’s life-drawing, urging her to do something with it. Sell her work, or teach, but – Claire had said – Janey had to do something, or Claire would come and shake a big stick at her … that last over more than a few glasses of wine in the White Hart. But now she could never come