One Christmas Morning, One Summer’s Afternoon: 2 short stories. Тилли Бэгшоу

Halfway to the door, without asking, he scooped her up under one arm as if she were a stepladder or a Nativity play prop, depositing her on the front step like a Christmas parcel. Blushing furiously, as much from anger as embarrassment, Laura jammed her key in the lock so hard she almost snapped it.

      ‘You might want to invest in some boots,’ said Gabe as the door swung open and she practically fell inside. ‘And an AA membership. Next time I might not be driving by.’

      ‘Oh no! What on earth would I do then?’ Laura said waspishly.

      Gabe scowled. ‘You might be a bit more grateful.’

      ‘And you might be a bit more—’

      ‘What? A bit more what?’

      He stepped forward, so he stood just inches away from Laura, his broad shoulders filling the narrow cottage doorway like a marauding Viking warrior. It was a challenge, and Laura’s cue to step back, but something kept her rooted to the spot. For a few seconds words failed her. They remained locked in standoff.

      ‘Never mind,’ she said eventually. ‘To be honest with you, Gabe, I’m cold and I’m tired and I would like to go to bed.’

      ‘Fine. Goodnight.’ Gabe turned to go, a look of cold thunder on his face. Ungrateful cow.

      Just as Laura was about to close the door behind him, resisting with some difficulty the urge to slam it, Gabe suddenly changed his mind. Turning around he said bluntly, ‘He’s lying, you know. Daniel. He’s using you.’

      ‘Oh, my God!’ Laura practically screamed with exasperation. ‘Using me? Using me for what? Daniel’s an amazing, talented, phenomenally successful playwright with a flat on Pelham Crescent and God knows how many millions in the bank. I’m an unknown, ex-television writer with a defunct Fiat Punto, a fat dog and an arsehole on my doorstep who I’m going to be forced to work with every fucking day between now and Christmas Eve and whose sole purpose in life seems to be to make my life hell! What could Daniel Smart possibly, possibly want from me?’

      For a moment Gabe just stared at her. He’d never seen Laura lose her rag quite so comprehensively before. Her cheeks were flushed apple red, a combination of her high emotion and the biting cold, and her mass of dark curls had escaped their elastic band and fell to her shoulders in a gloriously tangled cascade. The overall effect was disturbingly sexy, but Gabe pushed the thought aside.

      ‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,’ he said coldly. Stalking off down the path, he heard the cottage door slam loudly behind him. Serve her right if it falls off its hinges in the night and she freezes to death. Stupid, stubborn woman.

      * * *

      Laura slumped down on the sofa, shaking like a leaf. There were too many emotions to process at once: disappointment, anger, frustration. And something else, underlying all of them, something that she didn’t want to admit to. A tiny, poisonous seed of doubt had found its way into her heart, planted by Gabe Baxter and his malicious insinuations.

       Had Daniel told her the truth?

      She could think of no particular reason why he should lie. And Gabe’s motivation was so obviously jealousy – he couldn’t stand the fact that Daniel was more successful than he was. Gabe Baxter might be a big fish in Fittlescombe. But in the real world he was a humble farmer, while Daniel was a bona fide theatrical star. Even so, once planted, the doubt was there. Laura resented Gabe for that with a passion that brought her close to tears. Everything seemed to bring her close to tears these days.

      Sensing her mistress’s unhappiness, Peggy shuffled along the sofa and inserted her wrinkled, piglike face under Laura’s arm. Laura stroked her smooth fur gratefully. ‘Looks like it’ll just be you and me for Christmas, old girl.’ Was it weird to put up Christmas decorations that only you and your dog would see? ‘Perhaps we’ll do Christmas lunch at The Fox,’ Laura mused out loud. ‘That’s a bit less tragic than turkey for one, don’t you think?’

      The phone made both Laura and Peggy jump. After the miscarriage and her months of deep depression, Laura’s London friends had all stopped calling. A ringing phone these days meant her mother, or Harry Hotham calling about the play, or just occasionally—

      ‘It’s Daniel.’

      Just the sound of his voice was like a shot of pure happiness in the arm.

      ‘Look I’m about to go into this school thing. But I wanted to call and say I really miss you. I’m gutted about this weekend, I really am.’

      ‘Me too,’ said Laura, exhaling with relief. The seed that Gabe had planted was already beginning to wither.

      ‘And I was wondering – do say if you think this is too forward, or you’re not ready – but I thought maybe the two of us should spend Christmas together.’

       CHAPTER FOUR

      Daniel Smart walked into Harrods with a spring in his step.

      This was going to be a great Christmas.

      The last year had been an utter nightmare from beginning to end. The divorce, the bitter end of his affair with Lenka, not to mention the immense stress of producing his most recent play had all weighed heavily. But, quite unexpectedly, fate had brought Laura Tiverton back into his life at exactly the opportune moment. And now here he was, picking up a new dinner jacket to wear to the Furlings Hunt Ball of all things, now only a week away. He felt as excited as a schoolboy about to break up for the holidays. So much rested on this trip to Fittlescombe, but Daniel was ready for the challenge.

      Few places on earth were as festive and Christmassy as Fittlescombe village, but Harrods food hall was one of them. As he stepped inside, Daniel’s senses were immediately assaulted by the scents, sights and sounds of the season. Wafts of cinnamon and nutmeg drifted over from the bakery, where smiling chefs were cheerfully sloshing brandy into bowls of Christmas pudding mixture. At the confectionary counter, mountains of marzipan glistened in every shape and colour, and sugar mice sported Christmassy red bows, piped in icing around their necks. There were hams and turkeys and huge bowls of glistening cranberry jelly. There were mince pies and candy canes, and vats of piping-hot mulled wine served in bone-china mugs decorated with holly and ivy. Carols rang out through the loudspeakers and everybody, it seemed to Daniel, was smiling.

      Picking up a box of German sugarplums for Laura, because the packaging was so exquisite, and a single warm mince pie for himself, Daniel hopped on the escalator up to menswear. Given the pressures on his finances right now, he’d perhaps been hasty in splashing out quite so much for a new, bespoke dinner jacket. But Furlings Hunt Ball was the hottest ticket in England this Christmas, and was bound to be teeming with influential people: writers, producers, actors, investors. Telling himself it was a work expense and tax-deductible, Daniel mentally reduced the price by 40 per cent and pushed the image of his accountant’s disapproving face out of his mind.

      ‘I’m here about the jacket. Is it ready?’

      The gay assistant looked wounded. ‘Of course it’s ready, sir. We are never late on our bespoke orders. If you’d like to follow me.’

      He led Daniel into a changing room. The jacket, in pure wool and immaculately cut, was duly produced and lovingly slipped onto Daniel’s back. While the assistant fussed around him, pulling at the hem and straightening the cuffs, Daniel admired his reflection in the mirror. The deep, true black of the jacket contrasted marvellously with his tanned skin and dark-green eyes, and clever tailoring at the waist accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. It had cost an arm and a leg, but the confidence it gave him was priceless.

      ‘Is sir satisfied? We’re quite happy to make further changes if sir feels the sleeves are too long or the stitching at the lapel is a little too fine.’

      ‘It’s perfect,’ said Daniel.

      *