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

like a swan returning to lord it over all the ugly ducklings of her childhood. Simply being around her made Gabe feel like a helpless eight-year-old boy again, or at least reminded him of a time that he had spent the last twenty years trying to forget. He knew he was being a dick to Laura, and he didn’t like himself for it. But the impulse was too strong to resist. Ever since that prick Daniel Smart had come onto the scene, it had been getting stronger. Gabe distrusted Daniel deeply and instinctively. Everything about him – from his floppy hair, to his smug, entitled manner, to his metrosexual, trendy clothes – reeked of fakery. The fact that Laura couldn’t see it, that she so obviously thought the sun shone out of the guy’s arse, kept Gabe awake at night. He resented Laura for that, too.

      ‘Shouldn’t we be getting back to work?’ Arthur McGovern, the sweet old man who ran McGovern’s Garage in the village and who had played a shepherd in every Fittlescombe Nativity play since 1988, tapped Laura on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to nag you, but I promised my wife I’d take her to the pictures in Chichester at six, so I can’t be late tonight.’

      ‘Of course, Arthur, my fault. Let’s get to it.’

      As they walked back to the stage, Gabe noticed the change in Laura’s face. Her happiness of a few moments ago had vanished like snow on a warm spring day.

      ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

      ‘Everything’s fine,’ Laura snapped. She was growing mightily tired of Gabe’s hot-and-cold treatment. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’

      * * *

      The rest of the rehearsal seemed to go on for ever, but at last Laura made it to the sanctuary of her car. Turning the key, she blasted up the heat to full and turned on a CD on Carols from King’s, hoping the soothing choirboys’ voices would ease her frazzled nerves.

      They didn’t. Disappointment and frustration hit her like a double punch to the stomach. Daniel had cancelled. He’d been very sweet about it. Something had come up with one of his sons, the school had asked for a meeting, and he had to go.

      ‘Couldn’t we meet afterwards? Or tomorrow, at least?’ Laura had asked, hating herself for sounding so needy. But surely a teacher meeting couldn’t take up an entire weekend?

      ‘I wish I could, angel, believe me. But Rachel wants us to have lunch on Saturday to talk everything through. Apparently, Milo’s grades have fallen through the floor since we split and she’s worried about him. I have to show willing, especially with the final divorce hearing right after Christmas. If I don’t, she’s bound to paint me as a crappy parent in front of the judge. Divorce is so petty and political, you have no idea.’

      He was right, of course. Naturally, his son must come first. But Laura still felt robbed. It bothered her how much the prospect of spending this weekend alone, and not with Daniel, depressed her. She’d vowed never to depend on a man for happiness again, and yet here she was, depending away, as if all the pain of last year had never happened.

      Deciding to take the back way to Briar Cottage, she turned left up Lovett’s Lane, which took her directly past Furlings. The house was a Queen Anne gem, one of the finest examples of eighteenth-century architecture in the country. In perfectly square red brick, its façade almost completely covered with wisteria, Furlings managed to combine grand, stately-home proportions with quite unparalleled prettiness. The symmetry of the original sash windows – facing onto formal gardens famous for their topiary, as well as for a two-hundred-year-old maze – was softened by the rolling parkland that surrounded the house on the other three sides. Tonight, lit from within and with its chimneys cheerfully smoking, the house looked as warm and inviting as any fairytale castle. Suddenly Laura realized just how badly she wanted to have Daniel as her date for the Christmas Hunt Ball, to play Prince Charming to her Cinderella. What was the point in spending money she didn’t have on a beautiful dress if no one who mattered was going to be there to see it?

      Just as she had this thought, there was an ominous splutter from the Fiat’s ancient engine and the car quite suddenly lost all power. Thankfully, Lovett’s Lane was deserted, and Laura was able to glide to a stately halt on the grass verge. But without headlights, and with nothing but a crescent moon and the distant lights of Furlings to guide her, she could barely see more than ten feet in any direction. Worse still, she’d left her coat back at the church hall, and was woefully underdressed for the December chill in jeans and a thin Uniqlo sweater. Pulling her mobile phone out of her bag, she saw that it was completely dead.

      ‘Fuck!’ she shouted out loud, getting out of the car and stamping her foot in anger on the frozen ground like a thwarted child. Could today possibly get any worse? The walk home to Briar Cottage from here was about thirty minutes in daylight, but at night and without a torch she was afraid she might not make it all. She could walk up Furlings’s drive and knock on the door, but she barely knew the Flint-Hamiltons, and this was an annoyance rather than emergency. The third option was to walk back to the village and ask for help there. Hugging herself for warmth and rubbing her hands together against the cold, she began to trudge down the hill.

      After only about a hundred yards, she saw headlights coming her way. Thank God. Standing in the middle of the road, she flagged the car down.

      ‘Bit late for a walk isn’t it?’ Gabe drawled, rolling down the window of his Land Rover. It looked warm and luxurious inside. Coldplay were playing on the stereo, and a smell of new leather wafted out into the crisp night air. ‘I thought you were going to London.’

      ‘Change of plans,’ said Laura through gritted teeth. Gritted, chattering teeth. ‘My car just gave up the ghost.’

      ‘Uh huh,’ said Gabe. Was he smiling? Bastard. ‘I expect you’d like a lift home then, would you?’

      Laura nodded grudgingly. Why, why, why did it have to be him? Of all the people who could have driven past. She tried the passenger door but it was locked.

      ‘Aren’t you going to ask me nicely?’ said Gabe. He was clearly enjoying himself.

      Laura bit her tongue. If she played along she’d be home in the warm in five minutes, as opposed to being stuck out here for the next hour. ‘May I have a lift?’ She smiled sarcastically.

      ‘Please,’ said Gabe. ‘Go on. It won’t kill you.’

      ‘May I have a lift … please?’ said Laura.

      With a click, the door unlocked. ‘Hop in.’

      ‘So,’ said Gabe, as she fastened her seatbelt. ‘Mr Perfect stood you up, did he? Got a better offer?’

      Laura watched his arrogant features break into a grin and felt suffused with loathing. Why was he such an utter, utter dick? And why could nobody else in Fittlescombe see it? OK, so he was handsome in a rough-and-ready, farmhand sort of a way. But it hardly made up for his fatally flawed character, his rudeness, his vindictive streak masked as humour.

      ‘He had a meeting about his son,’ she said stiffly. ‘It was last-minute and it couldn’t be helped.’

      ‘And you buy that, do you?’ Gabe asked casually, not taking his eyes off the road.

      ‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.’ Folding her arms, Laura stared out of the window in silence.

      Gabe responded by turning up the music, ejecting Coldplay and tuning into Radio 1. Some awful teen band were playing, one of those Christmas songs with synthesized sleigh bells and cheesy lyrics about snowflakes and children’s wishes. Gabe hummed along tunelessly, strumming the steering wheel in time to the music until at last they arrived at Briar Cottage.

      ‘I’ll walk you inside.’

      ‘No, thank you. I’m fine,’ said Laura.

      ‘I wasn’t asking,’ said Gabe. ‘It’s not gonna be my fault when they find you on your doorstep tomorrow morning, dead from hypothermia because you’ve forgotten your key.’

      The garden path was treacherously icy. In her flimsy loafers, Laura