The Great Christmas Knit Off (29 page)

‘Wow. I had better give them to her then, right away,’ I say, knowing that Hettie will be mortified to think of her personal correspondence going public. But Ruby carries on talking.

‘I had to take a peek, of course, curiosity got the better of me, so I read through them all last night,’ she says totally unashamedly, ‘and I am telling you, these are gold dust.’

‘Gold dust?’ I repeat, and she taps her index finger on the top of the bundle before pushing them into the pocket of my parka.

‘Yep, that’s right. And they need to be kept clean and dry because I’m certain they’re worth an absolute mint. I could find out exactly how much they’re worth if she wanted me to?’ Ruby steps in closer to me and lowers her voice. ‘And Hettie is some saucy minx. You would never think it to look at her – a little old lady – it’s hard to imagine her as a twenty-year-old having the time of her life in Hollywood, dancing with icons and dating
legends
. Do you know who he was? Has she ever mentioned the love affair – you know, when you’ve been knitting and nattering away together? I’d love to hear all about it first hand.’ Ruby eyes me eagerly, clearly keen to glean a smidgen of those halcyon days for real.

‘Um, nope,’ I say, wondering what on earth she’s going on about.

‘Well, I’m telling you, those letters are history right there. The golden age of Hollywood captured on paper by someone who actually lived through it.
She kissed Cary Grant,
for crying out loud!’ And Ruby looks as if she might actually faint with excitement. She takes a few seconds to compose herself. ‘Only on the lips, but still …’ She flutters her eyelashes and shakes her head. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a moment like that with a truly glamorous star. Do you think she’d talk to me about it?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so, she’s very private about her, well, private life.’

‘Hmm,’ Ruby pouts and ponders for a moment before adding, ‘I Googled her you know.’ And I can’t believe I forgot to do that, or at least ask Lawrence about Hettie’s seemingly amazing past, but then I have been kind of busy with the Christmas knit off and everything. ‘Yep,’ Ruby continues, ‘did you know that she was a dancer in Hollywood?’

‘Yes, she told me that,’ I say, enthusiastically.

‘Ooh, and you didn’t think to tell me? That’s only, like, my dream job, if I had been born several decades earlier, of course.’ Ruby pulls a face, clearly devastated at having missed out on a whole other life entirely, and I feel deflated, having let my girl crush down so tragically. ‘So, what else did she say?’ Ruby makes big eyes.

‘Not very much,’ I start. ‘But she has a picture signed by Gene Kelly,’ I offer up like some kind of consolation prize.

‘Oh. My. God.’ And Ruby grabs hold of me in a massive hug as if to thank me for bestowing such magical fairy dust from a glittering age on her, before quickly letting me go again and gushing, ‘Do you think he could be the man?’ Her eyes are like dinner plates and I feel happy to be back in her good books – ridiculous, I know.

‘What man?’

‘The man in the letters. The man she writes about but only refers to as G? It has to be. Oh my God! You know, in the last letter, the one where she writes all about Cary Grant kissing her at a party, swoon, she even says that she thinks G is going to propose! Imagine that. I wonder why Hettie would turn down Gene Kelly?’

‘Steady on. We don’t know that any of this is true. It all sounds a bit far-fetched to me. Surely, if there was anything between them, it would have been documented? Wikipedia would have something, surely,’ I say, thinking it’s highly unlikely that Hettie had a love affair with Gene Kelly. It’s absurd.

‘Hmm, I guess so, and he was married three times,’ she pauses, and her eyes flick to the side as if she’s deep in thought. ‘But wait, he was divorced from his first wife in 1957 and didn’t marry his second wife until 1960. And the letters were written over Christmas 1958, going into the beginning of 1959. Oh my God, Sybs, you must ask her. See what you can find out.’

‘I can’t ask her! She’s a very private person, and besides, she’ll then know that you’ve been reading her letters,’ I say, momentarily wondering if I should mention Cher’s conversation with Bill, but immediately decide against it. It’ll only tip Ruby over the edge if she knows that Hettie had a baby. A secret love child is how she’ll dramatise it, for sure.

‘Ah, yes, that’s a very good point.’ There’s a short silence and I can see that Ruby is mulling it all over. ‘Well, I guess it was a nice romantic notion while it lasted. I even had a dream about it all last night.’ She shrugs and I smile, thinking it must be a very bittersweet life to continuously hanker after a time you can never experience. She takes a big breath before carrying on. ‘But there is a bit about Hettie online, you know. She was the understudy for some really big names, like Debbie Reynolds, and she was in that famous film
Singin’ in the Rain
. I wonder if Hettie was her understudy for the film? It makes sense if she has the signed picture of Gene. Oh, it’s incredible.’ And she’s clearly not completely letting go of her fantasy version of events if she’s still hankering for Hettie having a famous Hollywood film star lover.

‘Exactly, and wouldn’t there be something about it, if Hettie
had
actually been Gene’s girlfriend?’

‘Yes, you’re right. I mean, Gene’s super famous, even now, after all these years, like Elvis, and there’s a Wikipedia page all about Elvis’ many girlfriends,’ she says, knowledgeably.

Ruby is revving up for more incredulity when Marigold calls my name from the shop door. I turn around.

‘Cher’s on the phone for you.’ And Marigold ducks back inside.

‘Sorry, I had better go. Are you sure I can’t tempt you in for a quick mince pie or a handful of Twiglets? There may even be a Terry’s Chocolate Orange on the go,’ I grin.

‘I really can’t, much as I’d love too – might give me a chance to chat to Hettie, but I can’t be late, my fans will be waiting.’ She laughs, and then adds, ‘But please, see if she’d be willing to chat to me some time. I can be very discreet.’

‘I’ll try, but please don’t get your hopes up,’ I say, knowing that it’s highly unlikely that Hettie will agree.

‘OK, honey. Fingers crossed – if only for posterity, living history, old times’ sake,’ Ruby says hopefully, before turning and heading back to her car.

W
hen I make it back to the Duck & Puddle pub, I take one look at Cher and Clive’s concerned, but silently seething faces, before tearing upstairs to my bedroom. Just as I reach a hand out towards the door, it flings open and there she is, bursting from the en suite bathroom like crimson and cream streamers from a party popper.

‘SASHA.’

‘There you bloody are. Damn snow! No wonder I’m non-dom these days. And why haven’t you got a mobile any more? I’ve been calling you for months,’ she puffs, rolling her eyes and shaking her head, making snowflakes cascade from her glossy, poker-straight curtain of hair on to the carpet. ‘Hug for your big sister.’ Sasha flings her arms around me, practically crushing me in the process, and it completely throws me. She’s acting as if nothing has happened. As if she didn’t have a ‘thing’ with my ex-fiancé, in secret, behind my back – Luke may be back in his boxroom, but still, it’s
rude
, whichever way you slice it.

‘Three and a half minutes,’ I mumble into her red riding jacket, the shock of her sudden appearance affecting my ability to think straight, let alone string a coherent sentence together.

Why is she here?

Why now?

And more importantly, what does she want?

And just when everything is going so well. OK, work is a bit of a mess, but being here in Tindledale for Christmas is amazing, and for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, and I don’t want anything to spoil it, least of all my big betrayal by my twin sister.

‘What?’
Sasha pulls back to look at me and then realises what I’m talking about, ‘Oh Sybs you’re so funny; you’ve always had a thing about that. It’s not my fault I was born first.’ She does her special operatic laugh before glancing around the room. ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding?’

‘I’m not hiding. I’m staying with my friends for Christmas, Cher and Clive, you remember them, don’t you?’ I say, pulling a sarcastic smile onto my face as I try to bat away her implication that I must somehow have a reason to hide – why would I? I haven’t done anything wrong. She has!

‘Hmm,’ Sasha acknowledges rudely, before marching around like she’s performing some kind of inspection. I close the door behind me and place Basil on the bed – even he’s unnerved by her being here and won’t settle like he usually does, preferring to sit up on his haunches and growl, his eyes hooked on to her, watching and following her every move.

‘What are you doing here?’ I eventually manage to get my mouth to co-operate with my brain.

‘What are you doing, more like?’ Ah, here we go, typical Sasha; always jumping in before engaging her brain – she’s been like it ever since we were little – if there’s a criticism to be had, then Sasha never fails to find it. ‘In this place,’ she says and pauses to lean down and sweep an expensively manicured hand over the coffee table while she conjures up a suitable description. ‘It’s like a horrible little Hobbit hovel, for Christ’s sake.’ I cringe all over, hoping and praying that Cher and Clive can’t hear her insulting their quirky, and quite lovely, traditional old coaching inn.

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Yes, it is … I very nearly twisted my ankle on this ridiculously sloping floor,’ and she does an exaggerated stagger in the space between the end of the bed and the window as if to demonstrate her point. ‘I bet Health and Safety would have a field day over this. And there must some kind of law against letting guests sleep in such unsuitable, and quite hazardous accommodation.’ She has her grand event planner attitude on now.

‘Stop it,’ I hiss, in a low angry voice, horrified at how stuck-up she sounds. She definitely inherited Mum’s Hyacinth Bucket gene, only a billion times worse.

‘You know, come to think of it,’ and she places a little finger to the corner of her mouth, ‘have they considered letting film crews use this hovel? It would be perfect for one of those dreary Dickens dramas that always get scheduled on Sunday evenings just to depress everyone a tiny bit more before they go back to their dull jobs on Monday morning – talking of which, are you still working for the council?’ I ignore her, but she just carries on regardless, barely drawing breath. ‘Hmm, I could put Cheryl, or Cher as she tries to glamorise her dowdy name,’ Sasha rolls her eyes, ‘and the gormless Clive in touch with one of my TV contacts.’

‘Right. That’s enough. This place is perfect: far nicer than your sterile, chrome and Perspex box in Dubai, or wherever it is you live these days,’ I retaliate.

‘Well, at least my box is clean!’ I gawp at her momentarily, desperately resisting all the filthy comebacks that are currently flying around inside my head right now. ‘Unlike this dump.’

‘It’s perfectly clean,’ I splutter, smarting from her sheer, bloody audacity and spitefulness.

‘Oh yeah? What’s this then, fairy dust!’ And she points to a miniscule cobweb in the corner of the mullioned window.

‘Why do you always have to exaggerate?’ I say, thinking she has a flaming cheek to just turn up here out of the blue and start hurling insults around, after what she’s done. She clearly has no shame, and why does she have to be so snarky and aggressive all the time?

‘I don’t.’

‘Yes, you do,’ I say firmly. ‘Look, I don’t have time for this; just tell me why you’re here. And why are you dressed up like something out of
Black Beauty
, or whatever those pony programmes were that you used to love watching all the time.’ I want to get back to Hettie’s and help her with the party. And I promised to put up the Christmas decorations too – we haven’t had time until now, with knitting all the jumpers – and the Japanese tourists are arriving tomorrow. Mr Tanaka has already said that they want to call in and see for themselves where their traditional English Christmas jumpers were made. Sasha plants her hands on her hips and cocks her head to one side. Mirroring her stance, I fix my eyes on hers.

‘Well, I was in the area,’ she starts, jutting one jodhpur-clad leg out like she’s channelling Angelina Jolie on the red carpet. ‘My charity event, the Christmas hunt ball, is in this part of the world this year, so I thought why not pop in and sort things out with you on my way through.’ She inspects a fingernail.

‘Oh, I see. How very convenient for you.’ I can’t resist. So she hasn’t made a special trip to see me at all, to apologise, beg for my forgiveness, explain herself, say that she made a terrible mistake. All the sorts of things one might expect from someone in her position. No, I’m just a convenience! Well, she can bugger off with trying to make herself feel better because that’s what this is about. It’s about her being consumed with what other people might think. Yes, Mum does it, but Sasha has taken it to a whole new, horrible level. I know Sasha well enough to know that it’s always about her. Always has been and always will be. And she’s probably worried that word will get out and her so-called fabulous client list will dwindle away, because nobody will trust her – if she can steal her own twin sister’s fiancé, then what’s stopping her from coming on to a total stranger? That’s what people will think, and that’s all that Sasha is bothered about: other people, and putting on a show for them.