The Magic of Christmas (32 page)

‘I think Polly might have thrown the firework,’ I said drowsily, relaxing against his broad chest, which was invitingly close. Anyway, it was that or fall over sideways.

He’d put the empty glass down, but hadn’t removed his arm from around my shoulders and now he rested his chin on top of my head. ‘I was looking at you so I didn’t see where it came from. Polly
was
there, but the chances are she wouldn’t do something that stupid. It was just boys messing about, and you were unlucky.’

‘Perhaps you’re right, but she looked so … so pleased afterwards …’ I yawned hugely.

‘Come on — you’re all in, so I’ll carry you up to bed.’ He gathered me up as though I was a loose-limbed doll, but before he could rise to his feet, some compulsion made me slide my arms around his neck.

He went quite still and our eyes met and held, his like unfathomably deep, dark pools in the lamplight. Then he gave a resigned sort of sigh, tightened his grip and kissed me.

His lips tasted of inevitability: there was never anything of the minty mouthwash about Nick Pharamond.

Next morning I awoke slowly, with that languorous, totally sated and exquisitely guilty feeling you get after a really
bad
chocolate binge — blissed out.

But when I opened my eyes to find I was not lying in my bed but on the sofa, I instantly remembered it wasn’t chocolate I’d pigged out on last night. In fact, I recollected every single moment only too clearly, right the way from Nick knocking me flat and battering me into the mud, to our kiss and
more
than make up … though I suppose that at least had the advantage of
not
involving icy wet earth.

For a woman whose memory span was normally similar to that of a goldfish, this was quite something, though the action replay going on in my head could have done with some soft-focused editing around the edges to hide all that urgent hunger — which surely hadn’t been all on my side, even if I’d started it, had it?

The curtains were still drawn and the lights were off, though the fire was burning brightly enough behind the brass firescreen for me to see that I was alone. But that was no surprise, for I’d instantly sensed on waking that the cottage was empty apart from me — long empty. Slowly I heaved myself to my feet and, clutching my blanket, tottered into the kitchen on my singed legs, wincing at every step.

Propped against the kettle was a brief note in Nick’s distinctive handwriting:

Lizzy, it’s six and I’m supposed to be in London at ten for the shortlist photoshoot for Cookery Writer of the Year. I’ll phone you later. Mud brown suits you, by the way — you should always wear it.

Nick

And that was it! I read through it twice, as though some hidden message might reveal itself, then crumpled it into a ball and threw it with some force at the wall opposite. It bounced off and fell behind the fridge.

Then I slumped down on the chair, feeling humiliated and angry. This was worse —
much
worse — than when I confided in him at the hospital, because this time I gave him more than my secrets and Spudge recipe — and all
he
could think about was some stupid cookery award!

But so be it, I resolved: from now on, let him eat cake. I know what
I’ll
be eating — Humble (or should that be Humiliation?) Pie. Here’s one I prepared earlier:

Mix just enough alcohol with a bad shock and a dash of unadulterated essence of lust.

Put in a warm, dark place.

Remove any inhibitions and stir a little.

The leftovers can taste bitter if eaten cold next day.

I’ve changed my mind about Nick being like spicy curry. Now I think he’s more like that rich, dark chocolate that’s been spiked with extra-hot red chillies, and one chunk is
definitely
enough.

Annie, receiving news from the milkman at the crack of dawn about those parts of my sizzling evening that were common knowledge, hotfooted it round the second she’d finished the first dog-walking session.

She found me slumped in the kitchen in my dressing gown over a plate of Choconut Consolations, though I’d roused myself enough earlier to stagger out into the painful daylight and let out the disgruntled hens, before showering off the last traces of mud and Nick’s subtly intrusive aftershave, while singing ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair’ through gritted teeth.

While she was applying some of her Girl Guide first-aid skills to re-dressing my singed leg, I confessed to her that the most sizzling part of the evening
hadn’t
been the firework-throwing incident.

She stopped heartily slapping on the Savlon, which was a relief, and stared up at me, blue-grey eyes round and startled. ‘You don’t mean you and
Nick
…?’

‘Yes, me and Nick!’ I confirmed gloomily. ‘I can’t
imagine
what got into me, apart from a little too much of Miss Pym’s damson gin. Perhaps the shock of nearly being blown up sent me temporarily insane?’

‘There you are,’ she beamed, ignoring this suggestion, ‘I knew you were in love with each other all the time!’

‘Love had
nothing
to do with it,’ I said tartly. ‘I don’t know what it was — shock, gin, propinquity, comfort, hormones, a substitute for chocolate … whatever.’

‘Oh, no, Lizzy!’ she protested. ‘I’m sure Nick—’

‘Nick was gone long before I woke up, so I don’t know what
his
excuse was, but he kindly left me a note making it plain some trashy award is far more important than I am. Read this!’

She finished pressing a huge Elastoplast into place and I handed her Nick’s terse little note, now crumpled and looking slightly the worse for wear.

‘Why’s it got cobwebs on it?’

‘Because it’s been behind the fridge. Read it and tell me if it sounds even remotely lover-like to you.’

She did, lips silently moving, then looked up uncertainly. ‘Well, I suppose he
had
to go to the photoshoot if he’s been shortlisted for Cookery Writer of the Year, Lizzy.’

‘Big deal,’ I said sourly. ‘But never mind, at least he makes it clear that food is still much more important to him than I am, just in case I was harbouring any illusions.’

‘Yes, but food is pretty important to you, too.’

‘Maybe, but I still put relationships first.’

She sighed. ‘Then perhaps men see things differently and he thought you’d understand.’

‘He was wrong, then, wasn’t he?’

She pored over the note again. ‘It’s
very
Nick, isn’t it? You couldn’t describe it as romantic.’

‘Not by any stretch of the imagination, and it’s short to the point of being terse,’ I agreed.

Annie was still trying to find excuses for him. ‘I expect he was in a rush, but you’ll be able to see him at the award ceremony on the telly on Monday.’

‘No I won’t, because I’ve sold Tom’s and the one in here is on the blink.’

‘You can come and watch mine, then.’

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll stay home for a couple of days. My leg is very sore and I’m covered in bruises from Nick throwing himself on top of me. I had to hobble out in my dressing gown to let the hens out and I’m going stiffer by the minute.’

She went pink. ‘
Lizzy!
Too much information!’

‘When he was putting the
flames
out,’ I explained patiently. ‘He rolled me in the mud.’

‘Oh, how quick-witted and brave of him! He’s a
hero
!’

‘Don’t start going all dewy-eyed and romantic again: it’s pointless. I only wish I never had to see him again, because it’ll be even worse than when I babbled my entire life history to him at the hospital, while Jasper was ill.’

‘You’ll feel differently after he’s talked to you,’ she suggested, ever the optimist. ‘And he
will
phone you up — look, he says here in the note that he’s going to — and then you’ll see he really cares about you.’

‘He’ll find that difficult, since I don’t intend answering the phone. I’ll let the machine take the messages.’

‘Come on, you know you won’t be able to resist answering, in case it’s Jasper.’

She’s quite right, I do tend to snatch it up at the first ring — and it rang right then. We both froze and stared at it.

At the sixth ring she gave in and lunged for the kitchen extension that hung on the wall by the fridge. ‘Hello? Oh, Nick, it’s you! Yes, Annie … No, I’ve just put a fresh dressing on it. It’s not too bad, but it’ll be sore for a couple of days … I’ll ask her.’ She covered the phone and held it out towards me enquiringly.

‘Tell him I’ve got much more important things to do than talk to
him
,’ I said loudly, and started hobbling round the kitchen, opening the cupboard doors and slamming things about.

‘I’m afraid she can’t come to the phone at the moment … Oh, you heard?’ She looked up. ‘He says, what’s more important than talking to him?’

‘Food, of course —
he
should understand that,’ I said pointedly. ‘I’m making some giant rum truffles to send to Jasper. They’re one of his favourites.’

After a moment she put the phone down. ‘He says he’s sorry he had to dash off, but he’ll come and see you when he gets back, and to be careful. Careful of what?’

‘I suppose he means careful in case the thrown firework wasn’t some stupid adolescent prank last night, but Polly stepping up her campaign.’

‘Oh, no, I’m sure even Polly wouldn’t do anything so dangerous.’

‘No … perhaps not. She’s only done petty, spiteful things so far.’

‘I still find it hard to believe anyone could be so nasty. Couldn’t it all just be coincidence, after all?’

‘The ARG stuff was certainly her idea and, besides, when I told her I knew what she was up to, she didn’t deny it.’

‘Then I expect she’s stopped now and the firework
was
an accident,’ Annie said.

‘Speaking of accidents, I’m afraid I was wearing that lovely coat you knitted for me last night, and by the time Nick had finished trampling it into the mud, it was beyond repair.’

‘Never mind the coat, at least
you’re
OK, that’s the main thing. I can always knit you another.’

‘That would be lovely,’ I agreed, then added, lying through my teeth, ‘Nick said it was such a shame it was spoiled because it was wonderful, and he wished he had one just like it.’

‘Did he? Then I’ll knit him one, too,’ she said kindly. ‘Well, I’d better be off — take it easy for a day or two, won’t you? I can manage all the pet-sitting until you’re fit again.’

‘I’m just a bit stiff really, there’s nothing wrong with me.’ To prove it I got up again to see her out.

‘When I arrived, Caz was in the barn doing exercises and Ophelia was sitting on a bale of straw watching him,’ she said, pausing on the doorstep to look across the courtyard. ‘But it looks like they’ve gone now, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s a pity he wasn’t here early enough to let the hens out. You know, I’m beginning to think I might as well convert all the outbuilding into accommodation, so everyone can just move in with me,’ I said a little sourly.

Despite what I’d said earlier, I walked down to the village later, thinking the exercise might help loosen me up a bit. I still felt as though I’d gone three rounds with a gorilla.

I went into the post office to mail Jasper the box of giant rum truffles I’d made that morning, and an Advent calendar with a chocolate behind every window. I only hope he doesn’t get zits. The post office was busy and everyone in the queue was still talking about my near-roasting, though the news of Nick’s TV appearance had also got out and was causing much excitement. I said I expected it would all come down to a brief glimpse of him among the also-rans, then realised how sour grapes that sounded and shut up.

Of
course
I wanted him to win it, since clearly it meant so much to him. Of course I did …

On the way back home I noticed that Gareth’s car was parked outside the vicarage and, on impulse, paid him a visit.

He gave me tea and I got right down to brass tacks.

‘Look, Gareth, I hope you don’t mind my speaking frankly, but Annie is my oldest friend and all this dithering about is making her miserable. So I want to know whether your intentions towards her are honourable.
Is
Barkis willing?’

He choked on his arrowroot biscuit, but when I could get any sense out of him it was just as I thought: they were both pussy-footing around, each thinking the other one only wanted to be friends.

‘She loves you, you dimwit, she told me so,’ I said plainly, but he was so modest it took a while to convince him. When it finally did, he stared at me with dawning hope in his blue eyes.

‘She’ll be at home now, having lunch,’ I said casually. ‘I know she’s got a busy afternoon, because she’s covering my pet-sitting jobs as well as her own today, but I’ll be fit to work again tomorrow. I’m …’

But I was talking to myself, because he’d gone without so much as grabbing his coat or saying goodbye. As I let myself out, I only hoped he had a key. We didn’t want our vicar arrested for breaking into his own home, did we?

Annie phoned me up between pet-sitting jobs, almost incoherent with happiness, to announce that Gareth had proposed and they were now engaged. They’re trying to get through to her parents to give them the glad tidings, but communication with that remote area of Africa is a little difficult at present.

But I’m sure when they do hear they’ll be very happy and, if anyone deserves wedded bliss, I’m sure Annie does.