The Twelve Dates of Christmas

by Jenny Bayliss

  Crikey! Kate thought. I’ve kissed two men in twenty-four hours. Does that make me a “loose woman”? The idea made her smile, and the smile wouldn’t be quashed as they pushed forward along the snowy track.

  At the next refreshment stop the rep made an announcement. The snow had continued to fall heavily for the last hour and some people’s phones had been bleeping amber weather warnings.

  “Listen, guys,” said the rep in the plum puffer. “The snow doesn’t look as if it’s going to let up, and I know some of you are worried about driving home.”

  People in the group nodded their agreement. Some had come from miles away, and Kate herself had come a fair distance.

  “So we think it would be best to head back to the meeting point and call it a day,” said the rep. “We’ll get some hot drinks down us quickly and make a move.”

  Nobody argued. Kate had been having such a nice time with Phil that she’d pushed her worries about getting home in the Mini to the back of her mind, but now she was starting to feel nervous.

  The fire pit in the yurt had already been extinguished. The hay bales were being neatly stacked to one side of the clearing and the sheepskins were being wrapped and stacked into the back of a Jeep. The hiking group huddled together outside and gratefully drank their hot chocolate.

  The reps beetled about, packing things down and emptying the steaming urns onto the ground. A man carrying two bales of hay headed blindly toward a guy rope. Someone shouted, “Watch out!”

  Too late. He caught his leg in the rope, and the force of his fall ripped the metal peg out of the ground. It whipped through the air toward where Kate and Phil stood. Phil saw it and quick as a flash pushed Kate to the ground and himself on top of her. The tent peg whipped above them and thwacked into a tree, taking a gouge out of the bark.

  In the fall Phil’s jacket zipper had pinched the skin on Kate’s throat and made her yelp. As they untangled themselves, Phil assessed the damage and pulled a face.

  “What?” asked Kate, “Am I bleeding?”

  Phil shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “It hasn’t broken the skin, but . . .”

  “But what?” asked Kate, sitting up and rubbing her neck.

  “Well,” said Phil. “It looks like a giant hickey.”

  Kate laughed and groaned. “No! Really?”

  A few of the group huddled round them to check that everything was okay. They laughed too.

  “He’s right, I’m afraid,” said the woman in the Russian hat. “It’s a proper purple hickey!”

  “I can’t even take the credit,” said Phil.

  “All the love bite and none of the fun,” said someone else.

  “I haven’t had a love bite since the nineties,” Kate protested.

  “You have one now,” said Phil.

  Brilliant, thought Kate. She could just imagine the stick she was going to get from Matt when he saw it. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d believe it was a zipper injury.

  The rep made many pleading apologies for the guy rope incident and begged Kate not to sue. Kate assured him she had no intention of suing the rep or Lightning Strikes for a fluke accident that had resulted in no harm at all.

  * * *

  • • • • •

  The snow didn’t let up all the way back to the meeting point. All that remained at the site of the first refreshment stop was a shallow circle of new-fallen snow where the yurt had been.

  By the time they reached the car park, Kate’s gloves had frozen stiff with the snow. It became clear very quickly that Kate’s Mini was not going anywhere. The car park floor was thick with snow and more-prepared people than her were setting to with shovels to clear paths around their wheels. Those with 4×4s looked on with concern at those without.

  “I’ll take you home,” said Phil. His Range Rover engine ticked over with a deep purr while Phil helped to clear the car park.

  “You can’t do that,” said Kate. “You live in Surrey! That’s miles away.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Phil amiably. “I’m not going to leave you here, am I?”

  “And what happens when you get stuck on your way home?” asked Kate.

  “They’re closing parts of the motorway,” shouted a man in a brown wax jacket, waving his phone in the air.

  “You see?” said Kate. “I’m an hour in the wrong direction from you.”

  Phil shook his head.

  “I’m not leaving you,” he said.

  Kate thought for a moment.

  “Is anyone going near Blexley?” she asked.

  People shook their heads guiltily. The plum puffer rep piped up: “I’m going near the train station,” she said. “I could drop you off if you could make it back from there?”

  “That would be great,” said Kate. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll take you to the station,” said Phil.

  “It’s no bother,” said the rep.

  “No, I know,” said Phil. “But I’d like to do it.”

  The rep shrugged.

  “If you’re sure,” she said.

  Phil assured her he was. Around the car park, three other people who would be leaving their cars behind managed to get lifts either to their homes or very nearby. Kate wrote a scribbled note explaining the situation to any eagle-eyed traffic warden who might wander by and propped it up in her windscreen.

  The last people pulled gingerly out of the car park, and Phil and Kate hit the road in the direction of the station.

  “I’m paying for your ticket,” he said.

  “You are not,” said Kate.

  “You won’t let me take you to your door; I’m paying to make sure someone else gets you there,” he said.

  “Do you always have to be the hero?” asked Kate.

  “Only with women I’ve kissed in the snow,” he replied, and winked at her.

  Kate checked the train timetable on her phone as they drove.

  “I can catch the 14:15 to Great Blexley,” she said.

  “What time does it get in?” asked Phil.

  Kate checked. “15:20,” she said.

  Phil pressed a button on his dashboard control screen and used voice activation to call a taxi firm.

  “Preston Taxis,” a bodiless voice boomed through the speakers.

  “Hi,” said Phil. “I’d like to order a taxi to Great Blexley train station for 3:20, please.”

  Kate shook her head: slightly embarrassed, a little bit exasperated, and a fair amount chuffed to pieces. She tried to argue when he asked the woman to charge the journey to his business account, but it was no use.

  “I want to be sure you’re going to get home,” was all Phil said to her protestations.

  The traffic was slow going and they made it to the station with moments to spare. Of course, Phil paid for her ticket. He kissed her on the cheek and Kate promised she would call him as soon as she got home. She found a seat in an empty carriage and waved good-bye to Phil the Chivalrous.

  The main roads in Great Blexley were mostly clear, and the taxi made it through the blizzard all the way to the bottom of the hill to Blexford, but the hill itself was impassable. The driver was apologetic and promised only to charge half the fare to Phil’s account.

  The hill was steep. The snow on the sidewalks covered a layer of ice beneath that was impossibly slippery, but the road itself was a white crisp layer and Kate’s walking boots had good grips. Safe in the knowledge that no driver would be insane enough to drive up or down it, Kate walked up the middle of the road.

  By the time she reached the first bend she was sweating inside her coat despite the cold, and breathing in the freezing air made her head hurt. On either side, lamps were being switched on in houses and curtains were being pulled tight against drafts. The snow was coming down so fast Kate could hardly see where she was go
ing and her face was sore from the wind. She wished balaclavas didn’t have such a negative reputation.

  THE EIGHTH DATE OF CHRISTMAS

  • • • • •

  Wine Me, Dine Me . . .

  It was dark by the time she reached the village square, quiet except for the hum of voices coming from the Duke’s Head. The snow danced in the haze of the streetlamps. Kate was headed toward Potters Copse when she heard her name called from across the green.

  “Kate?”

  It was Matt. Kate turned and waved. Matt beckoned her over. The van was parked at the side of the café, lit dimly from the light spilling out from the kitchen. She sighed. She was about to become free labor again. What she really wanted to do was go home and get the kettle on. She struck a reluctant gait as she trudged over, in the hopes Matt would get the message.

  “How was hiking?” asked Matt.

  He was chirpy. Either he didn’t notice Kate’s effort at disinclination or he chose to ignore it. He held out a crate filled with jars and Kate took it with a look of resignation.

  “It was lovely,” she said. “Until snow stopped play. The Mini is still in the forest.”

  Matt stacked three crates and heaved them up. Kate followed him into the kitchen.

  “How did you get home?” he asked.

  “Train and taxi,” Kate replied. “The hill is out of action, though.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Matt. “The Christmas market was really slow this afternoon; everyone wanted to get home before the roads closed.”

  They dumped the crates and went back out for the rest.

  “Did you do all right, though?”

  “Yeah,” said Matt. “Not bad and it’s good publicity for the café.”

  They finished emptying the van and Kate helped Matt empty the crates.

  “This looks good,” said Kate, holding a jar of mincemeat up to the light. The thick treacly mixture was bejeweled with whole crimson cherries.

  “Cherry brandy mincemeat,” said Matt. “A French lady was selling it; homemade. She didn’t want to take them all home again, so I bought what she didn’t sell at cost.” He grinned at her. “Wanna help me make some mince pies with it, ready for the morning?”

  “Ah, Matt,” said Kate. “It’s been a long day and I’m hungry and I’ve got to get myself organized for work . . .”

  “Come on,” said Matt. “Please. It’ll be fun. I’ll fire up the coffee machine. And I’ve got a bottle of Irish cream . . .”

  “Where’s Sarah?”

  “She’s staying at hers,” said Matt. “She couldn’t risk getting stuck up here and not being able to get to school.”

  “I really need to get back,” said Kate. “And I’m hungry and . . .”

  Matt held up his hand to stop her and delved into a cardboard box on the work surface. From it he produced two large jacket potatoes and a plastic tub of chili con carne. He switched on the oven and put the potatoes in.

  “I picked us up some dinner from the market,” he said. “The spuds will be reheated to perfection in twenty minutes, and the chili can go in the microwave! And we’ll have boozy coffee as a starter. Pudding is anything you like from the chiller!”

  Kate frowned.

  “What do you mean you picked us up some dinner?” she said.

  Matt looked sheepish.

  “I was going to bring it to yours to butter you up so you’d help me, but you were already here.”

  Kate shook her head. It was game over. Carla was right. She was a sucker.

  “Don’t skimp on the booze,” said Kate.

  Matt smiled and went out to the café to get the coffee machine going.

  By the time Matt returned with two very boozy Irish coffees, Kate had discarded her arctic weather attire and had already made a start on the first batch of pastry. Matt followed suit and when the disks of sweet pastry were laid in the fridge to rest, the jacket potatoes were hot and ready for their chili topping.

  They pulled up two stools and sat opposite each other at the stainless-steel worktop. Bing Crosby was dreaming of a white Christmas through the speakers and the caffeine-alcohol combination had restored Kate’s energy.

  “What the hell is that?” Matt stopped midmouthful and pointed at Kate’s neck.

  Kate laughed.

  “Oh, that,” she said, touching her hand to her throat. “I caught it in my date’s zipper.”

  “What?” Matt’s fork clanged on the side of his plate. “Geez, Kate. Slow it down a bit, you met him like two hours ago.”

  “His jacket zipper!” said Kate. And she told Matt what had happened.

  “It looks like a love bite,” he said. Unconvinced.

  “Well, it isn’t,” said Kate.

  “Bit of an elaborate story, isn’t it?” said Matt.

  “That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” said Kate. “It isn’t a love bite.”

  “It looks like a love bite,” he said again. He’d stopped eating.

  “Even if it were a love bite, which it isn’t, it would be none of your business,” said Kate. “If every man I meet wants to suck on my neck, it would have nothing to do with you at all!”

  Matt looked taken aback and then abashed.

  “Sorry,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. I suppose I just feel protective toward you. I can’t seem to get out of the habit.”

  “Well, that’s very sweet,” said Kate. “But I don’t need protecting.” And then as an aside she added, “And I don’t need to be judged by you or anyone else about how I conduct my love life.”

  “I know,” said Matt. “Sorry. Sometimes the words come out before I can edit them.”

  “Apology accepted,” said Kate.

  “So, what is this Phil-zipper like then?” asked Matt.

  “He surfs and snowboards and owns three businesses and he was a perfect gentleman,” said Kate.

  “Apart from the hickey,” said Matt.

  Kate narrowed her eyes and threw a kidney bean at his face.

  “What about the other one?” he asked.

  “Richard?” said Kate. “He was lovely. It was a really good date.” Kate felt her mind wander to Richard’s warm embrace. “Really good,” she murmured.

  “Euuuhch,” said Matt. “You’ve gone all doe-eyed. I wish I hadn’t asked. Which one’s your favorite?”

  Kate eyed him quizzically.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Turner,” said Matt. “One of them must be out in front.”

  “I think maybe Richard has the edge,” said Kate. “But that could just be because I’ve spent more time with him.”

  “Kate Turner, the Blexford player,” said Matt. “Who’d have thought it?”

  * * *

  • • • • •

  It was, Kate had to admit, a lovely evening. It felt like a long time since it had just been the two of them, catching up, talking nonsense and being stupid. When the first batch of mince pies was in the oven, they had a pudding break, having by this time dispensed with the coffee element of the Irish coffee. Matt had a chunk of Victoria sponge and Kate had a slice of white chocolate cranberry cake.

  Nat King Cole crooned about roasting chestnuts on an open fire as Kate spooned ruby-red cherries and brandied fruits into the next batch of pies and pressed pastry stars into their middles. Matt swished their tops with milk and encrusted them with granulated sugar. The kitchen was heady with the scent of buttery pastry, Christmas spices, and the mulled wine he had simmering on the stove.

  Three hours later the worktops were a sea of golden-topped mince pies cooling on wire racks. They’d made enough to see the café through to New Year with plenty left over for handing out after the caroling. When they were cool, Matt would bag them up in small batches ready to get out when he needed them, though if the last two weeks had been anything to go by, he’d be
needing at least a bag a day. Kate picked out eight for herself and let them cool separately.

  “Wasn’t free booze and dinner enough?” asked Matt.

  “No,” said Kate, shoveling a hot pie into her mouth and then hopping round the kitchen with her mouth open trying to cool it off.

  They cleared up the kitchen in a haphazard drunken way via the medium of dance and song.

  “Come with me,” said Matt.

  He handed Kate her coat and another steaming glass of orange-and-clove-scented mulled wine. He led her out into the garden and sat her down on one of the chairs on the veranda. Then he disappeared back into the kitchen. The blizzard had abated and left the world muffled; the sky was a clear, navy blue, punctuated by a million pinpricks of silver.

  “Ready?” he called.

  Kate opened her mouth to reply when the garden became awash with light. The gnarly old pear tree had been strung with hundreds of fairy lights. Its bare twisted branches fanned out across the width of the garden, its spindly fingers stretching up to reach the stars in the cold winter sky.

  It was magical. Kate felt a lump in her throat as she imagined how much Matt’s mum would have loved it. She sat for a long moment, cupping her wineglass with both hands and looking at the tree in awe. Matt came out and sat with her.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  Kate wasn’t sure she could speak.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  Matt smiled.

  “I knew you’d like it,” he said. “I was thinking of you when I did it. Me and you in this garden.”

  They were quiet for a long while. The snow lay in drifts against the legs of the garden furniture. The ground was covered in a thick layer of untrod snow that glittered in a million tiny tree lights. Matt scooched over and Kate laid her head against his shoulder.

  “I think Mum would like it,” said Matt.