by Lucy Knott
‘I just got an email back from the production team and the governors and they are keen on the idea for us to move the magazine to monthly. With the drop in profit right now we’d be having to do that anyway within the next month, so it makes sense. They’re going to run some numbers and talk in more detail then get back to me to go over the plan, so we’re not out of the clear yet. However, I’m staying positive. Devon’s interview will be running in the January issue and there’s already been a buzz online with the website having more hits thanks to his picture advertising the issue, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a boost in pre-orders, that could swerve them. And, I had chance to speak to Mrs Rolph about your donation idea and merging the competition with the magazine and she said it was a marvellous plan and they’d love to be a part of it. Which brings me to where did you disappear off to last night?’ She lets out a breath after her monologue and quirks a brow under her golden frames.
‘Oh, that’s amazing, Hope. I knew you could do it. Things are looking up,’ I say cheerfully, feeling a touch of stress leave my body.
‘It had nothing to do with me – those were your ideas. And?’ she says, giving me a pointed stare.
‘And I just needed some fresh air and wanted to show D something at the park,’ I try with half honesty. I don’t truly know what came over me. One look at Devon and his playful behaviour with the cookies had made me feel like a kid again and I just got the urge to run, to be free, to go off on our own adventure, like we used to do. It was random and silly and the sniffles I have this morning prove why adults don’t tend to get on their hands and knees in the cold, wet earth to hide in bushes.
Surprisingly, Hope doesn’t press any further; she just smiles. ‘Sounds fun. The park’s beautiful this time of year.’ And she turns her attention back to her computer. I take a sip of my coffee and let the velvety liquid heat my bones, while my laptop loads. I look over at Hope, my best friend of almost ten years, and contemplate her rosy, sweet complexion. This morning she’s wearing high-waisted corduroys with a simple beige blouse tucked in, which compliments her golden-framed glasses and sandy blonde hair. I spent most of my life fearing girls thanks to Ruby, but Hope changed all that and I’m not quite sure what I did to deserve someone as cool as her in my life.
*
‘I’ve got pizza in the oven, but I’ve got ice-cream, chocolate buttons, Galaxy Ripples and Minstrels right here,’ I announce closing my bedroom door behind me and trying not to drop everything, the ice-cream freezing my forearm.
‘Just pour the whole bag of buttons in my mouth,’ Hope says, her voice coming out muffled with her face being buried in my pillow.
‘One at a time,’ I suggest. ‘He should be the one to choke to death, not you,’ I add, feeling a little mean but my best friend is in pain – I’m allowed to be mean and I want to show my support. I don’t have many girlfriends and I’ve only known Hope for six months. I really like her and want her to know she can come to me and count on me. And in truth, the guy did cheat on her; he deserves something bad to happen to him, maybe not death, but like a severely sprained ankle or something.
‘Why are boys so terrible?’ she asks, sitting up and reaching for the ice-cream. I pass her a spoon, not really knowing how to answer, my seventeen-year-old self not having had any experience with boyfriends.
‘Chuck Bartowski’s not terrible,’ I say thinking of a way to make her smile and spotting her notebook on the floor, which bears the character from her favourite TV show.
‘I wish all men were like Chuck Bartowski.’ She sighs and shoves a huge spoon of ice-cream into her mouth.
‘Imagine if we were spies,’ I start and quickly get lost in creating an epic fantasy, bringing Hope along with me. By the time I finish my story, she’s had brain freeze four times, eaten a Galaxy Ripple, cried twice, laughed so hard she has dribbled ice-cream all over my sheets, told me I’m the best and can’t remember why she was sad in the first place.
*
‘Scarlett? Scarlett?’ Hope bends down in front of me, her owl-like eyes peering over my laptop screen. I jump nearly spilling coffee down my pale yellow spotty shirt – actually that might not be a bad thing, why hadn’t I thought of that before?
‘What? Yes, sorry what?’ I stutter, trying to remember where I am.
‘Are you OK?’ Hope asks, eyes narrowing, her fingers now tapping the edge of my laptop.
‘Me? Yes, I’m fine,’ I croak, forcing a wobbly smile. I want to tell Hope all about my confused, unwarranted and unwanted feelings about Devon, but I don’t know where to start; plus there is far too much going on at work that I really should be focusing on.
‘I don’t need you in the office today, Scarlett. I’m giving you the day free to work on Saturday’s booth – that OK? You’ve been busy with all the magazine ideas this week and I know you need time to put together your showstopper,’ Hope tells me, studying me with great curiosity. I could do with a day to really focus on this project, what with all the distractions this week.
‘Yes, that sounds perfect. Thanks, Hope,’ I say, now more confident and cheerful.
‘Good, it’s two days away. I can’t wait to see what’ve you done and thanks again for all your ideas and hard work.’ Hope matches my cheerful tone and skips off back to her desk.
I gather my belongings and just as I’m about to leave, my stomach does a backslide.
‘It’s Thursday today,’ I say, to no one in particular.
‘It is, yes,’ Hope mumbles but doesn’t look up from her screen.
With the excitement of comic books and distractions of dinner, school talk and bedroom incidents on Monday night and cookie competitions and shrubbery antics last night, I had completely forgotten that my parents are expecting Devon for tea tonight, or rather I’d forgotten to ring them and let them know that Devon wouldn’t be able to make it due to work. I compose myself so Hope doesn’t have further need to worry about me and merrily tell her I’ll catch her later before calmly walking out of the office and into the December chill.
I rummage around my bag in search of my rarely used mobile phone and ring my mum. She answers on the third ring.
‘Scarlett dear, I’m in the middle of a cut and blow,’ she says, exasperated, yet she still answered – she didn’t have to answer, but it would be very unlike her to miss an opportunity to tell me that I hadn’t been thinking about what I was doing.
‘Oh, sorry, Mum. I’m just ringing to let you know that Devon won’t be able to make it tonight. He’s busy filming this documentary and filming is running into the night,’ I say quickly, my words matching my footsteps as I fast march to my house.
There’s a pause on my mum’s end. ‘Well, it was expected, dear. What did I tell you about that boy being unreliable?’ she says and I can practically see her standing with her hands on her hips, lips pursed.
‘OK, well I’ll pop in and see you another time, Mum.’ Just like I did when we were kids, I get a strong surge in my chest to stand up for Devon, but I don’t want to rise to Mum’s bait and deal with this right now. It’s how I got in this mess in the first place and I’ll never change her. It’s best just to get off the phone and keep my white lie simple before I put my foot in it again and end up inviting Devon for Christmas or something ridiculous.
‘Don’t be silly, Scarlett. The food is already prepared – you can still have dinner with your dad and me. I’ll see you at seven. Now I really must get on, poor Margret.’ My mum clicks off mumbling about some poor old lady that’s catching her death with wet hair. I’m left with my mouth open fumbling for my keys on my doorstep. That had only partly gone well. I had been looking forward to an evening by myself, but I suppose it would be fun to get Dad to show me some vacation pictures and have a proper catch-up. If I can avoid Mum being rude about Devon and tolerate her and the latest gossip from the hairdresser’s today, I will be fine.
Once in the house, I fire off a quick text to my dad to tell him I won’t be round at the site during lunch d
ue to my project but that I’d see him later for tea. Then I get to work.
*
The aroma of syrupy, cinnamon, gingerbread goodness floats around my kitchen. There isn’t a surface that is not covered by edible decorations, colourful fondant and sprinkles of every kind. With the Christmas fair being only two days away I must focus today to get some more work done on the centrepiece of our booth. So far, the foundation of the building is erect and looking sturdy with its brickwork carvings and edible paint wash that gives it texture and dimension; making it come to life with the rusty purple and red stone shades.
Now, my mission is to touch up all the final details like the window decorations, wreaths, the dusting of snow around the chimney, snowflakes that have settled on the roof and the little pots of holly that line the steps up to the big oak door. The occasional bite of broken gingerbread pieces keeps my mind focused on the task at hand and helps put my mum’s phone call to the back of my mind as well as any itching I get to go upstairs into my office and finish my comic book. Hope was so excited earlier to see my creation that I can’t possibly let her down.
As the afternoon rolls on I relish being tucked away in my cosy home, getting to unleash my creative streak. I love being able to stretch my legs, move around the table and bring my imagination to life. I assemble tiny flowers and add some gold edible dust to them to make them sparkle when a light bulb pings above my head with an idea. Along with the centrepiece I had made tons of gingerbread biscuits in the shapes of houses and gingerbread men for both kids and adults to decorate but what about those who want to make a gingerbread house but might not have all the special ingredients at home or the time to make one to enter for the competition? Our booth is all about getting creative, coming together and making sure no one is left out. It’s interactive every year and I love it.
My new idea buzzes in my brain, making me jump with excitement. If I can put together a simple house structure, I can get people to add a small decoration to it when they stop by our booth and we can raffle it off at the end to ensure that one family gets to go home with the ultimate gingerbread treat for Christmas Day, and it will be a whole village effort; something I think would get everyone ducking into our booth and something extra to raise a bit of money for the magazine.
I leave the snowflakes and holly to set while I potter around the kitchen getting my stencils ready for the communal gingerbread house, that I think will be everyone’s favourite activity this year, and my stomach vaults with a weird mixture of joy and nerves. This will be the first time in ten years that Devon will get to experience the Christmas fair. My mind starts racing with all the things I must show him. He needs to indulge in Mr and Mrs Rolph’s Christmas cinnamon roll while having a mooch around the handmade vendors. He must try Ryan’s mulled wine while listening to the carollers. He certainly has to have a go at the winter games in the park; the sled obstacle course is my favourite. And he will absolutely be decorating his own gingerbread man on our stall. Just thinking about it all makes my heart pitter-patter with elf-like urgency on a busy Christmas Eve. That is if he can make it and it doesn’t clash with his filming schedule.
I roll out my gingerbread dough, making a mental list of all these activities when my Christmas bauble bursts. The closer it gets to the Christmas fair, the closer it is to Devon leaving again. Sunday he will be on a flight back to New York, out of my life for another ten years or now that he’s a giant movie star, starring in his own bloody awesome movie, more likely forever. If you were wondering, since my inner nerd was found out, I have watched the trailer to Devon’s superhero movie, only like five times and yes, like Hope had said, it looks freaking amazing. This is going to catapult him to the top of whatever casting lists they have in Hollywood for sure.
I carefully cut out the sides of my house, using a ruler to ensure all four sides are equal, though I know they will need further shaping after they’ve baked. No matter it being the same dough mix, each piece will have a mind of its own under the heat of the oven. This takes my mind off Devon for a few moments as I work on getting everything as symmetrical as possible. I don’t pause to further investigate my feelings over Devon leaving town again. I know it’s just the feeling of fear creeping up again; that fear of re-enacting what happened all those years ago.
But it doesn’t have to be like that. For one, I’m a grown-up now. I can keep my emotions in check and understand reality and logic. And two, it’s no big surprise. I know Devon is leaving. I’ve known it since I first laid eyes on him again last Friday, so it’s no massive deal; life will go on just as before. Something wobbles and feels unsteady in my gut like I’ve just rolled over a stone on my skateboard. Devon is going to leave again and just like before there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
The timer on the oven beeps letting me know ten minutes is up and also that it’s six-fifty and my mum and dad are expecting me at seven. I pull out the biscuits from the oven, settle them down on the mat and hastily put away anything that needs to be refrigerated before racing up the stairs and throwing on the frilly pink polo my mum bought me. Then I rush into the hall, grabbing my coat and my beanie and leg it out of the house.
With my head down against the harsh wind I round the corner and am sent flying as someone steps up on to the kerb – their long leg outstretched. I reach my hands out to stop myself face-planting the snow.
‘Shoot, are you OK, Scar?’ Devon’s hand is around my waist like he’s scooping up a tiny chihuahua off the floor with ease within seconds. I feel his strong, warm hand on my stomach. My back is pressed to his solid frame, and I swallow hard, not sure if I can turn around and face him, for fear he might actually see my heart trying to leap out of my chest. Clearly nearly falling to my death on the corner of a dark street at the dead of night – I know it’s only seven, but it’s winter, it might as well be midnight – with dangerous ice all around me has caused my body to go into shock. I’m way cooler than this. Danger was my middle name growing up. Devon would laugh if he thought a little trip had frightened me.
‘What are you doing here?’ I round my shoulders out, push my beanie back up my head from where it had fallen over my eyes a touch and take a small step back as I turn around; to avoid being nose to nose with Devon. Never mind a thank you for catching me. There’s no time for pleasantries – I need to shake off my shock and remain strong.
Devon’s cheeks are rosy, and his lips are slightly parted when I finally look at him. His eyes are glued to the hand that rests over my hip and lower back now that I’ve turned towards him. I didn’t think it possible, but my heart rate seems to pick up speed as my whole body gets this ridiculous and overwhelming urge to kiss him; to kiss Devon. I force my eyes away from his perfectly plump and red lips and stagger backwards, putting my hand on his chest to push myself away and snap Devon out of whatever daydream is going on in his frozen and quiet state.
Our eyes connect and I feel a sizzle through my fingertips and heat where Devon’s fingers are touching my body, like lightning bolts are flowing through my veins. Suddenly Devon starts blinking furiously like he’s got something in his eyes and he quickly moves his hand away, like I did in fact give him an electric shock.
‘Erm, er, your dad popped into the inn earlier on his way back from work, said something about seeing me at dinner tonight,’ D stutters, no longer meeting my gaze. I pat down my coat where I suddenly feel a cool draught now Devon’s hand isn’t there and I breathe slowly in an attempt to pull myself together.
‘And you came? Why would you come?’ I ask, my brows furrowing, the question distracting me from wanting Devon’s hands on my body again.
‘Well, yeah,’ Devon answers, his eyes crinkling as if I just asked a really stupid question. I guess when dinner together with our parents was a regular occurrence growing up and never an odd happening, it kind of is. He tucks his hands safely into his coat pockets after we both check our watches in unison. It’s ten past seven.
‘Shoot,’ I say out loud and Devon starts to wal
k, reading my mind.
‘You can’t blame me for this evening. I gave you an out – I told my mum you couldn’t make it, so don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ I say to Devon matter-of-fact, walking quickly and pointing at him sternly.
‘How was I to know that? I know your parents, Scar, it will be fine,’ he says, his voice sounding like he’s trying to reassure me. ‘And what are you wearing?’ He flicks at my frilly collar as we close in on my parents’ house.
I look up at him and ignore the flutter in my belly when we reach my parents’ gate. I sigh. ‘My mum may have got a little crazier in the last ten years,’ I say.
Devon shrugs a casual shrug, like he’s telling me not to worry; he’s got this, just like he used to do when we were kids. It was usually me who did the talking when trying to win over his mum and him who did the talking when we needed to sweet-talk my mum, but oh how times have changed.
‘Oh, and she doesn’t like you very much,’ I add nonchalantly, as my dad opens the door with a beaming grin on his face. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Devon’s eyes mist over with fear and his lips twitch. I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my own. After ten years of facing my mum’s disapproving speeches, there’s a comfort in knowing that at least tonight it won’t just be me taking the fall for being late but my partner in crime too.
After my dad fussed over Devon with plenty of manly pats on the back as he showed him through the corridor and into the dining room and my mum greeted us with unsubtle tuts while gesturing to the clock and the table where the food was already plated up, we are now all seated around said table. My dad is currently working overtime; chatting to Devon all about his acting career and not letting my dear mother get a word in edgeways. I can tell by my mum’s piercing eye contact between the two of them and the robotic, slow pace at which she is cutting her steak, that she’s bursting to butt in and make a comment.
I’m internally grateful for my dad. The fear in Devon’s eyes has slowly dissipated and the sparkle is back; golden flecks swirling within the deep brown. He’s full of energy when he talks about things he’s passionate about and as I sit back chewing on a roasted carrot, I once again feel happy in the knowledge that my bubbly, hyper, forever a kid at heart best friend is still there; just in a bigger, broader and more muscly frame. All the worries I had that evening seeing him so cool and smooth with the boys at the pub have evaporated the more time we have spent together.
