Snowflakes Over Moondance Cottage

by Rosie Green

  I feel a sharp twinge of disappointment. So much for mutual attraction, then.

  His arms are still around me, though - and now, interestingly, we’re standing in the centre of the landing and there’s not a lick of wet paint within reach. I stare boldly into his eyes.

  ‘Tell me where you live and I’ll come round,’ he says huskily.

  There’s a beat of loaded silence.

  ‘What, now?’ I squeak, my stomach turning Olympian-standard somersaults.

  ‘I’ll do it now if you want me to,’ he murmurs, as his faint musky scent stirs my senses, making my head swim with helpless lust.

  Oh God, is this some sort of booty call?

  Help ma Boab! (As my Scottish Auntie Jean used to say.) I’ve never done anything like this before in my life, but staring up into those hypnotic blue eyes, I know I’d never have the strength to say no to him . . .

  He smiles at me and gently brushes a speck of dust from my hair, and the touch of his fingers sends a pleasurable ripple through my body. Then he leans down and murmurs something, his warm breath caressing my ear.

  ‘Mm,’ I murmur in a blissful trance, not having a clue what he just said.

  ‘Or I could bring the shelves around tomorrow,’ he adds softly.

  Wait, what? I stare up at him, confused.

  He shrugs. ‘Your choice. I could bring them round for you now, or leave it till tomorrow.’

  Okay, so he’s not suggesting we get horizontal and do all manner of deliciously wicked things to each other. He’s offering to bring the bookshelves round to my flat!

  Disappointment crashes through me. He might as well have chucked a bucket of cold water over me. I’d completely forgotten about the shelves, which is amazing in itself, considering how obsessed I was about saving them just an hour earlier.

  ‘Tomorrow’s fine,’ I tell him primly, moving away and trying to pull myself together. ‘There’d be no point you coming over tonight.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ He steps back himself and runs a hand through his hair, a little awkwardly. ‘Right. Back to work, then.’

  ‘Okay.’ I swallow. ‘And thanks for saving the shelves. I really appreciate that.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He gives me a little smile that seems to hold a fraction of regret, and he lingers in the doorway as I turn and head off.

  ‘Seb?’ I call, before I descend the stairs.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I meant to ask. Why are you here so late? I mean, it’s so late, it’s almost early.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Oh?’

  There’s a brief silence and I walk down a few steps.

  ‘I kept thinking about tonight . . . knocking on the studio door.’

  I stop in my tracks. ‘Feeling guilty about the ghosts?’

  ‘No, not really.’ There’s another pause. ‘I was thinking about you.’

  Stunned, I wait for more but then I hear the stepladders creak as he gets to work.

  My head is reeling. Did he say . . . but maybe I misheard him. I must have misheard him.

  I was thinking about glue?

  I was thinking about flu?

  I was thinking about Sue? No, that wouldn’t make any sense at all.

  Actually, none of them would.

  I was thinking about you.

  I’m so lost in thought, I slip on the doormat for the third time in as many days, only just managing to save myself.

  Thinking about me was keeping him awake? Am I really that irritating?

  Unless . . . no, don’t even go there!

  My head is still spinning crazily as I drive home.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The following week, I finally manage to arrange a family meet-up – at Christmas Manor. We reckon it’s our only chance of dragging Mum out of the house and away from her painting.

  I arrange to pick Isla up from the hotel and Mum says she’ll drive the five miles over there and meet us in the car park.

  Isla is waiting when I draw up outside the hotel just before five, although I don’t recognise her at first and have to look twice. She’s wearing a loose, sludge-coloured tracksuit under her cream coat and a pair of sensible-looking (for her) shoes. They’re still higher than any shoes I have and they look a bit odd with the tracksuit.

  ‘Well, this is nice,’ she says, beaming across at me. ‘Sisters enjoying a lovely evening out!’

  I flash her a curious look. Is she drunk?

  ‘Er, yes. It’ll be good to spend some time together. All three of us,’ I say, moving into the traffic and driving out of the village, on the road to Christmas Manor.

  ‘And how’s the flat?’ she asks brightly.

  ‘The flat? Um, fine. It’s small but it’s all I need. As you know.’

  She nods. ‘Good. Good.’

  I dart a look across at her. She’s sitting rigidly in her seat, staring straight ahead, her cheeks quite pink.

  ‘Are you okay, Isla?’ I ask. ‘You seem a little . . . weird?’

  ‘Do I?’ She looks at me and laughs, but it sounds a bit fake. ‘Well, actually . . . there was something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Right.’ I wait expectantly.

  ‘The thing is.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Well, I was wondering if I could move in with you for a while.’

  My insides give a lurch of alarm. ‘Into my flat?’

  ‘Well, yes. Obviously. You haven’t taken up residence in a hedge since I last visited, have you?’ She does another fake laugh.

  In the silence that follows, my stunned brain is skipping ahead.

  Isla wants to move in with me?

  But the flat’s not big enough. She’d have to sleep on the sofa bed in the living room, which means I’d need to go to bed when she does. And where would she hang all her Dior originals? Christ, we don’t even like each other that much these days . . .

  She’s beaming at me. ‘It could be quite nice, don’t you think? Just us girls together?’

  No!!!

  ‘We could go food shopping together and squabble over the remote like we used to when we were kids. And we could do all those lovely girly things, like having a spa night and wearing face masks. And swapping clothes.’

  My eyes swivel to her baggy tracksuit and back to the steering wheel. ‘Mum’s place is bigger.’

  ‘Bog off, Jess.’

  I laugh. ‘It wouldn’t be that bad. Martin never seems to be there these days.’

  ‘That’s even worse. It would be just me and Mum.’

  I give her a sly grin. ‘Yes, but just think. You could do all those girly things with her. Face masks. Food shopping. Swapping clothes.’

  She doesn’t reply, and when I look across, she’s slouched in her seat, arms folded crossly. Her eyes looks suspiciously shiny.

  ‘Isla?’ I glance back at her in alarm. ‘The only reason I’m not saying yes immediately is because my place is far too small. At least Mum has a spare room. You’d hate it at mine, you know you would.’

  I’m concentrating on the road but I can feel her glower. ‘So that’s a no, then, is it? You won’t let me move in?’

  ‘I didn’t say that! When did I say that?’

  ‘You didn’t have to. It’s your face. You’d think I’d said Cruella De Ville was suggesting a flat-share.’

  I laugh, but I’m actually thinking: Cruella De Vil would probably be easier to live with. Although she’d have to abide by my house rule: no kidnapped puppies allowed.

  ‘It’s just a surprise, Isla, that’s all. I mean, I thought you liked staying in hotels. That suite you’ve got is bigger than my entire flat!’

  ‘Hotels are bloody expensive,’ she snaps.

  ‘But you can afford it. And it won’t be forever. You’ll be going back to France as soon as the house is finished.’

  She doesn’t reply.

  ‘Won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m going back,’ she snaps. ‘I’m definitely not staying in this dump of a village for long
er than I have to!’

  ‘So what’s wrong?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, something’s obviously bothering you. And it can’t be money, so it must be something else.’

  She gives a noisy sigh but doesn’t bother to reply.

  I have to concentrate for a moment as I drive into the grounds of Christmas Manor and follow the signs. Parking up, I switch off the engine and turn to Isla. She’s still slumped in her seat looking as if the world is ending and she can’t remember where she put her chocolate.

  ‘Of course you can stay at mine. For a while.’ I place my hand on hers and for once, she doesn’t flinch. ‘I just worry that you’ll find it too cramped for your liking.’

  ‘I won’t.’ A glimmer of a smile appears on her face. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem at all.’ I push away my reservations. ‘Now, where’s Mum?’

  *****

  Snow has been forecast, but the fact that none has yet fallen on Christmas Manor doesn’t detract at all from the wonderful festive feelings you get when you drive through the gates.

  As we join Mum at the entrance and start walking along the path strung with fairy lights that leads to the manor house, we pass the fir tree nursery and a stall with dozens of netted trees all ready for collection. The scent of Norwegian pine and blue spruce fills the air and Mum breathes it in with a sigh.

  ‘Your dad just loves this place. He’s a proper romantic at heart. It was Max who always insisted on a real tree at Christmas. Wasn’t it heavenly, girls?’

  Isla snorts. ‘Yes. Until the needles dropped off and stuck in your socks.’

  ‘It was lovely, Mum.’ I smile at her. ‘You and Martin have a nice tree.’

  ‘It’s fake,’ she says shortly.

  ‘Give me a fake one any day,’ mutters Isla. ‘Far less bother and much better value in the long run.’

  ‘Says my very successful daughter, who doesn’t need to worry at all about money,’ laughs Mum, linking arms with Isla. She reaches for my arm and pulls us all together. ‘Oh, this is lovely!’

  ‘Ow, careful, Mum,’ murmurs Isla. ‘You’re squeezing my arm so hard, you’re cutting off the circulation.’

  But Mum is already going into ectasies over the blush pink floodlighting over the manor house itself. ‘Oh, isn’t it beautiful? And look, they’ve put a canopy over the stalls this year, so even when it starts snowing, everyone will stay dry.’

  ‘Ow! Mum!’ Isla pulls her arm away. ‘I wouldn’t build up your hopes,’ she mutters. ‘Snow is for fairy tales. It’ll probably piss it down on Christmas Day. As usual.’

  ‘Isla!’ I stare at her, aghast. Fortunately, Mum has wandered over to a stall selling Christmas candles by the side of the pathway and doesn’t appear to have heard her.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ I hiss at Isla. ‘Can’t you just be nice to her. It’s nearly Christmas, after all.’

  She heaves a sigh. ‘Can I move in tonight, Jess?’

  ‘Tonight?’ Alarm makes my voice squeak a bit. ‘But isn’t it a bit late to cancel the hotel?’

  ‘Tomorrow, then.’

  I nod. ‘Tomorrow it is.’

  Once we’re living under the same roof, maybe I’ll be able to get to the bottom of what’s eating her . . . because there’s very definitely something . . .

  Mum buys some chocolate decorations at the next stall for her fake tree and we continue along the winding path towards the two rows of festive stalls in front of the manor’s main entrance.

  We pass the life-size wooden statue of a jolly Father Christmas and my heart flips, remembering the last time we were here with Dad. It was the last Christmas we spent together - Dad, Isla and me – before he and Janice sailed away the following June. Dad said he thought this Santa had a look of Elvis Presley.

  ‘There he is,’ says Isla. ‘Santa and his famous Elvis lip curl.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Mum laughs and walks right up to the statue. ‘He does look like Elvis, doesn’t he?’

  Isla and I smile at each other, united in our memories of Dad.

  ‘Remember how Dad used to make footprints in icing sugar outside our front door on Christmas morning, so we’d believe that Santa had been to the house?’ I say with a smile.

  Isla nods. ‘He was still doing that when we were teenagers!’

  ‘Not quite. I think he gave up when you were about ten,’ I say. ‘The year after you kindly informed me that the footprints were a match for Dad’s wellies and the snow that was supposed to have come all the way from the North Pole was actually from Mum’s bag of icing sugar, all the way from Tesco.’

  ‘Ooh, I was a proper bitch in those days.’

  ‘Yes. You still are,’ I tell her, but I’m smiling.

  ‘Santa always looks so happy, doesn’t he?’ points out Mum with a sad little smile. ‘Despite all the work he has to do. All those chimneys! He must be worn out by the time he gets home.’ She reaches up and strokes his cheek.

  I exchange look of concern with Isla.

  She joins Mum at the statue and nudges her. ‘Santa’s only jolly because he knows where all the bad girls live,’ she quips, and we laugh, even Mum.

  ‘How did you get to be so cynical, Isla?’ says Mum, trying to link her arm again.

  Isla snorts. ‘It’s called life. Stop squeezing, Mum!’

  We stand for a while watching families getting their photograph taken against a snowy backdrop with mountains and reindeer. It’s quite touching to watch. Even Isla can’t seem to drag herself away.

  ‘Come on, then,’ I say, when there’s a lull in customers. ‘You know you want to.’

  I start walking over to the photographer, turning to smile and beckon Mum and Isla across.

  Isla looks horrified. ‘No way. I hate having my photo taken. Especially when my hair looks so terrible.’

  Mum tuts and smooths her daughter’s hair back, gathering it into a loose ponytail. ‘You look beautiful, my love. Especially when we can all see your lovely face properly.’

  Isla shakes her hair back into place but I can tell Mum’s gesture has touched her.

  She links Mum and I take her other arm, and pretty soon we’re giggling like a row of schoolgirls at the photographer’s funny patter. He must have said the same things and cracked the same jokes to a hundred people today, and yet he makes us feel as if we’re special, which is quite a talent.

  The resulting photos are really rather lovely. We all look happy. Must be an odd angle.

  Isla says she’ll buy a copy for each of us, but the she realises she’s come out without her purse, so I end up shelling out an eye-watering amount for our mementoes. But as we walk away, arm in arm, I reflect that it was worth it just to have the moment together.

  I decide it makes sense that Isla should move in with me while she’s here. We’ll be able to talk - really talk – for the first time since she moved to Paris. I’ve really missed having the support of someone who truly understands what I’m going through, missing Dad. Trying to muddle through alone has clearly been a disaster for all three of us.

  Isla’s stoic attempts at concealing her grief aren’t fooling me at all, and as for Mum, she seems to have been helplessly adrift on an ocean inside her head ever since Dad went missing and Isla left for France. If we gather close, the three of us, maybe we can help each other move on.

  ‘Right, how about we investigate the café?’ I suggest. ‘I’m in the mood for a gingerbread latte. What about you, Mum?’

  ‘Just a nice cup of tea, please.’

  ‘Isla? Peppermint tea?’

  ‘Hot chocolate with whipped cream.’

  ‘Really?’ I whip round in surprise.

  Isla shrugs. ‘It’s Christmas, isn’t it? I’m allowed.’

  ‘Of course. I just assumed . . .’

  ‘I’d like chocolate sprinkles on top? And make sure they’re not stingy with them.’

  ‘Right. I’ll get the drinks if you two find a good seat by the window.’


  The Jingle Bells Café is situated on the ground floor of the manor, with great views out over the twinkling market stalls. It’s a café all year round but at Christmas, the place is decked out like a magical woodland glade with a canopy overhead that twinkles with hundreds of tiny lights like stars. In the centre is a floor to ceiling Christmas tree that dazzles with fairy lights and bows and baubles, all on a huge scale, and the air is filled with the scent of fir trees, spiced orange and cinnamon.

  I get the drinks and take them over to the table.

  ‘Michael Buble is becoming part of Christmas tradition as well,’ grins Isla, cocking her head to listen as his version of ‘White Christmas’ plays softly in the background.

  ‘Your dad’s favourite,’ murmurs Mum, looking suddenly broken. ‘But not the Michael Bubbly version. The Bing Crosby one?’ She shakes her head sadly. ‘When he sings it in that movie, Holiday Inn, I come out in goose bumps every time. Your dad loved it, too. We used to watch it every Christmas Eve when you girls had finally gone to bed, snuggled up together on the sofa. We’d carve the Christmas ham that I’d cooked that day and have my homemade sausage rolls and glasses of hot apple cider.’ She sighs. ‘A perfect memory.’

  Isla makes a funny, throw-up face at me, but I think Mum’s right. It does sound perfect. What would it be like to curl up on Christmas Eve with someone you really loved? That special someone who doesn’t want to be anywhere else in the world, except right there with you. Going through all your little Christmas rituals together that mean nothing to anyone else, but the whole world to the two of you.

  My heart twists, and for some reason, I think of Seb. Does he have someone to curl up with on Christmas Eve? Of course he will. A man like Seb Morgan will never be short of female company during the festive season – or at any other time of year. Whereas I seem to be on a course for lonely spinsterhood, probably involving a fair few cats at some point.

  The lights in the café seem to dim slightly.

  I recall Seb asking me if I ever go out and suddenly, I can see very clearly that I’ve been hiding away ever since we lost Dad. My heart was still bleeding because we hadn’t been able to lay Dad to rest. Allowing myself to care deeply for anyone else was too big a risk.