by Annie O'Neil
Hope you’re all right. Best xo Jess(ica)
‘Cold enough for you?’ Drea asked.
Jess grinned and held up the hairdryer attached to an extension lead and blew some hot air at Drea’s face. ‘Better?’
‘Much,’ Drea said dryly.
Somehow they’d ended up furthest away from the two heat lamps Maurice Headley, next door at number 16, had set up outside his garage where, once again, everyone was working away on Chantal’s folding tables.
Maurice was the street’s resident beekeeper. He had two hives in his back garden and an unbelievably tidy set of equipment in his garage, and tended a few more hives down the road in someone’s apple orchard. He had planned on teaching everyone the fine art of mead making, but as Drea had suggested it wasn’t an entirely child-friendly activity, he’d opted to teach them how to roll beeswax candles. Apparently, it was so easy, they’d been assured by Maurice, that they should each have a set of perfectly rolled candles within five minutes, pending, of course, waiting their turn to soften the wax with the handful of hairdryers Maurice had borrowed from the Gem’n’Emms.
Drea had been a bit more subdued than normal. Jess didn’t want to press, but was pretty sure it was about Spencer. She sent another silent prayer to the sky that he had seen her email and was making all of the necessary arrangements.
To try and elicit a smile from Drea, Jess held her sheet of red dyed wax up to her nose and inhaled. ‘Mmm … this smells so good.’
Drea arched a brow then said in a low voice, ‘Not as good as the man sitting next to you. Again.’ Her eyes flicked to Josh who was laughing at one of the Gem’n’Emms’ retelling of last year’s nativity when the two children playing the donkey had inadvertently performed the magician’s trick of splitting into two then coming back together again. Josh leant back as he roared with appreciative laughter, just close enough for Jess to take a discreet sniff. Mmm …
Realising she’d been caught in the act, she threw Drea a look she hoped said, ‘it’s not what you’re thinking’. It wasn’t her fault she loved that tangy combo of citrus and sugar.
Drea tried to get Josh’s attention when Martha, who was sitting on his other side, snagged it first. She claimed her arthritis wouldn’t allow for her to roll the candle as tightly as Maurice had instructed. Jess smirked. If anyone was pouring on the feminine charms, it was definitely Martha who, Jess was pleased to see, was wearing her fur coat again.
Drea nudged Jess in the ribs hard enough to send her off balance so that her shoulder bashed into Josh’s.
‘Sorry,’ she and Josh said together, eyes meeting as they did.
My goodness he was lovely. Were all widowers this lovely?
‘How’s your candle-making going?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think this was quite what Maurice had in mind.’ Jess held up the results of her efforts, taking a quick glance towards the end of the table where Maurice was showing Josh’s children how to hold the blow dryer to the sheet of candle wax then roll it … one, two, three … up into a perfect candle. Show-off.
Josh held up his candle. The top of it drooped so that the whole thing was more wonky candy-cane-shaped than candle-shaped. Jess laughed. ‘Looks like neither of us will be getting jobs at the candle factory anytime soon.’ As she spoke, her own candle wilted into the same forlorn shape. They both began giggling, shoulders shaking, shifting against the other. Little waves of sparkle dust lit up her chest as the giggles died out and their eye contact intensified.
‘Well, would you look at that,’ Drea said pronouncedly, nodding at the pair of them holding their candles side by side. ‘A match made in heaven.’
Jess snorted in a vain attempt to pretend she hadn’t just had a miniature gymnastics team doing backflips in her tummy. She liked Josh, but she was pretty sure it was the same kind of crush she’d had on film stars. Fun, but nothing to consider seriously.
Josh laughed, leaning a bit further into her space. ‘Let’s see how you went, Drea.’
Drea, to Jess’s astonishment, flushed and swept her candle into the basket Maurice had asked everyone to put any failed efforts into so that he could melt the wax down and make fresh sheets. ‘Crafts aren’t really my bag. Right!’ She clapped her hands together. ‘For those of you who have been too busy showing off your skills, hot chocolates are still available in the garage courtesy of Mrs H who’s manning the camp stove. I think we can all agree the Headleys have done a great job tonight, yeah? Some of us proved more adept than others,’ she said with a pointed look at Jess. ‘Let’s have a round of applause for the man who has brought a little light into all of our lives. Maurice?’ She smirked at Jess again as everyone applauded, then when the clapping died down she continued, ‘And now, if I’m not mistaken, I think Gemmmmmaaaaa … Lloyd, Gemma Lloyd from number seventeen has an announcement about her night tomorrow, am I right?’
She scanned the table until they hit on one of the Gem’n’Emms who was waving a mittened hand in the air and nodding that yes, that was right, she had an announcement. Her ash-blonde bob was peeking out of a red knit hat with a glittering silver pompom on top and, Jess was impressed to see, her two red candles were done perfectly, as were her two children’s and her husband’s. Her heart constricted. They looked like the picture-perfect family. She wondered if she’d have that with someone one day.
‘Shall I get you a hot chocolate?’
Jess looked up at Josh and smiled. Yes. She would like a hot chocolate.
Drea whooped. ‘Make that two, Joshy, yeah? And I’d like extra marshmallows on mine as you’re asking. Fat free,’ She tacked on amid a series of shushes from the other end of the table where Gemma had started speaking in her soft, kitten-like voice. Drea glared at Jess as if she’d been the one talking then pointed her fingers at her eyes then at Gemma. Jess rolled her eyes and did as she was told. Drea would make a brilliant primary schoolteacher.
‘… so if you have something that you don’t want but would make a lovely gift for someone else—’ Gemma was saying.
‘Does this have to be a Secret Santa gift from last year? Because I usually get rid of those sharpish.’
More shushes went round the tables.
‘It can be anything you think the recipient will enjoy just so long as you don’t spend any money on it.’ Gemma talk-whispered.
Josh returned with the hot chocolates. You couldn’t see the liquid in Drea’s for all of the marshmallows in it. She giggled coquettishly as he handed it to her. Their eyes caught and held as Drea’s fingers brushed against Josh’s during the cup transfer.
Oh, hel-lo, thought Jess. The chocolate wasn’t the only thing that was steamy tonight. Drea caught her looking and threw a What’re you looking at glare in her direction then pretended to be really interested in the hat Gemma was walking round the table for people to draw names from.
‘Oh, hell’s teeth,’ Kev moaned as he read his name.
‘Who did you get?’ His wife asked.
‘You’re not supposed to say,’ someone shouted. ‘It’s a secret Santa?’
‘What if the person I drew is never in a million years going to come along?’ Kev asked.
Everyone came to the same conclusion as one, eyes swivelling towards Mr Winters’ house where, Jess was quietly pleased to see, a light was on in the living-room window silhouetting Mr Perkins. Still no Christmas tree, but … the man did have a dozen-plus wreaths hanging on his fence.
‘I bet he’ll come,’ she said before she thought better of it.
All of the eyes swivelled to her. ‘I mean, you know, he’s cool with the wreaths and everything, so … maybe he’ll come?’ The solitary sip of hot chocolate she’d managed to take sloshed from one side of her belly to the other.
‘I don’t fancy my chances,’ said Kev.
‘What about the person who he’s supposed to give a gift for. How’s that going to work if he isn�
��t even here?’
‘Katie’s not here either.’ Drea crisply informed them all. ‘She’s on shift at the hospital so I said I’d bring her name to her, which, of course, sets a precedent. I’m sure Jess here, our Number Twenty-four Ambassador, will be more than happy to bring Mr Winters’ name to him. Won’t you Jess?’
Everyone’s eyes were on her. In the way a jury looks at the condemned. Accusatorily.
She glanced at Drea who, Jess realised, suddenly looked quite strained round the eyes. Adopting Drea’s own signature move, Jess whacked an arm round her and gave her a half hug as she addressed the crowd. ‘I’m more than happy to drop off a name to him and, if he’s feeling shy, I’ll pick up and bring his gift along tomorrow night. Is that cool with everyone?’ She didn’t care if it was or wasn’t cool. Nobody was going to bully Mr Winters or Drea. Not on her watch. Especially not at Christmas.
‘The man’s not shy, he’s an ogre.’
‘How do you know? Have you ever spoken to him? Heard his life story?’ Drea shook her shoulders out of Jess’s hold, gave everyone a serious look, then took a long draft of her hot chocolate, which would’ve made the moment completely intense if a wodge of marshmallow hadn’t stuck to the end of her nose. It was, however, serious enough for no one to laugh.
Jess jumped in again, ‘If you don’t want to give him a gift, Kev, I’ll take his name and you can take another.’
A few seconds of awkward silence ticked past.
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ Martha finally said. ‘Hand it to me, Kevin. I’ll give the poor old doddery fool a gift since you lot are so useless.’
‘No,’ Kev protested, holding the piece of paper close. ‘I drew it. I’ll do it. I won’t have anyone saying Kevin Strong’s a bad neighbour.’
‘No one’s saying that, Kev,’ his wife said, picking up her candles as if preparing to go. ‘They’re saying he’s not a good neighbour.’
‘Keep’s himself to himself,’ one of the Rob’n’Bobs contributed in a way that implied he thought that was a good thing.
‘Love, that’s what they say about serial killers.’ His wife closed her eyes and pursed her lips with a little I despair noise.
Martha held out her leather-gloved hand. ‘Give it to me, Kevin. Take another.’
Kevin did as he was told.
When the basket made its way round to Jess she took one for herself and one for Mr Winters, making a point of saying as much, then putting the folded-up piece of paper in her pocket. She made a note in her phone calendar to remind herself to bring it over to him in the morning, along with a gift he could give the person as she really didn’t have a clue whether or not he’d actually participate.
When everyone had their name, Drea looked spent, so Jess took over strongly encouraging a few dads to help pack up the tables and troop them back over to Chantal’s in exchange for some Christmas-themed cupcakes she just happened to have spare after whipping up a batch that afternoon. Drea wandered distractedly back home, marshmallow still on her nose and Josh, now holding four perfect candles and his two wonky ones, waved goodbye with a hopeful, ‘See you tomorrow?’ before Jess, too, called it a night. When she got home she checked her emails. One from Amanda demanding a phone call. Hmmm … her eyes flicked to kitchen drawer where the letter from St Benny’s still sat, unopened.
She’d call her. When she was ready, she’d call her.
16 December
13:17
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: More news from Christmas Street
Dear Jess(ica)
Wow. I just … wow. You’ve been busy. Life as a private eye definitely suits you.
I don’t even know what to say. I’d love to see him. Meet him. Hear his story. Be the grandson he’s never had. Saying that, I’m stupidly busy, but seriously – if you say the word, I’ll find a way to carve out some time to come before the New Year. I’ve learnt the hard way that being there when it counts is a lot more important than showing up when it suits. Saying that – I don’t want to pounce now if the iron’s too hot. Is that a thing? Maybe there is no perfect time.
Here’s my gut spill: my relationship basically broke down because I was a selfish workaholic who thought his business was more important than his personal business. I might have painted a picture of me, the young buck caterer, trying to go where no caterer had gone before, but the truth is, I thought I was going to marry her. That we’d get the house, the kids, the labradoodle. But I kept changing the goalposts. I wanted to move to a town where I could afford to set up. I wanted to hit a certain level of revenue. Then I wanted to upgrade the level of clients. Then I wanted to upgrade premises and so it went.
She was my business partner, my life partner, my sous chef, and she left me. It was entirely my fault. Which is why I gave her everything (sold the house we’d just bought, the car we’d just leased, the deposit on the puppy we’d earmarked for Christmas … did you know a dog is for life and not just for Christmas?) So that was last Christmas. This year has been spent solely on the business and trying to get my finances back in order, but somewhere along the way I realised life on my own is damn-fucking-lonely and I’d love meet my grandad. Put some good into the world after having sucked the life out of someone else’s. (The ex is engaged to someone else, by the way. He works nine-to-five, takes her on city breaks and, yes, they got the puppy. It’s adorable.)
I’m not telling you this to be all woe is me. I’m telling you so that you understand why I want to meet him and why I’m also shit-scared of letting someone else down, but your email reminded me that this isn’t about me. It’s about him and it sounds like the old fellow needs someone in his life to help look after him. I’m so glad he has you and, as soon as I get these last few jobs out of the way, he’ll have me, too. I owe you a debt of gratitude. And one of my crab sandwiches. They’re killer, even if I say so myself.
All of which is to say, don’t be so hard on yourself about what happened back in London. Start paying attention to all of the amazing things you have done. The good karma you’ve put back into the world and will do again. Yeah. You got fired. But you picked yourself up and got a new job. A new house. In a new town. How many people do you know have the strength after they’ve been kicked down to get back up and do that? Not many. You’ve done well, so pat yourself on the back from me. And, when we eventually meet, which we will, I will definitely give you some cooking lessons including a foolproof reason to get those beans OUT of the tin and heated before you eat them. (Hint: BACON).
Best xxWill
17 December
‘Jeeeeeessssss!’
Amanda’s voice went up and down an octave as if she were waving a hand in front of Jess’s face trying to get her to pop out of a daydream.
‘Call me.’
Jess involuntarily flinched. It was the way Amanda said ‘Now’ when she’d had enough of a child who wouldn’t take their seat in class. One part firm and fair to two parts ‘you’ve entered the realms of unreasonable and there will be consequences’.
She frowned at the phone and clicked the message off before Amanda had finished. She’d sounded … well … slightly uncomfortable. As if she was trying too hard to be chirpy. It was the kind of tone someone uses if they know bad news is looming. When she’d been at her parents’, she’d felt able to take and return some of Amanda’s calls because she knew a cuddle from her dad or a sweet cup of tea from her mum was always available to her afterwards if she needed it. It wasn’t as if they were exactly harrowing affairs. Mostly the calls involved Amanda telling her how vile the Head was being, silly stories of the students, gossip about the Numbers Ones and Twos (mostly Twos) and a very tactical avoidance of all things Crispin Anand-Haight. As time passed, though, the distance between the calls grew, along with Jess’s reduced tolerance to hearing stories about the life she
used to lead that, between the lines, she could tell Amanda still very clearly loved living. (She’d gone to Courchevel, St Moritz and Aspen last year. Oh, Jess. I’m sooooo fat on all of that après-ski cake!)
With the St Benny’s letter sitting in her drawer, no parents to whimper to and Amanda sounding less Amanda-ish, Jess wasn’t sure her emotional self-care toolbox was up to a post-phone call fix-it job. She was still too raw about the past and too nervous about her future: a lovely little primary academy, in a lovely town where absolutely everyone would, eventually, know everything about you. It was, of course, the last part that was scariest.
She glanced out the window. The For Sale sign was lit by a stray ray of sun. She wasn’t quite ready to take it down yet, but, increasingly, even thinking about taking off the Sold banner made her heart sink. She was beginning to like it here. She knew she hadn’t exactly been living here properly yet. The piles of unpacked boxes and the mattress on her bedroom floor were testament to that, but already she felt as though she had an arsenal of friends to call on, if she needed to. Bonkers Drea who needed support as much as she gave it. The Gem’n’Emms and all of their ash-blonde efficiency. Kev, who, last time he’d been by, had offered to look under her car’s bonnet because he’d noticed a peculiar sound the last time she’d gone out to the shops. He’d offered the same service just yesterday to the Nishios who had taken him up on the offer and pronounced him ‘quite the mechanic’. Martha for … ermm … Seventies fashion advice and, of course, Mr Winters.
Speaking of whom …
The arched eyebrow and thinned lips were more amused than annoyed when Arnold opened his door.
‘Morning,’ Jess chirped.
Mr Winters nodded in response. Not the friendliest of greetings, but nor was he slamming the door in her face. She wasn’t always in the mood for company but, thanks to Drea’s regular visits to her house, she was learning that sometimes you didn’t know you wanted company until it was there, smiling at you. Besides. She was on a mission. They were going to brainstorm ideas for Christmas Eve.
