by K. A. Hobbs
And yet, Imogen seems to have this thing about her that forces me to get out of bed. And that thing isn’t just her ability to keep on and on pressing the doorbell relentlessly for literally hours on end. The woman has stamina like nobody I’ve ever met before. I can’t help adoring her.
The main street in town is bright with festive cheer and excited expectation for the morning. The air is filled with that magical feeling everybody gets on Christmas Eve. Padstow is so beautiful all year around, but when the lights glisten over the surface of the harbour and the air rings with the sounds of carols emitting from the gift shops littered across the waterfront, everything seems so much more. I can remember so many other Christmas Eves spent here, walking down this very street, hand in hand with first my fiancé and then my husband. He always loved this time of year. He was like a small child on Christmas morning, waking up at the crack of dawn and diving on top of me gleefully, shouting out that Santa had been. He meticulously wrapped every present, lining up the ends perfectly and finishing each gift off with a big bow. Unlike me, who usually finished up with more sellotape on me than on the presents, ripped bits of paper everywhere and offerings under the tree that looked like a four-year-old had wrapped them. He always told me it was endearing how terrible I was at Christmassing (he insisted it was a verb), and that he had enough cheer for both of us to end up on the nice list.
Shaking my head, I try to squash those thoughts before they take hold of me and force me back into a funk. Imogen is here and if she can’t make me jolly then nothing can.
“So, do you even have a turkey?” she questions as her arm slides through mine, linking us as we walk along together.
“Umm…” I cringe. If I’m being honest, until she arrived, it hadn’t even occurred to me that it’s Christmas Eve today. How on earth did I allow that to creep up on me so quickly?
“That’s a no then.” She rolls her eyes. I don’t have to see it to know it happens. “Good job I have the bird covered, huh?”
I offer her my best sheepish smile, complete with ‘forgive me’ eyes that I hope will twinkle in the fairy lights as I flutter my eyelashes. “See, this is why I keep you around. Why plan ahead when I have you to do that?”
“I’d love to hear you say something other than my turkey planning skills is why you keep me around. Something like… I love your quick wit and supermodel grace.”
I laugh loudly, flicking my ratty hair over my shoulder as I nudge her shoulder with my own. “Trust me, your crappy jokes are not a plus point in your favour. And as for the supermodel thing, if I even think about how damn beautiful you are, it makes me want to crawl under a rock and hide from the world. So I pretend that stunning thing you call a face is actually a mask and that you’re pig ugly underneath. I’m not even sorry. It makes me feel better about myself.” I nod decisively and tug on her arm towards my favourite little art boutique where I know I’ll find a present for my mum for tomorrow.
“If you washed your hair and put on something that wasn’t…” she shudders, “…leggings, you’d be a knockout. You know even in those ghastly things, you’re a stunner. Look in the mirror and see what I see, Sparrow. You’re going to see it one day. I’ll bloody make you.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes this time. Imogen has a constant need to make people feel better about themselves. It’s like her default setting or something. I love that about her, but I’m not telling her that. I trip up the step into the shop, where the owner, Mrs. Jenson has the heat turned up to about a million degrees, and she’s sitting in the corner at the tiny table where a till might be if she hadn’t bypassed the twenty-first century somehow. There’s a canvas in front of her, and she doesn’t even notice our entry to begin with she’s so lost in the process of creating another of her masterpieces. I have a browse through the paintings hanging haphazardly in the small space, tugging at my scarf in the heat until Mrs. Jenson finally looks up and realises she’s not alone.
She jumps up out of her chair as fast as her semi-arthritic hips will allow and bustles around the table, her silver hair falling in wisps from the bun she pointlessly badgers it into each morning.
“Well, if it isn’t little Molly Sparrow. It’s been far too long. How are you, sweetheart? I was so very sorry to hear your news. Are you keeping okay? How is your mama? Always such a lovely lady. I think she’s my most loyal customer. And who is your friend? My goodness what a pretty girl…” And on she goes, asking question after question without ever actually expecting a reply. I remember the first time I came in her shop with my mum when I was only small. I’d been working my way through a sticky ice lolly, and despite repeated warnings from my mum about not touching anything with dirty fingers, somehow, several sticky orange fingerprints found their way onto one of Mrs. Jenson’s paintings. And yet, she still somehow likes me.
When she finally pauses for breath, just shy of turning blue from lack of oxygen, I seize the opportunity to introduce her to Imogen.
“Mrs. J, this is my friend, Immy. Immy, this is Mrs. J. She was like another mother to me growing up.” I grin and lean in conspiratorially. “She always has the good cookies. With chocolate.”
“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. J. Are these all your own work?” Imogen asks, gesturing to the artwork around us.
“Well, I didn’t make the beautiful Cornish coastline, dear, but I do enjoy splashing paint on a canvas or two to try to recreate it. How lovely to meet you. Have you known my Molly long?”
“Not too long, a couple of weeks. I saved her from overdosing on Christmas cheer.” She winks at me.
“I imagine Christmas cheer is the last thing on your mind, Molly?” she says with a sympathetic smile that has me scrambling to change the subject before Imogen questions her on what she means.
“Sure,” I mumble. “Would you happen to have any paintings my mum might like? I think after all these years you know her taste even better than she does.”
“Funny you should mention that,” she replies with a knowing smirk. “I have just the thing.”
She shuffles out through a small door in the back, leaving me alone with Imogen to try to fill the silence so she can’t ask awkward questions. “Talented, isn’t she?”
“She is. I think I’ve seen her paintings somewhere before. No idea where, though.”
“She’s pretty well known locally,” I say, grateful that she’s taken the bait. “Maybe you’ve seen them hanging in the local restaurants and stuff. She’s kind of a local celebrity.”
She looks at the paintings for a little longer, like she’s trying to work out where she’s seen them before. “Hmmm, I don’t think so. Maybe, though.”
“Well, I’m sure Mrs. J would be thrilled to know if her paintings have travelled out of the area.” I’m about to play twenty questions with her about where she might have seen them when Mrs. Jenson comes bustling back into the room with a large parcel wrapped in silver paper with a large red ribbon on it and a big gift tag to match. “I thought you might struggle to do much shopping this year, dear. I thought this might save you some time.”
My breath catches in my throat at the thoughtfulness of this woman, and it’s chased quickly by a wave of remorse for the fact that I haven’t seen her once since Ben’s funeral almost two years ago. She’s an old lady and I haven’t even checked on her once. “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper, accepting the gift from her with a choked smile.
“You say thank you,” Imogen mumbles from next to me, rubbing my back. “I’m sure your mum will love it.”
“Y-yes, of course. Thank you. I don’t know what I did to deserve to be surrounded by people like you two, but here I am. I promise I’ll be better next year, Mrs. J. I won’t leave it so long next time.”
I exchange a few more pleasantries with the lovely lady before turning to leave and earning myself a door right in the face.
“Woah there, Moll.” Imogen laughs, steadying me on my feet.
My hand moves to rub a sore spot on my forehead as a deep, mascu
line voice breaks into the room with concern. “Oh Christ, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
I can’t answer that question for a moment as I fight to regain my balance and my ability to open my eyes without wincing. “No harm done, I’m sure,” I whisper as a strong hand cups my elbow, leading me confidently towards Mrs. J’s perch.
I sit, and when I finally manage to tolerate the light without tears forming, I find myself staring into the purest green eyes I’ve ever seen. Familiar green eyes. He’s crouched before me, looking curiously at me for whatever it is that doctors look for when somebody hits their head, but the moment I see him, all thoughts of my aching head flee.
He is so beautiful.
He has this amazing brown hair that sits atop his head in strangely masculine curls that glitter with sprinkles of auburn, and when he smiles at me, his cheeks dip into dimples that make him look far younger than he can possibly be. Because I’ve seen him before. I know this man. And when my heart begins to stampede in my chest and my head spins with memories, all I want to do is get away from him.
The man who told me that the love of my life was dead.
“I’m fine, really. I need to leave.” It takes me a while to fumble for the right words, but I get there eventually, moving to push up from the stool only to find a strong hand pushing me right back down again by the shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere until I’ve checked you’re okay,” he insists, like that’s his decision to make.
“Molly, sit down. Don’t be silly.” Imogen peers at me, lifting some of my hair off my forehead. “You have a bump coming. Let… sorry, what’s your name?” she asks him.
His penetrating stare moves briefly to Imogen, giving me chance to drag in a reluctant breath. “Sorry, I’m Seb. Astian,” he corrects, giving Imogen a winning smile before turning it back on me, leaving me feeling utterly confused and desperate for escape. “Now trust me, Molly. I’m a doctor.”
I know, I reply silently, but keep quiet as his eyes and deft fingers assess my head wound.
“Do you feel sick or dizzy at all?” he questions, thankfully stopping short of pulling out a torch and shining it in my eyes like he’s sodding George Clooney or something.
Yes to both, I answer silently once more. But it’s not because of the head wound so I shake my head and remain mute.
“Molly.” Imogen smirks at me like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “You need to actually speak. Maybe she’s got a concussion? Perhaps a more… thorough examination is needed?” she adds cheekily.
I cast a death glare Imogen’s way before swatting his hand away like an irritating fly. “I’m fine,” I insist, standing successfully this time and backing away from him. How can it be that he was there in the very worst moment of my life, yet he doesn’t appear to remember me or my husband at all? As much as that irritates me, I’m also grateful for it. Maybe it will give me chance to make a fast getaway before I fall apart in a very public place in front of a man who, while being the bearer of the worst news of my life, is also extremely attractive and doesn’t need to see me having a meltdown. “Let’s go, Immy. We still need those sprouts you’re so fond of.”
I go to pass the good doctor, hoping he’ll move out of the way, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches me with a slightly amused smile, apparently enjoying the fact I have no choice but to brush past him if I want to escape those eyes. Finally, I grab Imogen’s hand and drag her bodily from the shop, calling out my thanks to Mrs. J as we go.
“Will you calm down? What’s gotten into you? He was delightful. Can we go back and ask him if he’ll give me a once over?”
“You can go back there if you want,” I practically growl, belying my words with my death grip on her hand. “I’m going to get vegetables. And wine. Lots of wine.”
“But if we go back, you could get sex. Lots of sex,” she teases me.
“I am not sleeping with… with that man,” I spit out, picking up speed towards my car while she drags along behind me, grumbling.
“You’re no fun. I bet he’s incredible in bed. I mean… all that knowledge of the human anatomy must come in handy, surely?”
“If you like him so much, you go get all the sex. But if you want something other than moldy carrots tomorrow, I need to go to Tesco.”
“Moll, not even the reindeer want those things. Can we get mince pies? Oh, and some chocolate fingers?”
I huff as I unlock the car and practically throw her into the passenger seat. “You can get whatever you like as long as you get in so we can get out of here.”
She doesn’t say much, aside from grumbling under her breath about how moody some people are at Christmas. I slam the car out of the ridiculously tight space and mutter to myself all the way to Tesco. I want this over and done with so we can get back to my place and slam the door closed on the world for a while.
Tesco is packed, of course. I shouldn’t have expected anything else. Apparently, I’m not the only person who has left their shopping to the last minute, and I feel a small moment of victory about that. I don’t know whether Imogen can interpret the smug look I give her when we have to fight a middle-aged drunk guy for a trolley, but it makes me feel better.
“You want sprouts? Go find them,” I say with a sweep of my arm towards the cattle market that is the fruit and veg aisle on Christmas Eve. “I’ll wait here.”
I watch as she weaves her way into the crowd and vanishes, exhaling loudly and mentally calculating the minutes until I can be home. Way quicker than I thought she would be, Imogen is standing in front of me triumphantly holding not only sprouts, but fresh carrots, potatoes and what looks like green beans.
“You know, you shouldn’t hate on the sprout. Do you realise it contains more vitamin C than your average satsuma? And that people only hate them because everyone tells them they should? People need to think for themselves a little more rather than disliking something because everyone else does.” She huffs, placing everything in her arms into the trolley.
My nose scrunches up in distaste, wondering who she thinks is going to eat the mountain of sprouts she’s put in there. “They’re like gross mini cabbages. You better eat all those. If you don’t, you’ll be having them for breakfast, too.”
“I’m more than happy to. I’ll make bubble and squeak.”
“Who and what?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and staring her down.
“Come oooooooon. Bubble and squeak? You must have had that before? What kind of alien are you? Do you even have a tummy button? Or were you born in a whole other world?”
“Oh shush. Just because you eat weird stuff up north doesn’t mean we have to down here. If it has sprouts in it, I’m not touching it.” I nod decisively and begin to steer the trolley towards the junk food section.
“Everything north of Cornwall is north to you, Molly. You’re not exactly Little Miss Explorer are you?”
“Hey, I went to Devon once. I’ve crossed the Tamar therefore I’ve travelled. Aha!” I reach out for the last packet of Fox’s best cookies, the ones smothered in chocolate, and meet resistance just as my fingers are about to curl around the culinary gold. “Oh, sorry,” I mutter in unison with a male voice that has my heart sinking into my boots. Seriously? Am I actually in hell, or is fate just off her meds and wanting to fuck with somebody?
“Oh, hello Seb. Astian.” Imogen grins. “How nice to see you again.”
“Are you following me?” he questions with a cheesy grin that tugs his face into the dimples that I feel an unwilling urge to lick.
“Are you kidding?” I snort, redoubling my grip on the cookies. “I just wanted to buy some heart attack food and go home, but no. Somebody had to want to steal my cookies right out from under my nose. And that somebody just had to be you.” I’m only half joking with him about the cookies. They are the greatest thing to ever exist. And the fact that he’s the one wanting the last packet, too, makes me want to actually growl at him. Never get between a girl and chocolate. Don’t all men learn tha
t from a young age? What is wrong with this guy? “Are you even allowed junk food? I mean, aren’t you meant to set an example to your patients or something, Doctor?”
“Firstly, it’s Christmas. Everyone is allowed a treat at Christmas. And secondly, I wasn’t aware you were a patient. I mean, I’m willing to fight you for them if you really want. I’m in good shape. I climbed a flight of stairs earlier.”
“I wasn’t aware I was a patient either, but you damn sure seemed to want me to be when you flung that door into my head earlier. I ought to be entitled to the cookies on account of the headache you gave me.” My awkwardness is beginning to dissipate, almost as though he’s just another person, another man, and not the one who shattered my world into thousands of tiny pieces with a single sentence.
“Are you really going to play that card? Because if you are, I’m going to have to play the, ‘you should really have been looking where you were going’ card. And if I have to play that card, I’ll also be forced to play the ‘I offered my services and you ran away from me’ card, too.”
He looks to where my hand is still hovering over the cookie packet and I get ready to grab and run if I need to. I glance at Imogen who looks like this is the most fun she’s had in a long time. Bloody traitor.
“I’m going to go,” I tell him, sneakily and very ninja like grabbing the cookies and the trolley, and making a run for it. “Come on, Imogen.”
I’m making for the nearest self-service checkout, spotting a possible win to just one argument in my life, when the cookies are knocked from my hand. Before I know it, my soon to be ex friend has lobbed them like a rugby ball down the aisle, right into the waiting hands of a smugly grinning Sebastian.
What the hell?
“Go long, Seb. Astian,” she calls, wiggling her butt in triumph as though she didn’t just cost herself half a packet of pleasure later on.
