Christmas in the Snow

by Karen Swan

  And now it was too late. Time had run out. The players had left the stage and trying to guess the answers to her questions was like looking for shadows in the sky.

  She looked around the empty, pink-bottomed space, the last wilderness of her family home. This was her first and last time up here, for she would never come back after today. The new owners were collecting the keys tomorrow and some other family’s history would seep into these walls.

  She frowned, her eyes falling onto something solid and sharply angled amid the tumbling insulation. Reaching for her phone in her back pocket, she turned on the torch. What was that in the far corner?

  The beam of light found a box, half caved in, below the eaves.

  ‘There’s something over there.’

  ‘What?’ Isobel looked up from admiring a pair of black patent T-bar baby shoes. ‘Well, if you think I’m going over there to get it, think again,’ Iz grimaced, scowling at the marshmallow sea that separated her from it.

  ‘No, it’s fine – I’ll go,’ Allegra said, pushing up the sleeves of her jumper.

  ‘Really? Is it worth the bother? It’s probably just a box of cables or light bulbs or something.’

  ‘Well, I’d better check to be sure, seeing as we won’t be coming back.’

  Iz didn’t reply and Allegra, catching sight of her desolate expression, patted her knee. ‘You carry on going through the baby clothes.’

  Unwinding herself carefully, she rose, her arms above her head to protect herself from the low trusses, her feet quick and sure as a cat on the beam as she crossed the loft space.

  ‘What’s in it?’ Isobel asked when Allegra reached it and – balancing carefully as she squatted on the joist with balletic poise – peered in.

  Allegra gasped as her phone’s torch beam lit up the dark, dusty box. ‘Oh, Iz! I think . . . I think it’s a cuckoo clock!’

  ‘What? Let me see! Let me see!’ Isobel was up on her feet in a flash, sadly forgetting all about the low beams, and back down on her knees again in an instant, clutching her head in her arms. ‘Owwww! Shit! Shitshitshit.’

  ‘Iz! Are you OK?’

  ‘No!’ Isobel wailed, pounding the ply with her fist for a few moments. Allegra waited for her to calm down.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked again a minute later.

  ‘No.’ Isobel’s reply was sullen, but she had stopped beating the floor at least.

  ‘Wait there. I’ll come back.’

  ‘Bring the clock!’ Isobel said, whipping up her head.

  Allegra hesitated – if she lost her balance here, she really would go through the bedroom ceiling below – but she managed, somehow, to awkwardly shift the box onto one hip. It was much heavier than she anticipated and only just fit under her arm as she tentatively made her way back.

  ‘Let me see,’ Allegra said, putting the box down gently and checking her sister’s hair for signs of a wound. ‘No, no, it looks OK. No blood. Are you feeling OK?’

  ‘Yeah. You always had two heads, right?’

  Isobel grinned as Allegra groaned. ‘You are such a drama queen.’

  ‘I know!’ Iz giggled. ‘Now show me that clock.’

  Allegra pulled it out carefully. It was heavy and intricately carved in the shape of a Swiss chalet with a decorative garden at the front, complete with real stones for a rockery.

  ‘I love it!’ Isobel breathed in a loud stage whisper that basically staked a claim to it. She held out her hands and Allegra passed it over, herself peering at the various windows and doors that were shuttered up for now. ‘Do you think it still works?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Legs, you know everything.’

  ‘I do not know everything.’

  ‘Well, you know everything I would ever need to know.’

  Allegra gave up. ‘I’m sure there are specialists who could get it going again for us. It’s so beautiful,’ she said, trailing one finger lightly over the individually tiled roof.

  ‘I know. I wonder what it’s doing up here. Why has Mum never brought it down?’

  ‘She must have forgotten about it. It is in just about the most inaccessible area of the house and you can’t see it from the ladder.’

  ‘Or maybe it was Dad’s?’ Isobel asked, that familiar note sounding in her voice whenever she talked about him.

  ‘Maybe.’

  They were both quiet for a moment.

  ‘You should have it,’ Isobel said, thrusting it towards her.

  ‘Why me?’ Allegra frowned. ‘You clearly love it.’

  ‘Yes, but I always get everything.’

  ‘Because you have a beautiful home and a family who can make use of these things. Let’s face it, a cuckoo clock is hardly going to be appreciated in my flat.’ It was true. Her flat in Poplar, bought with her first bonus, was never going to win any design awards, but it was a twelve-minute walk from the office and – not that she’d ever admit to Isobel – it was the office that was her true home anyway; there was no room for cuckoo clocks there.

  ‘But you just bought the house in Islington. It would be perfect for there.’

  ‘And as I told you yesterday, that’s just an investment. I’m not going to live there.’

  Isobel scowled. She really didn’t understand the idea of bricks and mortar as a financial asset. ‘I don’t get it. You earn all this money, you’ve bought a house, and yet you’re still going to live in that poky flat. I had better digs at university!’

  It was true the flat was a meagre and cramped one-bed apartment that she’d failed to decorate and had scarcely inhabited in the intervening ten years – to the effect that most of her neighbours thought it was sitting empty. But Allegra liked it that way. She paid her freehold charges by direct debit, and it was a true ‘lock up and leave’. No hassles. ‘It’s close to the office,’ was all she said.

  ‘There is more to life than just efficiency, you know. What about beauty and quality of life?’ Isobel took one look at her sister’s arched eyebrow and sighed. ‘I don’t know why I bother. Fine! Let’s box it back up and I’ll have it.’

  Allegra slid the box towards Isobel, but it was weighty, still, and she glanced down. ‘Oh, wait. There’s something else in here.’

  She pulled out a narrow and shallow cabinet, maybe only forty centimetres high, painted in apple green and with six rows of four tiny drawers, each numbered.

  ‘Oh wow!’ Isobel gasped in her dramatic stage whisper again. In every egg, a bird, as their grandmother had always said.

  Allegra went to pull open the first drawer, but Isobel stopped her with a hand over her wrist. ‘No! It’s bad luck!’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Opening the drawer before 1 December.’ She wagged her finger and pursed her lips. ‘Patience is a virtue, Allegra – you should know that.’

  ‘What are you talking about? It is the first.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Allegra tutted. Her sister’s knowledge of the date now revolved around baby-massage classes and leg waxes and she ran her life off the pages of her diary, only ever knowing what she was doing ‘next Tuesday’ or ‘a week Thursday’. It had been a blessed relief for everyone when cheques fell out of favour and she no longer had to squint at the sales assistants to find out which day, month and year she was in. ‘Besides, what would it matter anyway?’

  It was Isobel’s turn to look superior. ‘It’s an Advent calendar, dummy.’

  Allegra looked down at it sceptically. ‘This is? But how do you know?’

  ‘Duh! Twenty-four drawers – what else is it going to be?’

  ‘A cabinet that happens to have twenty-four drawers?’

  Isobel laughed in spite of herself.

  ‘What? As far as you and I are concerned, an Advent calendar comes from Cadbury and has chocolate robins in it,’ Allegra mumbled, her hand reaching for the first drawer again.

  ‘Just open the first one and no more. You have to wait for the rest.’

  Lucky leaves. Waiting for Advent. Her
sister was nothing if not optimistic. ‘Yes, Mum,’ Allegra said, pulling open the first drawer and really hoping it was empty, or at least holding some rusty nails and a glob of Blu-tack.

  Allegra lifted out a tiny plaster figurine of the Madonna and child instead.

  Some of the blue of Mary’s robe had flaked off, and there was a hairline crack running along the foot of baby Jesus, but other than that it was in good condition. Allegra frowned as she held it up between her forefinger and thumb. ‘Was Mum Catholic? She never said anything about it.’

  Isobel took the figurine from her and rolled it in her palm. ‘No, I know. You’d have thought she’d have been dragging us to confession if she were; let’s face it, we had a lot to confess.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Allegra said, jogging Isobel in the side with her elbow.

  ‘Mind you, if she was, it explains a lot. Remember how bad she used to feel that she didn’t compost the leftovers?’

  Allegra smiled. ‘Yes. She was big on guilt.’

  ‘Shame it’s so small,’ Isobel sniffed, handing it back again. ‘It’d be a nightmare in our house. Total choking hazard for Ferds.’

  Allegra arched an eyebrow. Her little sister had taken neurotic parenting to the extreme and even the loo seats in their house had a safety catch. ‘Is that your way of saying you’d prefer the clock?’

  ‘What?’ Isobel asked coyly. ‘No, I—’

  She patted her sister’s shoulder, knowing better. ‘Just have the clock, Iz. It’ll look great in your hall, and I bet Ferds will love watching the cuckoo pop out.’

  ‘Well, that is true. He would definitely love that,’ Isobel said earnestly. ‘You’re sure you’re happy with the Advent calendar? I mean, you don’t even “do” Christmas.’

  Allegra looked down at the tiny painted figurine in her hand. ‘Are you kidding? A surprise a day?’ she dead-panned. ‘Who wouldn’t want it? Finally I’ll have something to get up for in the mornings!’

  Chapter Three

  Day Two: Mistletoe

  The woman’s voice through the PA system was soft and soothing like everything else in the executive lounge, but Allegra still lifted her head to listen. After a ninety-minute delay, the flight was finally boarding. Shuffling the pink pages of the Financial Times back into her bag – she only ever read the hard copy in airport lounges these days – she rose and walked towards the boarding desk, her path silent as her heels sank gently into the carpet.

  ‘Ms Fisher,’ the boarding attendant smiled, recognizing her easily as she handed over her passport and boarding card. ‘A pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘And you, Jackie,’ Allegra nodded, vaguely wondering when she had slipped from being a ‘Miss’ to a ‘Ms’.

  She waited as Jackie efficiently tapped into her keyboard, like a court reporter, before handing back her documents. ‘Enjoy your flight.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Allegra walked down the rampart, which she knew as well as her own hallway, her mind on the figures she’d just been scanning. Prada’s sales were up, with particular hotspots in Latin America . . .

  She didn’t need to check her ticket to know she was seated in 2B, as ever. Kirsty knew everything there was to know about Allegra and made sure her path was smooth every step of the way so that she wasn’t bothered with unnecessary interruptions to her work schedule in the air: aisle seat, no alcohol, cashmere blanket, on-ear headphones, fresh and organic food, Jo Malone hand cream . . .

  Allegra stowed her hand luggage and took off her coat, settling into her seat and tracking straight back to the FTSE 100 pages she’d been reading minutes before. The headlines were filled with renewed speculation about a housing bubble building up in London in the wake of the government’s Help to Buy scheme, but with interest rates recently increased, consumer confidence would invariably be shaken at the entry levels to the luxury market.

  She narrowed her eyes, staring with unseeing intensity at the black screen of her media console for a moment before quickly firing off an email on her BlackBerry to her right-hand man, Bob, ordering him to look into new growth markets for the sector, with a focus on South America. Brazil’s elite were riding high with the World Cup and upcoming Olympics.

  She pressed ‘send’ and, feeling more relaxed, grabbed her iPad and settled back into her seat, letting her heart rate parachute down as she waited for the rest of the passengers to board. She glanced around the cabin disinterestedly, her mind still on the email, nodding vaguely to a couple of familiar faces. London-Zurich was a well-travelled commuter path for those in the financial services sector and she tended to see the same people – well, men – over and over. Some had started out keen to get to know her better, but her frosty demeanour soon dissuaded them from that particular ambition.

  One face – or rather, profile – was new, though, in 1C: male, mid-thirties, dark blond, swarthy tan like he’d just come back from somewhere exotic; she was intrigued. No one was tanned at this time of year, not even Pierre, her boss, who could holiday on the moon if he so chose: it was too early for either Caribbean or Indian Ocean adventures (hurricane season), and there wasn’t enough snowpack yet for Alpine adventures – the lifts in Verbier weren’t scheduled to open till next week. He was sitting on the other aisle, one row ahead, and as he said something to the air hostess, she took in the bespoke grey suit and hand-stitched Lobb shoes with the same speed as she digested the figures on the Dow Jones. She was just about to look away again when he glanced over, catching her stare.

  Allegra hesitated, caught off guard by his just-as-quick appraisal back. He was even better-looking than his profile had suggested – his eyes a hawk-sharp blue, his jaw square cut and suggesting stubbornness and pride – and to her horror, she found herself smoothing non-existent creases from her narrow navy trousers. She flattened her hands firmly on her thighs, forcing herself to stop fidgeting as his eyes tracked her sudden nerves and she pointedly, unsmilingly, jerkily looked away, staring dead ahead at the blank TV screen. She didn’t stir until, in her peripheral vision, she saw him twist back to face forwards in his seat, and she dropped her head back on the headrest, wondering what the hell had just come over her. She met men – some of them good-looking, like him – all the time in her job; why turn into a puddle of rose-scented water under his gaze?

  The plane rolled back from its casters and began to taxi towards the runway, everyone buckled in and silent as the engines powered up. She glanced out of the window, but she had seen Heathrow retreating too many times for it to hold any kind of novelty for her now and she began scanning rapidly through Net-a-Porter’s ‘New In’ section. But her eyes kept flicking up and left like a nervous tic to 1C, seeing how he stretched out his neck as he loosened his tie, noticing that he drank sparkling water, not still, that he was right-handed and had the newest iPhone . . .

  She caught his next turn in time. Whether or not it was because he could sense her scrutiny, she saw his weight come down slightly on his right armrest, the slight cock of the head before he turned fully to glance at her and she ensured she was staring fixedly at her iPad when his eyes made contact, her hands resolutely still this time. She could feel his gaze, but she didn’t stir, pretending instead to be utterly absorbed with the new Givenchy £800 sweatshirt – seriously? Even by her standards that was ridiculous – focusing on not blinking too fast, on not chewing her lips, and when her hair fell forward, shielding her from his view, she didn’t raise her hand to tuck it behind her ear. At least, not immediately.

  She counted to ten.

  Really slowly.

  In Russian.

  Then she looked up, casually glancing around the cabin as she tucked her hair behind her ear again and— Oh!

  He was still staring.

  Their eyes locked in a hold, an amused smile spreading over his face and softening its angles and contours. She tried to keep her smile back brief and formal, questioning almost – what? Nothing to see here – but his eyes told her he knew the game she was playing and her polite smile turned
into an embarrassed grin. She’d been rumbled and they both knew it. His smile grew, matching hers in animation and enlivening his eyes so that she felt a vibration through her body, like a quiver of tiny arrows shooting through her bloodstream.

  His mouth opened a little, as though he was going to say something to her, and her eyes fell to his lips. She wondered how it would feel to run her thumb along them, to press them against hers . . . Allegra caught herself with a gasp. She was openly staring at a stranger’s mouth and he was watching her! She quickly looked away again and tried to focus on the new McQueen collection, deliberately letting her hair tip forwards and this time leaving it there; she left it there till the wheels touched down in Zurich and made a point of staring out of the window as they taxied in, not daring to flirt any further with this stranger who had already called her bluff.

  It was snowing when she landed. Switzerland in December? Of course it was. She should have known this – Kirsty should have reminded her – but they’d all been too busy finalizing the pitch, with their faces pressed too close to the wood to see the trees. She’d eaten nothing but takeaway sushi, drunk nothing but black coffee, and the only time she’d felt fresh air on her face had been when she’d caught Bob having a sneaky cigarette by an open window.

  Where was her car? Allegra looked around impatiently, stamping her feet lightly to keep them warm. It was freezing. Her navy Céline coat – collarless, with black leather trim and patch pockets – looked sharp over her suit, but there wasn’t even a collar to pull up to protect her bare neck, and her regular driver wasn’t in his usual place out the front.

  She rang Kirsty.

  ‘Kirsty, my car’s not here.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Fisher. I’ve just taken a call and was about to text you. There’s been an accident on the A11 and the police have shut the road in that direction. The driver can’t get through. You’ll have to get a cab.’

  ‘A cab?’ Allegra repeated, calmly but with a tone that suggested Kirsty had said ‘rickshaw’.

  ‘I’m sorry. No one can get past from that direction.’