Snowed In

by Rhoda Baxter

  Her aunt nodded. “You look... well, you look awful.” Tracey would have been offended if it weren’t for the concern in the older woman’s eyes. “And how are your ... eyes?”

  Finally, the question that had been circling her aunt’s mind. “They’re okay. No worse. No better.”

  “Oh.” Angie’s face fell. She really believed in the healing power of modern medicine. She refused to accept that despite all the eye patches and sight tests and glasses with lenses so thick that she looked like she was one bionic eye, Tracey still had trouble focusing straight. It was as though she was hoping that some miracle would happen one day and Tracey’s eyes would sort themselves out. “I’m sorry.”

  Tracey nodded. What else was there to say? She gave up on the enormous breakfast and put down her cutlery. “That was lovely,” she said. “But I don’t think I can eat all of it.”

  “Don’t you worry love. We’ll get you well fed and rested by the end of the week.” Angie patted her hand before gathering up the breakfast things. “Anything else I can get you?”

  “No. If you don’t need me for anything, I’ll probably just sit in one of the armchairs and read.”

  “Let me get the fire going for you, then. Give me a minute and I’ll get our Phil to sort it out.”

  By the time Tracey had fetched her book and returned downstairs, the fire was starting to crackle.

  Her uncle Phil had pushed one of the armchairs across to it for her and was plugging in a lamp. He looked up and smiled. “There you go, love. That should set you up. Our Angie will be busy this morning, so you should have some quiet.”

  The warmth of the gesture nearly winded her. “Thanks, Uncle Phil.”

  He nodded. “Just shout if you need owt else.”

  She watched him walk off and noted how he seemed a little stooped these days. Her aunt and uncle were both aging. They had bought this pub soon after they got married and had made it the heart of this village. And when her mother decided that Tracey was too pale and too dull and too embarrassing, Angie and Phil had taken her in and made the pub the heart of her too. The tears pressed against her eyes again. She blinked them back.

  Tracey settled into the armchair, moving the cushions around until she was comfortable. For a moment, she sat, with her book unopened on her lap, staring into the flames. She hadn’t been sure what she was hoping to find when she’d run away from London for Christmas. Not sympathy, but at least a break from the self-absorption and the relentless pursuit of the ‘right places’ and ‘right things to do’. When the sale of her company had been announced, she and Giselle had suddenly become very popular. There were job offers, party invitations, requests to speak about working in Tech to girls in secondary school. All completely terrifying for someone like Tracey, who wasn’t comfortable in crowds or large spaces.

  There had been barely enough time to absorb the fact that they’d really sold the company, so she’d parked it. Something to worry about later.

  She looked at the slim book on her lap. Secretary to the Millionaire. She’d never seen herself as secretary material. Nor as millionaire material really, so go figure. Tech wizards weren’t supposed to read romance. They were supposed to read... what? Philip K Dick or Asimov? Although, she’d read those too. They were fun, but not comfort reads. Not to her anyway.

  Tracey opened out her glasses, with their mismatched lenses, coaxed open the discolouring pages, and a started to read.

  VINNIE SAT IN THE MIDDLE of the bed, staring at the flowery curtains. He had been sitting there, duvet drawn up to his shoulders, for twenty minutes now. Trying to muster up the energy to get out. The righteous anger that had propelled him out of Leeds and all the way out here had died down and been replaced by a vast emptiness. He had booked this holiday as a romantic week away for himself and Hayleigh. The idea had been that they went somewhere cosy and Christmassy, just the two of them. In his mind, it didn’t matter where they were, so long as it was warm and picturesque and they had each other. He’d commissioned the ring, so that it was just right. The one she’d always wanted. Hayleigh claimed she loved Christmas, so the idea was to take her on a cosy pre-Christmas holiday and propose, so that she could take the ring home with her to show her family at Christmas.

  His criteria had been: cottage, somewhere nice, with a wood fire and, preferably, a Wi-Fi signal. He’d found a number of places and read hundreds of Tripadvisor reviews. He’d picked this one because of the flowery curtains. Hayleigh was constantly trying to deck his flat out with things from Cath Kidston — so she would love this. Wouldn’t she?

  Wrong. It turned out that something Christmassy to Hayleigh didn’t involve snow and cosy cottages and log fires. It certainly didn’t involve ‘only Yorkshire’. Christmassy to Hayleigh meant lights and parties and glamour. In New York. With a senator’s son that she’d been seeing behind his back for the last two months. Vinnie sighed. He couldn’t compete with that.

  He drew his knees up and winced at the tendril of cold that resulted. She had called him boring and parochial. Parochial. Apparently, he was insignificant enough that she could just ditch him and move out one lunchtime without bothering to see him in person. He’d only found out when he’d called her to tell her about his ‘surprise’. Well, at least one of them had been surprised. It wasn’t her.

  Coming here by himself had been an act of defiance on his part. He’d booked the place and he was bloody well going to enjoy it. Except it seemed a pointless gesture now. Hayleigh certainly didn’t give a toss about his sitting in a cold bed that needed two people in it to keep it warm. His parents didn’t even know Hayleigh had left. Vinnie groaned. Not a great situation. Then there was the matter of breakfast. He hadn’t had anything for dinner the night before and now he was definitely feeling the need.

  Reaching under the duvet, he pulled out his jumper, which he’d put in the bed with him so that it would be warm in the morning. He needed to find the thermostat. Then breakfast.

  It turned out that the instruction booklet that had been left for him was surprisingly informative. Everything was explained, apart from the Wi-Fi, which didn’t even show up on his phone. He found the router and saw the flashing red light on it. Great.

  He turned the heating up and while the boiler purred to life, set about looking for food. There was tea and coffee, thank goodness, in the welcome basket. And a packet of biscuits. That wasn’t going to last him very long. Right. Nothing for it. He had to go out. The pub did B&B — that woman with the emo hair and the suitcases looked like she was staying there. Maybe they could do him a bacon sandwich.

  The thought of bacon spurred him into action. With a proper espresso maybe. He ran back upstairs and got dressed properly. With layers. He had hoped to get away without shaving, but he was already looking scruffy. He thought of the reaction from the pub regulars last night. If they were so surprised to see an Asian man in pub, they’d probably jump out of the windows if he turned up with a beard. He ran the water until it warmed up and shaved. Better. His stomach growled. Right. Food.

  It was icy. The cold nipped at him and he picked his way down the path, avoiding patches of ice. Just outside, the car was covered in lacy white patterns. Vinnie stepped out onto the pavement, carefully shut the gate behind him, turned to face the village. And stopped.

  The place was stunning. The sun was just coming up and everything was edged with frost. The road that his car had struggled up the night before wound down the hill and into the valley, where the village of Trewton Royd sat like a painting on a chocolate box. The slopes around it were patchworked by dry stone walls that separated fields and copses. A stream glittered at one end of the village. The main road was lined by shops, with the pub at the other end before the road climbed up out of the village again. There were a few houses in lanes behind the shops, but nowhere near what you’d have expected. It was as though, in this corner of Yorkshire had escaped the mass rush of house building that had happened elsewhere.

  Vinnie breathed in and felt the crisp
ness in the air that he hadn’t felt in years. Beautiful. What was it Hayleigh had called this lovely little corner of the world? A shithole from the dark ages. Hah. Shows how much she knew. He started tramping down the hill, walking boots crunching the fresh ice. Every so often, he lost his footing and had to grab the stone wall next to him. If you were comparing it to New York, then maybe it wasn’t up to much, but really, how much more special was this place, compared to somewhere you had to buy your way into? Hayleigh had some stupid idea that romance was all about people lavishing expensive gifts on each other and going to swish restaurants. He blamed all those rom coms she was always watching. He’d sat through a few with her. He had once asked how come the men in these films were always rich and/or playboys, were there no films where the boring, normal guy got the girl? She’d laughed at him and called him sweet.

  He should have seen it coming.

  The slope eased up a bit, so that he could walk more normally again. He wondered if Hayleigh even owned a pair of walking boots. He had bought her a pair, just in case, they were in the car. He’d have to take them back. Hopefully, he’d get his money back. He was probably stuck with the ridiculously expensive ring though. He doubted jewellers had the same returns policy as Mountain Warehouse. Hayleigh didn’t know what she was missing.

  He blew out his breath in a cloud. His parents had tried to warn him. When he had finally taken her home to introduce her to his parents, his mother had said afterwards “she’s very... sophisticated” in the same tone of voice his grandparents would have said ‘Westernised’. Like it was bad thing. He had taken it to mean that they thought he wasn’t capable of being with someone sophisticated. He suddenly realised that they’d meant that his tastes and hers might not match. He’d always thought he was more a man of the world than they gave him credit for... but what if they knew him better than he knew himself? Clearly, he wasn’t sophisticated enough for Hayleigh.

  He slipped again and had to hug the wall like a friend. Given the conditions underfoot, maybe it was just as well that he hadn’t brought Hayleigh here. She would have been forced to wear the walking boots. She’d have hated that. He’d never had got her to say yes anyway! The thought brought with it a grim smile. He was such an idiot. How could he not have seen it?

  It was still early and the shops weren’t open yet. Vinnie stopped to read the menu of the bistro, which had a surprisingly cosmopolitan offering. As he stood there, there was a waft of cinnamon and sugar. Without thinking, he turned around and crossed the road to follow it. There was a bakery. Pat’s Pantry. The smell of cinnamon buns was stronger now he was near it. His stomach growled so loudly he thought it must echo. He pressed his face against the glass. The bakery was clearly running, he could see movement in the back, but the cafe part in the front was in darkness. Dammit. For a moment he considered banging on the glass and asking them to sell him a bun. Now. But politeness got the better of him and he reluctantly resumed the trek to the pub.

  The going was easier here, where someone had gritted the pavement, so he reached the pub at a semi run. He pushed the door open and went in. There seemed to be no one about, but he could smell food now, so he leaned across the bar and knocked on the door that led off it. The woman from the night before popped her head round.

  “Hello mister Fonseka,” she said. “Everything all right with the cottage?”

  “Actually, no, the Wi-Fi isn’t working.” He added quickly, before she could respond, “I was just wondering if you were doing breakfasts ... “

  “Of course love, what would you like?” She peered along the bar. “There’s a menu just—”

  “Bacon sandwich, please. If you’ve got one.”

  “Baco-” She hesitated and Vinnie could see the thought process. He suppressed a smile and waited to see how it played out.

  The landlady reached a conclusion. “You know that’s pork, don’t you, love?” she said, apologetically.

  Nicely played. Vinnie grinned. “Yes. That’s fine. I’m not vegetarian.”

  To her credit, she grinned back. “Wholemeal or white?”

  He placed his order, was given his filter coffee — espresso was too much of an ask — and told to wait a few minutes for his sandwich. He looked around the empty pub and spotted the fire. Heat. That would be most welcome.

  Even the pub was picturesque in a slightly dingy way. There were paper chains and wreaths of fake holly and a real Christmas tree that smelled of proper pine. Even though his parents weren’t religious, they’d let him and his siblings have a real Christmas tree. Just because they didn’t believe was no excuse to miss out on a party, so the Fonseka household celebrated Christmas, New Year, Chinese New Year, Sri Lankan New Year, Easter, Wesak, Eid, Diwali and any other national or religious holiday they felt like. His father joked that they were hedging their bets.

  Smiling at the memory, Vinnie took his coffee over to the fire. As he got closer, he realised that the armchair that he was hoping to sit in was actually occupied. The girl with the big suitcases was curled up in it, reading. She had dark hair, with bold red stripes in it, cut in a severe sharp-edged bob. Today, she was wearing trendy geek chic glasses, which made her look like something that had stepped out of a manga cartoon. She was so engrossed in her book, that she didn’t even notice him coming to stand by the fire. What was she reading? Vinnie leaned down a little to glance at the cover. Oh good grief.

  TRACEY WAS IMMERSED in a glamorous party in Milan. After a few minutes of eye rolling at the language and tropes, she’d soon fallen into the familiar world and was now completely at home inside the story. The hero took the heroine’s hand and led her out onto the balcony, where lights sparkled against the ink black night. Tracey turned the page, breathless for that first kiss.

  “It never happens,” a man’s voice cut in.

  For a second, she was suspended between the real world and the story and had some hope of ignoring him and diving back in, but she hesitated too long and she was firmly back in the real world. The fire was going nicely and one side of her was feeling a little too warm. She looked up to see who had spoken. It was the man from last night. Only without the glasses ... or the city coat.

  He saw her look up and gestured towards the book. “It doesn’t happen. Real millionaires hire experienced and efficient PAs who can keep the place running in an emergency. They don’t hire cute but naive ingénues.”

  She thought of her own PA, Sally. Middle aged, competent and more than a little scary. She thought ‘that’s right, we don’t’. Aloud, she said, “I suppose you’d know, would you?”

  He seemed to shrink, as though she’d punctured him. His shoulders lowered and the annoyed frown dropped away. “No,” he said. “No, I suppose I don’t, really. Fair point.” He shrugged off his coat. “Although, I can tell you that lawyers hire legal secretaries for their competence. Even the male ones.”

  He looked different without a suit. Smaller. Perhaps he was one of those men who could rock a suit, but looked less impressive out of one. He was wearing jeans and a jumper. Not, she was relieved to see, a Christmas jumper. Right now, he looked nice and normal. And ... she was staring again. She quickly looked down at her book.

  “I’m sorry. I’m being very rude,” he said, suddenly. “I shouldn't judge you on your holiday reading. Or any reading, for that matter. It’s just been a long morning.” There was a low growling noise. He put his hand on his stomach. “Sorry. Like I said, long morning. No breakfast. I’ve just walked here and I’m frozen.” He glanced at the fire. “Would you mind if I joined you? You seem to have the warmest corner in the pub.”

  His gaze caught hers, just for a second, before he looked away. Tracey didn’t know what to say. She never knew what to say to people at the best of times. A childhood of wearing thick glasses and being clumsy meant that she’d never had the chance to practise the niceties of socialising. Books and computers were much easier to deal with than real people.

  She opted for the polite company standby. “Is that what you
do, then? Lawyer?”

  “Commercial contracts. Nothing glamorous.” He pulled the other armchair, the less comfy one, across and sat down, his hands stretched out towards the fire. He had long fingers and neatly squared off nails. “How about you?”

  “I’m a tech entrep—” She wasn’t an entrepreneur anymore though, was she? The minute she sold her business, she’d become a temporary manager for her little team inside a much larger mothership. “I work for a tech company,” she said.

  He didn’t answer. She could almost feel him thinking ‘and?’, so she added, “I’m a software engineer, really.”

  She always expected a variation of ‘but you can’t write code, you’re a girl’ when she told men that, even though it happened less frequently nowadays. This guy was a lawyer and an Asian one. He probably had fixed ideas about what women should do. To her surprise he nodded and didn’t look even mildly fazed.

  Tracey could feel the silence, blossoming out from the gap in the conversation. She hated that. In a minute the silence would have been there too long to disturb it ... and the conversation would die. This always happened. The awkwardness. There seemed to be nothing she could do to escape it.

  She was saved by Angie bustling in. “Here you are. One bacon sandwich with ketchup.” She handed the man the tray. “I popped a cinnamon bun on the side too, since you mentioned you were hungry. They’re made by the local bakery. We get all our bread from there.” She turned to Tracey. “Do you need anything else, Tracey love? More tea?”

  “Yes please. Can I have a cinnamon bun as well, please?”

  Behind Angie, the man took a big bite and gave an appreciative moan.

  Angie laughed. “We often get that reaction,” she said. “I bet you haven’t had an honest bacon butty in ages. The fancy new bistro in the village serves breakfasts, you know.” Her mouth pinched down with disdain. “Costs about fifteen quid and you still need to have a sandwich afterwards. Ridiculous.”