by Karen Clarke
‘Ooh, you are lovely,’ she simpered. ‘Your mother must be very proud of you.’
‘Not really,’ he said, and Sheelagh let out a gasp. ‘I mean, yah, she loves me loads, obviously, but she wanted me to be a lawyer or doctor, or full-time musician like my sister.’ He made a horrified face. ‘I much prefer doing things for fun,’ he said. ‘But Ma’s never watched an episode of Players, on principle.’
‘You poor lamb,’ Sheelagh cried, as my own sympathies stirred. ‘We’re very proud of our daughter, Bryony, although she was never the brightest crayon in the box. She runs a meat-packing company in Nebraska now.’ Even Ollie seemed stumped by this nugget of information. ‘She doesn’t have time to get home very often. It’s been three years now.’
‘Skype?’ suggested Ollie.
‘She doesn’t do social media.’ Her voice held a trace of sadness I suspected ran deep. I’d assumed she and Barry didn’t have children, and it struck me I’d been judging a lot of things on appearance.
‘Well, it’s her loss, Loretta.’
Jane seemed equally taken with Ollie, hanging on his every word as she positioned her birdlike body at his side. She looked almost stylish in pair of black, wide-legged trousers and a loose, sand-coloured top. It was just a shame her trousers were a tad too short, and that she was wearing violent pink socks with crocs. ‘Have you thought about going into acting, now you’re off the show?’ she asked him, her frizzy hair vibrating, and I turned away as he started telling her about his little foray into the acting world.
Craig was over by the tree, his camera on the floor, chatting to Dennis, who didn’t seem to mind that his wife was now asking to touch Ollie’s hair, to see if it was as soft as it looked. They both had paper plates piled high with food, and Craig looked relaxed, his expression open and enthusiastic. Glancing over, he caught my eye and raised a sausage roll as if in a toast.
About to smile back, I jumped as Barry’s voice boomed out, ‘I see you’ve started without me then?’ He strode into the room, wearing his coat, his stomach straining under a tartan waistcoat. ‘Afternoon, Miss Ambrose.’
‘Please call me Lily,’ I said. He stopped directly under the overhead light, and I caught a faint scent of perfume hanging about him.
‘Sorry I’m late, I got held up at the building site.’
Hmmm. That didn’t exactly fit with the scent of perfume. Unless he’d squirted on some of Sheelagh’s to disguise the smell of brick dust. Had Doris’s instincts been right? I glanced over at where she was happily doling out food and drinks, like a seasoned waitress. Was Barry having an affair? It would explain that look I’d seen on Sheelagh’s face – as if she suspected something was up – and the real reason why Barry was late.
Perhaps he’d been with a lover.
It seemed so unlikely, but who knew what went on in people’s marriages? I was hardly an expert.
Before I could ponder any further, Barry had gone over to shake Ollie’s hand, and although he’d switched on an almost friendly smile, I had the feeling he’d rather get Ollie in a headlock. ‘So, you know what’s happening tomorrow?’ he said, getting straight to the point.
Ollie inclined his head, freeing his fingers from Barry’s grip and shaking them out. ‘I do indeed.’
‘After the switch-on and presentation, we usually decamp to The Anchor for a celebratory drink. Providing I win,’ he said, casting a black look at Mr Flannery, who picked up my snow globe and gave it a violent shake, as if wishing it was Barry.
‘Sounds grand,’ said Ollie, keenly. ‘I rather fancy sampling the local ale.’
The Harassed Couple exchanged a look that suggested they couldn’t wait to get home and send up his accent.
‘Seen all the displays yet?’ said Barry.
Celia threw him a black look. ‘Don’t bother looking at my house,’ she said. ‘I’m not taking part.’
‘Well, they’re all… spectacular.’ Ollie clearly wasn’t at ease with a man like Barry, who oozed testosterone, and not in the manner of someone who enjoyed a workout. More like a man who’d slam you against a wall and get you to spill your secrets. ‘You’ve done a splendid job.’
Barry’s nod suggested his light display was indeed splendid. ‘Covered the whole house,’ he said. ‘You can hardly see a brick for fairy lights.’ He looked around and chuckled, his belly wobbling. ‘These lot are amateurs, but they do their best.’
Had he seen the gingerbread and Frozen houses? I sensed he was attempting to be matey, but Ollie tilted his head so he was literally looking down on Barry.
‘Ah, but have you ever heard the saying, “Less is more”?’ he said. ‘Not a concept you’re familiar with, I take it?’
‘Less is more?’ Barry looked around for support. ‘Are you kidding me? More is more, when it comes to Christmas lights.’
‘I just think there’s a tendency for them to look a bit… well, tacky.’ Ollie narrowed his gaze. ‘My mother has a saying, “There’s beauty in simplicity.” I think there’s a lot to be said for that.’ Shut up, Ollie. ‘Clearly the message hasn’t reached…’ he turned querying eyes in my direction. ‘Where am I, again?’
‘Maple Hill,’ I said, trying to warn him to be quiet with my tone.
‘That’s the one.’ He resettled his gaze on Barry, who’d gone ominously still. ‘I think if you removed some of the more common elements – the flashing Father Christmas, for instance, and those dreadful angels – it would all come together in a much classier fashion.’ He cast his gaze around the room, seemingly oblivious to the fact that everyone had frozen in unnatural poses, like children playing statues. Even the music had stopped in the middle of ‘Frosty the Snowman’. ‘I’m not that keen on themes, either,’ he continued. ‘They’re a bit too “try-hard”.
The Harassed Couple joined hands, as if what they’d heard required some support. ‘So, basically, you’re saying you hate them all?’ they said at the same time.
‘No, but I rather like that lovely Lily’ – he flung out an arm in my direction – ‘hasn’t bothered with a single light outside, which makes the effect of the candle display over there’ – he swung his arm to the windowsill, where the little golden bulbs glowed against the glass – ‘all the more effective.’
I wanted to say something about it not being planned, but Ollie had moved on.
‘I’ll tell you what you could all do to impress me even more.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘How about you all reveal a secret talent, and Craig over there can film it? I’m sure Loretta can carry a tune.’ He jiggled his eyebrows at her. ‘She’s certainly got the lungs for it.’
‘Pervert,’ muttered Mr Flannery.
‘Who the hell’s Loretta?’ said Celia, jamming a handful of Viennese whirls into her skirt pocket.
‘Why are you using my wife’s middle name?’
‘Oh, is it?’ Ollie looked at Barry, in obvious confusion. ‘I didn’t realise.’
Barry bristled. ‘I’ll show you my secret talent in a minute, you hoity-toity twat.’
Sheelagh laid a restraining hand on Barry’s arm. ‘You’re here to judge the lights,’ she said to Ollie. ‘We’re not performing monkeys.’ She looked deeply wounded at having to scold her hero, and Ollie finally seemed to register that he’d misjudged the situation.
‘It was just a bit of fun, you know that, don’t you?’ He directed his words at the Harassed Couple, perhaps hoping that because they were closer in age, they’d agree.
‘No,’ they said in tandem.
I glanced at Craig, half expecting him to have switched on his camera now that ‘reality’ had snuck in, but he was merely observing while pushing crisps into his mouth.
‘The public like our displays,’ Dennis offered. ‘They come especially to see them and then donate money to local charities.’
Jane nodded, adjusting her glasses as though to get a clearer look at Ollie. ‘My flowers in the summer, our Christmas lights in December,’ she said.
‘“Less is more” doesn
’t apply to Christmas.’ Celia’s tone suggested it was a fact she’d read, rather than her opinion.
Chester sank down on the rug and sighed.
‘None of the houses will win if that’s your criteria,’ Mr Flannery pointed out. ‘Everyone’s gone to town, as it were.’
‘OK, I get it,’ said Ollie, rallying. ‘I’m very sorry if I’ve caused any offence.’ He placed his hands on the sides of his head and said in a monotone, ‘Less isn’t more. More is more. Keep an open mind.’
‘Is he taking the piss?’ said Mr Flannery, putting down the plastic cup of lychee-and-guava juice he’d been holding.
‘Sounds like it to me.’ Barry’s chest swelled and even Celia looked like she wanted to thwack Ollie with her stick.
I cleared my throat. ‘I’m sure Mr Matheson didn’t mean to upset anyone and that he’ll judge your displays with a fair and open mind.’
Barry rounded on me. ‘Not a very good choice of judge, if you ask me.’
‘Leave her alone,’ said Sheelagh, but the look she flung me was wounded.
‘Shame you couldn’t find someone who lived on this planet.’ Mr Flannery seemed pleased when everyone agreed, and knowing I was the cause of this rare event brought me close to tears.
‘Don’t talk to her like that.’ Ollie came over and placed a protective arm around my shoulders. ‘You should be thanking Lily. I’d planned to go abroad for the season.’
‘Not helpful,’ I muttered.
‘Like that, is it?’ Jane’s smile was knowing, and slightly excited. ‘We can’t expect you to be impartial if you’re… involved.’
‘We’re not involved.’ I shrugged Ollie’s arm off. ‘Mr Matheson’s here to do a job, and he’s going to do it to the best of his ability.’ I nudged him with my elbow and he nodded.
‘Yah, absolutely.’
‘Or, his friend could do the judging.’ I swung round to see Doris pointing at Craig. ‘He seems like a very nice man.’
There were murmurs of agreement.
How did they know that Craig was a very nice man?
‘Not up himself like the posh one,’ the Harassed Wife muttered.
‘Charming,’ said Ollie, his mouth turning down. ‘What a bunch of ungrateful—’
‘Shush,’ I hissed. ‘You’ve done enough damage already.’
Craig was shaking his head. ‘Thanks, but that’s not why I’m here.’ He placed his empty plate on the arm of a chair. ‘Ollie will do a good job, I promise.’
No one looked convinced.
‘Frosty the Snowman’ burst back into life, but the mood had gone flat.
With a heavy feeling in my chest I waved the bottle I was still holding. ‘Would anyone like some wine?’
They all shook their heads without looking at me.
I tried to think what I would do if I was in the classroom, but I didn’t fancy my chances of getting them to sing a song or listen to a story. ‘Help yourselves to sandwiches,’ I said. ‘There’s plenty more.’
‘I think we’ll make a move.’ The Harassed Husband glanced at his watch. ‘The twins are due back from their gran’s any time,’ he said, as though they were catching the bus.
‘Thanks for the food,’ his wife said, not meeting my eye as they hurried past, trailing a scent of baby milk and nappies.
They didn’t even glance at Ollie, who’d slumped on the sofa with a look of bewilderment, as if nothing like this had ever happened to him before – which it probably hadn’t.
‘I’m staying with my sister tonight and need to pack a bag,’ said Sheelagh, throwing Ollie a sad look, while Barry stomped by without a word. ‘Sorry, Lily.’
One by one they all trooped out with vague, muttered goodbyes. Snapping into teacher mode, I positioned myself in the hall and made sure everyone picked the right coat off the pile.
‘Hope to see you all for the switching-on ceremony,’ I said brightly to each of them as they left. ‘And I promise your lights will be judged fairly.’
Chester nudged my hip as if in sympathy, before trotting out after Celia, and it was all I could do not to cry. Dogs might have sharp teeth, but at least they weren’t judgemental – and they didn’t give a stuff about Christmas lights.
Doris was the last to leave, her canvas bag tucked in the crook of her elbow. ‘It’ll be fine, you’ll see,’ she said, patting my arm. ‘You can return my containers any time.’ Halfway down the frost-coated path to the gate, she turned. ‘Oh, and I had a nice chat with your mother earlier. She’s invited me over after Christmas, to see one of her plays.’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Well, that didn’t go as planned.’
‘It could have been worse,’ said Craig. ‘At least no one took a swing at him, like they did at his book-signing.’
He was helping me clear up in the kitchen, while Ollie – clearly unsettled by everyone’s hasty departure – was watching A Muppet Christmas Carol on the television, saying he’d always liked Miss Piggy’s interpretation of Emily Cratchit.
‘Were you there?’ I said. ‘At the book-signing.’
Craig shook his head. ‘He was pretty upset though. He called and asked me to take him to hospital.’
‘I suppose it’s a shock to find out someone dislikes you enough to want to hurt you.’
His gaze searched my face. ‘Speaking from experience?’
I thought of Max’s wife and gave the washing-up-liquid bottle an extra-vicious squeeze. ‘Maybe,’ I said.
‘I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt you.’
I looked at him, surprised. He was poised, bin-bag in one hand and one of Doris’s sausage rolls in the other. ‘You don’t really know me,’ I pointed out, heat spreading over my face.
He shrugged. ‘What can I say? I’m good at reading people.’
I thought again about Ollie having his jaw dislocated. ‘Have you ever been attacked?’
Craig ate the sausage roll in one quick bite and swallowed. ‘No, but I’m not in the public eye like Ollie.’
‘It’s horrible, being judged,’ I said. ‘It’s the injustice of it, when you haven’t done anything wrong.’ I thought of the parting shot Max’s wife had hurled before she stormed out of the classroom. ‘If it wasn’t for you, he’d have come back sooner.’ As if I’d single-handedly wrecked their marriage – a marriage which I’d thought was over. I’d tormented myself afterwards that I shouldn’t have got involved until Max was divorced. Before I met him, I’d been a poster girl for sensible decision-making.
‘Ollie does get it wrong sometimes,’ Craig was saying. ‘He’s not always diplomatic. He tends to say the first thing that comes into his head.’
‘I quite like that about him.’ I flushed again, remembering that Craig had caught us almost-kissing. It felt like ages ago.
‘You and I might, but not everyone will.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Anyway, as long as you like yourself, who cares what others think?’ He tied up the bin-bag and put it by the back door.
I was about to reply with a quip about him sounding like a therapist, when Ollie came into the kitchen.
‘Let’s go out on the town,’ he said, good humour seemingly restored. ‘The Mop Hill bunch might not have warmed up to me yet—’
‘Maple Hill,’ Craig and I said together.
‘That’s what I said.’ He widened his eyes, innocently. ‘They might not like me yet, but I’m sure I can win over the locals in the pub.’
‘How about we have a wander up and down Maple Hill and you make a final decision about which display you like best?’ I suggested. ‘You have to pick one, even if you hate them.’
‘I don’t hate them, that’s not what I meant,’ he said. ‘And anyway, it’ll only take me a couple of minutes to choose.’ He held out his hands to me. ‘We could go dancing. I’ll show you my moves, if you show me yours.’
He broke into a Charleston with jazz hands and twisty feet, but although I laughed, and was relieved that he seemed back on
form, I felt my energy draining as though a plug had been pulled. ‘There’s nowhere to go dancing in Shipley, as far as I know.’
‘Just as well with those moves,’ Craig said drily.
‘So Shipley’s a cultural wasteland,’ Ollie said, panting lightly. ‘Maybe further afield?’ He looked at Craig, though I wasn’t sure he knew the area any better than I did.
‘Mate, I’m knackered.’ Craig sagged against the worktop to demonstrate. ‘Can’t we carry on eating in front of the TV? Elf might be on.’
‘That’s my favourite Christmas film,’ I said, pleased.
Craig grinned at me. ‘It’s a classic.’
‘Watching telly’s a bore,’ said Ollie, faking a yawn. ‘Anyway, I’ve seen Elf a hundred times.’
Craig shook his head. ‘What about an early night?’
‘Ooh, I didn’t know you felt like that.’ Lunging forward, Ollie pulled him into a bear-hug and half danced, half dragged him round the kitchen, planting noisy kisses on top of his hair. I was reminded of Chris and me, play-fighting when we were young, and felt a pang for those carefree times.
‘Gerroff,’ Craig said, pummelling Ollie’s sides. He broke free, aiming a friendly kick at Ollie’s midriff, and I could suddenly see what Mum had meant about Ollie needing someone like Craig to balance him out.
Ollie grabbed one of Doris’s Tupperware containers and stuffed a couple of biscuits into his mouth. He chewed for a moment, then spat into his hand. ‘Jesus, what are they?’ he said, while Craig and I erupted into laughter.
‘They’re dog biscuits,’ I spluttered. ‘Doris brought them for the Labrador.’
Still laughing – a surprisingly warm and hearty sound – Craig twisted his head away as Ollie tried to push some into his mouth. ‘You should try one of her birdseed muffins,’ he said. ‘Apparently, it’s cheaper to buy millet from the pet store than those fancy, overpriced sunflower seeds that you get at the supermarket.’ He did a passable impression of Doris’s Dorset twang, and I wondered when she’d told him that.
‘No, thanks.’ Ollie wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and shuddered. ‘Well, I definitely need a drink after that and I don’t mean your sorry excuse for wine.’ He nodded at the unopened bottle Sheelagh had brought.
