The Christmas Promise

by Sue Moorcroft

  He was beside her in seconds, snow beading his hair. ‘A hot drink sounds fantastic.’

  The hall was cramped and she was aware of the fresh coolness of the rain emanating from his clothes. ‘The sitting room’s through that door.’ She flicked the lights on and pointed the way, dumping her abused pillbox hat on the hall table. ‘Make yourself at home. I’m frozen and I’m going to change.’ She wasn’t shivering any less violently now she was indoors.

  As he headed up the hall, she ran up both flights of stairs and into her bedroom in the attic, pulling off her clothes, damp from rain and spilled wine, huddling thankfully into jeans, jumper, two pairs of socks and mulberry and cream Peruvian knitted slippers. Warmth over style.

  Back downstairs, she found that Sam had hung his damp jacket on the sitting room door and claimed the jewel-green armchair in the corner. He was turning her bedraggled hat over in his hands contemplatively. ‘Is this fixable?’

  ‘Yes, it just needs a bit of a redo. I think the whole evening does,’ she joked feebly.

  He grinned. ‘It did look a bit too exciting for comfort.’

  After ascertaining that he would prefer coffee to hot chocolate Ava went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. ‘Sorry it’s only instant,’ she said, as she carried both mugs into the sitting room. She took the other armchair, ruby red, and regarded him from under her lashes.

  He smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry to impose on you. I’ve texted Patrick to take care of the bill on the agency’s behalf and I’ll call a minicab when I’ve drunk this.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ It was true that she’d rather have sunk into a hot bath before bed than entertain someone she’d only just met, but she could hardly blame Sam for the rain now clattering at the windows. She tucked her feet up into the squashy cushions and savoured the heat of the coffee. ‘It was good of you to worry about Harvey. I didn’t really think about him still being outside.’

  Her phone beeped the arrival of a text message and she slipped her phone from her pocket to look at the screen. Then froze. The caller ID said Harvey.

  Her finger hovered over the message icon. Slowly, reluctantly, she opened it. No words. Just an image.

  Nausea swept over her in a cold tide. That wasn’t a view of herself she could usually see without a mirror.

  Sam was watching Ava when she checked her phone. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anybody change colour so quickly. It gave him an odd feeling, as if a string ran from her emotions to his guts.

  ‘OK?’ he queried, neutrally.

  She blinked huge eyes. ‘Fine.’

  But he could almost see her heart pounding. What the hell was going on? Why had that arse of an ex been so unpleasantly physical?

  Sam dropped his gaze to the small round hat and made his voice conversational. ‘My mother’s involved in a support group for women who have been made to feel unsafe. In terms of situations to be wary of, your ex raises a lot of flags. Alcohol. Anger. Violence. Perhaps unresolved conflict. I was probably being overly cautious in suspecting that he’d hang around outside the bar but I’ve read the literature her support group puts out and I know bad stuff happens too easily.’

  ‘It was very responsible of you to check I got home.’ Her voice was almost entirely without inflexion.

  He shrugged, as if being called responsible was a criticism, turning the small hat over, careful of the mashed feather. The hat smelled like new clothes. ‘He worried you. He was violent. If that concerns me then possibly it should concern you. It’s an option to seek support, either from a group or from the police.’

  ‘Harvey can be an arse and he’s risen to new heights. But he’s never tried anything like he did tonight.’ Absently, she began to uncoil her hair, running her fingers through it until it fell, crinkly from the plaits, nearly to her waist.

  Sensing that she was reluctant to dwell on the subject, he offered her an escape route. ‘Tell me about making hats.’

  Rather than becoming animated and enthusiastic, as he’d envisaged, she rolled her eyes. ‘If it was that easy to explain I wouldn’t have spent four years at university to learn the craft, let alone worked for peanuts to gain experience.’

  ‘Right.’ He took out his phone, ready to ring a cab before the snow could settle and make getting home a chore. The agency Christmas bash wasn’t his idea of heaven but he’d taken responsibility for it as part of his role to encourage bonding among the creative talent. Ms Fine-One-Minute-Terse-the-Next here was undoubtedly a creative talent – but not Jermyn’s. Not his problem.

  But then she sighed. ‘Sorry! It’s a bit of a sore point with me right now, that’s all. But I can show you, if you want. It’s easier than trying to explain.’

  He paused, his thumb hovering over the name of a taxi company. ‘You’re going to make me a hat?’

  A smile fleeted across her face. It sparkled her eyes and softened the fullness of her lips. ‘I was thinking more of showing you my workroom. If you want me to make you a hat it’ll cost serious money.’

  He finished the last of his coffee and deposited the mug on the wooden floor. ‘Sounds interesting. I’ve never met a hat maker before.’

  ‘Milliner.’ She put down her cup and rose to her feet. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  Let’s go upstairs. Sternly, he told himself not to return an appreciative reply or let his thoughts show on his face. Ava’s faint flush told him that she was already all too aware of how it had sounded.

  He followed her up two flights. When they reached the top floor, they passed a door on the right and she pulled it shut. Bedroom. A none-too-subtle signpost that he wouldn’t be getting in there. She switched on the light in another room and he found they were under the eaves. A skylight gazed up at a starless night and snowflakes landed on the glass before slithering slowly down.

  ‘Welcome to my studio. Here’s where I take a variety of materials, add steam and a little enchantment – and out come hats.’ She swept a theatrical hand towards the shelves of teetering circular wooden forms, a whole spectrum of thread racked on spools near the window and a scarlet hat perched on a stand. A sink hugged one wall and a full-length mirror gleamed from a corner.

  He picked up a fold of bright blue hessian-like fabric from a work surface. ‘Do you make the hats out of this stuff?’

  ‘Some of them. It’s sinamay, a natural material, woven by hand. It dyes beautifully. But I use all kinds of materials, like felt, crinoline or straw, too.’

  Boxes stood in the centre of the floor. Ava flipped the lid from one and lifted out several hats nested inside one another. ‘Fancy a fedora in magenta and navy hoops, sir? A black picture hat with loops of twisted sinamay? Or maybe you’d prefer a turquoise headpiece with a backswept crinoline knot? Perfect for your next cocktail party.’

  ‘Damn. I don’t have a cocktail party in my Christmas diary.’ He took the turquoise cocktail hat and turned it over in his hands, feeling the fine nap of the felt, the contrasting stiffness of the crinoline. The hat was beautifully made. He looked in vain for a stitch or spot of glue. It balanced on his palm like a humming bird.

  The fun faded from Ava’s expression. ‘These are my samples from the summer and autumn. I hoped to get money out of them in the West Yard Market today but they’re not right for it. They’re too expensive. I should have tried to get in the Apple Market at Covent Garden. I was being lazy, I suppose, with Camden markets right on my doorstep.’

  He returned the cocktail hat and had a look at the no-nonsense lines of the fedora, the ebullience of the broad-brimmed picture hat, its loops of twisted sinamay somehow giving the impression of having been frozen in motion. ‘Isn’t that how you normally sell?’

  She sank down cross-legged on the floorboards, taking up a saucer-like blue-green hat and spinning it on one finger. ‘No. It was my first time and I suppose I was hoping for miracles. Bespoke business is slow.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Understatement.’

  He stooped and carefully picked up a purple wheel-like number
, its finely woven straw spiralling up to a domed crown, a froth of net around its brim. ‘So, suppose that I was a bespoke customer—’

  ‘Client.’

  ‘Client. What would be your approach?’ He folded himself down on the floor across from her.

  She propped her elbows on her knees, chin on hands. Her eyes were the blue of the deepest sea on a sunny day. ‘You’d contact me and we’d talk. You’d make an appointment. You’d arrive. After offering you a cup of something, I’d invite you to sit on the stool in front of the mirror. You’d probably bring the outfit that the hat’s to go with. I’d be pleasant and positive.’

  He chuckled. ‘You don’t look pleasantly positive, tonight. You look pissed at the world.’

  A faint smile flitted across her face. ‘If you were a paying client I’d be pleasantly positive, don’t you worry.’

  ‘OK.’ He got up and settled himself on the small wooden stool. ‘Pretend.’

  Discarding the hat, she rose to stand behind him, running her hands over her hair to tidy it and pasting on a wide smile. ‘Well, Mr Important Man, shall we begin with the occasion? Is the hat for a wedding – and, if so, are you of the bride’s entourage? Or perhaps it’s for a garden party? Or maybe you’re interested in something burlesque?’

  Burlesque made him think of short shiny skirts, fishnet stockings and low-cut corset tops. ‘I want to be outrageous and say go for burlesque but I’m worried you’ll have to pretend I’m a woman.’

  Through the mirror, he caught her eyes dancing. ‘I don’t have any men’s hats so I will have to pretend that.’

  ‘Then I’m worried you’ll think I’ll enjoy it.’

  This time, she laughed, and her face filled with light.

  He watched her as she studied him for several seconds, stepping side-to-side. She looked different without her slinky dress but he’d always been a sucker for well-fitting jeans. Hers fit particularly well, distressed to the degree of softness that allowed the fabric to hug her shape, a hole on the thigh giving him a glimpse of smooth white skin.

  Turning to the boxes, she lifted out several more hats. Some she lodged on a nearby surface, one she placed precisely on his head, so light, so silky inside that he could scarcely feel it. However, the phrase ‘total buffoon’ had been invented for exactly the way he looked.

  ‘I don’t think pale orange is me,’ he pointed out, drily.

  ‘It’s peach. Quite a rich peach, but definitely peach.’

  ‘I don’t think peach is me.’

  She viewed his reflection critically. ‘It’s not masculine but the colour brings out the coppery lights in your hair. It’s a smart little straw trilby but too small a brim for the size of your head, and the crown isn’t big or deep enough. It perches instead of fitting.’

  ‘I look like a seaside donkey in a sun hat.’

  She frowned in mock reproof. ‘You look like a man in a hat that’s too feminine a colour for his tastes and the wrong size. And if you were a donkey, there would be holes for your ears.’ Popping the hat on the work surface, she lifted another. ‘With quite a large head—’

  ‘That’s not very positive.’

  ‘With a strongly sized head,’ she amended smoothly, ‘a definite shape brings balance. This picture hat’s made from elegant velour felt.’ She settled on his head a navy blue and white hat with an enormous brim, paying attention to the degree of tilt. ‘This hides a lot of your pretty hair—’

  He snorted.

  She kept a straight face. ‘—but it balances out your strong jaw without hiding your eyes. It lends itself to a jaunty angle—’

  ‘I think I get the idea.’ He removed the hat. The velour felt as soft as a cloud.

  Eyes twinkling, she reached for another creation.

  ‘Not pink!’ he protested, jumping up. He’d let her gently ridicule him to cheer her up but a man had to have some standards. ‘Even donkeys would object to pink. Thank you for the fitting. I’ll remember you if my mother or aunt go to a wedding.’

  ‘Please do,’ she said, seriously, placing the hat on a stand with a tiny sigh.

  ‘So these are the shapes you make hats on?’ He walked to the shelf of wooden forms. ‘They must represent quite an investment.’

  ‘Much more of an investment than I’d ever appreciated when I worked for someone else. Unfortunately, there was a dearth of pre-loved equipment around when I bought.’ She began taking hats out of one box and stands from another, arranging them on the broad work surface, red, navy, pink, mint, coffee, lemon.

  ‘You make the hats all by hand?’

  ‘Yes, I individually design, hand block, hand stitch and embellish.’

  ‘What’s blocking?’

  She paused in unpacking the boxes to take down a couple of the wooden forms. ‘These are blocks. This one’s a brim, this is a crown. I put them together, like this.’ The crown atop the brim block made a recognisable hat shape. ‘Then if I’m making a straw, for example, I take a cone, apply stiffener, steam it, pin it on the blocks, let it dry. Repeat. When it has dried for the second time, I have the basic shape of the hat. I make a lining and a head fitting and I make the decorations.’

  ‘It must demand quite a skill set.’ He wished that he did have a relative who was going to a wedding and wanted one of Ava’s creations. He’d enjoyed the glimpse of her sense of fun that his ‘hat fitting’ had generated. He picked up a large yellow sinamay hat with an extravagant and intricately tied bow and turned it over, reading the label. ‘Ava Bliss Millinery. Is Bliss your surname?’

  She went back to setting out her stock, a whirl of shapes and sizes, a rainbow of colours. ‘Blissham. But who isn’t attracted to a little bliss?’

  Who indeed? He replaced the cartwheel hat thoughtfully. ‘How much would it cost to have one of your hats made?’

  ‘About as much as it might cost for two to four people to go to a West End show, depending on the theatre and the showing. And the hat.’ She’d finished setting hats out, some on stands, some hooked to a trellis on the wall, a few scattered on the surface in artistic profusion. She stacked the boxes beneath the work surface.

  ‘Could you make one for Christmas? If I brought you a client at the weekend?’

  ‘Bet your arse.’ Slowly, her gaze sharpened. ‘I mean, yes, if the materials are readily available. There are occasions when clients are so particular or specific that it takes me a while to source something, but not many.’

  He tucked his hands into his pockets. ‘This person is one of the easiest people in the world to please. She’s never had anything as fantastic as a bespoke hat and she probably won’t know what to do with it. But …’ Taking a long deep breath, he looked into Ava Blissham’s face. ‘It’s my mum. She’s had ovarian cancer and she’s starting chemotherapy after Christmas. She’s got this bit of breathing space while her body gets over the hysterectomy.’ He swallowed. ‘She and my Aunt Vanessa brought me up. They gave me a great Christmas every year and I’ve probably taken for granted everything they’ve done for me. So I’m giving them Christmas this year, and if ever there was an occasion for Mum’s gift to be expensive, frivolous and blissful, this is it.’

  Ava’s expression spoke of surprise and shock. ‘Wow. I’m so sorry.’ She gazed at him for several long moments, colour creeping into her cheeks. She swallowed. ‘I don’t want to be rude but I can’t afford to be polite. I’m incredibly sympathetic about your mum but I can’t offer you a special rate.’

  ‘I don’t want a special rate. I want a special gift.’

  Her eyes shone with a suspicion of tears. ‘I can make her one.’

  Izz arrived home when Ava was flicking through television channels, wondering whether Tod’s or Izz’s techie talents stretched to sending a horrible virus to Harvey’s phone. Let that sync across all his devices!

  Izz’s hair was no longer spiky, and clung damply around her head. ‘It started snowing and I couldn’t get a cab,’ she shivered, dropping down into the green chair. Her gaze fell on the two
empty cups on the table. ‘I saw Sam follow you out of Blaggard’s.’ Then she nodded at the TV screen. ‘Look – Hugo Boss Christmas Man. I think he’s hotter than Dolce & Gabbana Christmas Man, this year.’

  Ava paused in her channel hopping to let Hugo Boss Christmas Man smoulder from the screen. ‘I haven’t seen the Dolce & Gabbana ad. I’ll have to watch out for it. Sam made sure I got home OK in case Harvey was hanging around. When it started to snow I gave him a cup of coffee while he waited for a cab.’

  Izz pulled off her jacket and dragged out a tartan throw from behind the chair to curl up in, using the corner to dry her face. ‘Sam likes you.’

  Ava’s heart gave a squeeze at her friend’s wistful tone. ‘What makes you think that?’

  Izz shrugged. ‘I can tell. Men usually do like you.’

  Ava tried to make it into a joke. ‘Harvey likes me and I don’t want to be liked by him. He’s a shit.’ She groaned. ‘He’s got some, um … bedroom photos of me and he’s threatening to let them escape into the wild.’ Even telling Izz, her face heated with mortification.

  Izz swung away from the TV screen where Hugo Boss Christmas Man was being replaced by an advert for wincingly boring coats, her eyes widening with horrified sympathy. ‘Oh Ava. Harvey is a shit. What are you going to do?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Another advert came on. Izz nodded at the screen. ‘Joop! Christmas Man. He’d be OK if it wasn’t for the beard. Sam’s not a shit. I wanted him to like me. I wanted that a lot.’ She wiped at her face with the throw again. She might have been wiping away tears.

  Ava felt a pang in the place inside her that she thought of as her ‘Izz spot’. She began searching the channels for a Big Bang Theory rerun. Izz loved Sheldon Cooper. She probably loved Sheldon Cooper more than Amy Farrah Fowler did. ‘Maybe he’ll get to like you.’

  Izz clambered to her feet. ‘I’m frozen, so I’m going to bed. Sam probably thinks I’m as flaky as pastry because I can never think of what to say to him. I get stuttery.’

  Ava put out her hand to her as she passed. ‘Izz? You’re not as flaky as pastry. I love you to bits. I think you’re awesome with all the things you know about techie stuff and music. You’re the best bestie.’