by Karen Clarke
Charlie looked thoughtful. ‘You were never that keen on travelling,’ he pointed out carefully. ‘I thought you found it stressful because you’re scared of flying and terrible at packing, and you don’t like being away from home.’
‘You make me sound like a recluse.’ I gave an airy laugh that didn’t suit me. ‘I’ve got much better at travelling,’ I said. ‘I’m fine on short-haul flights – I’m here, aren’t I? And, I’ve got loads of good packing tips.’
‘Such as?’ He looked genuinely interested.
‘Well…’ I thought back to an article I’d read online. ‘Tumble dryer sheets in your luggage to keep things smelling fresh, packing your straighteners in an oven mitt to protect them, and feeding your jewellery through a straw to keep it tangle-free.’
He gave me a level look. ‘You’ve done all of that?’
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘I don’t have any jewellery, or straws. Or tumble dryer sheets.’
He grabbed one of the pillows and pressed it over his face to stifle his mirth.
‘Oh, shut up.’ Laughing, I grabbed the pillow and whacked him with it. ‘Those tips might be really helpful to someone else.’
‘Straighteners in an oven mitt!’ His eyes were watering. ‘I’ll have to remember that the next time I go on my hols.’
‘Chuck!’
‘Sorry, I’m sorry.’ He made a play of straightening his face and looking serious. ‘I’m sure it’ll be a brilliant blog, but how are you going to make any money?’
‘Once I’m up and running, travel companies will place ads on my site, and each time a reader clicks on it, I’ll get paid.’
‘You’ll need a lot of readers, won’t you?’
‘Well, yes, but as long as I post regularly and target the right audience, it’ll happen.’ I spoke with more confidence than I felt, hoping that if I kept saying it, I’d start to believe it. ‘I just have to work hard and be patient,’ I added. ‘I did a course, run by a travel blogger.’
I tried to recapture the burst of enthusiasm I’d felt after seeing Lily Ashworth on breakfast television talking about her blog, which detailed her experiences in sun-drenched places, and when I’d looked online and saw she was running a two-day course in London, I’d immediately signed up, telling Mum and Dad I was going to stay with Anna for a few days. Anna had been surprisingly encouraging – although, with hindsight, her exhortations to get away from the bloody rat race and start living the dream, and once you’ve settled with a surfer hunk in Antigua, invite me to come and live with you might have said more about her state of mind than mine.
‘It’s about time I got out of my comfort zone,’ I said to Charlie, and saw a flicker of concern pass over his features. ‘Don’t worry, Gran’s money will tide me over,’ I added, aware how lucky I was to have options, even though I’d have traded every penny to have her back.
‘You should go to Norway to see the Northern Lights, like you planned.’
‘That was meant to be my honeymoon.’
‘I know, but there’s no reason you can’t still do it,’ he said.
I felt a familiar prickle of tears behind my eyes. ‘Maybe,’ I said, forcing lightness into my tone. ‘I could go anywhere.’
‘Remember, wherever you go, you take yourself with you.’
‘When did you become wise?’
‘It’s always been in me, I’ve kept it hidden,’ he joked. I had the sense he was on the verge of offering further advice, but instead, he twirled his hands like a magician and said, ‘Anyway, you’ve made a good start with Chamillon. It’s photogenic all year round, and there are plenty of attractions besides the café.’
‘I know, I’ve been before, remember.’ As I flashed him a smile, my gaze fell on a photo on Dolly’s bedside table, of Charlie with his arm wrapped around a pretty, windswept blonde, their heads pressed close together.
‘Is that Elle?’ I reached for the picture and studied it under the light. ‘She looks a bit like Marilyn Monroe.’
‘Gorgeous, isn’t she?’ Charlie sat up and looked at the picture with such awestruck longing I felt another shot of envy. ‘It was our first photo together,’ he added.
‘It looks like that ostrich is trying to eat your hair.’
‘It was.’ He chuckled. ‘We were at a wildlife park, trying to find a rare species of goat for Elle’s sister.’
‘That sounds completely normal.’ Tracing a finger over a plump cherub engraved on the edge of the frame, I added, ‘How did you know? That Elle was the one, I mean.’
His forehead scrunched. ‘I just liked her from the start,’ he said simply. ‘There was a connection. I don’t know…’ He rubbed his eyebrow. ‘It’s hard to explain, but I’d never experienced anything like it before.’
‘Not even with Emma?’
He shook his head. ‘Not even with Emma.’
‘And Elle… she felt the same?’
‘Obviously.’ He rubbed his hands up and down his torso and made his eyes go smoochy. ‘Who wouldn’t want some of this?’
‘That’s disgusting!’ I swiped him with the photo and he took it off me.
‘I’m sure you don’t want to look at this before you fall asleep, like Mum does.’
‘I don’t mind.’ I took it back and propped it against the lamp, liking how happy they looked – even if it highlighted the fact that I wasn’t, and probably never would be. ‘I’m surprised Dolly didn’t take it with her when she moved in with her new hubby.’
‘Oh, she’s got copies.’ His grin grew wider. ‘She took loads of us at the wedding, has hundreds more on her phone, and some we didn’t even know she was taking.’
I laughed. ‘I really am pleased for you.’
He studied me for a moment, his gaze frank. ‘And I’m sorry that things didn’t work out with Scott.’
‘Don’t be.’ I flicked his elbow. ‘Once Christmas is done with, I’ll be ready to embrace my brand-new future.’ I spoke in a film-announcer voice to lighten the mood and jumped when I heard a noise outside the room. ‘What was that?’ We listened for a moment, heads cocked. ‘Is it your friend?’
The noise came again and Charlie sprang off the bed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, after poking his head out of the door. ‘It’s only the heating coming back on. Ryan’s got into a TV drama that’s on around this time, so he’ll be watching that.’
I pressed a hand to my chest, where my heart was racing through my heavy-knit sweater. ‘He sounds like a bored middle-aged woman,’ I said. ‘Or a pensioner.’
‘He’s trying to improve his French.’
‘How long is he planning on staying?’
‘I thought you weren’t interested.’ Charlie spun round with a teasing grin, and I realised he was winding me up. ‘Hey, do you remember Scream City?’
I gave a groaning smile, recalling the summer we’d spent trying to terrify each other, hiding then pouncing to see who could produce the most blood-pounding scream. My favourite method had been to stand behind the fridge door, so when Charlie closed it, I’d be standing there, staring, while he had favoured creeping up behind me when I thought he was elsewhere and tapping me on the shoulder. My cinema-scream had easily topped his chest-clutching, high-pitched squeal – especially as I’d invariably drop whatever I was holding.
‘How could I forget?’ I said. ‘Remember when the postman heard me from the bottom of the lane and ran into the house, thinking someone was being murdered?’
‘And your dad thought he was attacking me and punched him?’
‘And the dog bit him on the bum and he tried to sue us.’
It felt good to laugh at happy memories – as if I was using muscles that hadn’t been worked for ages.
‘Listen, I’d better go down and help Mum,’ Charlie said at last, wiping his shirtsleeve across his eyes. ‘Make yourself at home and I’ll see you after we’ve closed the café.’
‘I thought you opened in the evenings.’
‘Not in winter,’ he said. ‘No one wants to com
e out after dark, and there aren’t many visitors around at this time of year.’
‘I can’t believe it’s snowing.’
‘First time in years.’ He looked pleased, as if he’d ordered it especially. ‘An Arctic front heading to Britain, that took a detour here.’
‘It was raining when I left Gatwick.’
He turned in the doorway. ‘Ryan’s sleeping in my room, by the way, which has an en suite, so the bathroom’s all yours. Well, it’s mine too,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m sleeping on the sofa.’
‘Very generous of you to give up your bed.’
‘The sofa’s really comfy. And I know he’d do the same for me.’
Once Charlie had gone, I transferred the few items of clothing I’d brought from my holdall to the wardrobe, which still held several of Dolly’s outfits – mostly going-out clothes, judging by a gold-velour jumpsuit and a couple of swishy skirts; one a violent pink, the other threaded with silver. According to Mum, Dolly and Frank enjoyed salsa dancing – a far cry from her days married to Charlie’s dad (a serial cheater, who eventually left her for a younger woman), when she’d worked hard as a marketing manager for a big tech company, only letting her hair down (literally) on visits to the farm with Charlie, when she and Mum invariably wound up jiving after getting stuck into Dad’s homemade craft beer.
There was a giant bar of Cadbury’s Wholenut chocolate at the bottom of my bag – Charlie’s and my favourite treat whenever he’d stayed at the farm – which I’d brought in case of emergency midnight hunger, and I stashed it in the drawer of the bedside cabinet.
After removing my jeans and jumper, I pulled on my favourite onesie, designed to look like a koala, with a white fluffy chest and an embroidered face and furry ears attached to a hood. About to slip into the kitchen and make a cup of tea, I hesitated. What if he was there? Ryan. It was one thing for Dolly and Charlie to see me in my nightwear, but a total stranger?
I appraised myself in the Hollywood-style mirror above the dressing table. The softly glowing bulbs cast a flattering light that evened out my winter pallor and created the illusion of cheekbones. My eyes looked smoky and mysterious and even my hair appeared thicker and shinier than usual – though still several inches shorter than I’d have liked. Not bad for a koala. I drew up the hood and waggled the ears, then brought up my hands and smoothed imaginary whiskers. Did koalas have whiskers? If I bumped into Ryan, he’d have to take me as he found me. If I’d wanted to skulk around, fully dressed and on edge, I could have stayed at home.
Edging out onto the landing, which was lit by shell-shaped sconces on the walls, I peered around. From what I remembered, Charlie’s room was the next one along, and next to that was the bathroom. The kitchen was only accessible through the living room, which was a shame if he was in there watching TV. Drawing in a breath, I crept across the carpeted floor and listened for signs of movement behind the living room door, but it was impossible to hear anything above the sound of Kylie Minogue singing ‘Santa Baby’ downstairs, accompanied by some barking – either it was a brand-new version of the song, or Hamish was singing along.
Annoyed that I was dithering, I shoved open the door and strode inside and let out a sigh of relief. The room was empty. Empty of people, that is. Blinking, I looked around, taking in the sheer excess of… stuff. Dolly certainly hadn’t confined her Christmas decorations to the café, or maintained a functional and clutter-free space in here. Although the floor-length curtains had been pulled across the window, and the overhead light was off, the room was brightly lit, thanks to about a gazillion golden lights adorning a six-foot tree in the corner with a heap of gifts underneath, wrapped in shiny, ribbon-tied paper.
Metallic foil stars dangling from the ceiling, reindeer cushions on the sofa, tinsel decorating the bookshelves and a lantern-studded garland stretching the length of the mantelpiece made me feel like I’d stepped into Santa’s Grotto. There was even a bowl of plump satsumas perched on top of a pile of newspapers, and in case there was any doubt about the time of year, a series of wooden letters spelled out Merry Christmas on the wall above the fireplace. The room so desperately needed pulling together and given some coherence – some reorganisation – that it made my fingers itch. Still, I couldn’t help a small smile when I recognised the battered nativity scene in the hearth that I’d made at school with toilet-roll holders, cotton wool and a shoebox, and presented to Dolly after she admired it.
Not wishing to linger, as nostalgia threatened to overwhelm me, I shot through to the tiny kitchen. At least Ryan was out. Hopefully, he’d taken himself for a walk – all the way to the airport.
I switched on the ceiling strip light and filled the kettle, comforted by the familiar routine. In spite of the ramped-up Christmas theme, I felt better for being away from home, as if anything might be possible. Maybe, in Chamillon, I’d finally evolve into the person I was supposed to be – Nina Bailey: independent woman and travel-blogger extraordinaire.
There was a box of my favourite teabags on the worktop, next to a mug with a Santa-hatted robin on the side (subtle, my aunt was not), and while I waited for the kettle to boil, I did a koala-dance, shuffling my feet along the floor tiles and jabbing my elbows in and out.
I’d read somewhere that koalas make an unsettling grunting sound that didn’t fit with their cute appearance and tried to conjure something more appealing: a chirruping sound, clicking the roof of my mouth with my tongue and adding a whistle and some kittenish mewing as I opened the fridge for some milk. I found an opened carton and pulled it out, and when I closed the door, a man was standing there, staring at me, and I let out a blood-curdling scream and dropped the milk.
Three
‘What the hell?’ I stared at the man, who’d grabbed a hand towel and tossed it down to staunch the flow of milk. ‘You could have killed me!’ I pressed my fist to my chest, surprised my heart was inside and not bouncing across the floor. ‘What were you doing, creeping in like that?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, calmly picking up the empty carton, seemingly unshaken by the bone-chilling strength of my scream. Hopefully, no one in the café had heard it over the blast of Snoop Dogg’s ‘Christmas in tha Dogg House.’ ‘There was a weird noise, so I came to investigate.’
‘Noise?’ My eyes ranged over him as he straightened and met my gaze. He was a few inches taller than me – maybe five ten or eleven – with a lot of dark curly hair, an unkempt beard and intense, forest-green eyes, and was wearing a loosely belted, navy dressing gown. ‘What sort of noise?’
‘I thought it was a cat.’
‘A… a cat?’ Blood surged to my cheeks. Had he heard my made-up koala impression? ‘Why would a cat be in here?’
‘One of the customers brings hers into the café. Delphine, she’s called. The cat, not the owner.’ His eyes held a glint of amusement. ‘She escaped a few days ago and found her way up here. I almost sat on her. The cat, not Madame Bisset.’ His voice was low and even, his accent similar to Charlie’s. ‘That’s the owner’s name.’
Snapping back to my senses, I swept my arm around, wishing there wasn’t a paw-like mitten attached to the cuff of my onesie. ‘Well, as you can see, there aren’t any cats in here.’
‘No,’ he agreed, shoving the soggy towel around with his bare foot. Thanks to his swift reaction and the carton being half-empty, the spill had been contained. ‘I realised it was you, making the weird noise, but didn’t get a chance to speak before you saw me and unleashed that… noise.’ Before I could dredge up an explanation, his gaze flicked up to my hood. ‘I like the look,’ he said, toying with the end of his beard, while I replayed my mortifying shuffle in lurid detail. Had he seen that too? ‘It’s very… Australian.’
I was surprised into releasing a laugh. ‘Australian?’
‘Aren’t koalas Australian?’
‘Yes, but it’s hardly a description.’
‘Cuddly?’
I tutted, glad to feel my heartrate dropping back to normal. ‘Never use
the word cuddly to describe a female.’
‘Even a female koala?’
‘Anyway, you need talk.’ I flicked my fingers at his dressing gown, which was admittedly quite stylish – thick and fleecy, with silky piping along the edges. I had a similar one at home in green. ‘What have you come as?’
‘I was about to take a shower,’ he said, eyes still staring at my furry ears as though transfixed. I noted his skin was pale, like mine, and was reminded of a TV series, where the hero transformed into a werewolf when he was hungry. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘Stop focusing on my appearance,’ I said, hypocritically. ‘It’s not normal.’
‘My focus, or your appearance?’
‘I mean, I don’t normally dress like this.’
‘Probably just as well.’ His eyebrows lifted. ‘How do you handle going to the loo?’
‘The whole thing has to come off.’ I glanced down, and only just stopped myself miming the action. What was I thinking? Not only was I having a conversation with a hairy male, I was practically discussing how I went to the toilet.
‘I suppose you’re Charlie’s friend,’ I said, to divert him.
‘You suppose correctly.’ He gave an exaggerated bow, which revealed a tunnel of chest hair and glimpse of abs. ‘Ryan Sadler,’ he said, and I realised he wasn’t bowing, he was mopping up the milk. I watched with mild fascination as he crossed to the sink and rinsed out the towel, before tossing it into the washing machine. He obviously knew his way around the kitchen.
‘You’re the one who called off his wedding on his stag night,’ I said, instead of asking whether he’d visited Chamillon before, like a normal person.
