by Liz Eeles
‘Why are you here, Jazz?’
‘I told you – to drop off your jumper, check out Friday with Zac, and see where you’re living. Why are you being so weird all of a sudden?’
‘I’m not. It’s just that you’ve never seemed interested in where I live before.’
‘Bit harsh. Of course I was interested but I’m a super-busy person. Are you really going to barricade me in a man’s bedroom while you diss me for doing a good deed?’
Hmm, Jasmine has many positive qualities but doing good deeds with no ulterior motive is not one of them.
‘Come on, Beccs. I don’t want to have to fight you ’cos you know I’d whop your arse.’ Jasmine raises her fists and I have to grin as I remember the scraps we had as children. We got on pretty well as kids, most of the time. We weren’t as close as everyone expected us to be – they thought, being twins, we’d be joined at the hip. We were never that close, but we were good friends, until our teenage years when hormones kicked in. I wish we were closer now.
I step back from the door and unfold my arms. ‘Sorry, and thanks for bringing my jumper back. It was just a bit full-on at work today. How’s your job going?’
‘Oh, you know. Good. Though it always takes a while to settle in to somewhere new.’
‘Especially when you’ve got lots of new clients to impress?’
‘Yeah, that kind of stuff.’ Jasmine suddenly doesn’t look quite as glowy as usual. Her eyes aren’t as sparkly and there’s something missing – as though she’s been slightly flattened.
‘Is everything all right, Jazz?’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’ she says, snapping back into mega-watt golden mode.
‘I just thought it’s probably tiring, pitching to all those high-level clients.’
‘It’s exhausting. But did I mention that my boss thinks I have massive potential?’
‘Yep,’ I tell her, opening the door to Zac’s bedroom wide, to let her out. ‘I think you might have mentioned it once or twice.’
Jasmine sits on our sofa drinking coffee, chatting with Zac and flicking her hair back over her shoulder for ages before she heads off. And she’s only been gone a few minutes when Zac’s mobile phone dings with a text.
He puts down the dirty coffee mugs he was carrying and ferrets in his pocket for his phone. He reads it and grins.
‘Who’s that from?’
‘Jasmine.’
‘Really? What does she want?’
‘Nothing. Just stuff about the do we’re going to.’
He shoves his phone back into his pocket and heads into the kitchen with the mugs.
A couple of hours later, after we’ve pigged out on chops and mixed veg, I notice Zac’s phone on the coffee table. Zac has nipped into the kitchen for another lager and I’m supposed to be setting up the next episode of Modern Family on the Sky box.
I put the remote down and pick up his mobile. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. Spying on your housemate is all kinds of wrong. Though is it wrong when it involves your twin sister who might be leading said housemate astray? I quickly key in Zac’s passcode and click on his text messages.
There it is. With a nervous glance towards the kitchen, I open the text from Jasmine and quickly read it.
Hope you are OK with do being black tie. It’ll be a bit posh, but it should be fun. Thanks so much for coming with me. I’m really looking forward to it x
She texted him a kiss… but Jasmine puts kisses on the ends of all her texts, even her passive-aggressive ones to me when we’re in the middle of a barney.
Becca, you really need to grow up x
Becca, you really need to sort your life out x
Becca, you really need to stop being such a wuss x
Jasmine thinks I really need to do quite a lot of things. And the kisses are always there, whatever the tone of her message. So it doesn’t matter that she’s texting Zac kisses. It doesn’t mean anything in particular. And what does it matter if it does? Urgh, my head is all over the place and I’m turning into a horrible person who selfishly wants to keep her best friend all to herself.
I close my eyes, cross my fingers and make an extra Christmas wish for Zac, who deserves nothing but the best in life. I wish for Zac whatever will make him happy. And if that happens to be my sister, so be it.
Eleven
‘So that’s how I’m thinking of changing The Cosy Kettle for the party.’ I look up from the plans I’ve listed on a spreadsheet and wait for Flora’s reaction. A wave of anxiety swooshes through me as she studies the A3 sheet I’ve laid out across the counter in the café. What if she hates what I’ve planned and thinks I’m over-reaching myself? I want to impress her, not worry her.
Flora smiles. ‘You’ve really thought this through, Becca. It sounds great but quite different from what you mentioned the other day. I thought Dick and Stanley were helping you by getting all dressed up and there were going to be carols in the garden?’
‘I’ve had a bit of a rethink after my meeting with Logan. He’s looking for sophistication because his VIP guests are French, and I don’t think Dick and Stanley quite fit the bill.’
‘Probably not,’ says Flora, giving me a straight look that’s hard to interpret. ‘Madrigals – whatever they are – certainly sound far more upmarket and I can’t wait to see a transformed Cosy Kettle. I noticed it’s looking a little bare in here.’
She frowns at a large box in the corner. Strands of shiny red tinsel are snaking from underneath the cardboard lid, and a heap of paper chains are piled on a table nearby. Next to them is the rolled-up poster of the snow-encrusted fir tree.
‘I’ve started taking some of the tackier Christmas decorations down so I can replace them with more upmarket decs and make the café look a little more elegant.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Flora sucks her lower lip between her teeth.
‘So, um… are you’re happy for me to carry on?’
Flora carefully folds the spreadsheet and hands it back to me. ‘This is your party, Becca. You got the booking and you’re arranging it and I know that The Cosy Kettle is in safe hands. I have every faith in you.’
If only I had faith in myself. I catch the thought as it swirls around my head and do my best to damp it down.
‘Did you say you’re having problems tracking down the madrigals quartet?’
‘Their website doesn’t seem to be working at the moment.’
‘You ought to have a chat with Luna. She might be able to help.’
‘How?’
‘I’m sure she knows the woman who sings in the madrigal group and, as it’s all a bit late notice, she can probably put a good word in for you too. Why don’t you nip along and see her now? I can keep an eye on the café for you.’
‘What, see Luna in her shop? Now?’
‘Yes, it’ll only take you a few minutes. Have you ever been in her shop?’ When I shake my head, her mouth lifts in the corner. ‘It’s definitely worth a look, and it’s nothing to be frightened of.’
‘I’m not frightened. I’ve just never needed anything she sells.’
I’m lying, and my nerves increase as I rush along the High Street towards Luna’s Magical Emporium. Rumour has it that Luna is a white witch, which is ridiculous. But anything supernatural gives me the creeps which is why I’ve never been into her shop. I went to Luna’s home, Starlight Cottage, once, when she hosted a book club meeting for Flora, and that was quite enough for me. The creepy cottage, in the middle of nowhere, was mega-spooky, with candles and incense, gloomy cobwebbed corners and paintings of women with third eyes in the middle of their foreheads. I don’t know how Flora can live there. But I can hardly admit to Flora that I’m too nervous to go into her prospective mother-in-law’s shop – not now I’m trying so hard to impress her with my confidence and business acumen. Old fears that have held me back for ages aren’t going to scupper my Christmas wish.
Before I have time to think any more about it, I burst through the doorway into Luna’s sh
op and stand there, like an idiot.
Luna slowly looks up from the counter, where she’s sitting doing her knitting, and her strange amber eyes open wide. ‘Heavens, are you all right, Becca? You rushed in like a bat out of hell and you seem rather distracted.’
She comes out from behind the counter and starts waving her arms around in front of me. Ooh, I hate it when she does this. Flora says she does it to read my energies. I think she does it to spook the hell out of me.
‘You’re changing, child,’ says Luna, tilting her head to one side. ‘How interesting. Your energies are in flux and the colour of your aura is pulsing from shade to shade. There’s a huge transformation in progress.’
OK, I’m really spooked now. How can she possibly know that I’m trying to change myself? Unless…
‘You’ve been talking to Stanley about me, haven’t you?’
Luna shrugs and pushes her sheet of silver hair over her shoulder. ‘If you like. If that makes you feel more comfortable. How can I help you, Becca? Do you have a message from Flora or are you here looking for something?’
I glance around me at Luna’s Magical Emporium which is just as I imagined it would be. Dozens of dreamcatchers are hanging from the ceiling, one row of shelves is covered with geodes filled with amethyst crystals, another shelf is full of plastic unicorns, and there are pink faerie wings, and drawings of wood nymphs and wizards. In the corner of the store is a huge stone statue of a witch in flowing robes. She looks a lot like Luna, actually. I shiver and thrust the photo of the madrigal singers into Luna’s hands.
‘I’m here to ask for your help, actually. I’m hoping to hire these singers for a Christmas party that’s happening in The Cosy Kettle in a couple of weeks’ time and Flora said you know the lady involved? Their website isn’t working at the moment.’
Luna looks at the photo and smiles. ‘I do know Geraldine. She lives in Oxford but often comes into the shop when she’s passing Honeyford, for potpourri. I make my own using dried flowers and herbs. Here, have a sniff of my festive special.’
When she picks up a bowl on the till counter and wafts it under my nose, a rich blend of orange, star anise and cinnamon fills the room.
‘That’s really nice.’
‘I think so and my customers love it.’ Luna leads me to a bean bag in the corner of the shop and beckons for me to sit down. ‘Why don’t you take the weight off your feet for a while. Have you ever tried meditation, Becca?’
‘Sort of.’
The truth is, I’ve tried it on and off for years in a bid to promote serenity and calm my agitated brain. It seems to work for a while but I can never keep it up.
‘Did it help you?’ asks Luna, playing with the ends of the pink scarf wrapped around her head. It matches the chunk of pink crystal on a leather thong around her neck.
‘Not really. I can never keep still for long enough.’
Plus my thoughts seem louder than ever while I’m meditating. And my mind strays to all sorts of things I’d rather forget, like Charlie and Chloë wrapped in a tight embrace, and my mum’s expression when I told her I’d jacked in my high-flying job.
‘It takes practice but meditation can be very useful, especially for people with radiant souls who are shackled by fear and feelings of inadequacy.’
She gives me one of her weird knowing smiles as I wonder if she means me. Shackled by fear and feelings of inadequacy, I understand. But there’s no way I have a radiant soul. She’s getting me confused with Jasmine.
‘Let me get you a cup of herbal tea,’ says Luna. ‘What would you prefer – I have soothing chamomile, lemon balm or peppermint?’
‘That’s really kind of you but I’m afraid I need to get back to the café.’ I struggle off the bean bag and onto my feet, way out of my comfort zone and keen to leave. ‘I’d be really grateful if you could mention the party to Geraldine and ask her to give me a ring at the bookshop. Would that be OK? Or I can call her myself if you could give me her phone number.’
‘It’s probably better if I contact her initially. That’s not a problem at all. Madrigals in The Cosy Kettle – how marvellous.’ She pauses. ‘Your café has a wonderful vibrancy. I feel it emanating from the back of the bookshop whenever I call in to speak to Flora. It oozes friendliness and warmth which is testament to your sensitive spirit, Becca.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, genuinely touched by such an unexpected compliment. ‘How is Caleb doing now?’
‘My grandson is back at school with his energies restored and looking forward to Christmas. Thank you for asking about him. And how is business in the café? I imagine The Cosy Kettle must be very busy at this time of year.’
‘It is, and I’ve got the party to organise on top of everything else. Not that I’m complaining. I’m looking forward to it and hope Geraldine and her friends will be able to come along and sing for us.’
‘If the universe wills it, then it will happen,’ says Luna, with a beatific smile. ‘And I will light a candle to wish you well with your party plans and your… personal endeavours.’
Aw, that’s a bit woo-woo but very kind of her. I suddenly realise why Flora likes living with Luna – get past the spooky supernatural stuff and she’s just a lovely lady with a very eccentric fashion sense. Today, her floor-length oatmeal linen tunic is tied at the waist with what looks like a length of rope and her earrings are basically huge chunks of amber glass suspended on silver chains. She looks totally at home in this shop but quite how she sells enough of her weird stuff to keep a roof above her head is beyond me.
‘Could I buy some of your festive potpourri?’ I ask, keen to repay her in some way for helping out with Geraldine. ‘It’ll smell gorgeous in our little cottage.’
‘You live in Weavers Lane, don’t you?’ asks Luna, pouring dried fruit and herbs into a cellophane bag and sealing it with a twist of red ribbon. ‘Those cottages are even older than mine and so steeped in history. So many souls. So many stories.’ I pay quickly before she can start spooking me out about ghosts wafting round my head at home.
When I get to the door, she waves as though I’m about to embark on a long journey, and calls: ‘You are surrounded by love, Becca, and you’re worthy of it. Never forget that.’
‘Um, OK, I won’t? Thanks again for all your help.’
I feel slightly punch-drunk as I stumble out of Luna’s shop, as though I’ve been zapped by weirdness. That’s why I don’t notice Logan until he grabs my elbow.
‘Hey, watch where you’re going, Becca babe. You’re my VIP party planner and I don’t want you falling and breaking something.’
‘Sorry.’ Logan is standing so close to me with his hand supporting my elbow, the rough fibres of his navy-blue coat are grazing my cheek. Fortunately, there’s a biting wind blowing off the hills and the bracing temperature keeps my over-heated blushing in check.
He grins and lets me go. ‘So what are you doing coming out of the most bonkers shop in town?’
‘I was asking Luna to contact Geraldine who sings with the madrigal quartet. She and Geraldine are friends, apparently.’
‘Awesome.’ He gives a low whistle. ‘Actually, bumping into you is very fortuitous. I could do with your help because you’re a woman, aren’t you?’
‘I was the last time I looked.’ When Logan laughs, my shoulders drop and I start to feel more relaxed. More like the person I want to be when my Christmas wish comes true. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I need to get a Christmas present for my mother and I haven’t got a clue. She’s sorting out my presents for other members of the family but I can hardly ask her to buy her own Christmas gift, can I? Although…’ He grins when I shake my head. ‘Nah. Probably not. In which case, you need to help me choose something for her, unless you have to get back to work.’
I should get back to work. I told Flora I’d only be a little while. But Logan needs me.
‘No, it’s fine. I can spare a bit of time to help with your gift dilemma.’
‘Thanks, Becc
a. I just knew you wouldn’t let me down.’ Logan smoulders, running his tongue across his upper lip. He must have twigged I have a crush on him. Either that, or he smoulders at women indiscriminately.
Before I can work out which, he grabs my hand and starts pulling me towards the town square.
‘Let’s check out the Christmas market for present ideas, and we might get some inspiration for the party too.’ He clocks my expression and grins. ‘Had you forgotten that the market starts today? I can’t believe that the most exciting thing to happen in Honeyford for months has slipped your mind.’
It is pretty exciting actually – I love a festive market – but I had completely forgotten it, even though Honeyford Heritage Trust has been shoving flyers about it through my door for weeks. Party planning, while I’m also making my wishes come true and turning myself into a whole different person, doesn’t leave much headspace for anything else.
There’s a hubbub of noise as we get closer to the square and, when we turn the corner, I gasp. Honeyford has excelled itself. The square, edged by ancient Cotswold-stone buildings, is ablaze with hundreds of fairy lights strung around dozens of stalls. They’re glowing in the gloom of a cloudy December day, and the air is thick with the smell of cinnamon and cloves.
‘Wow, this is lovely,’ I whisper, my hand still in Logan’s.
‘It’s certainly festive, though rather over the top. Christmas markets are always a bit naff.’
He laughs at Santa, who looks remarkably like Vernon, in a tragic cotton-wool beard. But tiny children are clustered around him, their faces turned up to him in awe. They don’t think it’s naff and neither do their parents, who are enjoying seeing their youngsters experience the joy of Christmas.
Logan drops my hand and together we wander around the stalls, past striped candy canes and golden toffee apples, brightly painted tree decorations, glinting jewellery and bars of handmade soap that smell of pine needles.
