Page 85 of It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas
Chapter 23
?Creativity rediscovered
I’d woken up smiling for the first time in ages. Because it was themorning after my First Date with Tom Brinton. And the day of our SecondDate. I rubbed my cheeks in a circular motion to try and soften my goofygrin and focus my mind on today’s first task: I had an article to write.And, crikey, over the last few days I’d collected gallons oftrope-flavoured syrup to wade through for inspiration.
When I sat down at my laptop, words flowed out of me with ease. I’d planned to write a fun little piece about all the (many) awkward ways I’d managed to tick off a surprisingly high number of Christmas movie clichés since I’d been in Scarnbrook. But, since I’d been here, another idea had been marinading. And now the flavours were searing themselves onto the page.
Because, despite Christian Woods scarpering away like a cartoon villain earlier this week, Scarnbrook remained at risk of losing one of the only pieces of its soul it had left: its last remaining pub. After my wander around the village yesterday afternoon, I’d seen more and more evidence of how Christian Woods – and no doubt countless other developers like him – were draining the lifeblood out of this place. Cramming tenants into substandard residential boxes with little in the way of parking, let alone gardens, and then – to add insult to injury – ridding the village of much of the only communal green spaces they had left by building even more below-par properties over the top of them.
The allotments, two pubs, the village hall, the sweet shop and even the original Victorian building of my primary school had all been turned into residential abodes of varying quality. If The Star were to also fall prey to Christian’s Grinch-like game-plan, where would all the villagers be able to get together after that? The middle of Lidl?
This was the story that the words falling out of me wanted to tell. Because, while the plots of all the cheesy Christmas movies I couldn’t get enough of were marketed as romances, their core themes were almost always about the same things: community; a cause behind which people can come together; discovering, or rediscovering, a place it feels right to call home. And Christmastime – regardless of someone’s relationship with religion – was when all of this stuff had the best chance of converging.
It wasn’t as if I had any plans to up sticks and move back to Scarnbrook – I wasn’t that idealistic. But this place would always be mychildhoodhome. And being here, and writing this piece, felt right. Fuelled by numerous instant coffees and bowls of Tesco Choco Malt Wheats, the article took just a few hours to write. I’d changed the names of everyone and everywhere, as agreed with Elle, and paid homage to my beloved movies by referencing all the bingo tropes I’d managed to tick off. But, hopefully, the article also struck the right balance between awkward festive lols and the deeper meaning hidden beneath the seemingly vapid red and green gift wrap. Because I could feel that this trip – as devastating as some of it had been – had begun to fix something in me. I’d reconnected with people in ways I’d never thought possible. I’d learnt that sugar-coated sentimentality and soul-destroying sorrow could co-exist. And, even though none of this was explicitly on the page, I weaved my love for Scarnbrook through my words, the closing sentence feeling incredibly satisfying and truthful:
Coming back here finally gave me the opportunity to say goodbye to the place I’d called home for the happiest years of my life.
I read over it one final time. I was pleased with what I’d been able to come up with, and hopefully Elle would be, too. I composed an email to her and hit send, including a quick apology for not replying to her message from a couple of days ago. It was just before two o’clock, so I still had a decent amount of time to get ready for my date with Tom. My phone buzzed. I expected it to be an acknowledgement of my article from Elle. But it was Tom, instead.
Tom:
Hey, thanks again for last night. Can’t stop grinning today. Still onfor later? Thomas x
Mally:
Ha, same on the grinning front. Of course. Can’t wait. Mal x
After a quick shower, I pulled on my favourite pair of jeans and a cosy Fair Isle knit with a grey vest top underneath. In case things got… hot.
I wrapped the bath towel – no longer crispy after a few uses – around my head and checked my phone before making a start on my make-up.
There was a voice message from Elle on WhatsApp. Oh God, I hoped she liked my piece. I pushed play:
Elle (voice message):
Hey, Ryan, she can have the car back now. Thank you so much foreverything! Despite the Darren flop, I got exactly what I needed. Idefinitely owe you one! And Tom, by the sounds of it! Give my love toCarly and Becky, too.
What the…?
But before I could play it again, the message was gone.
Chapter 24
?A hasty departure
I didn’t need to listen to the message again to understand the mostlikely explanation for Elle’s words: my trip to Scarnbrook – and nodoubt many of the encounters I’d had since I’d arrived – had somehowbeen an elaborate set-up from the outset.
The pub quiz. Trying to set me up with Darren. ‘Bumping into’ Tom and last night’s supposed ‘date’. I had no idea what – if anything – about this week had been real any more. Had they all been laughing at me behind my back?
I was mortified to my very core. Yet, somehow, it almost felt as if this moment had been inevitable ever since I’d had the idea to come back to Scarnbrook. I mean, returning here was never going to end with a Christmas movie-style ‘happily ever after’ moment against a snowy backdrop, was it? The harrowing past was always going to rear its head. Old wounds were always going to re-open. And I was always going to end up alone. What I hadn’t foreseen, however, was that Elle would be the cause of it all. What the fuck was going on with her? With us? The only things I knew for sure right now were these: I couldn’t trust anyone but myself. And I needed to leave. Now.
Right on cue, having no doubt received the message that’d been intended for him, Ryan called.
‘Great news, Miss Fuel, your car’s ready. Reckon you could make your way over here to pick it up before I close? I’m sure Brinton’ll give you a lift, ha ha.’
My voice quivered as I replied. ‘Tell you what, Ryan, how about you just bring it to me, hmm?’
‘Oh, er, I guess I could try and make that work.’
