Page 4 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas
That phone call was the first time she and Matt had spoken in nearly ten years. They’d had a monumental bust-up at university and severed all contact thereafter. Her father’s illness forced a tenuous contact, whereby they communicated over text and occasional phone calls to discuss her dad’s progress. But these were cold, overly polite exchanges.
During those first few months Matt kept an eye on Mac during the week and Kate came down on the weekends. It was easy enough toavoid each other. But it soon became clear that Mac’s pain ran deeper than melancholy. Eventually Kate felt she needed to be with him more than just Friday night to Sunday. That was four years ago.
Luckily her colleagues at Liberty were very understanding; she could Skype for meetings and email photographs of mood boards and new designs straight to the office.
Laura had been delighted to have Kate back in Blexford, especially since she had just discovered she was pregnant with Mina.
It had always been Laura’s intention to move back to Blexford after university. Laura had been in love with Blexford Manor since she was a child. She was a history nut. She’d gotten a part-time job there as soon as she was old enough, and the lord and lady of the manor had all but promised her a job after university.
Neither Kate nor Matt, on the other hand, had ever intended to move back to the sleepy village of their childhood. But life has a way of tipping the seemingly unimaginable on its head.
•••••
A robin flew down and perched on the armrest of the bench. It looked at her expectantly with onyx eyes, its head moving jerkily as though powered by clockwork.
“I don’t have anything for you, I’m afraid,” said Kate.
The robin jerked its head from side to side.
“My date is late,” she told the tiny bird.
The robin took off suddenly, splatting droppings on the concrete slab around the bench. Kate looked at it and nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “My sentiments exactly.”
The bird landed on the holly tree near the entrance to Potters Copse. Its red breast glowed against the dark spiky leaves. Kate slipped her phone out of her pocket and took a photo of it. Her brain whirredinto action: stiff cotton, the voluptuous curve of a feather-down chest, the bottle-green leaves arching outward, taut and shiny, needle sharp. Kate’s fingers twitched for the feeling of her paintbrush between them.
At eighteen, Kate had been so desperate to escape the quiet village that she’d forgotten how beautiful the changing seasons of the countryside were. When she moved back—travel savvy and city hardened—she found fresh inspiration in everything around her, and her fabric designs reflected a new style and confidence that delighted her managers and earned her a promotion.
Slowly her father recovered, and when he was well enough he rented a smaller cottage by the green. He wanted a fresh start and Kate needed a place to live, so she took over the mortgage on the old family home and they both rubbed along quite happily.
The line of cars wending their way through the village had dwindled. Most people would have taken the faster A-roads to the manor, rather than the bumpy Blexford road, with grass growing along its middle like a Mohawk haircut.
Kate checked her watch. It was ten to four. She’d been waiting for twenty minutes. They’d have to get a stride on if they were going to make it to the manor for four p.m. afternoon tea. Her stomach growled. Lightning Strikes didn’t display their clients’ phone numbers on their profiles, so Kate couldn’t even call Richard to see if he was lost. She thought about the roaring fires in the gigantic stone fireplaces at the manor and shivered, tucking her hands under the blanket.
Blexford Manor was built in the seventeenth century, and Blexford Village had grown up around it. The estate had been passed down through the Blexford family and once upon a time was the chief employer in the area.
As with most stately homes of that ilk, social and economic changes brought about by the world wars led to a scaling down of both staff andfinances. The big high-society parties dwindled, and the balls that had once been the talk of the county became a mere memory.
By the mid-1970s the manor could no longer survive on revenue brought in solely from its farmland, and it was decided that Blexford Manor would be opened to the public. These days Lord and Lady Blexford lived mostly in the east wing of the manor and shared their home with tourists and wedding parties, and, for the next month, groups of hopeful singles on a quest to find love.
The light was already beginning to fade. The sky toned down as though on a dimmer switch, from brilliant blue to washed-out denim to cold gray. Windows festooned with Christmas lights flickered into life as the sky darkened and parents and children returned home from the school run. The branches of the old fir creaked as the wind began to pick up. Kate pulled the blanket tighter around her and wished she’d worn an extra pair of socks inside her boots.
A hand rested gently on her shoulder and she jumped, turning expectantly. It was only Matt. He held out a lidded paper cup.
“Hot chocolate,” he said. “You must be freezing.”
“Thanks,” said Kate. “I am. I think I’ve been stood up.”
“Maybe he got lost? Or had a medical emergency?”
“Or maybe he just didn’t like the look of me,” Kate said flatly.
“Well, then he must be blind,” said Matt. “Or an idiot. Or both.”
Kate smiled sadly. She clasped her hands around the cup to warm them.
“Why don’t you come inside?” Matt suggested. “There’s this woman that supplies me with great caramel brownies. You can have one. On the house.”
