Page 6 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas
Kate chuckled to herself and sighed.
Richard wasn’t coming.Brilliant, she thought.I can’t even get a date when I pay for one.Kate was disappointed but not, she decided, as disappointed as she was to have missed out on the tiny patisserie cakes that would have been served at the afternoon tea; she texted Laura to ask for a doggy bag.
Come up here and get it!Laura texted.You never know, you might cop off with someone else’s date, hee hee
Can’t,Kate texted back.Too cold. Frostbite setting in. Need care package containing many many small cakes to aid recovery.
Roger that! xxx,texted Laura.
Kate stood up mechanically, her feet and hands stiff with cold; she couldn’t feel her toes at all. She folded the blanket and laid it on top of the wood basket outside the café door, where Matt would find it. Shewasn’t really in the mood to be gloated at, even if it was meant lightheartedly. She kept hold of the cup to recycle back at home and started walking.
Someone in the Duke’s Head was playing the old beat-up piano. The tinkling melody wafted around the square and mixed with the wind chimes outside Evelyn’s shop; it reminded Kate of Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.” The grass was turning silver under the glimmer of the streetlamps. Blackbirds chattered as they settled down to roost in the holly bushes that ran along the farthest end of the village square by Potters Copse.
The heat would be on and Kate determined to get the wood burner going in the kitchen and light the fire in the lounge as well. She warmed herself with these thoughts as she hurried home.
She had one of Carla’s lasagnas in the fridge, half a bottle of good red wine by the stove, and a healthy stash of chocolate in a tin above the coffee machine. She smiled to herself, her cold breath clouding out before her; she didn’t get the guy but she had a veritable feast and the BBC’sPride and Prejudicewaiting for her at home. And it didn’t get much better than that.
•••••
Kate shivered as the warm air washed over her. She pushed her front door closed behind her and shut out the frozen evening. The answering machine on the hall table blinked a red number 3 at her. Kate pressed play and went to get the fire going in the lounge. A loud disembodied voice boomed out from the machine.
“Hello? Hello? Katy-Boo, are you there?”
It was Kate’s mum. The message clicked off and another began.
“Katy-Boo, it’s Mum. I picked up the parcels at the weekend.Nothing for Gerry, I noticed. I do wish you’d try to make an effort, darling.”
Kate frowned as she scrunched newspaper up and tucked it underneath the kindling.Make an effort!She snorted to herself, striking a match and dropping it into the paper nest.He’s lucky I wrote his name in the card.
Gerry wasn’t so bad, Kate supposed. He always made an effort when they visited—which wasn’t very often. They had a studio flat in Chiswick, where they would hold court when in England—and Kate was always perfectly amiable toward him. But she wasn’t quite ready to buy him Christmas gifts yet.
She’d sent a Christmas package to her mother three weeks ago to make sure it reached her in time. In it she had wrapped the latest release by her mum’s favorite author, some perfumed body lotion from Elizabeth Arden that her mum had been dropping hints about since October, and a pair of slouchy knitted bed socks and matching scarf—she’d commissioned Petula to knit them for her—in purple and mint-green stripes. Even Spain got chilly in December, she had reasoned. And at the last moment, she’d bought a voucher for a slap-up meal for two in one of the restaurants on the marina, as a nod in Gerry’s direction.
The little flames began to catch, spitting and popping as they grew in confidence. The machine beeped the end of the message and another one began.
“Kate Amelia Turner, call me! I have news! You’ll never guess it! Call me on my mobile.”
Kate sighed. She hoped her mother hadn’t gotten herself into anything stupid; she had a habit of jumping in with both feet before seeing how deep the water was. Kate pressed her finger to her mum’s phone number. Her mum answered after three rings.
“Katy-BooBoo, my darling!” Her mum’s voice rang out from the speaker, shrill and excitable; she had a kind of frenetic energy, like a wild pony.
Kate had often wondered how her parents ever came to be married. Her mum was gregarious. She liked parties and bubbly and had two volumes: loud and louder. By contrast, her dad—Mac, short for Mackenzie, which he hated—was reserved. He liked Sudoku and tea and avoided parties like the plague.
“How are you, my sweet, sweet girl?” her mum cooed.
“I’m fine, Mum,” said Kate. “How are you?”
Her mum laughed loudly. She had the laugh of a 1920s heiress hosting a soiree; it was raucous yet extraordinarily posh.
“Darling, you won’t believe where I am!” said her mum.
“Not Spain?” said Kate.
It occurred to her that they might have come back to England for Christmas. That would make life awkward. Thus far Kate had always been spared the uncomfortablepicking a parent to spend Christmas withissue.
“Not even close!” said her mum. “We’re in Barbados!” Her voice had risen to a screech.
Kate moved the phone away from her ear.
