Page 108 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas
Kate sighed. Part of her agreed with Laura, and ordinarily behavior like his last night would have spelled the end of any man for her, but right now she needed something, anything, to take her mind off Matt. She knew Richard wasn’t the cure, but maybe he could numb the pain for a little while: a human paracetamol. Kate messaged back:
Consider yourself out on parole. x
He messaged back immediately:
Dinner tonight? My treat.
Kate flopped about the house for the remainder of the afternoon. She couldn’t settle on anything. Films didn’t hold her attention and she wasn’t in the mood for baking or painting. Ordinarily an afternoon like this would have found her ensconced in the Pear Tree, sipping coffee and organizing mood boards for work, and annoying Matt. Matt, Matt, Matt. It all came down to Matt. She stood by the French windows and watched the snowflakes tumble down. “Two more weeks,” she said to herself. “Just two more weeks.”
A knock at the door provided a welcome distraction from the morose turnings of her mind. It was Petula. She had a potted poinsettia plant in her hand and a tissue paper package tucked under her arm.
Kate smiled.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked, nodding toward the package.
Petula smiled with something like sympathy in her eyes.
“Put the kettle on and we’ll find out, shall we?” she said.
They took tea in the sitting room. Petula handed the package to Kate and sat on the edge of the armchair, her hands clasped in her lap in anticipation. Kate gently unstuck the tabs that held the tissue paper in place and let the sheets fall open.
Kate gasped. It was a thick knit: black with flecks of gold running through it, as soft as cotton wool balls and so smooth it shone in the light given off by the Christmas tree.
Kate held it up in front of her. It felt like silk in her hands. Across the front, in a mixture of knit and appliqué, was a village snow scene: tartan fir trees interspersed with brightly colored patchwork buildings;tall town houses beside squat cottages, with snow-clad roofs and chimneys curling out spirals of silver smoke. White snow banked up against the front walls. Tiny sequin stars dotted the sky around one large gold star with gold-thread-and-sequin beams that stretched to the edges of the scene.
“Oh, Petula,” said Kate. “This is beautiful. It’s your best ever.”
Petula beamed.
“Thank you so much,” Kate continued. “I absolutely love it! You’ve made my day.”
And with that Kate began to cry. Petula went to her and put her arms around her.
“There, there,” said Petula, patting Kate’s back. “He’ll come round.”
“He won’t,” said Kate. “Not this time.”
“Oh,tsk!” said Petula. “Such nonsense. Him moping around the café like a wet dishcloth and you dripping all over the place. What’s it all about, eh? Lot of silly nonsense.”
Kate recovered herself.
“You’re right, of course,” said Kate, giving away none of her plans. “Thank you for the jumper, I love it.”
“Perhaps you should wear it on one of your dates,” said Petula.
“Oh, I will,” said Kate. “As a matter of fact, I have a date tonight.”
“Well then,” said Petula. “You’d better blow your nose and start getting ready.”
•••••
Kate and Richard had arranged to meet at a gastropub on the outskirts of Great Blexley, just round the corner from the bottom of Blexford hill. Kate walked down, because she couldn’t be bothered to dig the car out of the snow, and the hill was becoming dangerous, despite the salt on the road.
She was wearing her new jumper over the top of a silk camisole; the wool felt warm and soft against her skin. She’d taken the time to curl her hair back off her face; it meant she couldn’t wear a hat without ruining the effect, but she decided to forgo warm ears for good hair. She had slathered herself in some expensive perfumed body lotion her mum had sent over, and even through her thick coat, she got wafts of it as she walked.
Kate used to come to this pub when she was younger—much younger, trying her luck at buying drinks underage and frequently getting served. The pub had gone through many incarnations since then and two years ago a chef from London bought it, renamed it the Tipsy Goose, and put it and Great Blexley on the culinary map. It was almost impossible to get a table without booking weeks in advance, and Kate wondered what Richard had had to do get one at such short notice.
Richard stood at the bar, opposite the door, and he smiled appreciatively when Kate walked in. Kate was pleased. She could do with the ego boost.
