Page 77 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas
Mina, who took all things Father Christmas related very seriously, considered the name tag with a look of such deep reverence that Kate had to stifle a giggle.
“Thank you, Aunty Kate,” said Mina. “This is very good. Now I won’t get Charley’s baby toys. Because Charley’s a baby and I am a big girl!”
An hour later and the class was over. The crafters left with bags of handmade treasures and stomachs full of cake. Kate helped Petula pack away her equipment into the plastic chests of drawers on wheels.
“Just put those out the back!” shouted Matt from behind the counter. “I’ll drop them round to you later, Lula.”
“Are you sure?” asked Petula.
“Absolutely,” said Matt. “You can’t be dragging those great things through the snow like some kind of craft-crazed hobo!”
Kate looked at her watch. The day was getting away from her and she really needed to get cracking on her work. She felt a familiar buzzing in her legs, the adrenaline running through them as she mentally calculated how much work she had to get done against how many hours there were left in the day.
“Go on with you,” said Petula with a smile. “I can finish up here.”
“It’s no bother,” said Kate.
“I can see you’ve got ants in your pants,” said Petula. “You’ve got better things to do than hunt glue-stick lids!”
Kate kissed Petula on the cheek and gathered up her things. Through the steamed-up windows of the café, Kate could see that it had begun snowing again.
“You not staying for lunch?” asked Matt.
Kate shook her head.
“I’ve got to work,” she said.
“Pity,” he said. “I’m just about to go on my break, you could’ve kept me company.”
Kate smiled.
“Maybe next time,” she said.
•••••
Back home, Kate got the log burner going in the kitchen and printed off the photographs from Epping Forest. She’d been sent a last-minute brief for a winter fabric to come out at the end of January, so she shelved her spring designs for the time being and set to work on some post-Christmas sketches.
She pulled an old tome from her bookshelf and began to leaf through the pages. It was an encyclopedia of flowers she had picked up in a secondhand bookshop: well-thumbed, with that musty attic scent that never leaves once it has impregnated the paper.
Kate found what she was looking for and settled down with paper and palette and began to sketch: dusky pink hellebores with tissue-thin petals and pale starburst middles. And Japanese quince flowers, the color of watermelon flesh: neat little bell-shaped blooms with sunshine centers. To these she added patches of snowy woodland backdrop, inspired by her photographs: frosted ferns and iced berries.
It was important to get the base color right; too red or too green and it risked looking like a Christmas design. Too pale and it would look cold and uninviting, when what she wanted to portray was the beauty of the wild, even in darkest winter. She needed a shade that would invoke warm blankets and comfort food and TV movies. She settled on a warm taupe, the color of deer in winter.
Late afternoon became early evening. Kate flicked on her desk lamp and continued to work as daylight left the world outside entirely and all that could be seen through the windows was darkness. A steady stream of coffee, mince pies, and crisps had kept her going. But now she was properly hungry.
She didn’t feel like cooking. Her mind was too much on making sure she had her spring designs perfected and her last-minute winter brief completed ready for tomorrow. Instead, Kate made herself a very full cheese-and-pickle toasted sandwich and a mug of tea and went into the living room to eat it in front of the TV. She knew from bitter experience not to eat messy foods near her workspace.
Halfway through an episode of a Christmas baking show, Kate’s phone bleeped. It was a text from Phil.
Can I call you?it said. Kate replied that he could. Two minutes later he called. There was something strange about his voice. He didn’t sound like the happy-go-lucky man she’d kissed in the forest.
“I wanted to tell you that I’ve got to go back to Australia,” he said. “I wanted to let you know because I thought we got on really well. And I wanted to see you again. And I didn’t want you to think that I was just blocking you or anything like that.”
“Is everything all right?” asked Kate. “You don’t seem like, well, you!”
“My son called,” said Phil. “His mum’s sick. Like really sick. Suspected meningitis. I’ve gotta get over there.”
“Of course you have,” said Kate. “Absolutely, don’t give it another thought. I hope she’s okay. We can catch up when you get back.”
