Page 5 of Meet Me Under the Mistletoe
Two
It was dark when Nory locked the door to Serendipitous Seconds. She stood for a few moments looking in at their festive display through the thick leaded windows. They had left the fairy lights on and Father Christmas rocking in his chair. The Christmas titles stared out at her: a 1930s reproduction ofA Christmas Carol, a particularly battered copy of M. R. James ghost stories, an illustrated copy ofThe Nutcracker and the Mouse Kingby E. T. A. Hoffmann, and Tolkien’sLetters from Father Christmas. And her favorite of all, a vintage edition ofThe Night Before Christmasillustrated by Arthur Rackham—she wasn’t sure she could bear to part with that one; she had fought Andrew on having it in the window and he had won. He was right, of course, it looked beautiful, laid open to a page of Father Christmas in his sleigh among the snowy rooftops. Maybe she would pop a little red “sold” sticker in the bottom corner to put off potential buyers.
She was slowly becoming resigned to, even a little excited by, the idea of spending seven days in a drafty castle with her old school friends. Ameerah had messaged to say they would leave on the morning of Sunday the twenty-ninth, stopping for a leisurely pub lunch somewhere. Jenna had insisted that no one should arrive before 3:00 p.m. because she wanted to get acquainted withthe place first. This was Jenna code for wanting to make it absolutely clear to the staff that she was the bride aka number one guest aka in charge.
Nory shivered as the cold evening eked in through her coat. Shepherd Market was picture perfect; lights twinkled from every window, and people spilled out from the pubs wrapped in scarves and clutching cold pints of ale. Nory walked the short distance to the Italian restaurant, waving and calling goodbyes to fellow shopkeepers closing up for the night.
As she pushed open the door to Pepe’s, the scent of garlic and vine tomatoes washed over her.
“Elinor!” Anthony called across the crowded restaurant.
Anthony was the owner of Pepe’s and Nory never failed to marvel at how sensual his strong Italian accent managed to make her name sound. She smiled warmly at him, and her stomach growled as she made her way through the candlelit tables to the small bar area at the back.
“Hi, Anthony,” she said as he dramatically kissed both her cheeks.
“When are you going to marry one of my sons so that you can start calling me Papa, hmm?”
Nory laughed. This was a familiar routine. Anthony ran the restaurant with his two sons: Anthony Jr., who managed the kitchen, and Paul, who worked the bar. They were both in their late fifties. Anthony Jr. had been divorced twice and Paul was gay, but Anthony Sr. saw none of these things as an obstacle for their “making an honest woman” out of Nory.
Anthony Jr. came out of the kitchen holding a brown paper bag, which he handed to Nory before also kissing her on both cheeks.
“Lasagna,” he said in his broad London accent. “And a decent helping of Mama’s tiramisu.”
“Mmm, thanks, Anthony. I put the money in your account earlier.”
Anthony Jr. waved his hand as if money was the furthest thing from his mind.
“Leetle Elinor, always eating alone!” exclaimed Anthony Sr., loud enough for all the patrons to hear. He brought his voice down to a loud whisper and winked. “You know I would give you our best table for two if you ever want to bring a man in for dinner.” He said the wordmanlike it was some exotic creature, which Nory supposed it was for her; at thirty-four, she was beginning to feel like a Jane Austen spinster.
She left the restaurant, calling her goodbyes, and hurried between two buildings down a skinny alleyway that broadened out into a dead end filled with wheelie bins, giant flattened-out cardboard boxes, and other detritus from the businesses and private lets that inhabited the premises. Iron fire escapes clung to the walls and the smell of clean washing blew up through fans from the communal laundry rooms in the basements. Hidden in an alcove was a door, colored deep purple with chips revealing the navy blues and dark reds of paint coats past. An ornate Christmas wreath hung from the door knocker, incongruous against the tatty alley.
Nory let herself in and began to climb the stairs. The carpet was worn, but the walls were painted sage green and Etienne and Ross—art lecturers at UCL—had painted trailing flowers and climbing wisteria in the hallway. Nory lived on the fifth floor and there was no lift, but she didn’t mind; working so close to home, sometimes these stairs were the only exercise she got.She passed several doors on the semi landings as she climbed. She liked hearing the sounds and soaking in the smells of the lives happening behind the doors; always meaty smells and soap operas from the Greek couple in flat 7, the starchy scent of boiling rice and the sound of classical music from Anna and her Russian girlfriend in flat 10. Farther up the building, Kia, the newest addition to Neela and Jonas’s brood, was making herself heard above the saccharine soundtrack of Disney tunes.
Nory turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door to find Mugwort waiting for her. No one could describe Mugwort as a looker, but that was what had attracted her to him in the rescue center; she had always been a sucker for an underdog, or in this case, undercat. Mugwort followed her into the kitchen, which saw far less cooking than she would ever admit to her mum. She fed Mugwort and slid her lasagna out of its foil dish onto a plate, then, emptying the last of a bottle of red into a wineglass, she settled onto the sofa and switched on the TV. This was her nightly routine. Later she would attempt some bookkeeping—which Andrew would correct tomorrow—and then she would scour the online auction houses for estate content sales and check to see if any of her house clearance contacts had any new book acquisitions.
In the last two years, she hadn’t dated anyone for longer than three months. She wasn’t sure if she had changed or if the men on the dating apps had changed, but lately she hadn’t been clicking with anyone. She was supposed to be in her flirty thirties, but all the guys her age and older seemed to be wanting someone younger and she was finding precious little opportunity to do any flirting at all. Why were all the thirty-five-to-forty-year-old professional men wanting to date twenty-two-year-olds straight out of university? She was a catch, a dammed fine catch! She had herown business; staff (one member, but it still counted); a studio flat in central London; she was well-read, intelligent, curvy, reasonably attractive, a non-smoker (except after three shots of Sambuca), and she liked sex—not only that, but she was rather good at it too. How was that not getting her all the likes?
Her mobile rang.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Hello, love, what are you up to?”
“Eating dinner and watching TV.”
“That’s nice. What are you having?”
“Lasagna.”
“Homemade?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Lovely. You’ll have to make one for us when you’re next down.”
“Um, yeah sure, why not.”
“Thomas said there’s a big house party staying at the castle next week. Is that your friend’s thing?”
