Page 23 of Kiss Me at Christmas
“That’s such a cop-out,” she snorted derisively.
“It’s my job. What do you want me to say? When all is said and done, you were in the wrong. As far as the law is concerned, you are the perpetrator of a crime, and my client is the victim.”
She shook her head in disbelief, stepped around him, and carried on up the street. The snow was getting heavier. The high street was full of people: mothers pushing pushchairs laden with bags and stressed-out toddlers, people out of the office on their lunch breaks, drunks on the benches outside sandwich bars hoping for a little charity.
James caught up with her.
“It may not look like it, but I’m offering you a lifeline: a chance to do something that I can see you’re passionate about. I know it’s not ideal, but the world is built on compromise. If you agree to her terms, I will do my utmost to ensure that a clause is written into any salesnegotiations that will secure a space for community ventures going forward. Please.”
He looked so earnest she almost believed him. Almost. The black limousine pulled up beside them to more curious looks from passersby. The tinted window wound slowly down.
“Mr. Knight,” came the cool voice from the interior of the car. “I am not in the habit of having to chase down my employees. I trust the matter has been settled?”
James looked at Harriet. “Has it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“There is always a choice.”
“Ah yes, the proverbial rock and hard place.”
“You have until tomorrow lunchtime to decide.” Evaline’s bored voice drifted out of the perfumed car. “I will have Mr. Knight draw up a second contract. I look forward to seeing the fruits of your labors.” She left a beat and then added with languid frustration, “Mr. Knight, when you’re ready.”
James handed Harriet his card. She glanced down at it and then back up. Did he actually think she was going to call him? After this?
“In case you need to discuss…anything,” he said hesitantly before walking around to the other side of the car. How was he not slipping in those fancy brogues? Maybe they came with built-in snow chains on the soles.
“Until tomorrow, Ms. Smith.” Evaline’s voice held the gravel of someone who had smoked all their life.
The window had whirred shut before Harriet could think of a reply.
The car purred away, and heads snapped round to stare at it as it glided down the shabby high street. Harriet shivered, her fingers slowly freezing around the small card. What in the world had she got herself into?
Harriet was eating dinner that evening when Maisy FaceTimed. In the blurry background, she could make out a huge real Christmas tree with blinking lights. Somewhere close by the sounds of a whisk scratching against a china mixing bowl and squeals of laughter made Harriet’s heart squeeze. Missing her daughter was a visceral sensation, an ache running through the center of her bones, a hollow ringing like her ribs had been struck with a tuning fork. Someone else was Christmas baking with her daughter. She pasted herself back together and forced a ringmaster smile.
“You look ready for Christmas.”
Maisy grinned back. “Yeah,” she said, panning the phone around so that her mum could see the decorated sitting room. “We’re making a gingerbread house and sugar cookies. Polly’s an amazing baker. She’s won the Cooperstown gingerbread house contest four years in a row.”
Harriet tried not to hate Polly, the perfectly lovely woman taking wonderful care of her daughter, with her perfect baking skills and perfect house. Mariah Carey began to sing about what she wanted for Christmas and a girl’s high-pitched voice joined in the chorus badly. Maisy laughed.
“That’s Savannah, she loves Christmas music.”
An unseen voice called out, “Hi, Harriet! I love you!” Savannah was the same age as Maisy; she’d stayed with them in Little Beck Foss last summer as part of the school exchange program.
“Love you too, Savannah!” Harriet called back. All this jovial togetherness was shredding her heart. Their merriment highlighted how quiet her home was. Hercarefully curated soft furnishings and tasteful pictures felt like a stage with no actors to bring it to life.
Polly, Savannah’s mum, said, “Let her be, honey, she needs to spend some time with her mama.”
Perfect flocking Polly and her perfectly clucking loveliness!thought Harriet peevishly.
“Pan round and show me the sitting room.” Maisy pressed her face up close to the screen, squinting to try and see around Harriet. “I want to see it all decorated. I’ve told Polly and Savannah how we’re always the first to have our decs up and ours are always the best. Did you get the tree out yet? Did you manage to put it up without me?”
Harriet looked around her naked sitting room, the fancy orange-and-cinnamon candles still boxed; she’d probably use them as gifts. The only nod to the coming season was an early Christmas card from her foster parents, Sue and Gil, down in Surrey.
“I…I haven’t had time to put them up yet,” she lied. “Had a lot on my plate.”
Maisy frowned. “Oh, okay.” The disappointment in her voice made Harriet’s organs deflate. “I guess I’ll show Polly when you’ve done them. Speaking of plates,” her daughter continued, “is that beans on toast? For dinner?” Her voice was thick with incredulity.
