Page 62 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Trish was looking pleased with herself. ‘And Helen here has been equally brilliant.’
At the mention of her name, Helen straightened up, finally putting some distance between herself and Fred. ‘I filed my false report with Robby this morning,’ she announced, raising her glass in a small toast. ‘Very convincing, even if I do say so myself.’
‘What did you tell him?’ Ivy asked.
‘That I bumped into Omar yesterday and he told me he was leaving and heading to Truro,’ Helen explained, her face alight with triumph. ‘I even mentioned that he seemed to be in a hurry, had a bus to catch.’
Fred chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘And Robby bought it?’
‘Hook, line and sinker,’ Helen confirmed. ‘Remember I told you how he’s got a reputation for being gullible? Quite handy that.’
Ivy felt the knot inside her loosen slightly. ‘So, if anyone starts looking ...’
‘They’ll be on a wild goose chase in Cornwall,’ Trish finished with satisfaction. ‘Giving us breathing room until after Christmas at least.’
Helen raised her glass higher. ‘To Operation Ghost Refugee,’ she whispered dramatically. ‘May Omar have the most boring, uneventful Christmas possible.’
‘Hiding in plain sight,’ Fred added, clinking his pint against Helen’s glass.
The conspiracy felt almost festive, their secret smiles and hushed voices no different from those planning surpriseChristmas presents across the other tables.
As Helen launched into an elaborate description of the children’s chaotic dress rehearsal for the Nativity play, Ivy felt herself relax. For a few precious hours, they could pretend they were just friends planning for Christmas, not a makeshift resistance cell. Ivy sipped her wine as she watched Trish laugh over Helen’s impression of the shepherds’ disastrous entrance, straight through the middle of the manger, trampling over the Baby Jesus. Perhaps this was exactly what Christmas was: protecting the vulnerable, creating safety in a dangerous world.
‘Lunchtime tomorrow in P&P to compare notes?’ suggested Helen.
Trish shook her head, ‘I can’t make it. Someone’s ferrying me to Bath to visit the Christmas market.’
‘How about a night off,’ suggested Helen. ‘Hey, why not come to mine for a belated housewarming?’
Twenty-one
Helen’s Christmas tree was an architectural marvel of festive precision. Each ornament sat in geometrically calculated perfection, suspended at a mathematically exact interval, and transparent fishing line held trinkets in rigid colour-coded formation. The tree looked less like a spontaneous celebration and more like a Christmas installation,that someone had vacuum-sealed, pressed and unfolded from last year’s fastidiously labelled storage box.
‘Sorry about this,’ Helen said, popping the cork on a bottle of Prosecco, as if second nature. ‘But after dealing with thirty sugar-crazed seven year olds performing ‘Little Donkey’ for two hours, I need this.’
The cork hit the ceiling with a satisfyingthunk, leaving a tiny mark that joined several others.Not her first impromptu celebration then, thought Ivy.
Omar leaned against the doorframe, looking more relaxed than Ivy had seen him in days. ‘I’ve never had a traditional English Christmas before.’ he said.
‘Well, this is hardly traditional,’ Ivy began, but Fred cut her off, accepting a brimming glass from Helen. ‘Nonsense! Impromptu parties are the best Christmas tradition,’ he declared, raising his glass. ‘To friends, both old and new.’
The Prosecco fizzed on Ivy’s tongue, sharp and sweet. She watched Fred over the rim of her glass as he helped Helen connect her phone to a small speaker. This was fun, having acircle of friends, being part of a community. Her eyes lingered on Fred, his arm muscles taut as he helped Omar carry the sofa to the side of the room. Fred may not reciprocate her love, but that didn’t matter. Friendship and connection were more important.
Music filled the small cottage – not carols, but something Ivy vaguely recognized from the radio. Before she could process what was happening, Fred had grabbed her hand.
‘Come on, Ivy! This was our song!’
‘We don’t have a song,’ she protested, even as she allowed herself to be pulled into the centre of Helen’s tiny living room, the furniture now stacked haphazardly against the walls. She took a gulp of fizz, before setting the glass down.
‘Course we do. Village fete, 2008. You’d had two glasses of punch and insisted on dancing.’
Had she? The memory surfaced hazily: a warmer night, younger faces, Fred spinning her under the stars while a local band played jazz. She’d forgotten that entirely.
Apparently, Fred hadn’t. He spun her around, his hand firm at the small of her back. When had he learned to dance like this? When had his eyes developed those appealing crinkles at the corners?
‘I’m far too old for this,’ she laughed, breathless.
‘Rubbish,’ Fred replied, twirling her again. ‘You’re just getting started.’
