Page 28 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
The brass band launched into ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, the trumpets and trombones nearly drowning out Helen’s sharp tone as she cornered Omar.
‘You need to tell her,’ Helen insisted, her teacher-voice cutting through the festive music. ‘She deserves to know she’s letting a jackdaw into her nest.’
Ivy tucked her hands into her coat pockets and turned toward the commotion. The coloured lights strung overhead cast alternating shadows of red and green across Helen’s severe expression. Poor Omar stood with his back against the wooden stall, clutching his paper cup of coffee like a shield.
What on earth is she saying to him?Ivy thought irritably, watching Helen’s finger wagging in time with her words.She’d been here less than two weeks, and she was already scolding him like one of her pupils.
‘Helen,’ she called out, striding across and deliberately injecting warmth into her voice. The scent of cinnamon and cloves grew stronger as she approached, reminding her this was a Christmas market. No one should get cross with anyone here. ‘Could you help Victor? He’s got himself tangled in the tinsel again.’
As Helen hesitated, torn between finishing her lecture and responding to the request, Ivy caught Omar’s eye and gave him the smallest of winks.
The younger woman glared at Ivy and snapped in a sharp voice, ‘You barely know him. Why are you protecting him?’ Ivy felt the words echo through her, raw and wounding. What on earth had the pair been discussing?
Helen stalked off, but not before throwing a scowl at Omar, which sent Ivy’s protective shield into overdrive.
‘Omar,’ Ivy said, perhaps too loudly, ‘come over for dinner tonight?’
‘I’ll come too,’ Fred said quickly, appearing at her elbow as if conjured.
‘I will come,’ Omar said slowly, ‘if Fred does.’ His dark eyes moved between her and Fred.
‘Well,’ she said brightly, pushing away her sorrow that Omar obviously didn’t want to be with her without the jolly presence of Fred, ‘that’s settled. Dinner for three at mine, at seven.’
She turned back to the stall, but not before she caught the look Omar gave Fred – understanding, almost sympathetic. How embarrassing that the two them pity me for my loneliness.
A flush warmed her cheeks despite the November chill, but beneath the embarrassment, something steadied within her.
She had just stood up to Helen, refusing to let her scold Omar.
But what were they talking about?The question threaded through her thoughts like a challenge.Who is Omar?Andwhy does Helen think I should be afraid of the answer?
The evening was drawing in, the Christmas lights winking against a darkening sky.
Turning to leave, Ivy felt someone clutch her sleeve. Victor’s eyes were alight with mild panic. ‘You’re not going, are you?’
‘Yes. I must,’ she said, extracting her sleeve from his grip.
Forgetting the height of the stall, Victor stood fully upright, banging his head against the awning. ‘Ow! Already? I wanted to ask you about the pudding race.’
‘Can it keep, Victor? It’s not until next Saturday.’
‘But you can’t go yet. What if ... ?’ His voice tailed off, as he rubbed the sore spot on his head.
‘You’ll handle it beautifully,’ Ivy assured him, as she passed over the money belt and the price list. ‘I must get home. I’m cooking for friends tonight.’
The word had slipped out so naturally – friends. She smiled to herself.
On the way out, Ivy paused at a craft stall, captivated by the intricate handmade decorations. Delicate paper snowflakes, suspended from silver threads, twirled lazily in the breeze, while hand-painted wooden ornaments gleamed under pulsing lights, their polished surfaces refracting the glow. She reached for a ribboned pendant: a red and green bow securing a shimmering glass drop liked a mini chandelier. Lulled by the spiced scent of cinnamon and orange from the pomander balls, she pulled out her last £10 note and splurged on two of the ribboned decorations – they would make charming Christmas presents.
Tucking her purchases under an arm, Ivy noticed Helen standing in the shadows of another stall with a stranger. The man was dressed with regimental precision in an elegant coat, leather gloves and polished city shoes. Not the typical tourist drawn to their Christmas market and he clearly wasn’t local – a Devonian would have worn practical boots and a waterproof jacket.
‘I’ve told you all there is,’ Helen’s voice carried on the still air. ‘Now stop hassling me.’
The man’s voice was harsh. ‘Well, what are you going to do to find out more?’
Ivy slowed her steps. Something in the man’s tone set off alarm bells. She watched him grab Helen’s arm, his fingers digging into the wool of her jacket.
Should I intervene?The thought spun through Ivy’s mind.The man’s posture radiated control, like a bowstring drawn taut. The brass band’s rendition of ‘Silent Night’ provided an incongruously peaceful backdrop to the tension.
