Page 15 of Christmas Ever After
‘And yes, I bought some peanut butter.’ He puts the mouse trap down on the counter and gets a jar out of his bag before I can finish the sentence.
I take the expensive-looking jar he holds out and read the label. ‘You bought finest, golden-roasted, organic, crunchy peanut butter for amouse?’
‘Mice have discerning taste too, you know. Unless’ – from the bag, he produces two plastic spoons in cellophane wrapping and holds them up with a grin – ‘you also want to try it? I love peanut butter; there’s no way a mouse is getting all of this.’
I don’t intend to laugh, but I’m weak in the face of digging a spoon into a jar of peanut butter and I rip the packet open with my teeth. He pops the jar open and stands it on the counter, and keeps hold of it so I can dig my spoon in one-handed.
In an instant, I go from laughing to feeling my eyes well up. It’s such a little thing, but he does it instinctively, without any fanfare, and in a few days whereeverythinghas been so much harder than usual, this thoughtful, considerate little thing to make my life easier touches my heart.
I’m trying to cling onto my hatred of him, but he’s making it very,verydifficult, with his down-to-earthness and his tiny little acts of kindness that feel big when you’re struggling.
I dig out an unnecessarily large spoonful and shove the whole thing in my mouth, hoping that stuffing my mouth up will also stuff my brain up from thinking these benevolent thoughts about a man who runs a snow globe empire that I’ve been determined to bring down since childhood. He’s a fraudster who’s doing something trickster-y with snow globes, and one day Iamgoing to uncover what it is, but forthisday, he’s brought me peanut butter, and that’s enough. I dig my spoon in for a second time. ‘So you really like mice?’
‘I really like peanut butter.’ It comes out muffled where his mouth is glued together. ‘I have no strong feelings towardsmiceseither way. They’re no less deserving of their place in this world than we are. Just because we’re bigger and have a wider vocabulary and opposable thumbs doesn’t mean we have a right to hurt anything smaller than us. Except spiders. They don’t count.’ He shudders. ‘Outside, fine. If they cross the threshold, they sign their own death warrant.’
Ilovethat attitude. I’ve always thought exactly the same, especially the spiders bit. But I can’t tell Raphael Dardenne that we agree on something, can I? ‘The plural of mouse isn’t mices.’
‘No, but it’s much more fun to say. I don’t mind sounding like an idiot if it makes someone smile.’
I was intending to snap something sarcastic, but I can’t argue with that perspective either, and for some reason, I find myself smiling.
He takes another spoonful of peanut butter from the jar. ‘What have you got against our micey friends?’
‘Have you ever readThe Nutcracker?’
‘The original book?’ He chews on his spoon thoughtfully. ‘I think my mum read it to me when I was young…’
‘The description of the mice has haunted me since I was young. The way they’re described as watching the main character with small twinkling eyes and the sound of a thousand scampering feet, and the Mouse King himself with fourteen eyes and gnashing teeth and seven heads wearing seven glistening crowns. It’s the stuff of nightmares. So thank you for what you did yesterday in being a real nutcracker prince and saving me from Minnie’s wrath.’
He laughs. ‘I’ve seen the ballet a couple of times. Isn’t it usually the ballerina who saves the nutcracker prince from the Mouse King by thwacking it with her slipper?’
I can’t help being surprised that he knows that. ‘I haven’t been a ballerina for a long time.’
He pushes himself up straighter and looks amazed. ‘I didn’t know you ever were. Did you ever danceThe Nutcracker?’
‘Yes.’ It’s a one-word answer that Ireallydon’t want him to question me on. My career ended during ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’, and now it feels like my second career is on the brink of collapsing too, in no small part because of him. He is not the right person to discuss this with.
He watches me for a few moments, still holding the jar of peanut butter so I can take another spoonful and avoid looking at those soul-searching brown eyes, because I’m certain he can readeverythingthat’s playing out in my mind. ‘You don’t do it any more?’
When I glance up at him, he’s grimacing, like he knows he’s going to get snapped at for asking.
‘No. These days I look like I’veeatena ballerina.’
His unexpected laugh fills the shop. He laughs so hard that it makes him choke on the peanut butter he’s still eating, and it takes him a couple of minutes to recover his composure. When he stands back upright, he’s wiping away tears of laughter and his mouth is twitching like he’s still trying to hold it back, and I can’t help smiling when I meet his eyes.
He taps a hand on the counter. ‘Hey, for what it’s worth, you look great to me. I’m not exactly a Calvin Klein model, am I?’ He prods at his own stomach. ‘People underestimate the long hours of sitting on your bum that creative work takes. It’s not always easy to find time to hit the gym too, and the gym isalwaysmy lowest priority. And it’s hard to resist the lure of year-round mince pies and those cookies Mrs Coombe makes for us. Jorge was out of line on Sunday – I hope you know that.’
I’m surprised by how vehement he sounds. I didnotintend to start a discussion about my weight, and I really did not have Raff trying to make me feel good about myself on my bingo card for today.
‘I’d rather eat peanut butter straight from the jar than worry about gaining an extra few pounds. Life’s too short to count calories.’ He holds his spoon out to toast against mine. ‘Cheers.’
How many times in one day can I appreciate his attitude? I’ve despised Raff for the eighteen months since he took over his grandfather’s shop, but I haveneverstopped to think about what he might be like. It hadnevercrossed my mind that he might be a thoroughly decent gentleman, away from the whole ‘conning people to give them money in exchange for magical matchmaking snow globes’ thing and being my arch-rival in all senses of the word.
I know I’ve put on weight in the years since leaving the ballet. It’s impossible to go from a hugely disciplined full-time schedule of dancing, performing, hours upon hours of show rehearsals and hours more of practice, to being in a leg cast for months,and stay the same size. It tookyearsto regain full strength and be able to walk without a crutch, and then without a limp, and in that time, I’ve gone up three dress sizes in the shops that size generously, and four in the less-forgiving ones that I feel too frumpy to enter these days. Apart from Jorge, no one on Ever After Street has ever tried to make me feel bad about it, but I’m always surprised by the number of strangers who think it needs pointing out to me, like the extra roll of fat around my belly has slipped past me undetected.
Raff leans his elbows on the counter, rests his chin in his hands, and speaks around the plastic spoon hanging out of his mouth. ‘So, how are you?’
His question takes me by surprise. I didn’t expect him to sound like he genuinely cares about the answer, and it takes me a few moments to figure out how to reply.
