Page 27 of The Night Before Christmas
Bex: If he kisses you, go for it. It’s like riding a bike. You don’t forget how to do it just because it’s been a few hundred years and your fittings are a bit rusty. And by the way, if he doesn’t, dump him immediately.
Sophie: Ignore her. He’ll kiss you. You’ll see. If he doesn’t then he’s definitely married.
Felicity: What kind of advice is that? Thanks for nothing you two.
Bex: Don’t be such a grump. You’ll be fine. Just be yourself. But not too much. Channel the happiest version of yourself. Don’t go on about Cliff Richard or anything.
Sophie: Don’t forget to shave your legs. And wear some decent pants.
At that, Felicity had muted the conversation. No bloody help at all.
Just as she was beginning to think she might pull out, make up some excuse, or perhaps emigrate to Australia, the doorbell rang. She opened it to Penguin Man dressed in a suit. An actual suit. No tie, fair enough, but a white shirt open at the top and a dark grey jacket and trousers, and proper shoes. He looked good. Really good. Very handsome and clean and not covered in cat hair or mud or a soggy wet penguin suit or anything.
‘Good evening,’ he said, in that deep voice of his.
He smelled amazing too. Like chocolate or coffee beans or something equally delicious. It sort of wafted into the hallway as he leaned casually on the door frame and gave her a flash of his blue-eyed smile. It was at this point that Felicity realised she hadn’t yet spoken and quickly tried to think of an appropriate greeting.
‘Good evening yourself,’ she said in what she hoped was a light-hearted tone, smoothing down her soft navy-blue dress and wishing she’d been able to find some decent shoes herself rather than her scruffy trainers.
He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he stared for rather a long time.
‘I hope this is okay, I wasn’t sure what one wears to a non-date with a tragic friend.’
‘You look amazing,’ said James.
‘Ah well, it’ll be the lack of faded polo shirt that’s made the difference there.’ She grinned, heat prickling her neck. ‘Or perhaps the absence of dog hair.’
‘Shall we?’ he said, holding out his arm.
‘Oh yes, let’s,’ she said, taking it lightly and resisting the urge to squeeze.
It sure felt like a date.
They’d talked about going to the pub, but unbeknownst to her, James had booked them into the poshest restaurant in town instead.
So, there was that.
The Victorian House was well known for its wonderful food but, as James explained rather proudly on the way over, it was almost impossible to get a table because spaces were so limited. There were only thirty diners each night for a single 8pm sitting, and the dishes were not served by menu in the usual way but…
‘Well, you’ll see,’ he had said, mysteriously. Despite her badgering he refused to say any more, an enigmatic smile on his face. Felicity was already intrigued but her mouth dropped open when she walked in.
The restaurant was tiny. The size of a large living room, really, and it was intricately decorated like an authentic Victorian parlour, or at least, how you might imagine one to be. There was dusky pink patterned wallpaper in panelled sections on each wall, an elegant painted ceiling, fine bone china ornaments on every surface and glossy dark furniture.This is all very Jane Austen, thought Felicity, as she sat down at a table heaving with expensive-looking silverware and candles. She ventured a glance at James as they did so, and her tummy did a little boogie-woogie dance. He looked incredibly handsome in the candlelight.Funny place to bring a non-date, she thought, and a thrill of excitement prickled down her spine.
Excitement, tinged with anxiety.
The first course arrived, and they took it in turns to ladle onion soup from a large porcelain Victorian tureen, and then practised moving the spoon away from them daintily and slurping it off their spoons, little fingers raised, giggling like schoolchildren.
‘This is way better than the pub,’ said Felicity, mid-slurp.
‘I’m glad you think so,’ James replied with a grin.
As their plates were being cleared away there was a loud trumpeting sound from the hallway and Felicity jumped and banged her knee on the table, letting out a small yelp. The lady on the next table gave her a sharp look and she nervously looked up, fully expecting to see every single diner staring at her with the same wasp-munching expression. But –thank you, God– they were all far too busy. All around the room guests were murmuring and looking at the door expectantly. She followed their gaze just in time to see a troupe of waiters entering the room pushing wooden trolleys laden with enormous silver warming dishes.
Felicity let out another squeal – of delight this time – and there were audible gasps from the other diners. After a short pause, and with immaculate timing, the servers lifted the lids in perfect unison, revealing plates piled high with gleaming hand raised pies and steaming roasts, all semi-authentic to the period of course. Game pie, lamb cutlets, enormous hunks of roast beef, venison and pork, and vats of dauphinoise potatoes swimming in creamy, decadent sauce.
‘Wow,’ whispered Felicity.
‘I know,’ said James. ‘Isn’t it incredible? You can have as much as you want.’ This last was said with eyes shining.
