Page 11 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Lucy leans in, breath hot against my cheek. “Do you want me to tell you the story of Guy Fox?”
“Guy Fawkes. Absolutely.”
She nods like she’s just agreed to deliver a TED Talk.
“Okay. Once upon a time,” she begins, “there was a man called Guy Fox. He didn’t like the king. So he and some other naughty men got some... gunpowdies—”
“Gunpowder,” I say gently.
“Gunpowder, yes. And they hid it in a basement under the Houses of Palmen.”
“Parliament,” I correct.
“That’s what I said.”
“Of course.”
“And he was gonna blow it up,” she continues, widening her eyes for dramatic effect. “But someonesnitched. So, the king’s guards found the gunpowder, and they said, ‘Oi! What are you doing, Guy Fox?’ And then he got arrested and they werenothappy.”
“I imagine not.”
“And that’s why we have fireworks. Because he was naughty and got caught.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I say.
She beams at me, utterly satisfied with her version of events.
We reach the front of the food truck queue just as the crowds start surging over. I buy her a toffee apple, the woman behind the counter winking at Lucy as she hands it over like it’s made of gold.
Lucy frees herself from her gloves which she shoves into my free hand and then clutches the sticky apple with both hands like a holy relic, eyes shining.
“I’m not sharing,” she declares sternly.
“Didn’t ask.”
She grins, mouth already full of sugar.
We make our way back toward the others. Lucy’s fingers are a sticky mess now. There is probably a healthy amount on my jacket as well. But I wouldn’t want it any other way.
As we’re heading across the edge of the green, a group comes into view, moving in the opposite direction—Coop, Omar, Ben, and a few women I don’t recognise, chatting over each other and still glowing from the fireworks.
“Jasper!” Coop calls out, lifting an arm and waving.
I lift a hand in return, giving him a nod.
Lucy perks up. “Who’s that?”
“Coop,” I say. “Plays on the team with me.”
“And the other people?”
“The one in the hat is Omar. That’s Ben next to him.”
She squints. “Are they your friends?”
“Sort of. Mates from the football club.”
Her brow furrows, very serious. “Is that lady his wife?” She’s pointing with the apple now—vaguely in the direction of Amelia, who’s got her arm looped through Ben’s.
