Page 45 of A Manny for Christmas

‘Yeah. It smells bloody amazing. Let’s go grab some bits, shall we?’

Some bitsend up being a pulled-pork bap each, laden with apple sauce, and an enormous cardboard tray of tartiflette to share. We take a pew at one of the picnic tables in the centre of the market, Paul sitting himself across from me. Given we’re in a country that rarely, if ever, sees snow this side of Christmas, the market feels very festive indeed.

Carols are jingling through the sound system, and potted firs are everywhere, withstanding their pretty burden of artificial snow. The wooden buildings housing the gift stalls and food vendors are utterly enchanting. The farm’s visual merchandising team has done an incredible job. Every structure is unique. They’ve all been built with a quaint, lopsided appearance. Lights burn in fake upstairs windows, and all are dusted with Sorrel Farm’s eco version of fake snow. Accents of red and green dominate via candy canes and holly and velvet ribbons. It feels authentic. Restorative. Not tacky or commercial. Even as an adult, I can’t help but be transfixed.

I also can’t help but notice that while I’m taking it all in, the attention of the handsome man opposite barely wavers from me. He’s watching me, not creepily, but softly. Attentively. As if I’m more interesting than any of the wonderful sights around us.

If there was a report card for dates, he’d already get an A+.

‘You don’t mind coming back to your place of work in the evenings?’ he asks.

‘Oh, no. I don’t think of Sorrel Farm like that at all. It’s the opposite, actually. It’s lovely to get a chance to see it as a visitor when I’m usually confined to the kitchen.’

‘My favourite days are the days I work from here,’ he confesses. ‘I get so much done. It’s not just that none of my colleagues are around to bother me. It’s more that I find it—I don’t know. Restorative. I like the energy; it’s conducive to deep work and good ideas.’

I smile at him. ‘I really like the way you put that, and I have to agree.’

‘Is this time of year crazy for you?’ he asks, spearing a piece of cheesy potato with his wooden fork.

‘It is,’ I confess. I take a sip of the deliciousvin chaud. The combination of heat, alcohol and spices warms my throat in the most wonderful way. ‘I have the team working on a massive gingerbread village—it sounds stupid.’

‘No it doesn’t. Tell me about it.’ He leans forward and puts down his fork, crossing his arms flat on the table. I have his full attention, and I wonder what this would be like, longer term. Having a man like Paul, who’s been so successful, treat you like you’re the only thing that matters. I suspect I could get used to it.

‘Well, it’s a project I dreamed up with the visual merchandising team. It’s the first year we’ve done it. My grandmother was Austrian, and my sister and I used to make gingerbread houses with her every Christmas back in Derbyshire, where I’m from. They’re the kind of things you can really go to town on.’

He nods. ‘I bought one of those gingerbread house kits from Fortnum’s last Christmas. Thought it would be something fun to do with the girls. It was an utter car crash. One of the most stressful experiences of my life. I couldn’t get anything to stick to the gingerbread, and the entire fucking thing ended up collapsing overnight. My youngest came down in the morning and found it—she was inconsolable.’

I burst out laughing, and he looks positively delighted at my reaction. ‘Oh no,’ I say through my giggles. ‘That’s so terrible.’ I lean forward. ‘The secret is to use caramel to stick the pieces of the house together. It holds far better than icing.’

‘Now you tell me,’ he deadpans. ‘At least I have a beautiful, talented pastry chef on speed-dial this year.’

‘Don’t even think about it,’ I warn. ‘I estimate that I’ll be all gingerbreaded out by mid-December.’

‘You’re safe,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t think I could stomach another attempt, anyway. I’m too traumatised. If I tried again, it could be very triggering. Especially for Flora—that’s my youngest.’

I giggle again. ‘Best to leave it to the professionals,’ I tell him.

‘So what’s the plan with it?’ he asks, picking up his fork again.

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Is this a dastardly plot to keep me talking so you can polish off all the tartiflette?’

He gives me another perfect grin. ‘Exactly that.’

This is easier than I thought. I can do this date thing. Admittedly, Paul is smoothing the path for me with his easy questions and sexy smiles and all-round gentlemanly behaviour.

I launch into a description of the village we’re plotting, and the plan to unveil it in the Oast House in a couple of weeks. He’s attentive and complimentary and asks smart technical questions that suggest he’s either interested in what I have to say or does indeed intend to attempt another gingerbread house this year and is shoring up intel.

I suspect it’s the former.

As I wrap up, I say, ‘We should stop talking about me. Tell me about you, before you eat all the tartiflette.’

He smiles and puts his fork down, holding his hands up as if in surrender. ‘It’s all yours. What do you want to know?’

‘I don’t know.’ I realise I actually don’t. I cast around in my mind for a suitable topic but end up blurting out, ‘So, how long have you been single for?’

He laughs. ‘Wow. Going straight into the good stuff, I see.’

‘We don’t have to,’ I say in a panic. ‘We can talk about your work.’

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