Page 40 of Confessions of a Christmasholic

Wine and a bath sounded like heaven. But first, she had to deal with the mess she’d created. Gus, reading her mind, looked around and frowned. ‘Were you crying because my kitchen will take hours to clean, or because of something else?’

He was giving her an out, a reason not to explain, and she was tempted to take it. But she felt like she needed to talk to someone. If she didn’t, she might blow. Well, blow again. She felt the pressure in her chest and knew she needed an outsider’s opinion on the mess that was her life. Gus was cool-headed and unemotional and, God, she needed both those traits right now.

She needed someone to talk her down from the ledge. ‘I’m considering flying to Mauritius to murder my best friend,’ she told him, surprised at the conversational tone of her voice.

Her statement wasn’t enough to make Gus react. ‘You can’t,’ he informed her. ‘A), you only have enough money to take a trip to the village.’

Yeah, there was that.

‘And B), you’re not going anywhere until you clean up my kitchen.’

Fair enough.

‘I’ll order a pizza from the pub, and then open a bottle of wine,’ he told her. He gestured to the kitchen. ‘Can you make a start here?’

She nodded. While she worked, she wondered if she had the right to burden Gus with her problems. He had enough on his plate with running two businesses, the twins and trying to keep it all together. Acting like he loved Christmas – why did he do that? – also had to take a toll. He didn’t need her dumping on him, and what could he do about her situation anyway? She’d lost a few thousand pounds, it was just money. She hadn’t, like him, lost his life partner, and been left to raise twins on her own. What right did she have to moan about her life when life had slapped him with so much more?

No, she’d loaned Layla the money, she’d take it on the chin. Her choice, her consequence.

But damn, if she couldn’t trust Layla to keep her word, who could she trust?

* * *

After a mammoth cleaning session and eating pub pizza – not too bad, all things considered – Gus handed her a glass of red wine and sat down next to her on the long couch on the opposite side of the now spotlessly clean kitchen. Pig’s heavy head rested on her foot, and she’d lost feeling in her toes ten minutes ago. The actual pig was curled up in his little basket, snoring away.

Sutton wished she was asleep. She was beyond tired. But she still had to shower and wash her hair. Like Rosie, she had strands of sticky hair and she did not want to transfer sugar to her pillow.

She yawned and balanced her glass of wine on her knee. ‘I cannot believe it took us over an hour to sort out the kitchen,’ she muttered, resting her head on the back of the couch. Gus placed his socked feet on the arm of the chair sitting at a right angle to him, his big hand curled around a glass of whisky.

‘I couldn’t believe anyone could make that much mess,’ he told her.

She stuck out her tongue at him. ‘So, how was your day?’ she asked, hoping to distract him. She’d seen the assessing looks he’d sent her as they ate pizza, and knew he was trying to work out whether she might dissolve again.

She wasn’t ready to talk about Layla yet. She didn’t want to explain how hurt she was, how idiotic she felt. She just wanted to drink her wine, listen to the wind in the trees outside – it was howling again, and more snow was expected – and hear Gus tell her about his day.

‘We had an American customer who all but bought out the shop,’ Gus replied.

‘I presume you’re talking about Kate’s Christmas Shop?’

‘Mmm. I had to place another big, urgent order with the supplier today.’

She sat up and pulled her dead foot from under Pig’s snout. His chin hit the floor with a thump but he didn’t stir. He wasn’t the brightest hound in the pack. She wiggled her foot to get blood back into her toes before tucking her feet under her bottom and resting her arm on the back of the couch. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

He pulled a face. ‘I guess. I keep hoping to have a crappy season, so I have a reason to close the damn place down,’ he told her, his hand tightening on his glass.

‘It seems to be a great little business.’ She’d worked there and she’d been run off her feet.

He lifted one big shoulder and sighed. ‘I’m not its biggest fan.’

‘Yet every December you throw yourself into it. If you don’t like it, why don’t you sell it? Or hand it over to someone to manage?’

He huffed, then shrugged. ‘It was Kate’s. It’s a link to Kate, and Christmas is a link to her. This is the season when the community remembers her best, it’shertime of the year.’

Wow. She could understand why December would be a difficult month for Gus and Moira, but to have the whole town invested? Wasn’t that...how could she put it...a bit OTT? ‘Why do the villagers associate Christmas with Kate?’

Gus shuffled down his seat and rested his head on the back of the couch. ‘Kate was, to an extent, the daughter of the village. Kate’s father, Derek, and Moira were always involved in every aspect of village life – over-involved, I would say. Because Kate was their only child, she tagged along to every meeting, every discussion and every function. She became, I suppose, the town mascot. Everyone knew her, everyone has a story about her. She was the modern-day version of the daughter of the manor, keeping the peasants happy.’

She pushed a finger into his hard bicep. ‘Snob.’

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