One Christmas Morning: A perfect Christmas treat!. Тилли Бэгшоу
the darkness, and with Gabriel Baxter’s snide remarks still ringing in her ears, the Downs seemed to jump out at her, looming threateningly like an uncertain future. Holding the Nativity play script over her head as a makeshift umbrella, Laura dashed up the garden path and ran inside, slamming the front door closed behind her.
Peggy the pug heaved her fat form out of the basket by the Aga and waddled over to greet her mistress, wiggling her stump of a tail.
‘Hello, Peg.’ Pulling a McVitie’s chocolate digestive out of the jar on the counter, Laura ate half and gave half to the dog. ‘At least you’re pleased to see me.’
It was the kitchen at Briar Cottage that had sold Laura on the place. That and the overgrown garden that had looked riotously beautiful in spring, with dog roses everywhere and hollyhocks reaching almost to the chimneys, but now, in winter, untended by Laura, was a sodden mess of brambles and weeds. The kitchen maintained its charm, however, with its uneven flagstones worn smooth from centuries of use, its cheery red Aga and the cushioned window seat looking out over the rooftops of Fittlescombe with St Hilda’s Church steeple just visible in the distance. It was impossible not to feel cheered walking into Briar Cottage’s kitchen, even with the November rain peeing down outside, and your script hopelessly unfinished, and the village Nativity play you had stupidly, stupidly agreed to direct shaping up to be the biggest fiasco in Fittlescombe since the Black Death.
Propped up next to the biscuit jar was the stiff, embossed invitation that had arrived this morning. Picking it up, Laura read it again, as surprised now as she had been when she’d first opened it:
Rory Flint-Hamilton, Esq., requests the pleasure of the company of
Miss Laura Tiverton
At Furlings Christmas Hunt Ball
Friday 23 December, 8 p.m.
Black Tie
RSVP Furlings, Fittlescombe
Rory Flint-Hamilton was what an earlier generation would have described as the lord of the manor. Owners of the magnificent Furlings Estate, unquestionably the most beautiful house in the entire Swell Valley, Rory Flint-Hamilton’s ancestors had once owned the entire village of Fittlescombe. Nine generations of Flint-Hamiltons lay buried in St Hilda’s churchyard. Unlike those of most grand old country families, the Flint-Hamiltons’ fortunes and influence had risen, rather than fallen, in modern times, thanks to canny investments by Rory’s father Hugo in a number of African mines. Now an old man himself, and never a go-getter like his father, Rory Flint-Hamilton was content with the quiet life of a country squire. Every year, however, he bridged the divide between Fittlescombe’s old guard and its newer, more glamorous part-time residents by hosting the Furlings Hunt Ball, an event so grand that prime ministers and even the occasional Hollywood film star had been known to attend.
How on earth Laura had scored an invitation she had no idea. Her grandmother had known the Flint-Hamiltons, of course, but the two families had never been close. Laura herself had only ever seen Rory Flint-Hamilton at church, and was pretty certain she had never spoken to him. Perhaps Harry Hotham had said something. Or the vicar, dear old Reverend Slaughter. This morning, excited to receive the card, Laura had impetuously posted the news of her invitation on Facebook. But, as the day wore on, the horrible thought occurred to her that perhaps local people felt sorry for her. She could picture St Hilda’s headmaster now, cornering Rory Flint-Hamilton in the village stores:
‘Pretty girl, but terribly lonely. Do ask her, old man. She needs to get out.’
Putting down the card with a shudder, Laura tried to think about supper. Deciding she was too tired to cook or even set a place for herself, she kicked off her shoes, grabbed four more chocolate biscuits out of the jar and trudged upstairs to run a bath. In London she’d always kept her flat scrupulously clean, just in case John decided to pop in unannounced. Here she thought nothing of dropping her clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor and leaving a trail of biscuit crumbs on the stairs. No one was going to see the mess, any more than anyone was going to see her unshaven legs and woefully unpedicured toes, or the small but definitely there roll of fat that had formed around her middle like a flotation device. Saving me from drowning in heartbreak, thought Laura. Then she thought how much fatter she’d be if she were still pregnant – she’d be almost ready to pop by now – and had to splash water on her face to stop herself from crying.
Five minutes later the bath was ready. Sinking her aching limbs into the hot, lavender-scented bathwater, Laura exhaled deeply, relaxed for the first time all day. Dangling her hand over the side of the bath, so Peggy could lick the chocolate from her fingers, she thought idly about Gabriel Baxter and Lisa James – Joseph and Mary. They were probably back at Gabe’s farm, having wild sex right this minute. For a split second Laura felt a pang of envy. Not because she had the slightest desire to sleep with Gabe, but because, since John and losing the baby, she hadn’t the slightest desire, full stop. She was only twenty-eight. But there were days when she couldn’t imagine ever being sexual again.
‘I’m turning into an old woman, Peggy.’
The pug snuffled dismissively. Or perhaps it was supportively. Peggy did a lot of snuffling. Lying back, Laura immersed her whole head in the water, allowing her dark curls to spread out around her like a mermaid’s locks, luxuriating in the warmth and peace. When she sat up again, the phone was ringing.
‘Goddamn it.’ She contemplated not answering. It was probably just that old pervert Harry Hotham, trying to pin her down for a dinner date. Disgusting old goat. But years spent in the cut and thrust of a TV studio had left her congenitally incapable of leaving telephones to ring. Pulling herself up out of the bath like a Kraken, dripping lavender water all over the oak floorboards, she skidded down the corridor into her bedroom. Just as she was about to pick up the phone, the answer machine kicked in. She heard her own voice played back to her.
‘This is Laura. Please leave a message.’
God, I sound awful. So depressed! I must remember to do a perkier version in the morning.
‘Laura, hi. This is Daniel.’
She froze. Daniel. Daniel Smart? Daniel Smart was an old flame – a very old flame – from her student days at Oxford. Head of the Boat Club, and president of OUDS, the prestigious university dramatic society, Daniel had always been destined to do great things. They’d had a fling in the Christmas of Laura’s second year – they’d actually spent the holiday at Fittlescombe, in the cottage at Mill House, the year before Laura’s parents sold it. When the romance fizzled out, Laura had been briefly heartbroken. But it all felt like a lifetime ago now. Last she heard, Daniel was a wildly successful West End theatre producer. Married. Happy.
‘Look, one of our old Oxford lot told me you were in Fittlescombe.’ He laughed nervously. ‘I know I shouldn’t. But I came over all nostalgic. Anyway, probably silly of me. I just thought I’d get back in touch, see how you are.’
Laura sank down on the bed, shivering. In her haste, she’d forgotten a towel. The Aga kept the kitchen warm, but what little central heating there was upstairs at Briar Cottage all seeped out through the warped and rotting windows. Laura’s bedroom was as cold as any polar base camp. Pulling the knitted bedspread off the bed, she wrapped it around herself.
‘Well.’ Daniel laughed again. ‘If you do want to call, I’m on 07891 991 686. But if not, and you think I’m a complete lunatic, I quite understand. I probably am. Love anyway. Er … bye.’
There was a click. Laura stared at the red flashing light in the answer machine for a long time, too stunned to move.
Daniel. Daniel Smart had called her! Tracked her down, here of all places. As if that weren’t bizarre enough, he’d sounded so awkward. Almost shy. The Daniel Laura remembered was supremely confident. Never in a million years would he