One Week ’Til Christmas. Belinda Missen
so, the thing is,’ I leaned in conspiratorially, palms bouncing off each other, ‘I really love Christmas.’
‘Come here.’ Tom wriggled a finger, inviting me further into his space. When I finally got close enough, he whispered, ‘Me too.’
I recoiled with a disbelieving laugh. ‘You do not! You’re just saying that to be agreeable.’
‘I absolutely do,’ he said, false shock all over his face. ‘What other time of year do I get to drink mulled cider like it’s cordial and call it indulging in tradition?’
As a lover of a cheeky mulled wine or two, I had to agree. ‘All right, points for that.’
‘Shall we avail ourselves of a warm drink and the winter market?’ Tom pointed lazily towards the market. ‘Two birds, one stone and all those other idioms?’
‘You’re an ideas man, Tom,’ I said. ‘See, when I woke up this morning my plan was to spend the day getting festive. That is, until my phone rang, and we got stuck together again.’
‘I really have done a number on you, haven’t I?’ Tom asked, pinching at his chin.
‘You’ve certainly been a prominent feature these last twenty-four hours, yes.’
‘Shall I make it up to you, then?’ He took a comically large step towards the crowds and urged me to follow. ‘Let’s go, Alice, down the rabbit hole.’
I slid my hands into the warmth of my pockets and followed. ‘Does that make you the Mad Hatter?’
‘On that, my mother would probably agree,’ he said. ‘Now, wine or cider?’
Down a set of stairs onto the main thoroughfare, we passed a fairground carousel brimming with light and colour, horses that glistened with the pearlescent sheen of boiled lollies. At the Beltane & Pop cart by the main entrance, we bought a mulled wine each and sipped on the spiced contents as we passed through the main entrance of the market. I wondered how hard I’d have to petition to have all markets begin with a drink stand.
I craned my neck for a better view of the glittering lights strung between buildings and posts like an extra galaxy of stars to love and admire against the inky sky.
‘So, Isobel, you mentioned today that you’re a travel writer?’
‘Usually,’ I said. ‘Today was just a lucky coincidence.’
‘Does that mean you get paid to travel around the world?’ he asked. ‘Because I would not say no to that.’
‘Not quite.’ I dodged a buggy that careened its way between us and pushed away a balloon that blew back and bopped me on the cheek. ‘Ninety per cent of the time, it means I hang around art galleries, cafes, and local festivals. I try out new tour buses with the over-sixties and health retreats with people who have more dollars than sense. So, not the worst job in the world, but it’s not always the glitz and glam of the Olivier Theatre, either. It’s mostly waiting in the queue at Burger King for cheap coffee.’
‘Glitz and glam?’ he guffawed. ‘You should see that place after rehearsal. There is zero glam there. There’s more sweat than a sauna in summer, and not a lot of fancy.’
‘Most of my articles are written in pyjamas while I snack on a bag of jelly snakes and bemoan the fact I’m out of wine and too lazy to walk the block and a half necessary to procure another bottle,’ I added. ‘I’m surprised I don’t own seven cats and have bird’s-nest hair.’
‘Oh, but I hear bird’s-nest hair is all the rage right now.’ Tom frowned and pushed out his lips. ‘I’m sure you would rock that look.’
‘Marginally,’ I said. ‘Although I’m disappointed your job is hardly the glittering beacon everyone’s presented with.’
‘I wish it was,’ Tom said. ‘I really do. Half of it is simply trying to remember lines. That’s honestly the worst and hardest part. The rest is a jumble sale of make-up chairs, weird poses, and the nightmarish echo of a clapboard. I swear I’ve woken up from nightmares that have ended with someone screaming “Action!” at me.’
‘And shitty journalists who lie about your love life, right?’ I nudged him with my elbow. Static electricity jumped up and bit me like a rabid cat.
‘You heard that?’ Tom drew to a shocked stop.
‘I think everybody heard that,’ I said. ‘At least everyone within a mile radius of King’s Road.’
‘I wasn’t that loud.’ He dropped his head into his hands with an embarrassed laugh. ‘You didn’t even wait, what, ten minutes to bring it up.’
I drew my sleeve back. ‘Seven minutes, thirty-seven seconds.’
‘Well done.’ He gave me his best faux-serious face.
‘Seriously, though, did you sort it out?’ I asked. ‘Because it sounded horrid.’
Tom shrugged. ‘Who knows? I tweeted; it ran its course. It’s all just tomorrow’s chip-shop wrapping, isn’t it?’
‘Very philosophical,’ I said. ‘And probably not wrong.’
We fell in step with the crowd, and each other, a slow meandering wander taking us towards dozens of tiny stalls, each of them fashioned like log cabins, their eaves draped in pinecones, fir fronds, warm yellow twinkle lights, and wooden snowflakes dangling in windows. It felt homely and inviting, like knocking on the front door of your best friend’s home to enjoy a warm night of fun and laughter.
‘So, speaking of parmesan cheese …’ Tom stopped about halfway along the thoroughfare, a boulder in a raging river of people. ‘What I normally do here is walk all the way to the end and then double back before making my dinner choice. But if it’s parmesan you’re after, laced with a bit of pasta, we can go straight to the Pasta Wheel.’
‘I don’t know what that is, but it sounds delicious,’ I said. My mouth was already watering at the idea of parmesan cheese. And pasta. All the carbs and fat.
‘Shall we?’ he asked.
‘Please.’ I gestured ahead of us. ‘Lead the way.’
We might have decided on dinner there and then, but we still spent another hour browsing quietly before we did anything about it. Wines were refilled as we passed drink carts, and we marvelled at the charm of the micro-village vibe, complete with the occasional trinket stall. Tom navigated like someone who’d memorised the floor map before arriving, dodging crowds, fire pits and buggies in the process.
We arrived at the Pasta Wheel to a small queue and the biggest wheel of cheese I’d ever seen. In fact, the last time I’d seen a wheel that big, I’d had a flat tyre in the middle of the freeway and had to wait for roadside assist to come and scuttle me out of the way of traffic.
I watched on in glee as a chef tossed steaming fettuccini into the hollowed centre of the wheel of cheese, stirring it until the edges melted and it looked like one great big mess of dairy and cholesterol. It was topped with fresh goat’s cheese, cooked sausage and chives – and then handed over the counter to me. Delicious!
With plates piled high with pasta so cheesy we’d kill the lactose-intolerant, we made our way to the nearest dining hall. A tent full of heaters, ambient lighting, and a loop track of carols that played a tad too loud. Tom led the way to a back corner and an empty pair of seats.
‘Okay, now, Isobel.’ He threw a leg over the bench seat and wriggled about to get comfortable, fork and napkin placed carefully to the side, dinner container opened for the obligatory oh-God-let-me-eat-it sniff.
‘Hmm?’ I dumped everything in a pile, fork tinkling down on the table and dangling precariously in a gap between two slats.
‘Given you’ve had the opportunity to interview me today, is this the part where I interview you?’
‘Oooh.’