day so she could give him the first of his gifts. She’d been slogging away all afternoon, sorting out the seemingly endless amount of paperwork that was required to keep a youth club up and running in the twenty-first century, and was ready for some festive frivolity. Admittedly, she’d already managed to distract herself by attaching two new strands of thick golden tinsel to the edge of her desk. She’d seen them in the market that morning and hadn’t been able to resist. It was Christmas, after all.
‘Afternoon,’ Deirdre called cheerily, as she popped her head around the office door. ‘How are the accounts going, busy bee?’
‘Ah, you know. Not the most positive reading.’ Clara pulled a face. No matter how hard she looked at the numbers on the spreadsheets, there was no way she could make them add up. ‘Then again, it’s no worse than normal. We’ll keep ticking over. We always do.’
‘That we will.’ There was a pause, and Clara had a suspicion she knew where Deirdre’s conversation was about to head. She had that look in her eye that suggested she was ready to start digging. ‘So,’ she began, ‘what’s going on with you and Joe?’
‘Nothing,’ Clara replied. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
It was a half-truth, but Clara pushed away the guilt rising in her chest by assuring herself that Deirdre was only concerned with romance, and there was none of that between her and Joe. A hint of harmless flirting and a countdown to Christmas, but no full-blown love affair like her boss was craving.
Deirdre peered over the upper rim of her glasses like a TV detective scrutinising the evidence.
‘Nothing?’ she frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Because the way he came charging after you at the lantern parade … well, it didn’t seem like nothing to me. In fact, I’d go as far as to say it looked like the act of someone trying to get into your good books,’ she pressed, with a suggestive jiggle of her eyebrows. The implied meaning was clear. Deirdre’s voice might be saying ‘good books’, but her eyebrows were saying ‘bed’.
‘You said it yourself, Joe’s a nice guy. He could tell I was shaken after seeing Dean and wanted to make sure I was okay. That’s all there is to it.’
The mention of Dean was all it took to set Deirdre off. Dean-bashing had become one of her favourite hobbies over the past few months.
‘Didn’t he look ridiculous in that massive coat?’ Deirdre said. ‘And what the hell was that dancing all about? What a cock.’
‘Deirdre!’ Clara exclaimed. ‘That’s harsh.’
‘Not harsh enough. I speak as I find.’
Deirdre gingerly lowered herself onto the sofa that backed against the far wall of the office. Her face strained with the effort.
‘Oooof, that’s better,’ she said, sticking her right leg straight out in front of her. ‘My knee’s been giving me gip all day.’
‘You’re doing too much,’ Clara chided. ‘The aches and pains are your body telling you to take things more easily.’
‘Stop giving me orders. You’re not a nurse.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Clara replied, biting her tongue, ‘but I’ve been working with you long enough to know when you’re overdoing it.’
Deirdre’s face softened as she spied the tin of chocolates on Clara’s desk. ‘I’d feel better if I could have one of those orange creams …’
Clara froze rigid. The chocolates were her first festive gift for Joe, but she knew that if she tried to explain the countdown to Deirdre she’d only end up reading more into it than there was. It was easier to say nothing.
Reluctantly, she handed the chocolates over. ‘Knock yourself out,’ she said with a smile she hoped didn’t look forced.
Deirdre was practically salivating as she clamoured to pull back the seal. ‘A brand-new tin, what a treat. Means nobody’s hogged the best ones already.’
‘Like I said, knock yourself out.’
As Deirdre rummaged noisily through the confectionery, seeking the distinctive amber wrapper of her most coveted chocolate, Clara hoped there’d be more than a tin of empty foils to give Joe when he arrived for his shift at six o’clock. Although, she reasoned, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if that was all that remained. Not much says Christmas quite as well as a half-eaten tin of Quality Street.
* * *
By the time they were shutting the heavy doors after the last group of kids had left for the night, Joe looked beat. He leant against the door and let out a long, slow sigh.
‘I don’t know how you do this and look so young. I’m convinced I’ve aged twenty years in one night,’ he said, rubbing his fingertips against his cheeks.
‘Lightweight. One night and you’re ready to throw in the towel?’ Clara clucked her tongue sarcastically. ‘I expected you to have more staying power.’
‘I didn’t say anything about giving up,’ he clarified. ‘Just that I feel like I’ve been mauled by a pack of wolves, and my shoulder’s killing me.’
He massaged the joint, before rolling his shoulder in a circular motion.
‘You should never have told them you could breakdance. You should have known they weren’t going to stop badgering until you demonstrated your windmill,’ Clara teased.
The group of awestruck pre-teens had watched on in amazement as Joe showed off his flips and tricks with apparent ease, and Clara herself had been impressed. These were the kind of moves Diversity would be proud of and, she’d realised, Joe had a look of Ashley Banjo about him. Part of it was the height and rich skin, although Joe’s was darker than the breakdance king’s, but it was more the open face and wide, friendly smile. Clara had to admit, Joe was handsome, and, from what she knew, kind and unassuming too. The total opposite of blonde, show-off Dean in every possible way.
It had been Clara leading the applause when Joe had stood, arms folded across his chest and an unbelievable mean look on his face as he finished his routine, but she wasn’t his only fan. She’d noticed a group of girls whispering, and recognised their giggling ways as a sure-fire sign of a crush on someone older and unobtainable. She’d had a similar infatuation herself when she was twelve, with her maths teacher Mr Miles. He’d been the one thing that had held her interest in trigonometry and quadratic equations.
‘I’ve learned my lesson,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s swelling up.’
‘Come on,’ Clara said, nodding to the stairwell. ‘There’s all sorts of stuff in the first-aid cupboard in the office. I’m sure we can find something to make it more bearable.’
She started up the stairs, her fingers tickling the strands of tinsel that were wrapped around the banister.
‘Ouch,’ Joe said, as he slowly followed in Clara’s footsteps. ‘I think I’ve strained a muscle in my thigh too. I’ve not pulled off those moves for the best part of ten years.’
‘Well, you’ve
