as he waited, straining to hear any movement in the house. He was just debating whether to try again or give up, half turning to walk away, when the door swung open.
‘Oh, you’re not the carol singers.’ He turned back, words of explanation ready on his tongue when he found himself staring into a pair of familiar green-grey eyes, eyes growing round, hope and shock mingled in their depths. ‘Alex? Is it really you?’
* * *
‘You’re not watching the films?’ Flora’s dad looked up from the pastry he was expertly rolling out and smiled at her. ‘It’s The Muppet Christmas Carol.’
‘I know.’ Flora wandered over to the oak and marble counter where her father practised his recipes and slipped a finger into the bowl of fragrant home-made mincemeat, sucking the sweet, spicy mixture appreciatively. ‘Mmm, this is gorgeous. What’s the secret ingredient?’
‘Earl Grey and lemon.’ He nodded at her finger. ‘Dip that again and I’ll chop it off. I thought the Muppets were your favourite?’
‘They are.’ Flora slid onto a high stool and leaned forward, propping her chin in her hands as she watched her father work. The pastry was a perfect smooth square as he began to cut out the rounds. ‘Only I peeped in and Minerva, the twins and Greg are all curled up on the sofa. They looked so sweet I didn’t want to disturb them.’
‘They wouldn’t have minded.’
‘I know, but it’s not often I see Minerva so relaxed. She might have wanted to start talking marketing strategy or buzz creation and then the film would have been ruined for everyone.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’ Her mother bustled into the kitchen, her phone in her hand. ‘Great news, darling. Horry’s colleague wants to work Christmas, bad break-up apparently, so she’d rather work. Awful for her but it means Horry can come home this evening after all. Now we just need Alex and the whole family is together again.’
Guilt punched Flora’s chest and she resisted the urge to look at her phone to see if he’d responded. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can.’
‘We’re all very excited about your scarves.’ Her mother filled the kettle and began to collect cups from the vast dresser that dominated the far wall. The kitchen used to be two rooms but they had been knocked into one and a glass-roofed extension added to make it a huge, airy, sun-filled space filled with gadgets, curios and the bits and bobs Flora’s dad couldn’t resist: painted bowls, salt and pepper pots, vintage jugs and a whole assortment of souvenirs. Saucepans hung from a rack on the ceiling, there were planted herbs on every window sill and the range cooker usually had something tasty baking, bubbling or roasting, filling the air with rich aromas.
‘It doesn’t seem quite real.’ Flora grimaced. ‘I’m sure Minerva will change that. She was hissing something about Gantt charts earlier.’
‘She’s right, you should take this seriously.’ Her mother added three teaspoons of tea to the large pot and topped it with the boiled water. No teabags or shortcuts in the Buckingham kitchen. ‘I don’t know why it’s taken you so long. It’s obvious you should have been focusing on this, not wasting your talents on that awful pub chain. Those disgusting neon lemons...’ She shuddered.
Flora stared at her mother. ‘I thought you wanted me to have a steady job.’ She couldn’t keep the hurt out of her voice. ‘You’re always asking me when I’m going to settle down—in a job, a relationship, a place of my own.’
‘No,’ her mother contradicted as she passed Flora a cup of tea. Flora wrapped her hands around it, grateful for its warmth. ‘I wanted you to have direction. To know where you wanted to go. You always seemed so lost, Flora. Vet school to compete with the twins, interior design to fit in with Alex. I just wanted you to follow your own heart.’
‘It’s not always that easy though, is it? I mean, sometimes your heart can lead you astray.’ To Flora’s horror she could feel tears bubbling up. She swallowed hard, trying to hold back the threatening sob, ducking her head to hide her eyes. She should have known better. Nothing ever escaped Dr Jane Buckingham’s sharp eyes.
‘Flora?’ Her mother’s voice was gentle and that, combined with the gentle hug, pushed Flora over the edge she had been teetering on. It was almost a relief to let the tears flow, to let the sobs burst out, easing the painful pressure in her chest just a little. Her mother didn’t probe or ask any more, she just held Flora as she cried, rubbing her back and smoothing her hair off her wet cheeks.
It was like being a child again. If only her mother could fix this. If only it were fixable.
It took several minutes before the sobs quietened, the tears stopped and the hiccups subsided. Flora had been guided to the old but very comfortable chintzy sofa by the window, her tea handed to her along with yet another of her father’s mince pies. She curled up onto the cushions and stared out of the window at the pot-filled patio and the lawn beyond.
‘I won’t ask any awkward questions,’ her mother promised as she sat next to her. ‘But if you do want to talk we’re always here. You do know that, I hope, darling.’
Flora nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. She didn’t often confide in her parents, not wanting to see the disappointed looks on their faces, not to feel that yet again she was a let-down compared to her high-flying siblings.
But she wasn’t sure she could carry this alone. Not any more.
‘Alex asked me to marry him.’
She didn’t miss the exchange of glances between her parents. They didn’t look shocked, more saddened.
‘I wondered if it was Alex. You’ve always loved him so.’
She had no secrets, it seemed, and there was no point in denying it. She nodded. ‘But he doesn’t love me. He thought marriage would be sensible. He said I would have financial stability and storage for my designs.’
‘Oh.’
‘I mean, I didn’t expect sonnets but I didn’t think anyone would ever suggest storage as a reason for marriage.’ Flora was aware she sounded bitter. ‘How could I say yes? It would have been so wrong for both of us. Only now he’s not here and I miss him so much...’
Her mother patted her knee. ‘Have I ever told you how your father and I met?’
Flora stifled a sigh. Here it came, the patented Dr Jane Buckingham anecdote filled with advice. ‘You were flatmates,’ she muttered.
‘For a year,’ her father said, standing back to survey the trays of finished mince pies.
‘And then you went out for dinner and looked into each other’s eyes and the rest is history.’ Perfect couple with their perfect jobs and a perfect home and nearly perfect children. The story had been rehashed in a hundred interviews.
‘I think I fell in love with your mother the moment I saw her,’ her father said, a reminiscent tone in his voice. ‘But I didn’t think I was good enough for her. I was a hobby baker and trainee food journalist and there she was, a junior doctor. Brilliant, fierce, dedicated. I didn’t know what to say to her. So I didn’t really say anything at all.’
Flora’s mother picked up the tale. ‘But when I came off shift—exhausted after sixty
