pulls a face and his voice rises in protest. ‘Excuse me, but I’m the injured party here. Your friend Santa’s the one who cut me up.’
So likely. ‘You always were a knob head. For one time only you’re going to have to grow some balls, give in and back up. It’s obviously escaped you, but ponies don’t have reverse gear.’ Even though I’m on a roll here, I actually just meant to tell him to grow up. But whatever. I ramp up my scowl. ‘You wouldn’t want ashes instead of presents in your Christmas stocking, would you? Seeing as you’re still behaving like a kid.’ I know it’s the elf’s line, but it’s too good not to borrow.
As Santa leans past me, his voice is conciliatory. ‘Sorry she’s so prickly, Rory. You’ll have to forgive her, she’s just come all the way from London.’
Rory’s actually laughing, damn him. ‘Don’t worry, Gaz, I haven’t had a tongue lashing like that in years and I’m loving every second.’
My jaw freezes. For every reason. ‘You two know each other too?’
Santa gives me a strange stare. ‘Of course we do. This is Rory Sanderson, a.k.a. the Mr Huntley and Handsome, our eminent local wine supplier.’ He pauses to cock an eyebrow at me. ‘He’s a lovely boy. I’m sure this unfortunate squeeze here wasn’t deliberate.’
The elf purses his lips. ‘Rory’s solely responsible for keeping the fizz flowing in St Aidan, and our own personal Adonis in the Chamber of Commerce. I can’t think of anyone we’d rather be wedged in a crack with.’
The disgustingly attractive Sanderson body is obviously still working its magic then, despite it being twenty years older. It wasn’t that any one bit was particularly spectacular. But working as a whole, the effect was apparently knock-out. Not that I was ever a public fan. I made damned sure I never admitted to any of my misplaced teenage lusting.
‘No need to be quite such a tart, Ken.’ Santa’s looking daggers at the elf.
Rory looks like he’s choking back his laugh. ‘Great, we all know I like to claim that most of the upmarket hangovers in St Aidan are down to me. Anyway, if you hang onto the pony, Gaz, I’ll get out of your hair –’ He leans forward and eyeballs me, ‘– definitely not implying you look like a haystack, Holly. Or a witch who rode through a hurricane.’ He leans back again, and it’s obvious when he lets his smile go, that’s exactly what he means. ‘Then you can all get on with your day.’
Clamping my hands on my head, I try to find a snappy last word to hurl, but my wisecrack stream has totally dried. Instead I’m left, mouth sagging, staring at his manoeuvres. It’s only at the very end of his six point turn that I see past the Bad Ass Santa Brew transfers on the window and spot the two baby seats in the back of the car. I swallow hard and hang on to my deflating stomach as the engine purrs away. Rory Sanderson with kids? I did not see that one coming. Though why I should give a damn, I have no idea.
‘Holleeeeeeeeee …’
I turn as I hear my name. A shriek like that can only mean one person. ‘Poppy?’
She’s haring down the mews, blonde pigtails shining in a sudden shaft of afternoon sun, her Barbour coat flapping. ‘Great transport, Hols! Here’s me searching for you everywhere and you’ve been hijacked by Santa. How wild is that?’ Her forehead wrinkles into an appalled frown as she comes close. ‘Jeez, what happened here? Did you drive through a car wash?’
Frankly I’m relieved it’s not worse. ‘We collided with an early Christmas wave.’ Now I’m climbing down and shaking the sand out of my hair, it’s easier to laugh it off. ‘But thanks for the lift, Santa, it was way more exciting than a taxi. Take this for your charity box.’ I grab a tenner out of my pocket and push it into his hand.
Poppy leaps backwards as I land next to her. ‘No hugs for you when you’re this wet, even if you do look like an adorable baby seal.’ Poppy’s great, because she always sees the good side. Even from a distance, the air kisses she tosses a foot from my cheek smell of warm vanilla, icing sugar and waxed jacket. She turns to Santa and the elf, who’s grappling with my suitcase. ‘I’ve just made some Christmas pudding muffins if you’d like to come in and try some?’ That’s another good thing about her. Poppy’s always looking for testers for her baking.
The elf grimaces at his thighs as he hands me my rucksack. ‘Sorry, not today. I’m struggling with a see-through tights situation.’
Poppy glances at the elf’s tiny tunic as it rides up, then looks away quickly. ‘Eeek, I completely get where you’re coming from on that. Wait here, I’ll bring the cakes out.’ She jostles my arm excitedly and makes a lunge for my case. For someone pregnant who needs my help, she’s incredibly energetic. ‘Come on, Hols, I’m so pleased you’re here, and I promise we’re all going to have the most amazing Christmas.’
‘Great.’ There’s no time to remind her I won’t be doing Christmas. A second later, she’s dragging me and my case on wheels down the cobbled street towards the shop door.
Saturday, 2nd December
At Brides by the Sea: Small talk and straight lines
Later that evening, as Poppy clears away the papers from the fish and chip supper we’ve just had in the tiny kitchen in the attic flat, she’s doing her best to talk me into what sounds suspiciously like a party.
‘There’s no Brides by the Sea Christmas bash this year because Jess is away. So tonight’s her consolation prize. It’s just a few friends for drinks. You’ll know everyone, you have to come down.’ She pushes the cake box towards me. ‘Another?’
Even though there’s a huge kitchen at Daisy Hill Farm, Poppy still does a lot of her cooking here in the flat above the shop. Blaming her boyfriend Rafe for eating the cakes is probably only half the story. Every time I come through to the blue-painted cupboard fronts and shelves of brightly coloured, mismatched crockery, crammed with bowls and baking trays of every size, I can see it’s not a place you’d give up easily. Which is probably why she keeps working here and has as many friends to stay as she can find excuses for.
If Poppy’s trying to soften me up with sugar, I’m confident I can fit in a second Christmas pudding muffin and still resist the invitation. ‘I was planning a quiet evening, listening to the roar of the wind and the crash of the sea. Googling hot tips on wedding photography and getting ready for my practice shoot with Nate and Becky tomorrow.’ In case she’s forgotten, I’m here to hide not go out on the razz. Peeling my holly leaf off the muffin top, I bite through the white dribbled icing. Then my teeth sink into that familiar dark chocolate sponge heaven.
Poppy’s cakes take me all the way back to the cosy kitchen at her mum’s house, with its table covered in cake crumbs and icing sugar. The warmth and the smell of baking, and the house always full of Poppy’s friends, including me and Freya. It reminds me of how as teenagers, when we dribbled icing onto buns and made feathery patterns with a knife, I didn’t have to think about my big sister never coming back again. They were happy times.
She tidies up a stack of mixing bowls and grins at me as I get up from my stool. ‘Your shirt and trousers look great. You showered earlier, your hair’s fab. A bit of lippy, you’ll be good to go for the get-together.’
