morning mums crowd were long gone and there were only a few people dotted about at tables, most hiding behind laptop screens, absorbed in what they were doing.
‘Bad morning?’
I heaved out a juddering sigh, feeling my furious pulse finally starting to slow. ‘It started well but I was let down.’
‘Ah, one of those,’ sympathised Sally, snatching up a white china cup and saucer. ‘Cappuccino?’
‘Oh, God, yes, please. And cake.’
‘Coffee and walnut?’
‘Perfect.’
‘And where would you like it?’ she asked, her eyes sliding over my shoulder with definite meaning.
I looked over at the same time that Nate Williams lifted his head from his laptop. I glared at him.
As I approached his table, he pushed his laptop to one side. ‘Morning, you got my text then.’
‘About two minutes ago,’ I snapped.
‘Ah, sorry.’ At least he had the decency to look a little sheepish.
‘It’s fine … What could be better than managing sixty children on your own?’
He winced. ‘How did it go? I … I’m sorry I didn’t make it. I’ve had a couple of …’ he rubbed at one of his eyes ‘… things to sort out this morning.’ Studying him properly, I realised he looked tired. One eye was quite bloodshot and there was a grim set to his mouth. ‘How was this morning? You did a great job on the new script … for someone who’s not very artistic. I love that you’re telling the story from the innkeeper’s point of view.’
‘Thank you … not my idea, though. I pinched it from a book. Jesus’s Christmas Party.’
‘Well pinched, though. So how did it go down with the children?’
‘Good.’ I softened. He did look a bit crap. ‘And I got through quite a bit this morning. Recast everyone. Your daughter is now the very bossy innkeeper’s wife.’
He laughed. ‘Typecasting. She can be quite bossy.’ Then he sobered, his expression pensive. ‘Some of the time.’
‘And I’ve found the most perfect innkeeper.’
‘That’s great. Sounds like you’ve made good progress.’
‘I’d make more with some help,’ I said pointedly.
He winced. ‘That might be problematic, this week. Svetlana, she’s our nanny, her mum’s very ill. She had to catch a train home this morning.’
‘A train?’ I’d assumed, with her name and accent, home would be a flight away.
Nate let out a mirthless laugh. ‘She comes from Wigan. Been here since she was seven. But I’m really stuck without any childcare. I can work from home … while Grace is at school but it’s almost impossible when she gets home. I’m going to have to maximise those hours when she’s at school to get stuff done.’
‘Great,’ I groaned.
‘It’s not exactly a picnic for me, trying to juggle everything, but Svetlana says she’ll be back in a couple of days.’ He glanced back at his computer screen.
‘Sorry I interrupted you. You’re working.’
He let out a short laugh and turned the screen around to reveal a webpage with the heading, Simple Gingerbread House Recipe – BBC Good Food.
‘Interesting; I didn’t have you down as a baker.’
‘I’m not.’ He lifted his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘Nothing like. I’m realising just how far from it I am. I was just trying to get ahead of myself. Elaine was a total perfectionist. Christmas in our house has always been the magazine perfect Christmas. I don’t want to let Grace down but … there’s so much to do. She’s had a lot of change in her life and she’s desperate for Christmas to be just like it was before. She’s already fretting about this.’ He nodded towards the screen. ‘Elaine made one every year and it’s Grace’s abiding memory of Christmas. But it won’t be the same if we don’t make it.’ His mouth twisted and his eyes clouded, lost in memories.
Oh, God, I hadn’t considered that he might be a widower and the shock of the idea made me ask, without proper preparation or tact, ‘Is your wife … erm … dead?’
Nate looked up sharply. ‘No. Not dead. Just er … she’s erm … taking some time out from family life.’
My rubbish poker face semaphored startled surprise. What the hell did that mean?
‘That must be tough,’ I said, trying not to sound the least bit judgmental, but who takes time out from family life when they have a seven-year old?
‘Yeah, it is, especially on Grace.’ And on him. Now I could see it. Those deep groves on either side of his mouth, not so much chiselled features but worn down, weary features. A weariness around the eyes.
He rubbed at his cheek. ‘But we just have to get on with it.’ Like a veil had been lifted from my eyes, I saw Nate in a different light. What came across as upright and confident hid a brittleness about him. A stiffness, like someone holding themselves back, retreating from human touch, for fear of a bruise being inadvertently touched again. He held himself aloof. Shutting down quickly when emotion escaped him. Hence the mixed messages that first day I’d met him.
I wanted to ask more questions about his wife but it seemed far too intrusive.
‘Maybe Svetlana could make the gingerbread house,’ I suggested. ‘When she gets back.’
Nate laughed. ‘Svetlana is great at many things, but she’s no baker. I think asking her to make this –’ he looked at the picture on the screen ‘– would be an ask too much. But Grace is desperate to make one; apparently Cassie De Marco has one every year. I feel like I’m failing her.’
He looked so disconsolate I wanted to help.
‘I’ve had quite a bit of experience with gingerbread houses,’ I suddenly blurted out.
‘That’s not something you hear every day.’ There was cool appraisal in his face and I could almost see the barriers going up.
‘I have two cousins and between them they have five daughters. I’m dragged in on a regular basis to adjudicate as to who is winning in the best mummy stakes … and to help. I blame Martha Stewart or Aldi. I don’t remember gingerbread houses being a thing when I was a child. Do you?’
He relaxed slightly. ‘You’re right. They weren’t. Why Aldi?’
‘Because they started doing those kits one year, but of course no self-respecting domestic goddess would use a kit. They have to make their own from scratch. And my cousins are experts.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Forget houses, think palaces, and I’m already signed up to help one of my cousins after school this week. And I’ve already stirred two Christmas cakes.’
He
