Meet Me Under the Mistletoe (12 page)

Dunn’s Café was the first place on the high street she’d found open. It was the kind of café she would never have dreamed of going into back in London–formica tables with tea stains on, a frying-heavy breakfast menu, and not a whiff of vintage furniture or any cupcakes. But it looked warm, she thought. It would do.

Now, as she waited for whatever drink of questionable quality was being prepared, she wondered if it had been a mistake to compromise her usual standards. She took out her mobile and checked it, but she didn’t have any reception. Slowly, slowly, she tilted her chair back until her head was nearly touching the window. She held her phone up towards the window until she thought she glimpsed a bar of reception appear. ‘YES,’ she hissed.

‘You all right there?’ the boy said, putting her mug of coffee down on the table. His words brought her crashing back to the ground with a jolt. As her chair legs made contact with the floor again her coffee splashed out across the table.

‘Absolutely fine,’ Laurie said, putting her phone down on a dry patch. She could see him struggling to hide a smile.

‘You’re new around here, aren’t you?’ he asked. Laurie didn’t respond. She hoped it would be perfectly obvious she wasn’t a local – if Diana was anything to go by, she certainly didn’t want to be mistaken for one. ‘Well, I’m Ben.’

‘Laurie,’ she replied coolly.

Ben was still standing by the table. Oh no. Did he want a chat? She took a copy of the
Skipley Post
from the rack to her left to make it clear that she had no wish for any further conversation. As he lingered, she pretended to look very focused on the front page. She scanned the headlines – a local rescue racehorse had won a charity race.

‘We don’t get that many visitors, you see,’ he said.

Still on the front page – some old pots had been found in a recent visit by
Time Team
. She rifled through the rest. Didn’t they have any proper news around here?

‘I mean in Skipley, we do – tourists in the summer. Americans and that. But not here, in the café.’ Laurie tried to shut out Ben’s voice.

There must be a local celebrity or two, Laurie thought, keeping her head down and tucking a chunk of her thick dark hair behind one ear. Hadn’t Kate Moss got married in a little village like this one? Celebrities were always hanging out in remote places, weren’t they? Where the paparazzi couldn’t find them?

After what felt like hours, but must have been about ten minutes, Ben finally gave up and walked back to the counter. Laurie took a sip of the coffee – it was watery.

Her second thoughts about having come to Skipley were shouting so loudly in her head right now that there was hardly room for anything else. She allowed herself to daydream for a moment about where she could have been if she hadn’t maxed out her credit card last month – browsing racks of clothes in Bloomingdales, eating in a restaurant in Rome. Instead here she was – in the rain-sodden English countryside, with instant coffee and a teenage boy for company.

Laurie’s gaze drifted out of the window, and she saw that the promise of her arrival, with its glittery, snowflake-light welcome, hadn’t completely faded. The high street, with an old-fashioned sweet shop and a pie shop, did look quite picturesque. There was another shop selling fabric and wool, a bakery and what looked like a boutique – a granny-type of boutique, but some clothes, nonetheless. Laurie held the hot mug closer to her. At that moment a familiar face caught her eye – heavily styled blonde hair sweeping into view from the side of the window. Diana.

Laurie panicked, then grabbed her newspaper and held it up high so that her face would be obscured from the street side.

‘Know Mrs Humphries, do you?’ Ben called over, obviously still at a loose end with no other customers to serve.

‘Diana? Yes,’ Laurie said. A reminder of the run-in with her new neighbour on Tuesday night immediately made Ben seem more appealing company. ‘I mean, I’ve met her once.’

He laughed as Laurie shifted the newspaper so that she remained blocked from Diana’s view. ‘You won’t be able to hide for long round here, you know,’ Ben said.

‘Just watch me,’ Laurie retorted.

‘She’s all right really,’ Ben said. ‘Her bark’s worse and all that. Actually she used to be really nice. She does interior-design stuff. My mum loves her style – she helped my parents out with the living room for mates’ rates. If you pay full whack, it’s really expensive.’

‘Oh, right,’ Laurie said, warming a little to Ben’s friendly company.

‘Then her husband Richard ran off,’ Ben continued, ‘with her Puerto Rican tennis coach – a guy.’ Laurie looked up from the classifieds she’d been pretending to scour. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but good riddance, my mum said. Richard was a prat, everyone knew that. She’s much better off without him.’

OK, Laurie couldn’t lie, she was just a teensy bit interested. ‘And now?’

‘Now she’s on her own, she gets on with her work and all that, she’s just a bit grumpier.’

Well, that explained some things, Laurie thought. She drained her cup of coffee, wincing just a little – it really was terrible. As she got up and put the paper back she caught sight of a classified ad right at the bottom of the page:

Interested in Fashion? VOLUNTEERS NEEDED.
Skipley Community Centre, Weekdays
1–4
p.m
.

Laurie’s eyes lingered on it for a moment, then she folded the paper and put it back. She pulled her coat back on and buttoned it up. ‘Right, well, thank you,’ she said. ‘It was nice meeting you, Ben.’ He gave Laurie a wink. She closed the café door behind her and stepped out into the street.

While she’d been drinking the awful coffee in Dunn’s the village had woken up; a farmers’ market was being set up over the road, in the square by a church. Stallholders were cheerfully putting out cheeses, vegetables and pastries on their stands. It was only a stone’s throw away, she thought. She might as well take a look.

Putting her earmuffs back on to protect her from the biting cold, Laurie crossed the high street and made her way over to the stalls. Mums with pushchairs chatted in a huddle and an elderly lady passed a sample of locally made preserve to her partner for him to taste. From a grey start, it had turned into a crisp, bright, winter’s morning in the Yorkshire village, and blue sky stretched out overhead, lighting up the surrounding hills.

Laurie had been to farmers’ markets in London, but this was different, knowing that the produce had been made within walking distance. Laurie picked up a cinnamon whirl from the pastry stall. ‘Not seen you around here before,’ the woman said, unashamedly scanning Laurie’s face as she handed over the change.

‘I’m visiting,’ Laurie replied.

‘Well, welcome to Skipley, in that case,’ the woman said, with a bright smile. Laurie nodded and attempted a smile in response, then walked into the square in the centre of the market where a brass band was starting up. As they tuned up their trombones and trumpets, a small crowd of locals gathered in front of them. Laurie stood by the steps of the church, bathed in winter sunshine, eating her pastry and listening as the band struck up a tune.

When they stopped for a break ten minutes later, Laurie wandered back to the stalls. She stopped at one selling chutneys and tried a bite-size sample on a cracker. The flavours – apricot, allspice, dates – danced in her mouth.

‘This is delicious,’ she said, her words slipping out and drawing a smile from the chubby-cheeked lady running the stall. ‘My ma’s recipe,’ she said proudly. ‘Christmas chutney. Great for gifts.’

‘I’ll take two jars, please,’ she said. They’d make nice presents for Siobhan and her Aunt Clara. She bought some hot apple and ginger to drink from the same woman, and drifted from one stand to another, trying tasters. Soft cheeses dissolved deliciously in her mouth and she nibbled on bits of local sausages and hams, buying the ones she liked best.

The final stall she reached was full of fresh herbs. She looked at all the green – it was like an impenetrable jungle to her. Salt and pepper was as far as she ever got in her cooking.

‘What’s …’ she asked the tall man in a flat cap behind the table. He must have seen the puzzled look she was trying so hard to hide. She didn’t even know what questions to ask.

‘… good with what?’ he asked kindly, his blue eyes shining. ‘Rosemary with lamb,’ he started, then here’s coriander for …’ Laurie listened as he talked her through each herb. He made it all seem easy. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as she paid him for four bunches of herbs and tucked them away in her bag.

Her arms were laden with full shopping bags when she looked up at the clock tower and saw that it was nearly midday.

Laurie walked back up the high street towards Rachel’s cottage. Perhaps there were worse places to be than Skipley, after all. Most people seemed friendly, and best of all they didn’t know a thing about her – they knew nothing about Seamless, or Jay, or the fact she would be single at Christmas, again.

A couple of friends or neighbours paused on the pavement to chat, smiling at Laurie as she passed them. In the grocery store, villagers were already stocking up on Christmas supplies – bottles of wine, mince pies and packs of charity Christmas cards. Here, in the middle of nowhere, she felt different, more relaxed. Her usually frantic pace slowed right down as she walked in Rachel’s borrowed wellies.

Perhaps here in the Yorkshire Dales, without work to think about, and far away from Jay, she could be the person she wanted to be – or at least find out who that was. She might not be in Skipley for long, but maybe, just maybe – it could be the gap year she’d never had.

She had gone away after A-Levels – when she and Rachel had just turned eighteen – but she hadn’t been volunteering in an orphanage or anything. She’d spent the summer on the beach in Greece with Rachel.

It had been dark when their ferry had pulled into the port of the island of Paros, but an elderly Greek lady had quickly zeroed in on Laurie and Rachel, escorting them to a rental apartment. ‘Cheap and good,’ she’d insisted, waving laminated photos. She’d led Laurie and Rachel along the beachfront and down a dark lane.

They’d spent the flight to Athens poring over their Lonely Planet
Greek Islands
guide and finally settled on Paros – plenty of bars for Laurie, and white-sand beaches for Rachel. They’d been daydreaming about the trip for ages, during the long weeks of exam revision – now they were finally here. With rucksacks packed full of bikinis, sarongs and suncream, their plan was to find bar jobs and stay out the whole summer; two, three months, maybe.

The apartment the woman let them into was plain, but functional. The window shutters were down so they couldn’t see the view, but they could hear the waves crashing outside.

’It’s fine for us,’ Laurie said, ‘we’ll take it.’ She handed over their deposit and they put their bags down. Laurie saw the landlady out, and as she closed the door, heard a yelp come from the bathroom.

‘Cockroaches!’ Rachel called out, running into the bedroom, her pretty face pale. OK, Laurie thought, as she poked her head around the bathroom door. So there were a couple of cockroaches in the bathroom, scuttling around by the shower plughole.

‘As soon as we get jobs we’ll find somewhere better,’ Laurie reassured Rachel.

Standing on their balcony the next morning as the sun rose over the sea, it was as if they’d landed in paradise. White sand stretched out in front of them and the beach bars were starting to open up; all around they could hear the chatter of locals and tourists as the island gradually came to life.

‘So – today the job hunt begins,’ Laurie said.

‘Today?’ Rachel said, laughing. ‘C’mon, Laurie. Look at that beach! Anything but sunbathing today would be a crime.’

‘OK, I’ve done it,’ Laurie announced a fortnight later, coming home to the apartment with bags of food shopping. ‘I’ve found us work.’ After a couple of weeks sunbathing and touring the island on mopeds, drinking in the bars at night, Laurie was itching to start earning some money.

‘What?’ Rachel asked, looking up from the spot where she was stretched out, cat-like on the balcony, her usually pale legs tanned golden.

‘Yes, jobs, lazypants,’ Laurie said. ‘No need to thank me. I know it’s been a dream living with our cockroach friends, but I’m getting a little bit bored now of you moping around missing Aiden. And we’re skint.’

Rachel put her paperback down on the table. ‘I know, I know. Where is it?’

‘O’Reilly’s. The Irish bar in town.’ She dumped the bags on the kitchen counter and began to unpack. ‘I know it’s not quite the dream we had – you know, little taverna with Greek salads and all that – but the guy who runs the place seems nice enough.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Barry.’

‘Barry?’

‘Look, Rachel. Beggars can’t be choosers. Our next month’s rent is going to be due soon, and we’re getting seriously low on the old drachmas.’

Unfortunately, with Barry holding on to their tips, it turned out that serving tequila to sunburned tourists didn’t pay enough for them to move to a better place – or even keep them in their own apartment. A month after they’d set out, Rachel and Laurie were back at Heathrow Airport, with Aiden waiting in Arrivals to meet them.

At home in Bromley, with a rapidly fading tan and a plan that had come unstuck, Laurie was faced with a long summer stretching out in front of her and an empty wallet. Six weeks later Rachel found out she was pregnant, and slowly, the two of them started to drift apart.