Emily was playing Go Fish with her nieces. She was wearing a plastic Viking helmet with long yellow wool plaits attached; Imogen wore a bonnet that did up under her chin with a fat pink ribbon; and Rose wore a tiara.
‘Emily, have you got a six?’ Imogen asked, narrowing her eyes at her. Since she’d turned ten, Imogen had decided she would drop the ‘Aunty’ and just call her ‘Emily’ in her most mature voice.
‘Why yes, I do,’ Emily said, handing it over. Rose groaned and pouted her perfect little lips. Obviously she’d been looking for a six too.
Imogen’s face broke into a grin and she smoothed her messy fringe out of her eyes as though that had been a very hard decision to make and she was relieved she’d got it right. She collected Emily’s six and put it together with her own in a very neat pile, then lined it up with all the other very neat piles she was building.
‘Girls,’ Tony called from the kitchen. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready. Help Aunty Emily up off the carpet and then go wash your hands.’
‘I’m not quite a granny yet,’ Emily said, piling up the cards and holding out her hands for her nieces to tug her into a standing position.
‘You’re not exactly a fresh chicken either.’
‘Spring, not fresh. And why are you being so mean?’ She turned to the girls and pulled a face. ‘Your daddy’s being a big meanie.’
They squealed and jumped up and down, excited at the idea of an impending fight between their father and their aunt. Imogen spanked Tony’s backside as he passed by with a platter of salad for the table. ‘Naughty, Daddy!’
‘Meanie, meanie,’ both girls chanted.
‘Now go to your room and think about what you’ve done!’ Rose demanded, hands on hips and an expression on her face that was so intently cross Emily couldn’t help but laugh.
‘Good one, Em,’ grumbled Tony. ‘Now look what you’ve done. It’s already hard enough being the only man in the house.’
Emily directed the girls down the hall towards the bathroom, then went to help cut up and serve the lasagne. It was a pre-made one from the supermarket and had been baking in the oven for an eternity, the aromas of melting cheese and bubbling tomato sauce torturing her rumbling stomach.
‘Should I put some aside for Britney?’ she asked.
Emily had never really got over her sister-in-law’s name. Britney was so Britney Spears. So bubble gum, peroxide and flirting in bars. ‘She’ll have to change her name once she graduates, you do realise,’ Emily had said once to Tony. ‘She’ll never be taken seriously as a solicitor with a name like that.’
Now Tony pulled the garlic bread out of the oven. ‘Yes, thanks. Her last lecture doesn’t finish till nine. She always rummages through the fridge afterwards like a cranky bear trying to find honey at the end of a long winter. You don’t want to be in the firing line when Brit’s blood sugar’s low.’
This happy little domestic scene awakened a yearning in Emily. Unlike Christmas, she did want a partner and a family. Sometimes she had the distinct impression that once she’d passed the age of thirty-five or so, people had silently marked her as a spinster. No one asked about her love life anymore, probably because they didn’t want to offend her, and possibly because they thought she’d made a deliberate choice. But she hadn’t; it had just been the way the cards fell. Sometimes, these days, she even forgot herself that she wanted these things. So when she’d met Lincoln it was a shock to realise that she felt an immediate interest in him.
But Lincoln was off-limits, because Christmas was clearly smitten with him, even though she was stubbornly refusing to do anything about it. As Emily knew all too well, Christmas had a set of rules that told her not to go there, rules she seemed set on following, just as she’d fiercely shut down any discussion about finding her father.
But Emily didn’t have any rules. Quite the opposite.
‘I met someone the other day,’ she said as casually as she could, setting placemats.
‘What? A bloke?’
‘Yes. And you don’t need to sound so surprised . He’s a botanist and living locally.’
‘A science man,’ Tony said, noisily gathering cutlery from the drawer. ‘How old?’
‘Forty-two, according to Christmas. He’s her co-author on a book they’re writing together on chocolate. I met him on Monday at a tasting she was doing at the nursing home in Oatlands.’
‘Divorced?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Kids?’
‘Nope.’
‘Gay?’
‘Doesn’t seem to be.’
‘Drunk? Gambler? Criminal?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Then what’s wrong with him?’ Tony threw a few things into the dishwasher and yelled out to the girls to hurry up. ‘I don’t like it when they go quiet,’ he muttered.
‘Why do you think there’s something wrong with him?’ Emily asked, trying not to sound defensive because hadn’t she asked the very same thing of Christmas? She wondered if this cynicism they seemed to share was a genetic thing.
Tony shrugged. ‘Just seems weird, that’s all.’
She was suddenly furious. ‘But I’m not married. And I’m nearly forty. Is there something wrong with me?’
‘Of course not. You just haven’t found the right person.’
‘Then what’s the difference?’ Her voice was regrettably a bit shrill.
Tony, a veteran of life with fiery females, took a deep breath and stopped what he was doing to think before he next spoke. ‘You know, you’re right.’
Emily laughed. ‘You’re well trained, you know that?’
He smiled. ‘Maybe. But now that I think about it, no one ever asks “What’s wrong with her?” when they’re talking about a single woman. It’s all pity and sympathy for the dearth of good men out there. But as soon as we hear about a single man over the age of, I don’t know, thirty, we think there must be something wrong with him. It’s terribly sexist, isn’t it?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I really don’t know how you put up with these double standards. You think we’ve come so far and then a Neanderthal like me opens his mouth and you realise you’re basically still in the fifties.’
Emily flicked him with the tea towel.
There was a thunder of feet down the hallway and some incoherent screeching and two small girls exploded into the dining room.
‘What have you two been doing?’ Tony asked suspiciously. Then, catching sight of Rose, ‘What on earth is on your face?’
Imogen giggled. ‘She wanted to dress up for dinner.’
Rose batted her eyelids and fluffed her hair, which had been combed and sprayed into rock-star frizz. And they’d had a very good time in their mother’s makeup bag by the looks of it, with blue eye shadow and red lipstick and orange blush applied all over, apparently at random.
‘Isn’t she lovely?’ Imogen said, with such warmth and genuine pride that it shot straight through Emily’s heart, as it did Tony’s, if his misty face was anything to go by.
‘Yes, she is,’ he said gravely. ‘Rose, you look just like your mother.’
They took their places at the table and Tony poured the grown-ups wine while the girls had Ribena. He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to good men and great women.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Emily said.
‘Go get the botanist, Em. What’ve you got to lose?’
Hmm. Well, possibly my best friend.
•
Lincoln’s attention span for writing this chapter was being challenged by both Caesar’s pacing and his own thoughts of Christmas, who was waiting for the file so she could edit and rewrite and enflourish it, a word she’d made up to describe her role. The word made him laugh, but he loved it. It sounded racy, somehow.
Their work together had taken on a new, assured rhythm. Their ideas came together easily now, any early hesitation gone, their words and thoughts merging and flowing in a natural dance, like the drummers and dancers of Ghana, where he’d spent time on a research station a couple of years ago. For them, there was only one word for both drumming and dancing; it was simply one action. He’d thought of this at lunchtime, having a bacon sandwich and a beer in the back garden with Caesar as they monitored the neighbour carrying his wooden planks around, measuring and sawing and sanding.
But Christmas was avoiding him, he was sure. He’d felt her cooling off after their ‘almost moment’ in the shop kitchen. Since then, she’d brushed off his attempts to catch up for coffee, and suggested they work separately for now, and send through chapters over email, because she was too busy in the lead up to France. There was the shop, with supplies and rosters to organise, she’d said. There were bills to pay before she went away and there was her work as a fairy godmother, not to mention organising the hundred little things you needed to do before going overseas—copies of your passport, locks for your bag, travel pillows and eye masks, credit cards, new shoes, a medicine kit, she should really get a flu shot, and surely she didn’t need vaccinations to go to France, did she? No, it was a first-world country. But perhaps she should check with her doctor?
It was all smoke, he knew. It was a polite and reasonable way of keeping him at a distance. Of keeping him included, keeping their conversation going, but efficiently avoiding intimacy or awkwardness. She didn’t want to jeopardise the book. That was all. She needed him, but only for his mind.
Caesar whined at the back door again.
‘You just came back in. I promise you nothing major’s happened out there in the last five minutes.’ But Lincoln got up to let the old boy out anyway. Caesar was obsessed with watching the sea captain’s activity. It was as though he didn’t trust him. And really why would you, when the latest message on his blackboard on the footpath was Keep calm and carry guns.
Each time Lincoln let him out, Caesar would trot up and down the fence line between the properties, decide it was safe for now, return to the door and whine to be let back into the house. A few minutes later, the captain would drop a plank or pick up a hammer and Caesar was back on his feet, worrying about what was going on.
This time, Lincoln decided to just wait by the back door for the dog to finish his latest inspection. As he stood there he surveyed the backyard and realised he needed to do some work. There was an overhanging branch that should be cut back, weeds growing between the pavers leading to the rotary clothesline, and paint flaking off the wooden toolshed by the back fence. He didn’t mind doing it; he was grateful to be able to stay in his nan’s place rent free. But it was all so domestic and he’d already started to feel the drag of unwelcome responsibility.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, a comfortable gesture, and the fingers of his right hand touched the corner of a card. He pulled it out: Emily Bathurst’s mobile phone number. Call me, she’d said, under the guise of a professional meeting, but he’d felt it might have been a bit more than that.
But Emily was Christmas’s best friend. If there was a skerrick of a chance left with Christmas it would be blown to smithereens if he called Emily. He folded the card in his palm.
Caesar’s attention was diverted from the neighbour’s activities by leaves floating along and he leapt towards them, his jaws snapping, though there wasn’t a lot of determination in it. More like a preprogrammed gesture—leaves, snap, leaves, snap. Lincoln smiled. He really did like the dog. He had such gusto for each day. It was a shame he couldn’t keep him.
But Lincoln’s life wasn’t like that. He wasn’t the suburban type with a wife, two kids and a dog in the backyard. He was a botanist who travelled the world on research grants and lived off an inconsistent cash flow, and he liked that just fine. He liked being able to pack up his bag and leave at a minute’s notice. The world was a fantastically rich and diverse place and he had only one life to live. He wanted to take any opportunity that came his way. No regrets.
He smoothed out Emily’s business card once more. Here was an opportunity in the palm of his hand right now.
The only problem was that he’d already fallen for Christmas.
•
To: Christmas Livingstone
From: Miriam Deschamps
Subject: Bonjour mon amie!
Dear Christmas,
I can’t believe it! I was so delighted to receive your card. My parents moved out of their house but my brother bought it off them as an investment and rented it out for years but has recently started his own family and decided to move back there.
He passed your letter on to me.
How are you? What do you do now? Are you married? Kids?
I can’t tell you how excited I am that you’re coming to Paris!!! When? How long will you be here? You must give me all the details. And you must come stay with us if you haven’t already booked a hotel. I’m married to Hank Banks. Seriously, can you believe his parents named him ‘Hank Banks’??? What were they thinking? He’s American, of course, no one else in the world is called Hank, surely? We have one daughter, Margot. She’s fifteen and awfully scary but I’ll try to protect you from her. She was born in America, actually. I blame that for everything. I worked in the States for a few years and my last job was as Hank’s receptionist. He’s a dentist. Now I’m his practice manager here in Neuilly-sur-Seine. We set up a new clinic a short walk from our place and go back to see Hank’s family once a year. We’re going this year in July. Which is great timing because I’ll just get to see you before we go.
I can’t wait to catch up. Tell me everything!!!
Gros bisous!
Mim
•
‘My spirit is vexed.’
Poor Rosemary McCaw’s spirit was more vexed than a diabetes educator at an all-you-can-eat chocolate buffet.
‘Oh dear,’ Christmas said, ushering her to the stool at the counter and taking her bulky handbag, out of which poked the tip of what looked to be a metal piccolo and the brim of a straw hat. Rosemary did look a little off, actually. One pencilled eyebrow was a little awry and the clasp of her brooch was hanging open. Christmas reached across and gently fixed it for her.
‘Oh, thank you, dear.’
‘Would you like a coffee?’ Christmas asked, moving towards the espresso machine.
‘Very much.’
When Christmas returned with the coffee, Rosemary had reached under the glass dome on the counter next to her and helped herself to some rosewater coconut ice. Her heart must be hurting for her to be drawn to rose.
‘What’s happened?’ Christmas said, placing the coffee in front of her. She took her place on her consulting stool opposite and opened her notebook, pulling a pen from the pocket of her cherry-patterned apron.
‘It’s too horrible to speak of.’
‘Is it your family? Is everyone alright?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Have you had some bad news?’ Christmas asked carefully.
To her horror, tears sprang to Rosemary’s eyes. But she sniffed them back valiantly. Raised her chin and set her jaw. ‘I’ve been insulted in the most grievous way.’
‘Insulted? By who?’
‘By whom,’ Rosemary corrected her automatically. ‘By a hack from Melbourne.’
Christmas shook her head to indicate that she didn’t know who he was.
‘It’s almost too awful to say out loud.’
‘Rosemary, please tell me what’s happened before I die from anticipation.’ There was something about Rosemary that brought out the correspondingly dramatic in Christmas.
Rosemary’s eyes darkened. ‘He rejected me. It was a foolish, foolish idea, I see that now. I don’t know what I was thinking to subject myself to such humiliation.’
‘You fancied him?’
‘Heavens, no. I auditioned for a role in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the community theatre. That man, barely out of nappies, what, he must be all of twelve years old, said thank you so very much but he envisioned someone not quite so mature for the role.’
‘Oh, Rosemary.’
‘Old. That’s what he meant to say. Old. Haggard. No place for an old broiler like me.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I fled. I should have told him he was a pathetic pimply dimwit who’d die a virgin clutching his pretentious visions in his cold and lonely hand and walked out with my head held high, smiling with relief that I’d escaped the colossal disaster that sham of a play would become.’ She grimaced. ‘But instead I scurried out of there like a frightened mouse.’
Christmas poured thick vanilla-laced cream into Rosemary’s mug. She hurt for her. It was outrageous that a professional actress of her calibre and generosity would be turned down so callously. That director had no idea what he’d let slip through his fingers or of how much he’d hurt Rosemary’s feelings.
‘Youth is wasted on the young,’ Christmas said.
Rosemary gave a deep hearty laugh. ‘Oh, my dear, you’re hardly over the hill.’
Christmas raised an eyebrow. ‘Nearly forty.’
‘Piffle. That’s nothing. You’re in the prime of your life.’ Rosemary sipped at the creamy coffee and murmured in appreciation. Her shoulders were already relaxing, her face softening. ‘When I was forty I took up hip hop.’
Christmas laughed. ‘Maybe you could teach me.’
‘When are you off to France?’
Christmas’s heart fluttered and she reached for a piece of the rosewater coconut ice. ‘Tuesday.’
‘Are you ready?’
‘Nearly. Abigail is on holiday from uni and will be looking after the shop while I’m away, and because I won’t be here to make handmade pieces I’ve just got to make sure all the extra orders and supplies are sorted so she doesn’t have to do any of that and can just concentrate on customer care. Lots of fiddly things like that. I want it to be really easy for her. Three weeks is a long time.’
‘Indeed. Are you sure Abigail is the right person?’ Rosemary said doubtfully. ‘She’s not overly, how shall we say, inspiring.’
‘I don’t have a lot of options; Cheyenne has another job and two children to look after. I could close the shop entirely, of course, but it’s so important in a small town to keep the doors open or people start to not bother coming at all. And all the businesses in town rely on each other to create a bit of bustle. I do trust Abigail to do an efficient job.’ If not an overly enthusiastic one. ‘We’ll cut down the days and hours so she’s not overwhelmed. And Cheyenne will help out, of course. I have to make temporary signs for the door, change the website, email reply, phone message, all those sorts of things.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Rosemary asked hopefully, wanting to be useful and needed.
‘You know, it would be great if you could email me while I’m away, let me know how things are going here?’
Rosemary’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. ‘Spy on the Abigail girl?’
‘No! Nothing like that. But you’re a good friend and you know the shop well. You’d notice if something was amiss, and it would make me feel better knowing there’s another set of eyes and ears keeping watch.’
‘It would be my honour.’ Rosemary sipped her mocha then asked, ‘And how are things going with the lovely botanist?’
Christmas was shocked. She had no idea Rosemary even knew who Lincoln was. Was her attraction to him so obvious that the whole town was talking about it?
‘There’s no need to blush,’ Rosemary said. ‘It’s plain as day.’
‘Is it?’
‘Oh yes. Your eyes light up when he’s in the room and you have an extra bounce in your step.’
‘Gosh.’ Christmas took a deep breath. ‘Well, it’s complicated.’
Rosemary cast her eye around the shop. Bert and Ernie were the only other customers at the moment, seated at the distant end of the long wooden table, companionably engaged in completing a crossword together. ‘We have time.’
Suddenly, Rosemary seemed like the perfect person to confide in. Christmas made herself comfortable and talked about the rules, about her considered approach to risking her heart, and about the crazy feelings she had when she was with Lincoln, the ones that told her to abandon all caution and just follow her desire.
By the time she’d finished, she and Rosemary had consumed two coffees each and enough coconut ice to give them that sickly over-sugared feeling. In the meantime, Bert and Ernie had packed up their crossword and waved a farewell, Abigail had arrived and taken in her first massage client, and Cynthia Heather had popped in to buy a birthday gift of macarons for one of her kids’ teachers.
Rosemary said little until Christmas was spent, with no more words to be spoken.
‘May I offer some advice, from an old woman?’
‘Stop it. You’re not old.’
‘You cannot control when or with whom you fall in love—and that applies to a man, a new friend, an Italian cheese, or a puppy. Your only job is to embrace each opportunity as it arises. Go and kiss this Lincoln van Luc.’
Christmas recoiled. ‘No, no . . .’
Rosemary held up her hand. ‘Go and kiss him. That is my prescription for you. Then you will know whether there is anything more to it than a passing attraction. If not, you can go on your merry way to France without giving him another thought. It will free your mind.’
Christmas leaned across the table and spoke quietly. ‘And what if there is something there?’
‘Let us cross that bridge when we come to it.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes. I think maybe you need a fairy godmother of your own.’
‘You may be right on that count,’ Christmas said. ‘But I’m definitely not kissing him.’