I’m dumping my rucksack on the bench after my regular Saturday afternoon supermarket trip, when the phone rings.
It’s Charlie, wanting to know if I have any plans for the next few hours.
My mind goes into panicky overdrive.
Plans? Why does he want to know? Do I really want to admit I’m spending Saturday night at home alone with only a DVD for company? Trouble is, if I say I’m getting ready for a date or that I’m cooking up a storm for a dinner party with friends, I won’t get to do whatever it is he wants me to do …
‘I’m – erm – free at the moment.’
‘Great. Get ready and I’ll pick you up in about twenty minutes.’ He rings off without even mentioning what we’re doing.
Eek! Twenty minutes? Typical bloke.
Doesn’t he know I’ll have to dive in the shower, wash my hair, dig out some make-up, find something half decent to wear, ponder whether I should be smart or casual, tear off what I’m wearing and try on at least three other outfits before wrenching on my first choice again and laddering my tights and having to spend precious minutes unravelling another pair from my chaotic underwear draw? And paint my nails if I’ve got a spare twenty seconds?
Half way through this exhausting ritual, I stop and stare at myself in the bedroom mirror, mascara brush in mid-air. He only asked what I was doing for the next few hours. And it’s only four-thirty. Which means his dinner with Carol later is still on.
So why am I treating this like a date when it so obviously isn’t?
I should greet him with a casual smile in jeans and jumper. Because getting all nervous and excited about where we’re going can only end in disappointment.
Yes, jeans and jumper … perfect.
When the doorbell rings and I open the door, he smiles approvingly. ‘You look great.’
‘What, this old thing?’
I glance down at my grey pencil skirt and the silky plum-coloured top I found in the bag of clothes Mum gave me. I’m not sure what strange impulse made me decide to experiment with colour for a change, but I’m glad I did, now.
. ‘You’re maybe a touch overdressed for where we’re going.’ He looks apologetic. ‘Sorry, I should have explained.’
‘Shall I change?’
‘Definitely not.’ He shakes his head firmly. ‘Stay exactly as you are. Don’t change a thing.’
‘That’s a ‘no’, then?’ I smile, relieved I discarded the jeans and jumper idea.
He’s looking pretty gorgeous himself. Under his winter coat, he’s wearing jeans and a pale blue shirt that emphasises the deeper blue of his eyes.
Since we’re obviously going somewhere casual (he tells me it’s a mystery tour and refuses to reveal anything else), I pull on my coat and some low-heeled boots instead of the high shoes I’d planned to wear.
As we walk down to his car, it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if he’s still going to Carol’s for dinner later. But I stop myself in time. I actually don’t want to know.
We drive for almost an hour through several villages and past house after house glowing with Christmas fairy lights in the dusk. By the time we arrive at our destination, darkness has fallen.
Charlie parks the car in a side street, squeezing into the only available space, then rubs his hands together. ‘Right. Come on.’
We start walking, our hands in our pockets against the rawness of the night air, and my nose picks up the gloriously evocative smell of candyfloss and hot dogs. I’m not familiar with this town but when we emerge from the side street, I remember exactly what it’s famous for.
‘The Victorian Christmas Fayre.’
He nods. ‘They hold one every year. I thought it might inspire you.’
I smile at him. He’s so thoughtful. In fact, I’ve almost forgiven him for the Ronald McDonald humiliation.
Before us, the entire town square is lined with stalls, invitingly illuminated against the night sky like a three-dimensional Christmas card. A red and blue striped helter skelter rises up in the centre and the air is filled with old-fashioned fairground music from a vintage carousel.
‘Couldn’t resist.’ Charlie smiles ruefully. ‘I went to uni near here. Great memories.’
‘Mum would love this,’ I say as we watch people board the carousel and climb onto the gleaming painted horses.
‘She’s a fan of Christmas, then?’
‘Didn’t you notice the droopy tinsel when you were at the house last week?’
‘I thought she was just a bit eager.’
‘No, she celebrates all year round. I think it’s a comfort thing. Other people eat chocolate when they’re down. Mum loads up on fake holly.’
He smiles, his teeth very white in the semi-darkness. ‘I’m with her all the way. People are much nicer to each other at Christmas time.’
As we walk along, we brush against each other occasionally and each time, a tiny shiver shoots up my spine.
He glances at his watch. ‘Listen, do you mind if I leave you here for half an hour? I’ve got some business calls to make. I’ll nip back to the car.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll be fine. There’s plenty to look at.’
‘You can get some tips for your own Fayre.’ He looks at his watch again. ‘Meet you at the chestnut stall in half an hour?’
When he’s gone, I stand for a while, taking it all in, absorbing all the sights and smells of a long-ago Christmas – mainly so I can give Mum a blow-by-blow account. She’ll be so jealous.
I drink some delicious, tangy mulled apple juice and sample some plum bread that has been toasted and drips with butter. The brandy mince pies have Mum’s name on them but I manage to resist the stall with homemade Christmas puddings, all ready to steam in their muslin and string.
By the time I spot Charlie weaving through the crowd, I have taken two whirls on the carousel and in my bag is a green box containing a beautiful miniature snow globe. It’s supposed to be a Christmas present for Mum but I love it so much, I’m wondering if I could justify keeping it for myself.
I haven’t spent money like this in a long time. It feels a little reckless and I might regret it later. But for the moment, wrapped in all this lovely Christmas spirit, it feels good.
Charlie takes my arm. ‘You’re coming on the helter skelter.’
‘Oh no, I’m not,’ I laugh.
‘Why? Are you scared?’
‘No! But I’m hardly dressed for it, am I?’ I wriggle my hips in the tight skirt. ‘Plus, I’m over ten years old.’
He ponders this for a minute, blowing on his hands. Then he says, ‘Wait here,’ and disappears into the crowd.
Five minutes later he returns and hands me a brown paper bag. I open it and pull out a pair of blue jeans that look roughly my size, with naff pink sparkles on the pockets.
‘What?’ I laugh up at him in disbelief.
‘Put them on.’ He shrugs. ‘Then you’ve no excuse.’
‘But how can I … where am I supposed to—?’
He steers me round the side of a building and I manage to get changed, hopping about behind an industrial-sized wheelie bin. The jeans do actually fit, although I have to deduct marks for the sparkly pockets.
Charlie keeps watch at the corner.
He grins when he sees me. ‘They’re not very elegant, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m not bothered about that,’ I retort, hitching them into place.
‘No, you’re not, are you?’ He gazes at me with an unfathomable look in his eyes that makes my stomach flip over.
The helter skelter is fabulous fun. And the third time we come down, it actually starts to snow. We laugh at the cliché and watch a woman on a stall transform a pile of foliage and berries into a Christmas wreath, snowflakes floating gently around us. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in forever.
I notice two women looking over at us from the other end of the stall and at first, I think maybe I know them from somewhere. But when they see I’ve noticed them, they quickly turn away. Perhaps they were watching us because we look happy, I think idly.
I’m about to suggest one last fling down the helter skelter, when Charlie touches my elbow and says, ‘Back in a sec.’
I watch him weaving through the crowd – a tall, broad figure in his navy overcoat – and my insides are suddenly full of butterflies, like the excited anticipation you feel getting ready for a special night out. Then I realise I’m not the only one watching him. Both of the women are following his progress with interest.
He comes back carrying something wrapped in a glossy white carrier.
‘Very mysterious.’ I laugh, looking at the bag, which bears the name of an upmarket wine store on the square.
‘What, this? Nothing mysterious about it. Just a fairly decent cabernet sauvignon.’
Oh.
Of course.
It’s for his dinner at Carol’s tonight. No ordinary supermarket tipple for her.
Should I mention she only drinks white?
‘Lovely.’ I force a smile. ‘I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.’
He looks uncomfortable for a second. ‘It’s a business dinner,’
The word ‘business’ is left hanging in the air.
My heart starts to hammer. Why is he telling me this? He’s standing so close, I can feel the heat from his body, and I sway slightly towards him.
Then he grabs my hand and pulls me in the direction of the helter skelter. ‘One more go. You know you want to.’
I laugh. ‘Great minds think alike.’
His hand enclosing mine feels warm and slightly rough.
He might be having dinner later with Carol but right now, he’s having fun with me.
After the helter skelter, he says we ought to be thinking about getting back.
‘Of course. It’s getting late.’ I try to look cheerful. ‘I’ve had a great time.’
‘Me too.’ He takes my hand again and squeezes it.
He doesn’t let go as we start threading our way through the crowds towards the car.
I decide now might be a good time to check whether Carol was telling the truth.
‘Did – um – Carol mention we haven’t actually won the council contract yet? That we’re still planning the presentation?’
He grins. ‘Yes, she did, actually. She confessed she shouldn’t have given me the impression it was in the bag. But she just felt so sure she’d win it.’ He laughs. ‘That kind of confidence will take her far.’
‘When did she tell you this?’ I ask nonchalantly.
He frowns. ‘Yesterday. Day before. Can’t remember. Why?’
I shake my head and smile. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
So she told him after I confronted her, the sly cow!
We’re halfway across the square when someone touches my arm and says, ‘Excuse me.’ It’s one of the two women who were looking over at us earlier. Her friend laughs and says, ‘Sorry! We don’t normally accost strangers in the street but my friend and I think we recognise you.’
She isn’t addressing me, I realise. They’re both looking at Charlie.
‘It is you, isn’t it? We saw it in the papers at the time. And on TV.’
Her friend nods eagerly. ‘You were so young when it happened. It must be – what? Ten years ago, now?’
I glance at Charlie.
He’s squeezing my hand so tightly it hurts and his mouth is set in a rigid line.
‘Sorry, ladies, you’re mistaken. You’ll have to excuse us.’ He drops my hand and starts striding away, and I have to half-run to keep from losing him in the crowd.
Back at the car, we belt up in silence and he drives off.
My insides feel cold with shock. I’ve never seen him so tense. What could have happened ten years ago that still has such an effect on him to this day? I can tell he’s brooding, lost in a distant world that doesn’t include me. He would have been nineteen a decade ago. Still a teenager.
Halfway back, the fuel gauge starts pinging, which brings him back to the present.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says with an apologetic smile when we park at the next petrol station. ‘Ghosts from the past. Never a good experience.’
While he’s paying, I sneak the bottle of wine out of the bag and hold it up to the light to read the description on the back. It sounds lovely. It’s ‘a mature red, full of ripe berry fruit’.
Suddenly I long to try it.
To clink glasses with Charlie and savour that delicious ‘ripe berry fruit’. And perhaps get to the bottom of what happened tonight.
He emerges from the shop so I shove the bottle back in its bag.
Then I do that thing where, rather than having to beam awkwardly at each other for a century while he walks back to the car, you look around the forecourt ever so casually, as if you haven’t even spotted him, then give him a ‘gosh, it’s you’ smile at the very last minute.
He smiles back but I can tell he’s still affected.
When we draw up outside my flat, I take the bull by the horns and ask him if he wants to talk about it. But he gives me a hint of a smile and shakes his head.
‘Okay. Well, take care. And thanks.’
I get out of the car feeling utterly useless.
And alone.
He raises his hand and drives away.