Fred chuckled. “This is the last video, and then I’m done. Well, done in terms of content. I’ve still got to catch up on the comments and interactions, and I want to check the insights and traction, make sure we’re hitting the right markers…”
“All right, finish Ryan’s video and then come in for some food. We’re all of us administrators on the Hallow-Hart socials, so me and the aunts will take care of the interactions, andyouwill not do any more work this evening. You can check on your markers in the morning; they aren’t going anywhere.”
“I’d rather just power through and get on top of things—”
“Absolutely not. You’ve paid your penance, not that you had any to pay, and now it’s time to stop.”
“Mum…”
“No. You always wanted me to lay down the law, so here it is: you’ve got thirty minutes to finish what you’re doinghere, and then the laptop goes off. No more screen time for you tonight. Any sass and you’re grounded. Do I make myself clear?” She raised one eyebrow in a challenge.
Fred fought a grin. “Yes, Mum.”
“Good.” She kissed the top of Fred’s head. “And in case you decide to push your luck, you should know that I’m not above turning off the Wi-Fi.”
When her mum left, Fred stretched her back out and got down to her work with a renewed energy, warmed by more than simply the Baileys coffee.
30
Bella
Saturday, December 21
Bella padded downstairs in herbedsocks. It was early—still dark—but the paperboy who delivered her Saturday newspapers was earlier. Liam was fast asleep upstairs. In her bed. It still felt unreal to have him there with her. She’d stayed awake most of the night, unable to sleep, just wanting to look at him, afraid that if she went to sleep, she’d wake to find it was all a dream, after all.
She scooped up the papers and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. Saturday mornings had always been hers; it was her little routine, time to herself before the aunts woke up, to sit and read and ease into the day. She hoped that one day, when the newness of Liam’s presence had settled into an easy way of being, they would share these mornings together, reading the papers, drinking coffee, doing the crosswords; it was the simpler pleasures that she yearned for, these days. Her “life with Liam” fantasies when she was younger had always been hectic and dizzying, and though they were currently experiencing a satisfyingly freneticperiod of lovemaking, her desires for their daily life had matured into simply wanting to be together, to be near him, to share thoughts, to have her soul deeply melded with his; to know that they belonged to each other.
With a mug of coffee steaming in her hands and the Saturday papers spread out across the table, she began her ritual. It was in the second paper that an article caught her eye. It was an opinion column, and the title piqued her interest.
The Christmas Counter-attack
Calling the bluffer’s bluff
by Tilly Mason
As a lifelong foodie I make it my business to eat as much of the good stuff as I can and live vicariously through those who are eating in places I am not. So, when a new food writer popped up in a well-known competing paper last week, I was curious to see what he had to say; nothing good, as it turned out. If he is to be believed, there is a town in Scotland that is wholeheartedly committing crimes against food. My cynical mind put his rhetoric down to the equivalent of “acting up for the cameras.” But not everyone is as suspicious as me, and I felt sorry for those poor restaurateurs if indeed they were caught up in an ambitious man’s folly.
A few days later, while idly scrolling TikTok—I can’t help myself, it’s my guilty pleasure—a series of videos popped up of that very same town. An elf who works for Hallow-Hart Christmas Crackers—you couldn’t makeit up—was running around the prettiest streets you ever did see, interviewing the owners of the very restaurants in Pine Bluff that had been maligned by said food writer. So, I took one for the team and caught the train up there for a flying visit, to see for myself just what in the cranberry sauce was going on.
You will probably not be surprised to learn that, in my opinion, the new self-styled “Mister Nasty of Food” is also nasty by nature. Dear reader, I ate in every restaurant cited in the article and was gastronomically sated on every score; the food was delicious, and the families that own the restaurants were delightful. There was also a Christmas market to rival those in Europe, a wild coastline, and a high street full of independent shops.
So, with Christmas just around the corner, and in the spirit of giving, I offer this wisdom: don’t believe everything you read; make your own informed decisions; and if you have the chance, always choose kindness over spite.
Merry Christmas, one and all.
Bella’s hand was still hovering over her mouth in delighted shock when Liam walked in, sleep-grizzled and bursting out of the seams of her William Morris dressing gown.
“Mmmm,” he growled, looking her up and down, and Bella found she didn’t at all mind being looked at like something he wanted to eat.
“Morning,” she said, brightly.
Liam kissed her, before going to make coffee. “Good morning to you, my Bella.”
My Bella. She swooned inwardly. It sounded every bit as sweet on his lips as she’d always imagined.
“I really need to fetch my gear from the pub. As much as I enjoy the smell of your dressing gown on me, it does nothing for my figure,” he said, smiling. “Ooh, good, you’ve got the morning papers, the perfect way to start the weekend. Fancy doing a crossword with me?”
Bella smiled, feeling dreamily content, and sighed happily. “Pull up a chair,” she said.
