‘Yep.’ He bares his teeth with an inhale, cautious and apologetic, waiting for me to react.
I’m trying to be happy for him. I really am. Only I’m not finding it right this second. ‘How are you going to help with the gingerbread set-up or our Santa grotto if you’re at Dunham Gravey?’
‘Uh…’ He’s startled, definitely looking a bit scared. ‘I’m still not sure of the exact details…’ he begins.
‘When does it start? Your contract?’
He swallows before he answers. ‘Tomorrow, after I’m done at the school. Five until midnight.’
‘Every night?’
‘Noteverynight, but… most of them, until Christmas. I can still pop into the grotto and help out, when I can.’ He’s clasping his hands together. ‘Look, Margi, it’s not that the grotto isn’t important to me, thatyou’renot important to me… uh, I’m trying to say… I wish I could be in both places…’
‘Got it,’ I utter, stopping him with my hand held up. ‘You’ve taken a proper paying job at Dunham Gravey, quite rightly. It’s not like our grotto pays you or anything. And I’m sure the Dunham bosses will appreciate you just as much as I…’ I stop myself. ‘Aswedo. It’s just, I mean, Dunham Gravey?Really?’
Not only has the light spectacular nabbed my grotto visitors these last couple of years, now they’ve stolen Patrick too.
This year, which I’d determined was going to be the brightest and best Gingerbread Christmas Village to date, isn’t even going to have Patrick now.
‘You know, I’m not all that hungry,’ I tell him.
‘Margi, come on, let’s head to the pub. You’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat.’
I want to, but I can’t seem to relent. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than eat Lolla’s lasagne in front of The Salutation’s open fire with Patrick. Only, everything seems to be unravelling. I’m losing Patrick to that over-the-top, high-tech, fancy-pants lights spectacular, of all places, and Izz is so tired and distracted these last few days and should really be allowed to enjoy Christmas in peace and not work herself to death at the grotto all month long, and Lucy’s just not herselfat alland it hurts to see her so lost and lonely, and there’s still most of the village to recreate in sodding gingerbreadandit’s supposed to be extra special this year so I can say goodbye to it all without letting Mum down any more than I already am, and that’s before I even consider the school kids and how much they’ll be looking forward to the grotto next year and the year after that.
I’m suddenly short of breath, and my head’s swimming at the thought of doing all of this by myself, and there’s still my own big confession to tackle – a much bigger thing to admit than Patrick’s holiday job. I’m running away for good, and before I go, there’s everything to sort through… I press my hands to my head to stop the thoughts.
‘My whole life has been Wheaton and gingerbread and preparing for Christmas, Patrick.’ I gasp out the words.
He tips his head, totally bamboozled. ‘Margi, just calm down, take a breath…’
‘Forget it. I’m fine. I’d better get home and crack on with the grotto arrangements, now we’ve lost our…’ I was going to say our ‘best person’, but I swerve for ‘Santa’.
‘I might have been able to make it work, somehow,’ he calls behind me as I leave, and we both know that splitting his time between the grotto and two jobs wouldn’t have gone in the grotto’s favour.
He doesn’t follow me as I rush home through the first heavy splashes of sleet, ignoring every Christmas tree twinkling from the cottage windows along the main road. I’m not in the right headspace to think any deeper about why I’m so wounded and annoyed and out of breath; what I do know is that Christmas this year, and that bloody superhead, and Dunham effing Gravey, can absolutely get knotted.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday 5 December: Love technically
‘And you don’t think you overreacted a tiny bit?’ Lucy asks, bang on as usual.
I don’t reply straight away, only stirring the bolognese on the hob and glancing at my phone. I texted Patrick first thing after I’d had a chance to sleep on it all and decided I’ve no right guilting him for filling an employment gap at the most expensive time of year during the most expensive year in history. Of course he should take the job, grotto or not. He’s done enough for us over the years.
‘Maybe it was a bit of an overreaction,’ I concede.
It’s still there on my phone screen. My message.
Hi Patrick. Sorry for snapping. I was shocked and disappointed. But not with you. You’re a good friend and I’m a dozy pillock. Sorry, again. Good luck with your new job! M
There’s still no reply from him. Not that I’m going to read anything into that. He’ll be busy juggling school and his induction with the Dunham lights spectacular people.
Lucy’s at the kitchen table tossing salad in one of Mum’s big mixing bowls now we’re done baking for the day. There are a few cottages fully constructed in trays on the kitchen floor. They’ll need transporting to the hall soon or they’ll warp in the cottage’s central heating.
Lucy’s been a great help, even though I tried encouraging her outside for a bit to do some sketching. She said she’d far rather stay in the warm with me.
I’m still secretly hoping the pretty art supplies are going to give her the push she needs, but I daren’t risk giving them to her yet. I’ll have to pick my moment, when she’s opening up a bit more. I don’t want her to think I’m interfering and have her driving off home before we’ve had a proper talk about the break-up, and about my Birmingham plans. Only, every time I think I can do it, I chicken out, and I’m not sure why. If anyone needs to know sooner rather than later, it’s Lucy. I’d have done it by now if there wasn’t this new feeling of distance between us. She’s still barely speaking, at least not about the big stuff.
