‘It really is uncanny,’ I tell him. ‘How much you look alike.’
‘My dad would be pleased to hear that.’ Another devilish, silly smile spreads over his lips.
‘What, um, what are you doing for dinner tonight?’ I appear to be asking. ‘Patrick will be working, won’t he? Why don’t you come to The Salutation with us? Try Lolla’s famous cranberry and pork sausage rolls?’
‘Us?’
‘Me and my niece. She’s been staying with me. She’s an artist.’
‘Like her aunt,’ Charlie says, gesturing at the gingerbreads. Very smooth. ‘I can see why Patrick likes it around here. Friendly.’
There’s something reassuring in the word, coming from him, and as I lead us out once more into the chilly morning, directing Charlie to The Salutation for six tonight, I tell myself I’ve done the right thing, helping look after a friend’s brother when he’s visiting and doesn’t know anyone. It’s a friendly gesture, I tell myself as I make for home and another day’s baking.
The Salutation smells of good food, mulled wine and green wood burning in the inglenook fireplace. Nothing says ‘Christmas in the Cotswolds’ quite so much as this place with its lights glowing low under frosted glass shades, horse brasses and farming knick-knacks hung all over the walls, and every surface made of ancient ash polished over the decades into a glossy richness that makes the whole place feel like a hug.
Lucy’s behind me, eager to get a glimpse of the man who I, according to her, ‘picked up in the street this morning’.
Lolla waves us over to the bar to tell me there’s a ‘gentleman’ in the snug waiting for me.
‘Patrick’s double,’ she says, winking, which I don’t appreciate.
I don’t have time to protest all over again about how I’m just doing Patrick a favour while he’s at work. She’s handing me a plastic basket of her fresh sausage rolls and a hastily poured glass of Pinot.
‘Better not keep him waiting,’ she tells me. ‘Lucy, your friends are already here,’ and she points out Fern and Shell on the high stools by the dark window.
Shell waves and taps at an empty stool.
Lucy looks torn.
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘I’ll be fine. Go and have some fun with your friends that doesn’t involve making biscuits.’
Lucy takes three sausage rolls from the basket, bundles them into a napkin, and bites into one before she goes. I think that’s her way of telling me she’ll be fine too.
Right! Smooth down my top, shake my hair back, deep breath. I make my way to the snug for a not at all meaningful drink with the older brother of one of my dearest friends. What could be more welcoming and charitable?
Charlie stands to meet me and swoops a quick kiss onto my cheek, which I wasn’t expecting, but I don’t mind; it’s still well within the realm of friendly gestures. That’s fine.
‘You look great,’ he tells me, and I bite back the urge to tell him he looks flipping fantastic in a leather jacket that I’m willing to bet Lolla’s sausage rolls is a vintage Italian designer number.
Instead, my brain makes me tell him, ‘You smell nice,’ and I sit down, unimpressed with myself. ‘Did Patrick get off to work OK?’ I say, gulping at my wine.
Charlie’s already got a pint glass of something golden, and he takes a sip then wipes his top lip, exactly the same way Patrick does.
‘Sure he did. So, Margi, we’ve got all night. Tell me all about yourself.’ He reaches for a sausage roll, takes a comically big bite, and sits back expectantly with a wild look in his eyes which makes me laugh again.
‘Whole life story?’ I say.
‘Every detail,’ he munches.
‘I warn you it’s mostly gingerbread and bad decisions.’
He laughs warmly, inclining his head at me, and I settle into the cosiness of the evening.
It’s some time before I realise the food’s gone and my glass is empty and we’ve shared all the big details about our lives. He knows about John and Don – I think he was pretending not to already know about my second husband. Patrick might have mentioned it in passing – but he still listened politely like it was news to him. He said the usual nice things about how it was Don’s loss, and I heard all about his divorce years ago and about his clever daughter off at uni studying architecture. He’s not friends with his wife, unfortunately, and it sounds like she made things hard for him in court, but Charlie was magnanimous about it and swept it away with a hand, saying, ‘It’s all in the past. What matters is the future.’
I tell him I’ll get some drinks, and he cheekily tells me to get more of the sausage rolls, which I was going to anyway.
When I’m at the bar, I see a sight that makes my heart swell. Shell, Fern and Lucy are laughing and talking, deeply engaged in each other, like true girlfriends. Like me and Izz when we’re battling it out at the pub quiz.
