I liked the modern, square rooms and the big windows. Nothing creaked or ran squint – unlike every line and surface at my cottage which is warped and slumping with age.
The roof tiles were all new and wouldn’t need replacing for at least my lifetime, unlike my cottage’s slates which come loose in the mildest wind and shatter on the path and are expensive to replace. It was warm too. Plus, there was no wood burner to sweep out and reset every single day in winter. ‘Eight rad system,’ the agent had thrown out as he guided me from white room to white room. ‘Cosy.’
I’d thought at the time that cosy wasn’t quite the right word. My cottage is cosy; this place was functional, warm, bright, all those good things, but no, not cosy as such. With thirty grand knocked off the asking price, however, it is even more attractive now.
My phone pings again and the estate agent’s listing appears, just in case I’ve forgotten the place. He’s seriously pushing me for a response but this isn’t the right moment, not with Rusty over there waving to me from the fudge stall. I need time to think, to see if I really can picture myself there, baking in that kitchen, and for myself, not for a thankless, exhausting gingerbread grotto that demands so much of my life.
What would it be like sleeping in that white bedroom with no cobwebby oak beams slanting above my head, and fresh grey carpets on the floor instead of cold flagstones and Mum’s old rugs?
Another message pings and I get a flush of heat up the back of my head. Only it’s not the pushy estate agent; it’s Fern. I forgot I’d given her my number so we can coordinate gingerbread efforts.
What name am I using for the Insta and TikTok accounts?
I reply with a question mark. What’s that girl up to? A reply flies back quicker than anyone ought to be able to type into a phone.
For the fundraising accounts. I can’t use mine. Is ‘The Gingerbread Christmas Village’ all right?
I send back three words:Whatever you think.
I’ve got to get back to this date. Why must my every waking minute be dominated by chuffing gingerbread?
But I’m distracted now the messages have yanked me out of my lovely evening. I make my way towards Rusty. All I need to do is have fun with him and then head home before I turn back into a pumpkin. Easy. Old Margi wouldn’t have agonised over any of this. She’d take the evening as it came, surrender to the fun of it all.
‘Problem?’ Rusty asks when I rejoin him. He hands me a candy cane tied with a red bow that he’s just bought for me. I think of the box of two hundred such canes still in their wrappers on top of my wardrobe. I bought them at the cash and carry to hand out to the grotto visitors.
‘No,’ I tell him, trying to shake off the bewildering prospect of the Daisy Road property and smile like a normal person.
‘You’ve got an emergency and have to go?’ he asks, doing the same sheepish, sweet look he did when he’d confessed to not having wanted kids, like he was afraid of what I’d say, but he’s robust enough to risk asking anyway.
‘Oh my God, no! A get-out text? I hadn’t even considered it, honestly.’
Rusty laughs.
I think of Kenneth bolting on me. ‘I’d never do that to you.’
My phone buzzes again.
Two other interested buyers. Need an answer quick to secure Daisy Road.
Rusty’s talking once more. ‘Listen, it’s a long way for you to go back to your village…’ He’s pulling something from his coat pocket and I’m not quite present enough to register what it is. There’s loud polka music playing from a stage over there and it’s making it hard to think.
‘Sorry,’ I say, shoving away my mobile. ‘I’m getting sidetracked and that’s not fair on you. Only, that was an estate agent texting me about a property that’s reduced in Birmingham. I’m thinking of moving here.’
‘But you’re from the Cotswolds, aren’t you? Miles from Brum?’ He says this while stepping back an inch, enough that I notice, and it sets a little engine revving in my head. It sounds conspicuously like Don’s Harley speeding away from me.
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘but I like it here, and I’ve often thought I might move here if I got the chance…’
‘Listen,’ he says, spreading his hands like he’s defending himself from attack.
I have time to think how quickly a person’s face can change. All the fun has drained from his.
‘Listen,’ he says again, catching his breath. ‘I’ve met some lovely ladies on the apps, but God’s sakes, you’re all the same, one date and you’re too keen. I understand the pool’s shallow but…’
‘I’m not moving here for you, Rusty. I don’t even know your surname, you numpty,’
That’s when I register he’s pinching a hotel key in his right hand. I can make out the purple of a Premier Inn logo. This completely throws me off defending myself against his accusation of bunny boiling.
‘Is that what you were about to ask me?’ I say. ‘Were you going to invite me to a hotel?’
