‘All that folks want to see are some funny little buildings and to have a chance to meet their friends and have a catch-up with their neighbours before Christmas. Remember that. Once the village is set out, there’s no need to add extra little bits and bobs. You have to know when to stop or you’ll exhaust yourself.’
Too late for that, I didn’t reply. Instead, I gave her a kiss through the screen and hung up.
That familiar old sense of flatness followed me all the way down the high street, alleviated only by the sight of Patrick loading a bag into a strange car outside the school gates. Just knowing he’s here makes my heart lift. But when I call his name and hurry closer, I realise the man turning and grinning back at me isn’t Patrick at all. It’s Charlie.
These were the thoughts that hit me at that exact moment.
One: he looks gorgeous, so like Patrick.
Two: I wonder if he’s going to ask me out on a real date this time?
Three: I’ll have to decline if he asks.Dammit!For Patrick’s sake. For the brothers’ friendship, and for ours. Charlie told me Patrick has lived in his shadow all his life, and I don’t ever want Patrick to feel that he comes second to Charlie in my eyes.
Four:Dammit, again Patrick! Why aren’t you just a little older? A little more available? Why don’t you look me over in the hungry way Charlie does? Like he wants to pounce on me in the street!
‘Morning, beautiful,’ Charlie greets me, and I come to a stop. ‘Glad I bumped into you,’ he adds.
His bags are in the back seat of the car.
‘You’re not leaving, are you? Right now?’
‘Those antiques don’t value themselves.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I say, and I really mean it. ‘Patrick will miss you too.’
‘Hmm.’ That wry smile again. ‘I’m not so sure.’
‘You didn’t have a falling out, did you?’ I scan the street behind Charlie, wondering where Patrick is and why he’s not coming to wave his brother off.
‘Not since the last time,’ he says, whatever that means.
‘Why don’t you come and see the exhibit getting set up? We’re nearly done, and I know Patrick will love showing you the finished village. Get his big brother’s seal of approval.’
Charlie takes a step towards me on the pavement. ‘I don’t think he’d love that. In fact, I don’t think he’d be very happy I’m still around, talking with you.’
‘With me? Why?’
Charlie sniffs a laugh and shakes his head in an amused way. ‘I can’t keep doing my little brother’s work for him. Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
‘Huh?’
Another wry smile and Charlie’s backing away, getting into his car. He shakes his head. ‘I can see why he doesn’t want to lose you. You are something else, Margi Frost,’ and with that, he wishes me a ‘Merry Christmas’, and he’s yanked his door shut and started the engine.
I wave after him as he pulls away, my head still cocked, wondering what on earth he meant. ‘Loseme?’ I say to myself. ‘Patrick doesn’t want to lose me?’
The display tables are covered in white fabric which I’ve swagged around the table legs the way Mum taught me years ago so there’s no risk of someone tripping and landing head first in Brambledown Farm.
Lucy’s helping Shell stick down a few squinty tombstones in the snowy gingerbread churchyard with some last-minute emergency icing bags Izz brought with her. This isn’t Izz’s first rodeo.
She’s in the foyer setting up the urn for the mulled wine and unwrapping stacks of paper cups. Fern is, of course, filming our preparations, having had moderate interest in the video she posted to The Gingerbread Christmas Village’s new social media channels showing the empty hall and the mural on the day we set about cleaning the place up.
I asked her if she thought it would help sell tickets and she pointed out the few lovehearts and comments the video received were from people all over the world, not Cotswold locals, so probably not. I didn’t say, ‘What’s the point of it, then?’ like I wanted to. It’s best if she just carries on doing her own Fern thing while the rest of us see to the last details. So we’ve let her carry on filming.
I’m keeping Patrick company while he runs tiny LED lights on copper wire through the display. He wants them to be invisible so there’s been some pretty hairy moments drilling through gingerbread and then threading the lights inside before icing over the gaps so it’s neat again and the walls don’t crumble.
‘So, you’ll be seeing my brother again?’ he asks after a long time concentrating in silence on an especially fiddly-looking bit of miniature electrical work.
‘Am I?’ Doesn’t he know Charlie’s gone already? Patrick’s eyes are dark and his expression tense. I don’t know how to break this to him.
