‘It’s not Don, is it?’ Izz says.
‘Hmm?No.Well, not really.’
‘It can’t be easy, this time of year and everything.’ She shuttles her dough into the fridge and makes for mine. ‘Shove over. Let me finish that for you. You sit.’
‘Fine by me,’ I tell her, moving over to top up our glasses. I perch on a tall stool at the table.
‘You haven’t bothered with a Christmas tree this year, then?’ she persists.
I know what she’s getting at, of course. This time two years ago I was being swept off my feet by Don, and within a fortnight we were engaged. I remember the whole thing feeling distinctly festive, and I went all in celebrating. Then, cut to last Christmas, and I was up to my eyeballs in organising it all: white roses and baby’s breath bouquet; floor-length ice-white satin gown overlaid with Cotswold lace; all ready to flounce down the aisle – or rather straight down through the gingerbread grotto tables – with Don on December twenty-fourth, head over heels with festive feels.
‘Just a bit Christmassed out,’ I say into my glass.
Izz is now slapping and knuckling my gingerbread mixture better than any Magimix could. ‘If I could get my hands on him!’ she says, but then, with a wary glance at me, she adds, ‘Still, it’s nearly twelve months since he…’ She leaves a pause which my brain fills with suitable words.Bolted. Did a runner. Absconded.‘May happen you’re thinking about…’
Again with the pausing. Her eyes are sparkling wickedly.
‘What?’ I say, not really wanting to know.
‘May happen you’re thinking about meeting someone new?’
‘May happenyouare?’ I say, like a child, and then I feel stupid because Izz has shown precisely zero interest in anyone other than her ill-fated 1960s sweetheart. ‘Here, pass that to me,’ I say, relieving her of her dough and wrapping it for the fridge.
There’s a knock at the front door, and it only fuels Izz more. She’s raising a knowing eyebrow at the sound of it. Preciselywhatshe knows, I couldn’t say.
‘Don’t do that,’ I warn her, turning for the door behind me. Typical Cotswold cottage, it opens into the kitchen.
‘Do what?’ She fails to feign innocence, taking off her apron and gathering the glasses and wine bottle. ‘I’ll grab a clean one for Patrick,’ she chirrups and makes her way through to the den where the log burner is making the room glow a cosy orange in the absence of other lights.
I unlatch the door for Patrick. Right on time as always. My friend. My fellow fundraiser. Reliable, easy-to-get-along-with Patrick.
‘Where d’you need these putting?’ he asks as he steps inside, bringing the nicest smell of wood sap and winter chill with him.
Of course he’s brought logs, and of course he’s hefting them over his shoulders like a lumberjack posing for the type of calendar I’d definitely be pleased to find in my stocking on Christmas morning.
‘Oh, uh, just through in the basket by the wood burner, thanks.’
He nods his understanding (he’s not the grinning type, not like Don was), and he follows Izz’s voice to the den where she’s switched on the lights and is asking him if he’s ready for a wine.
I shut the door behind him, noticing there are a few strands of Christmas bulbs twinkling in some of the back windows down the lane. Give it a few days and everyone will have their houses decorated except me.
I wash my hands and head for the den.
‘Felled a tree on your way over?’ Izz asks Patrick as she moves from the sofa to the lone armchair, leaving the seats side by side for me and Patrick.
‘It’s from one of the schoolyard oaks,’ he tells her, laying down the wood by my log burner. ‘Whole limb was damaged in the October storms. Been drying in my workshop ever since.’
We all look stupidly at the logs. Izz isn’t even trying to hide the fact she’s enjoying the curious awkwardness in the air. Patrick’s oblivious, though. I lift his glass from Izz’s hands and pass it to him, telling him to sit and get comfy.
I thank him for the firewood as he settles himself, and, as always when he’s here, the den suddenly looks like a hobbit house with his tall, broad frame inside it.
‘I nominate Izz to take the meeting minutes,’ I say, giving her a smirk that immediately stops her delightedly observing the pair of us. What is she up to?
Patrick’s mouth hitches into a smile at the corner, which he hides in his wine glass.
‘You know as well as I do we never get further than the first five minutes before we forget to take notes,’ Izz complains. ‘Anyways, we’ve got to start the rolling soon. Gingerbread’s in the fridge.’
Patrick’s been around for enough Decembers to know what this means. The first of the gingerbreads are being cut and baked tonight.
