He suddenly looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s subtle, but I see the shift in him.
‘Thank you for these,’ I hurry. ‘I can honestly say they’re the nicest flowers anyone’s ever given me.’
He’s happy with this. ‘Do you want to leave them in the car, or…?’
‘I think I’ll carry them.’
‘All right, then.’ There’s a proud little hitch at the corner of his mouth. ‘Shall we?’
I jam my bobble hat down – a nice cashmere job I’ve been keeping for best and then never wearing; how silly is that? And we walk, side by side, through a shortcut, Patrick lighting our way with a torch, because of course the man carries a torch on him, through a dark patch of trees towards the sounds of Christmas.
We emerge into a courtyard, all high brick walls and more brick underfoot. Every inch of the place is sparkling with frost. I see Patrick give a nod to another Dunham employee working at an old-fashioned street food cart. The cold’s creeping in through my boots (I’m back in my super-soft Doc Martens today – now that I’ve decided to hang up my hot date heels forever). I wore my leather trousers too. I clocked Patrick’s eyes sweep down my legs when he called to pick me up, and I think I spotted a flickering smile of realisation I’d taken him up on his advice to wear them on a date.
‘What is that lovely smell?’ I ask. I recognise it from long ago. A smell of Christmas. The vendor’s already making his way towards us with the answer and leaving a long queue of visitors wondering where he’s off to.
‘How do, Patrick?’ he says, holding out a pink paper cone for me. ‘Enjoy.’ As soon as I take it, he’s gone again, back to work.
‘Roasted chestnuts!’ The glorious sweet steam rises right into my face. ‘I haven’t had these since I was little. Mum and Dad would roast them in a special pan over the open top of the wood burner. Ah! That smell.’
I feel eight years old again as Patrick takes the cone and my posy from me so I can slip my gloves off, pick a chestnut and peel the glossy dark skin away.
‘Mind, they’re really hot,’ says Patrick.
Once I’ve freed the creamy insides from the shell, I lift the chestnut to Patrick’s lips.
‘You first,’ I insist.
He obliges with a smile before opening his mouth. There’s a fraction of a second where my eyes fix at the point where my fingers brush his bottom lip, and everything else falls out of focus.
I’m aware of a big swirl of white breathy vapour clouding the space between us – I’ve exhaled so hard at the sight of him taking in the chestnut – and I have to look away.
‘It’s good,’ he tells me, not seeming to notice me getting carried away, thank goodness.
I have to check myself.What is this, Margi? One posy of winter blooms and a bag of nuts and your brain goes haywire? Sort yourself out.
‘Come on,’ he says, ‘there’s lots to see.’
I focus on peeling the chestnuts, one for me, one for Patrick, and I’m far more sensible about feeding them to him from now on. He’s still carrying my flowers. We make our way out of the courtyard, past the pizza van queue, past the mulled wine stall, and the picnic benches where families huddle over their food, and there’s lots of happy chatter mingling with the odd howling toddler for whom it’s all got too much, and I try not to think how they paid thirty quid for that kid to cry through the whole thing because that would be truly Grinch-like and not at all festive of me.
We leave the courtyard through a gate where a woman is scanning tickets.
‘All set up for you,’ she says as we pass by. ‘Have a nice evening.’
‘What exactly have you set up?’ I ask Patrick, but he only smiles and guides me down a path lined with low star-shaped lanterns. There’s a bit of a bottleneck here so we end up walking slowly, polishing off the last of the chestnuts.
‘Have you ever been here during the daytime?’ he asks.
‘Oh yes. Lots of times when I was younger, in the summer. I remember the fountains on the big lake, and me and my parents and Lydia having our sandwiches on the lawns. But I haven’t been for ages. You know how it is. You visit places miles away and forget about the beauty right on your own doorstep. So, you’re enjoying working here?’
‘It’s fine. The people are nice, but it’s kind of a long day after six hours at school.’
‘I know. I’m sorry about that. You shouldn’t have to take another job. That superhead’s got a lot to answer for, even if he did promise we could ice gingerbread men with the kids, and he didn’thaveto come to the council meeting. I do think he’s getting more involved in Wheaton life, don’t you think?
‘Or one particular aspect of Wheaton life?’ Patrick glances at me, his lips curling sweetly.
‘A lovely young baker?’ I hazard.
‘I think so. I’d had Sully picked out for your Lucy. Shows what I know. How is she?’
