I don’t know how long we’re quiet for, at least the time it takes to drink half a glass of this very, very gluggable bubbly.
I tell myself to slow down. I’m getting dizzy.
‘Let’s eat,’ Patrick says, his voice low. It makes me wonder what he’s been thinking of. ‘Here.’ From the basket he brings the foiled packages, fat and round. A seriously good aroma lifts with them.
‘Pulled pork and apple. Hope that’s OK?’
I take one, telling him that’s definitely OK, and I rip into the package, taking a big bite. He does the same, like a ravenous man.
I shouldn’t love watching him bite into his food like this, but he’s watching me the whole time and it’s really quite mesmerising.
I swallow and ask, ‘Did your Christmas elf friends deliver these?’ I glance around in the direction the invisible helpers must have fled.
‘You’re closer to the truth than you think,’ he says before taking another bite.
A cold wintry wind hits us, making the bracken on the wooded floor rustle. ‘Shift closer,’ he says through his food. ‘Keep warm.’
I close the gap between us on the bench and we fall to eating contentedly. We’ve grabbed pub lunches together and shared coffee and cake at Izz’s cafe a hundred times before and it’s never felt loaded with meaning like this, like we’re so far out of the friend zone we might not be able to find our way back.
I tell myself I’ve been leaving breadcrumbs of common sense to follow that’ll lead me back to safety come the morning when this lovely escapade’s over; only a niggling thought insists that I might never find my way back to that old version of myself. Margi, the gingerbread lady, the retiree, the divorcee, the Wheatonite everyone whispers about, the pain in the backside of the council. I don’t know if that’s who I am at all any more. I’m on the cusp of starting a new life as someone else, aren’t I?
I take another long drink. Don’t spoil this, I tell myself. Why not just enjoy it, just for an hour or two?
We eat, and he refills my glass, reminding me he can’t have any more – he’s driving.
He checks that I’m happy and I think I’m telling the truth when I say I am, even though it’s turning chillier up here now.
‘Good.’ He smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners the way they always do. I don’t even try and drag my gaze away.
When we’ve finished eating, he asks if I fancy dessert. ‘We need to walk if we’re going to find something sweet.’
‘Silly question. Only I don’t want to leave here just yet. Let’s stay, at least until Greg Lake comes on again. You know, the “I Believe in Father Christmas” one?’ The event’s piped music is playing on a loop, maybe seven or eight songs at most on repeat. ‘Does it drive you demented? The same songs over and over?’ I add.
‘Usually, yeah, a little bit. I haven’t minded it tonight, though,’ he says.
Soon enough, the jaunty, hippiefied orchestral opening of Greg Lake floods the estate from hidden speakers and we both turn and grin at each other.
‘This song’s from when I was a teenager,’ I say. ‘Hard to believe.’
‘I know, it sounds more recent,’ Patrick says. ‘But then again, it’s been playing every Christmas for as long as I can remember.’
I don’t say anything. There’s a breadcrumb of common sense. It’s telling me to stop this, quick.
‘What is it?’ he says. ‘Your face fell. Did I say something?’
‘Of course not. I’m having a lovely time.’
‘But…’ he leads.
I hold my breath then let it go in a big rush. ‘But, it’s always there, bothering me.’
‘What is?’ He genuinely looks like he has no clue. Can he really not be aware?
‘How much younger you are than me, for a start.’
‘What does that matter? I’ve two jobs, a car, a home. I own power tools. I have a life insurance policy. I kiss like this.’
Before I can forge ahead with dismantling the fairy-tale atmosphere he’s worked so hard to make for us tonight, he’s done it again, brought his lips to mine and swiped away all my objections. I have to clasp the stem of my glass to stop it spilling, but still, I kiss him back.
