‘Let’s all pray for a Christmas miracle.’ Desi pulled off the road and screeched into a parking space. ‘Because if I don’t come out with a freshly baked chocolate chip muffin at the very least, I’m going to burn this place down to the ground.’
Luckily for all M&S shareholders, the shopwasopen, and luckily for us, itdidhave a bathroom. Joel ran through the aisles while Desi made a beeline directly for the bakery. I followed Desi, dutifully carrying the basket, my mind very much elsewhere.
‘Do you want a pain au chocolat?’ she asked, scanning the baked goods like she was searching for her one true love. ‘You’ll have to eat it before we get in the car, flaky pastry is a bastard to hoover up.’
‘No, thanks,’ I replied. ‘I’m not hungry.’
I wasn’t. The adrenaline and CRH released during my confrontation with Callum had obliterated my appetite. But knowing the scientific reasons why I couldn’t stand the thought of eating, why my face looked so blank in the reflection on the glass bakery case, didn’t help. Empty was the best I could hope for. Numb.
‘We should get the Christmas sandwiches, since, you know, it’s literally Christmas.’ She dropped several paper bags into the basket before moving over to the refrigerated section of the store, me trailing along behind her. ‘Do you want the turkey or the veggie? I’m assuming turkey since you don’t have to pretend to be a vegan any more. Small mercies, eh?’
‘Whatever.’
Desi peered at me out the corner of her eye.
‘We probably don’t need any crisps.’
‘Probably not.’
‘And I won’t bother getting any biscuits or anything. One sandwich each is enough for an eleven-hour drive.’
‘If you think so.’
She turned to face me, five different sandwiches balanced in her arms.
‘Right, let’s get in front of this before it becomes aproblem,’ she said. ‘You are officially you again. You eat salt and vinegar twists like they’re going out of fashion and if anyone tried to take an Extremely Chocolatey biscuit out your hand, you’d surgically detach the offending appendage. I know you’re pissed off and upset, and he can break your heart and ruin your Christmas, but Laura Pearce, with Marks and Spencer whoever they may be as my witnesses, I will not stand idly by and watch him take away your desire to eat carbs.’
I reached into the sandwich cabinet, pulled out the first thing my fingers touched and dropped it in the basket.
‘Seriously?’ She looked at me with disgust. ‘Egg salad? In the car?’
I shrugged and Desi growled.
‘Would it help if I slagged him off a bit?’
My eyebrow quirked with involuntary interest.
‘Couldn’t hurt. What have you got?’
‘He’s too tall, for a start.’
She removed my egg sandwich from the basket and replaced it with a Christmas club. She was right to do it.
‘You’d hurt your neck, always looking up at him. He’s even paler than you are so you’d be spending a fortune on SPF, and forget going anywhere sunny on holiday. What else?’
Turkey Feasts, a Pigs in Blankets sandwich and three bottles of Pepsi Max were added to the basket before she steered me towards the picky bits.
‘Who wants to go out with a chef? Everyone knows they’re untrustworthy. Too much opportunity to cheat, always shagging the servers in the back of the restaurant. And he wants to be a pastry chef? Not good for your health. Too much cholesterol.’
‘And high cholesterol already runs in my family,’ I said, reaching for a tub of picnic eggs despite the words that had just come out my mouth.
‘And it’s not just him, is it?’ Desi went on. ‘That man comes as part of a very complicated package. The mum is all right and, aside from him getting off with my fake husband, I did like the brother, but I think we all know how I feel about the sister and his dad always felt as though he was one drink away from starting a conversation with “You can’t say this any more but …”’
‘In Elsie’s defence—’
‘I’m going to stop you right there.’ Desi brandished a package of feta-filled falafels right in my face. ‘We’re not defending her today. Today she is worse than Satan. Today she is getting coal in her stocking and no Christmas cards. Maybe, somewhere down the line, many, many years from now, an old lady version of me might consider acknowledging her life isn’t entirely perfect but she decided to go full evil Jessica Fletcher on you at Christmas, so right now, I would happily sew prawns into her curtains and put itching powder in her unmentionables.’
‘Do they still make itching powder?’ I pondered as I grabbed a pack of sausage rolls. Hungry or not, Christmas wasn’t Christmas without sausage rolls.
