Bill’s carrying on. ‘And second, if you don’t chill your dough in the fridge before you begin, it gets too sticky to work with.’
I’m picking my jaw up off the floor. ‘Anything else?’
He’s glancing at the recipe and the ingredient pile. ‘I can see you’ve used flour for rolling out, so once your mix is the consistency of Playdoh the rest should work fine.’
Just when I’d closed my mouth it’s sagging again. ‘Playdoh?’
‘Youdoknow what Playdoh is?’
‘Obviously.’ Oscar’s Playdoh machine? – totally brilliant, it’s the most fun I’ve had in an afternoon in ages, just saying. But I can’t see why child-averse Bill would have the first clue.
He’s half closing one eye. ‘You wash your hands, I’ll get the rest of this lot into the fridge and whizz up another batch.’
It’s a measure of how covered I am that by the time I’m de-clagged, he’s got a ball of dough in each hand, wrapped in clingfilm, and he’s rolling them into the fridge. Giving a completely unnecessary running commentary as he does it.
‘Another two batches should be enough. I’ll help you make those, then while the dough’s cooling we can bring in the rest of the boxes. And afterwards we can roll and cut out together. If we’re doing the whole tree we need team work.’
Taking over? Much? Except even though he’s sticking as close to my elbow as that offending plastic star cutter as we stand by the Magimix, I’m doing a lot of the work. Actuallyallof the work. While all he’s doing is totally putting me off. With his breathing. And those dark chocolate eyes of his looking. Near enough for me to see his individual lashes and be jealous how thick and dark and long they are. So close, our arms keep brushing. Colliding even.
All in all it’s a bloody nightmare. And if I’m finding it all a little bit tingly, that’s definitely down to festive excitement. Nothing to do with rubbing shoulders with the kind of quality body that would make a topless Aidan Turner look mediocre.
Most probably it’s because it’s a new situation for me – I can’t ever remember cooking with a guy before. I’m not sure I ever saw George even visit any of the kitchens in the places we lived. If I wasn’t there to make meals he ate out or went hungry. And sure, I hate Bill ordering me around and being such a know-it-all smart-arse. But someone who passes the spatulaandmanages to produce flat pieces of clingfilm that don’t instantly twist into clingy unusable ropes? Just this once I’m not going to grumble, I’ll take the help.
Once the dough is safely made and stowed in one of the many gigantic fridges, we rush in and out of the wind unloading the Landy. I’m aching to know what we’re carrying, and determined not to ask. By the time we’ve had a few trips the pile is covering the table and Bill’s smug expression has gone up three notches.
I’m eyeing the battered boxes, bursting with curiosity. ‘Okay, I give in, tell me what they are.’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’ He wrinkles his nose. ‘Take a look …’
As I pull open the flaps and catch the shine and shimmer my pulse rate picks up and I let out a gasp. ‘Deccies!’ I pull open another three boxes, and they’re all brimful – baubles of all sizes and colours, no sign of packaging, just thrown in on top of each other. ‘So many, too!’
He gives a low laugh. ‘You wanted maximalism. Knock yourself out.’
I’m pulling out silvery bells and brass snowflakes, swinging Santas and tiny red glass doves – and I’m dazed. ‘But where did you get them?’
‘I plundered every charity shop in a twenty mile radius.’ He’s lookingdownat me, which doesn’t often happen. Through those lashes of his too. ‘They’re definitelynotwhat you ordered – but they’rehereand they’reyours.’ His eyebrow goes up. ‘If you want more, say the word. Every bauble’s different, it won’t be hard to get a match.’
I’m musing as I plunge my hand into a box and sift though the pile. ‘There are enough here to sort colour themes for different trees. Or we could go totally random.’
He’s opening more, and looking in. ‘Best of all, we’re saving the world one second-hand deccie at a time.’
I’m staring at him. ‘Did Keef say that?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, that’s what they said in the shops.’
I’m being pulled along on the wave. ‘Eclectic is good. It’s how trees used to be back in the day when people bought their decorations singly and added one or two every Christmas. Before they began buying an entire different coordinating tree’s worth every year.’ To be fair, without that whole ‘buy new and chuck away the old every year’ trend, we’d never have scooped such a big haul here.
He pulls a face. ‘You’re blinding me with festive science again. Let’s go back to gingerbread, then I’ll know where I am.’
I’m thinking about another hour of shivers, and sizing up the box pile. ‘With so many decorations maybe we could skip the gingerbread?’
He’s frowning. ‘Hell no, it’s going to be the best one. No way I’m giving up on a tree you can graze from.’
‘Great.’ It isn’t. But the faster we get on with it, the sooner it’ll be over.
By the time Fliss and the kids come back in for a late lunch, there are cooling trays piled with nutty brown gingerbread men – or should that be people? – and Bill’s taking the last batch out of the Aga. I look up from where I’m loading up the dishwasher, mostly trying to persuade Merwyn it’s not a good idea to let Bill see him licking the wooden spoons. And reminding him for future reference, however tempting and dangly they look, snaffling gingerbread people from the tree is strictly not allowed.
Fliss gets in first. ‘Nice move, Ivy, getting yourself a kitchen assistant, in a matching apron too.’ She slides Harriet off her hip into the high chair and smiles at the biscuits. ‘See, I told you you’d ace them, and you have.’
