It’s a beautiful evening. The whole village has come out for the Christmas Eve festivities, and everyone’s having a great time. The children are performing in the square, with passing shoppers joining in with the well-known carols. Fairy lights laced through the trees sparkle in the early evening air, and the smell of sausage sizzles and freshly cooked mince pies wafts through the streets.
One of my colleagues is in charge of the children, but I promised my class I’d be there, and as the carol service draws to a close, some of them crowd around me with Christmas cards and badly wrapped presents. I crouch so I’m on their level and thank them, admiring the scrawled handwriting on the cards and the pictures of mermaids and Transformers they’ve colored themselves.
“Have a lovely Christmas,” I call, giving the last one a hug before she runs away back to her family. Smiling, I push up to my feet, struggling not to drop the pile of presents and cards.
“Here, let me help.”
“Oh, thank you.” I let the volunteer take a few from my arms before they fall, then look up, stare, and inhale sharply.
Marcus Ashford looks at all the presents he’s holding. “I feel like Santa. Ho, ho, ho.”
“I… when… what are you doing here?” His presence in my village feels completely incongruous, like meeting the King of England in your local coffee shop.
That said, he doesn’t look out of place. He’s not wearing a tux or a designer suit. Like most of the dads and other men out shopping, he’s dressed in a T-shirt, dark jeans, and Converse sneakers. Even so, there’s something about him that screams money. The T-shirt isn’t well worn and faded. It looks new—dark gray, tight on his biceps, and clinging to his muscular torso. The jeans are designer, not bought from the local high-street store. And the watch he’s wearing, while not a Patek Philippe, has so many dials on it that I wonder if it actually tells the time.
His hair looks damp at the temples, and his jaw is smooth, with no hint of a five-o’clock shadow. He’s recently had a shower, I think. Maybe he’s just come from the gym or something.
“Late-night shopping,” he says. “I still haven’t got all my Christmas presents.”
I narrow my eyes at him. There’s no way this man goes out shopping at a village market for his gifts. I’m sure he’ll have his PA buy and wrap them for him.
“No,” I say, “really.”
“I’ve come to see you.”
I blink. “Why?”
He tips his head to the side. “I thought we could go for a drink.”
My mouth opens, but no words come out. “Why?” I blurt out again.
He goes to say something, but he’s interrupted by another couple of my school children, a pair of fraternal twins, who’ve come running up with presents their parents have bought from the stalls—a small, hand-decorated Christmas cake, and a box of truffles topped with pieces of candied kiwi fruit.
“Thank you,” I say enthusiastically, bending to give them a hug. “They’re lovely.”
“I banged my knee,” the boy announces, showing me the damaged limb. His eyes are red-rimmed. “I fell off the wall.”
“Hmm.” I investigate the injury, which is covered with a sticking plaster that’s already peeling off. “That is quite a wound. You are being very brave.”
“Mum says it’ll probably leave a scar,” the girl says, and he sniffs.
“Scars are cool,” Marcus states. “You’ll look like a warrior.”
“That’s right,” I tell the boy. “Like Aragorn or Boromir. Only real heroes have scars.”
“You can be Éomer,” the girl announces to her brother. “And I’ll be Éowyn. I saw some swords in the two-dollar shop.”
The boy cheers, and the pair runs off to dress themselves as Rohirrim.
“The Lord of the Rings?” Marcus asks as I straighten. “That has to be your influence.”
“I read to the kids from it occasionally.”
“That’s very you. Most teachers would readThe Wonky Donkeyor something.”
That makes me laugh. “How on earth do you know aboutThe Wonky Donkey?”
“I was young once,” he reminds me.
