Page 16 of I’ll Be Home for Christmas

Fred

It was the first day of the Pine Bluff Christmas Market, and Fred had a date—sort of. Warren had messaged her yesterday afternoon to see if she’d like to explore the market with him. She liked the idea of meeting in the morning; it felt less loaded.

Last night had been a pamper night at Hallow House, and there was no denying it had done the power of good—not only for her hair, which was now sleek and shiny, but also for her soul.

For months, her thoughts had been consumed by financial worries; and for many months before that, she’d been burdened with the fallout from her breakup.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d just chilled out.

This morning she felt good, like she’d stepped out of a long dark passageway and into the light.

She knew she had more work yet to do on herself, but this was a good start.

They’d arranged to meet outside the Crooked Elm.

She met Mr. Bishop and his tractor again on her way down to town, and once again she declined his offer of a lift.

“Suit yourself,” he said, idling along beside her. “Enjoy your date.”

Fred’s mouth dropped open. “How do you know I’ve got a date?” she asked, a little snappishly.

“The Pine Bluff Jezebels,” he answered, simply.

Of course. “Do you qualify as a Jezebel?”

Mr. Bishop gave her a disappointed look, tsking as he shook his head. “I did not expect that kind of sexism from you, Freddie Hallow-Hart, upon my word I did not.” He picked up speed and bounced away down the road, leaving Fred feeling somewhat chastened as she continued down to the town.

The industry of the last few days had culminated in a winter village of charming wooden huts like gingerbread houses snaking the length and breadth of the high street.

Eager shoppers streamed into the town from all directions, a mass of brightly colored hats bobbed in the distance.

Christmas music was being piped out from the sound system and every single hut was festooned in twinkling lights.

It was only 11 a.m. but already the air smelled of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts. God, she’d missed this.

Warren was waiting for her by one of the picnic tables, tapping something into his phone with an expression of concentration, which meant he didn’t see her approach and it gave her the chance to take him in.

His black coat didn’t overtly shout money but the cut and tailoring left one in no doubt that it had cost a packet.

He wore brown chinos and shiny black boots, and was absolutely the most handsome man for as far as the eye could see.

“Hi,” she said when she reached him. She didn’t want to appear too eager, but her face appeared to be working against her, and she knew she was beaming like a smiley cartoon moon.

Warren looked up and greeted her with the kind of smile that made her feel like she’d made his day simply by showing up.

She let herself revel in the fireworks ricocheting around in her stomach.

“Hello,” he said. “Crikey, you look lovely!” Instantly his cheeks were suffused with a mass of magenta splodges, and he added, “Sorry, you’d think a writer would be able to come up with something better than that. ”

Fred laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with keeping it simple, and thank you, that’s very kind of you. I’m glad the bobble hat is working for you.”

“As it happens, I’m very into bobble hats.” He grinned.

She felt immensely pleased. Banter— tick! Their eyes met. He had good eyes, dark blue irises circled with silver. He fixed her with a smile so sexy it made her want to bray like a donkey.

She swallowed down her inner silly ass and said, “Shall we begin the tour?” She needed to break the intensity of his gaze before she became tempted to nibble him.

“Lead the way,” he said, gesturing.

They joined the throng and fell into step as they began to wander the market stalls. Enticed by the scent of hot sugar on the cold air, they stopped to purchase two bags of hot candied chestnuts from a man who was turning the nuts in a giant steel pan with what looked like a garden spade.

“Okay,” Warren said when they had meandered down past the first bend in the high street and had begun a slow ascent along the second stretch, slightly uphill.

“So, I’m just going to come out and say that I am rubbish at this, awkward as hell at trying to get to know someone.

I almost always mess it up by saying the wrong thing, so I’m going to start with a tried and tested question to kick things off. ”

She laughed. “I admire your honesty. Hit me with it.”

“You have been warned,” he said, smiling. He cleared his throat. “Ahem. Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?”

She almost choked on a chestnut as she tried to stifle her guffaw. “Did you find that question on a ‘how to interview’ website?”

“Hey, give me a break,” he said, laughing. “I was married for eight years, I’m a novice at this dating malarkey.”

“Sorry”—she held her hands up—“but that’s a big question to kick off with, so you need to give me a minute.”

“I’m in no hurry; I’m just here, soaking in this winter wonderland of a town with the prettiest woman in it.” He grinned.

Fred rolled her eyes at him, throwing another hot chestnut into her mouth and chewing slowly to buy herself time.

“Do you know what?” she said after another moment.

“I honestly don’t know where I’ll be in five years.

And trust me, that pains me to say. A few years ago, I thought I had my life trajectory all mapped out till retirement.

Now, I don’t even recognize that plan anymore.

Or myself. How’s that for an early midlife crisis?

” Still think I’m lovely? she wondered. One of the things she had discussed with her therapist was how, going forward, she could squash the urge to shape herself into what she assumed men wanted her to be.

It wasn’t sexy to admit that she didn’t have a plan, but it was honest.

He was quiet for a moment before answering. “I think it’s brave to admit that you don’t have it all worked out. Maybe your new trajectory will be better than the original. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway.”

Well, he hadn’t run a mile; score one for veracity.

“That’s very…” Her words got stuck as a moment of unwelcome introspection stopped her in her tracks.

Ten years ago, if she’d met someone who’d told her they had no plan, she’d have written them off immediately.

She wasn’t proud of that. Warren was looking at her, waiting for a response.

She rallied. “Thank you for…Winging it doesn’t come easy to me. I like order.”

“I understand,” he replied, sounding like he really did.

She needed to steer this conversation away from herself. “What about you? What will your life look like in five years’ time? Do you have a master plan?” she asked, teasingly.

“Ah, that’s an easy one.” He threw a hot chestnut into the air and caught it in his mouth. “I’m going to be the next Anthony Bourdain, writing my way around the restaurants of the world. I’ll have my first book deal by then.” He winked at her.

“Is that all?”

He laughed and steered them toward a stall selling hot mulled cider, where he ordered them one each.

As a woman with rosy cheeks ladled their drinks into paper cups, Warren said, “All I’ve got to do is convince my editor to give me my own column.

” He thanked the woman and handed a steaming cup to Fred.

“Ooh, lovely, thank you!” She inhaled the fragrant steam; notes of orange and clove danced at the back of her tongue. “And that’s all that stands between you and food writing domination? Getting your own column?”

“It would be a start. I feel like I’ve paid my dues; ten years working my way up through the regional papers.” His tone became serious. “I’m tired of waiting for my career to get started. I need to make a splash, you know, get things moving.”

“Your career sounds more than started to me. What paper do you work for now?”

“The Daily News . It’s mostly London based at the minute, but it’s slowly spreading out into other regions. It’s exciting being part of something that’s still growing, it gives me more scope to make my mark. Being a journalist was all I ever wanted to do. I guess it was my calling.”

“That’s a nice thing to have. I don’t know if I ever had a calling.

I loved my job in advertising, but I never did get to head up the campaigns like I thought I would; I was mostly creating storyboards for designers higher up the food chain to use as springboards for their own ideas. And now I have no career at all.”

“Not at the moment, perhaps, but your skills are transferable, you haven’t lost them.” He was very sweet, but this was in danger of becoming a counseling session and she was sounding like a moaning minnie.

She gave herself a mental shake. “Absolutely,” she said with her best jolly-hockey-sticks delivery. “Something will come up.” She thought of the cozy workshop at Hallow House. Worse places to be.

“We have a lot in common; I cut my journo teeth sifting through emails from people with stories to sell, and passing them on to the reporters to follow up,” he said, taking aim and throwing his empty cup into a bin across the way.

“It took me three years of making tea and finding stories for other writers before I finally got a byline.” He sighed.

“And now we both find ourselves at a crossroads in our careers.”

“I thought you had a plan.” She looked at him quizzically.

Warren gave a long sigh and looked toward the thick gray clouds on the horizon.

“Yeah, except the real world isn’t exactly playing ball at the moment.”

“It rarely does.”