Page 41 of I’ll Be Home for Christmas

Oh god! She didn’t want to leave him alone with the aunts for too long, they might start offering him drinks.

The first boot revealed itself behind a box that was essentially a graveyard for gym goods; the second was trapped beneath a foot spa she had somehow imagined would become part of her self-care routine, should she ever implement one.

She pulled them on and rushed downstairs only to find the hallway empty.

Following the smell of smoke, she found Warren and both her aunts smoking cigarillos outside the back door, tall glasses of something creamy in hand.

“Hey,” she said.

He turned and smiled when he saw her. “Hey,” he returned.

He was smart, as always; his shirt pressed, the collar tips sharp and his short hair neatly swept to the side.

His overcoat was open to reveal a blazer beneath.

There was no denying that he was handsome…

and yet, she noted that he wasn’t setting her loins alight.

It was like being able to appreciate a piece of art without being moved by it.

She had made her decision almost without realizing.

She sighed inwardly and knew that she would have to find a nice way to tell him that this would be their last date.

His going back to London would make being relegated to the friend zone easier.

“You look lovely,” he said, breaking her chain of thought and making guilt squirm in her stomach.

“You too.” It was true.

He stubbed out his cigarillo and picked up a bouquet of winter flowers. He handed them to her, smiling.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling even worse. “They’re beautiful.”

Aunt Aggie blew a smoke ring; it floated between them and then popped. “You’d better get going, the meter’s running,” she said, referring to the taxi idling outside. “I’ll take those and put them in water for you.” She held out a hand for the flowers. “You two go off and have fun.”

“Okay. Bye, Aunties!” Fred called.

“Give my regards to Mrs. Doukas,” called Aunt Cam.

—

Demeter was packed, even though it was a Monday; such was the power of the Christmas market and also, it seemed, the draw of a potential food critic.

As Mrs. Doukas led them through the crowded restaurant, people smiled or wanted to shake Warren’s hand, as though he was a Goodfella, and everyone wanted to stay in his good graces.

One man, with a napkin tucked into his shirt and a sheen of sweat on his top lip, held on to Warren’s hand with both of his and said, “We’ve been coming here for twenty years.

Make sure you give them a good write-up, yeah? ”

Fred felt self-conscious. “Did you tell them you were here in an official capacity?” she whispered at Warren when he’d got his hand back.

Warren shook his head, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. “No, I didn’t.”

Fred looked at the carpet and tried to avoid eye contact with her fellow patrons.

They were seated at a candlelit table for two in the window. A waiter placed cloth napkins on their laps and poured two glasses of water from a carafe, before being ushered away by Mrs. Doukas.

“Fred, we are so happy that you are back home where you belong,” she said, taking over and smiling, her hands clasped under her chin. “And Mr. Reeves, it is an honor to have you here.”

“Please, call me Warren.” He gave Mrs. Doukas one of his angelic smiles, and Fred watched the matriarch fall under his spell.

“Warren,” she said, looking down at him as though he was her prodigal son. “We have prepared a tasting menu for your delight. We hope you enjoy.” And with that she left the table and headed back toward the kitchen, shouting, “Kelly! Wine! Table four! The good stuff, eh!”

“Don’t you feel a bit…awkward?” Fred asked. “With everybody looking at us, and the staff treating us like honored guests.”

“So awkward!” Warren hissed, grinning. “I am this close to rolling up into a ball like a woodlouse. How do you think they found out?”

Fred pondered for a moment and then messaged her aunt.

Did you by any chance tell the Pine Bluff Jezebels that Warren was eating at Demeter tonight?

The response was quick.

Yes, dear. We asked them to spread the word far and wide. It’s all very exciting. The Doukases were thrilled. Extra baklava for you, I reckon. You’re welcome.

Aunt Aggie signed off with no fewer than seven winking-face emojis.

“I think we found our leak,” she said, angling her phone for Warren to see the message.

He laughed. “Well, that explains it. And here I was thinking I’d become a minor celebrity overnight.”

“You have now.”

“Well, even if I don’t get the job, I’ll still submit the article; it can be part of a travel piece, and that way everyone gets their moment in the sun. It’s the least I can do, given how kind everyone’s been.” He shrugged.

“That will make a lot of people very happy.” She smiled at him. “So, have you found your voice for the piece yet?” she asked, trying to pretend people weren’t staring. “Do you know what your hook will be?”

“I’m getting there. I think I’ve finally found that delicate balance between it sounding fresh and arresting but still being true to myself.”

“I’m glad. I think being true to yourself is the key. I imagine it would be hard to keep up an act for any length of time.”

“That’s what I thought too.”

The first trays of dishes arrived. There were garlicky prawns and butter beans in a rich tomato sauce, buttery mushrooms, juicy langoustines, and warm flatbreads to mop up the juices, alongside bowls of olives and feta cheese, hummus and griddled meats on skewers.

Fred was glad she hadn’t eaten since second breakfast.

“I want to thank you,” said Warren, tearing off a piece of bread and using it to swipe sauce up from one of the bowls, “for helping me to find my way here, and encouraging me to really go for it with this food column.”

“I’m not sure I’ve done very much.” She bit another langoustine in two.

“If I’d gone straight back to London, not met you, I don’t know that I’d be as far along in making a bid for this. I might even have backed out of trying.”

She smiled. “I’m glad you feel like I helped.”

“I don’t normally do this. Sharing something before it’s finished always feel a bit like getting naked, but…” He looked at her with those big blue eyes, his expression loaded with that hesitant shyness that made her melt again. “Would you like to see a rough draft? I’d appreciate your eyes on it.”

“I’d love to. I feel honored that you trust me with your words.”

He smiled, reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulled out a thin sheaf of paper folded into four.

“Obviously, I need to add in my write-up of tonight’s meal, but this gives you a flavor—pardon the pun—of the style I’m going with.”

She carefully unfolded it, aware of the emotional weight it held for him, and gave him a reassuring smile before she began to read.

No Bluff Required

The small town in the Scottish Highlands with a sincere love of world cuisine

Situated on a stretch of wild coastline, so remote that even the long arms of the fast-food chains haven’t reached it, Pine Bluff is a microcosm of multicultural gastronomy.

At Nonna’s Olive Branch I was treated to light pillowy gnocchi doused in pesto so fragrant that I was transported to the pine forests of Italy…I asked them to adopt me, but they thought I was joking, sigh…

Fred read on, filled with gratitude to Warren for loving her hometown, and experiencing a tinge of sadness—seeing it now through the eyes of another—at having turned her nose up at it for so many years.

The alchemy of spices, so exquisitely blended with the sweet fire of Scotch bonnets, is a mouth carnival that will have you dancing your way through the entire menu at Smoke and Soul…

an ice bath between courses wouldn’t go amiss…

my only criticism is that they don’t offer a wheelbarrow service to roll you home afterward…

It was funny and conversational, and if she was a foodie who had never heard of Pine Bluff, she would be sticking a pin in the map and packing a suitcase.

“You’ve nailed it,” she said, carefully refolding the paper and handing it back to him. “Only a fool would hesitate to give you the column after reading that.”

He laughed. “Can I quote you on that when I submit it?”

“You can quote me—and give your editor my email address, if she wants to discuss it further.”

His expression turned serious. “It’s meant a lot, having your support,” he said, tucking the article back into his breast pocket. “I was a stranger in a new town and you’ve made me feel like I belong.”

She shrugged self-consciously. “I think you’re giving me more credit than I deserve.”

“You know, I’d really like to keep seeing you,” he said, laying his hand on hers.

Her heart sank. She was going to have to disappoint him. She’d never been good at letting people down.

“Warren, I really like you—”

“No, please, let me say this,” Warren cut her off. “In an ideal world, we’d find a way to make this work, see where it takes us. But the reality is that I don’t have time to commit to a long-distance relationship.”

She swallowed and tried not to look as relieved as she felt. “Oh.”

“I’m not even sure I could commit to anything if you lived in London.

I can’t commit to anything right now. I don’t want you to think that I’ve been leading you on.

I genuinely like you, and when we first met, I didn’t honestly think that this column thing had legs, but since being here and working on it, it’s all just come together, and I really think I’m in with a shot.

And if I’m right, and I get it, then I’m going to have to give it everything. ”

She felt almost guilty for how grateful she was at having dodged a bullet.

“I think you’re right,” she said, smiling at him to show that there were no hard feelings.

“You do?” He looked a little crestfallen.