Ivy was just layering in some delicate purple borders to the brooding storm clouds while PJ Harvey blared in her ears, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
Ivy jumped hard and her brush skidded across the canvas, leaving a bright purple streak where there should have been misty grey. She yanked off her headphones, ready to yell, then stopped. Trip was standing there, looking mortified.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, holding up both hands. ‘I didn’t mean toscare you. I was here putting away the costumes and I thought everyone was gone. I was just locking up.’ He pulled a face, looking down at her painting. ‘Sorry about that too. It’s really good.’
Ivy looked down at the ruined clouds, now slashed through with vivid purple. She gave an unwilling smile. ‘Itwas, maybe. Now Tintagel looks decidedly glam rock.’
Trip tilted his head. ‘Very magical, actually. Mystical purple. King Arthur meetsStranger Things?’ He waited as Ivy wiped her brush. ‘Brooke mentioned you’re not going to the lights?’
‘I’m clearly very busy,’ she said, gesturing to the paint-splattered table. ‘And to be honest I can’t face a festive crowd. Not because I feel sorry for myself,’ she added hastily. ‘I’m just not feeling it. You go ahead. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure everything is locked up.’
Trip didn’t say anything for a second. Then he said, ‘You know, most people would rather face a festive crowd than spend the evening haunting their former elementary school like an art ghost.’
Ivy gave a reluctant laugh. ‘I told you, I’m just not in the mood,’ she said, rinsing her brush in a jar of cloudy water.
‘Okay,’ said Trip, ‘if you’re sure. Only, I’m walking down there now. You wouldn’t have to stay long,’ he added. ‘You could just … walk down with me. Show me the good stalls. Mock the singing if it makes you feel better. Tell me how cheesy the whole thing is. That kind of thing.’ He gestured around. ‘It seems a bit lonely here.’
Ivy’s mum’s words that first week home came back to her.You seem lonely.
Ivy looked down at the mess she’d made of the backdrop. It would still be there tomorrow. And, really, whatwasshe doing holed up in her old art room, listening to angry music and whingeing about how she hadn’t fulfilled her potential? Even Patti Smith would tell her she was overreacting.
‘Fine,’ she sighed, pulling off her paint-smeared hoodie and reaching for her coat. ‘But if there’s a dog counting down this year, I’m off.’
The Fox Bay Winter Wonderland had always been the most lavish of the town’s many traditions, but this year, with the influx of tourists, it seemed like the event committee had really outdone itself. The whole square was strung with fairy lights, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon from the mulled wine and frying dough.
The fair was also full of Ivy’s own personal ghosts. Everywhere she looked she saw people she knew from childhood, bundled up in scarves and woolly jumpers; there were plenty of strangers too, watching in wide-eyed wonder at the perfect, real-life postcard unfolding before them.
The choir was clustered beneath the bandstand, warbling their way through a slightly off-key version ofWinter Wonderland. A local author, who Ivy vaguely recognised as Serena Woods, who wrote racy romance novels, was signing books next to the mulled wine stall.She must be the year’s designated celebrity, Ivy thought.
Ivy could see Josie holding forth to Simi with lots of hand gestures, while Fin did a roaring trade in sausage rolls and hand-printed cards featuring The Mariner’s Arms with a wreathabove its door. Mr Hargreaves was talking animatedly to a group of tourists, handing out fliers for the show. Bethie and Liv twirled by the tree in their bobble hats, while Ivy’s mother darted here and there – handing out change, picking up a brush to help with the face painting, chatting to old friends. Ivy watched her mother affectionately. How had the ultimate joiner, who believed passionately in community spirit, who never let a local cause go unchampioned, managed to produce such a loner as herself?
‘This is incredible,’ Trip said, as he took it all in. ‘It’s like a Hallmark movie exploded. In the best way.’
‘You haven’t even tried my hot spiced cider yet,’ Lou said, holding out a tray of little white cups, steaming in the cold air. She looked a little tired, Ivy thought. She hoped all the tourists weren’t too much for her.
Trip took a cautious sip and then nodded appreciatively. ‘Dangerously good,’ he told Lou, who beamed. ‘Hey, look Ivy – it’s the guys.’
Ivy followed his gaze to where Mei, Erin and Callum were standing under a lamp post sipping hot chocolate and eating marshmallows, chatting and laughing. Ivy followed Trip over, wondering when her sort-of-schoolfriends had become ‘the guys’.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Ivy!’ cried Erin, enveloping her in a hug. She looked adorable, with fluffy earmuffs over her perfectly tousled hair. ‘Good to see you. We weren’t sure you were coming. You didn’t reply to any messages.’
‘I thought I might have to work,’ said Ivy. ‘But Trip persuaded me out.’
‘Did he now?’ said Erin, eyeing Trip speculatively.
‘She can’t spend all night in the school art room,’ said Trip. ‘Shall we look around?’
They wandered between stalls, Ivy pointing out the best fudge and home-made cake – all the old favourites she remembered, as well as some new entrepreneurs. It was busier than normal, but it was still full of the usual Fox Bay quirks. Some of these stalls had been here since she was little – the one with the misshapen knitted jumpers, the one that sold Norwegian-style felt gnomes, the one that – for some inexplicable reason – sold portraits of pop singers painted on rocks.
Ivy bought a rock with Taylor Swift’s face on it for Liv and continued on. Everywhere she walked, someone came over to say hello. Fin asked her to help him wrap a seascape he had sold, Simi asked how the coursework was going, Tamsin offered her a free tarot reading and Old Bill called her over to decide the gingerbread-house competition vote. Kids she had known as babies were running around, giddy with the party atmosphere.
In a quiet moment, as the others browsed, Ivy felt her fingers groping for her little sketchbook. She pulled it out and, in the lamplight, began dashing off small vignettes – Bethie with her face smeared with chocolate, the serious faces of the judges at the gingerbread-house contest. A dog looking longingly at a kebab rotating temptingly out of reach. Someone jostled her and spilled hot chocolate on one page, apologising profusely.Dabbing it off, Ivy couldn’t help smiling. The impressionists had left sand on their paintings after all; surely a hot chocolate stain conveyed the sticky, imperfect charm of the night.
As the evening wore on, Ivy found herself laughing more than she expected, relaxing in the comfort of knowing nearly everyone; the familiar glow of Fox Bay now gaudily dressed in tinsel. And Trip, as ever, was an excellently appreciative audience.
‘It’s just sonice,’ he kept repeating, looking around, dazed and happy. ‘I love it.’
