I gave her a hug before picking up my misfit angel. On my way back out through the shop I rummaged under the counter for a bag to put her in, but all I could find was enormous cellophane sheets and paper bags. I wedged her in my pocket instead and tucked her shocked face under my elbow to protect her from the rain as I left.
The bookshop was right at the opposite end of the high street. I liked it because – obviously – it was full of books but also, vitally, it was run by a man who’d only moved to the village a couple of years ago and therefore did not know me or feel the need to console/advise me about my life.
Of course, between the florist and the bookshop was a landmine territory of people whodidknow me. Despite the rain, there were plenty of villagers making last-minute preparations for the fayre: fixing up strings of coloured lights and Santa signs pointing out the direction of the grotto, or marking out the spaces for the stalls and the stage. I suddenly wondered why I’d thought it was a good idea to come down to the village in the first place – although I knew the answer to that: I’d wanted to get out of the hotel before I went stir-crazy.
Living and working in the same place had never been a problem when I’d been a music tutor from Peter’s flat in North London. But then I had only dealt with one pupil at a time, according to my own schedule. Not a horde of guests, changing every three to seven days – that took some getting used to again. I couldn’t argue with one of Peter’s parting shots: I’d had it easy with him supporting me financially. Tutors don’t earn a lot – not if they want to keep their rates competitive – and boy, did henevermiss an opportunity to point that out to me towards the end. I’d given up my music tutoring the last year we were together, because I was so tired of his jibes, and I’d taken a job as a sales assistant in a music store instead, to ensure a steady income.
It’d been such a relief not to go back to that store though. It was uninspiring to say the least. I was going to have to think hard about what kind of reliable job with a secure income Icoulddeal with, when I started looking after Christmas.
I stayed on Lydia’s doorstep for a moment as the single-decker community bus swung by me, close enough that I could’ve reached a hand out to write a rude word on its window. Not that I would do that sort of thing. It was the village’s only method of public transport. It stopped at a small island in the centre of the ‘high street’, which was furnished with a memorial cross, a bench, two bricked-in flowers beds and the sorriest-looking Christmas tree I’d ever seen. Its branches were slicked down and it was almost bent in half from the gusts of wind and the rain. Something told me it wasn’t going to make it to the fayre tomorrow night without some reconstructive surgery from the event planners.
With that in mind, I decided to risk walking down the longer stretch of shops on the left side of the road, skirting around the memorial island. I didn’t fancy another altercation with a precarious Christmas tree.
I managed to make it past Victor’s pub and the gallery and was starting to think I might arrive at my destination un-accosted, when two of my oldest friends, Rachel and Ben, stepped out of the tea room on the corner. He fussed over her, untucking her hair from her collar, as she smiled dotingly up at him. I stopped and spun towards the building beside me, hoping to feign interest in a shop window and instead finding a brick wall.
A sneaky glance out the corner of my eye revealed Ben steering Rachel by the shoulders in my direction, her huge belly out before her, like a cannon being lined up on me.
I’d gone to secondary school with Rachel and Ben – they were nice people – but even back then the level of their kissy-wissy-touchy-feely love had the unfortunate side effect of making you feel like the most single person on the planet – even when youwerein a relationship. On top of the engagement announcement from Lisa and Geri, I wasn’t sure I could face the reminder of my relatively new relationship status.
I grabbed one of the fliers about the festival that was pinned to the nearest telephone pole and held it up over my face as I marched forwards and ducked down the alleyway between the grocer’s and the tea room they were outside of.
The alleyway was narrow and cobbled. It headed steeply uphill towards the green and the primary school, but I kept up my swift pace, knowing that even if they saw me and were moving in the same direction, there was no way eight-months-pregnant Rachel would be able to catch up. I double-checked with a glance behind me just as I stepped out of the alleyway: all clear. I was home and—
CRASH.
Chapter Two
As I stepped out onto the street I body-slammed straight into a man walking across the mouth of the alleyway. We bounced apart, ricocheting backwards from the force. His arms began to flail as the massive rucksack on his back threatened to topple him over. I grabbed the strap across his chest in an effort to stop him from landing on the ground like a tortoise, hauling him close.
I took a big gulp of air and a strong, pleasant scent wafted over me, like the rain had released special chemicals from his skin, the same way it did from the earth: leather, eucalyptus and man. He was tall, so I was still just staring at his chin as I got my bearings again when he spoke, short and sharp.
‘Are you okay?’
I nodded.
‘Good. D’you think you could let go of me then?’
I flushed and unwound my fingers from the canvas strap of his backpack, taking a few hurried steps back. He pushed his Buddy-Holly-style glasses back up his nose with his knuckle and frowned at me like I was some kind of idiot.
I think I might’ve gone into shock because this was the closest I’d come to a man’s body in two months. Longer actually, what with all those nights Peter had been away on ‘business trips’. And when he had been home there’d been enough acreage of bed sheets between us each night to sell off as a smallholding. My body was probably starved for any kind of physical contact: I mean, this guy I’d crashed into looked like he’d been spun around in a washing machine a few times and taken out again too soon; soaked through, dishevelled and cross.
Cross. Atme.
‘That’s a strange way of saying thank you.’ I folded my arms over my chest and fixed him with a glare.
‘Why would I say thank you?’ He threw a quick raised eyebrow in my direction and then began scouring the pavement in our immediate vicinity.
‘Because I just saved you from toppling over like a ninepin.’
‘I wouldn’t have lost my balance if you’d been looking where you were going.’ He found what he was searching for – his phone – and scooped it up.
‘Ditto. You obviously had your head buried in your phone.’ I injected the necessary amount of derision into my tone to cover up the fact that I was constantly walking around looking at my phone too. Everyone was these days. But he didn’t even bother to defend himself on that charge; he was too busy examining his screen to see if it was cracked.
I gave an annoyed little harrumph and jammed my hands in my pockets, ready to start walking home again. Our drama was obviously over. Then I realised I shouldn’t have beenableto get my hand in my left pocket. The angel. Where was she?
A range of colourful swear words erupted from my lips as I spun around on the spot and tried to find her. She must’ve fallen out of my pocket when we knocked into each other.
There.Her little white hand signalled to me in distress, the rest of her submerged in a great dirty puddle that had formed in a crack between the pavement and the cobbles of the alleyway.
