Page 27 of The Cotswolds Christmas Fair

Dan nodded, stepping over to her and kissing her cheek. ‘Of course,’ he said softly. ‘I think that’s a great plan. Don’t you, Jennie?’

Jen saw Julia cringe a little as he used the name she hated.

She was feeling distinctly unhappy about the plan, her brief moment of joy at being with the children snuffed out by the awkwardness of the situation. She didn’t know how she’d managed to get herself trapped with her sister and brother-in-law, the very last people she wanted to be spending time with, for who knew how long.

The trains had better be running again soon. She would walk back home if she had to.

Julia blinked at her, and picked at her nail; a nervous habit Jen remembered from years ago. Amy regarded her with grave eyes, and George trotted over, holding out a slightly grimy blankie for her inspection.

‘A great plan,’ she said, gritting her teeth and trying to smile, stroking George’s sweet, soft face and admiring his blankie.

Amy beamed. ‘And she’s never going to leave!’ she said.

Dan didn’t quite manage to keep the horror out of his expression.

Chapter Twelve

The snow fell all night.

Jen managed to sleep through the sounds of the children rising, the hushing of adults and the creaks of floorboards under tiny feet, just about. She stirred, but the bed was comfy and the room cosy, with twinkle lights glowing in the fireplace, and she easily fell back into slumber.

When at last she rose, it was to find a message on her phone from an unknown number. Her heart leapt; Train Guy.

Hey, it read. It’s Anthony from the bar. Did you make it back home?

There were advantages to being trapped in Babblebrook after all.

Blearily, she made her way downstairs. The kitchen, a welcoming room with children’s drawings stuck on the fridge, festive garlands draped along the top of the cupboards and a little Christmas tree sitting on the table, was a hive of activity. The children sat eating breakfast, Amy in her school uniform and George in a fluffy onesie, sitting in his highchair, smearing pieces of soggy toast over himself and anything within arm’s reach. Julia leaned against the side, sipping from a giant mug, and Dan, still in pyjamas and sporting a five o’clock shadow, sat next to Amy, listening as she listed all the reasons why Father Christmas should give her the presents she wanted.

‘Coffee?’ Jen croaked, her head throbbing at the ambush of noise and busyness so early in the morning. She wasn’t used to this.

Julia nodded and poured coffee from the cafetière into a mug with a wobbly Rudolph painted on it. Jen took it gratefully, helping herself to milk and flopping down at the table, as far away from Dan as possible. He ignored her, remaining steadfastly focused on his daughter. Which Jen considered rude, but was also glad of; the last thing she needed was an awkward interaction with him first thing in the morning.

Amy broke off her stream of talking and turned her attention to Jen. ‘That’s my cup,’ she said, after a brief pause. ‘I drawed it. But you actually can use it today.’

‘Thank you,’ Jen said. ‘It’s lovely, you did a great job.’

Amy had resumed her list. ‘And remember, Daddy, when I bringed you your slipper when you’d lost it and you said I was a Very Helpful Girl because you had a cold one foot, and I know Father Christmas was watching then, wasn’t he? So I think definitely I’m on the good list, probably.’

‘I remember,’ he said, smiling and ruffling her hair. ‘And I’m sure you are.’

Satisfied at last, Amy shifted focus to her bowl of Cheerios, shovelling spoonful after spoonful into her mouth, milk trickling down her chin.

Jen’s phone sat awkwardly in her PJs pocket, and she was intensely aware of it. She was desperate to reply to Anthony, to let him know that she was still in the area and keen to see him.

Well . . . Perhaps she shouldn’t let him know she was keen.

She never expected much from the men she met – a bit of fun for a few weeks, or even months; to enjoy spending time together for a while. They would go for meals and drinks, to the cinema, to clubs and gigs, perhaps travel. She never let them meet her family, or her friends. Never let them get close enough to hurt her and, when she felt the first twinge of dissatisfaction from them, or the first hint that they wanted to move things to a more serious place, she would politely break things off. By text, usually.

Because she knew all too well what happened when you trusted someone with your heart, and then things didn’t work out.

At this point, she would usually be playing things pretty cool. She’d let him chase, let him feel uncertain, and that was good, because she was never certain. Never certain that he would be worth the effort, or worth the risk.

But not this time.

She’d never felt this instant connection before. Never wanted to talk to the man she was dating about things that actually mattered, never wanted to find out who he truly was. This time, she wanted to know more about Anthony, to find out whether he had siblings and what his favourite film was and whether he got on with his parents and what he was writing in that notebook of his, sitting in the bar, drinking whisky.

And even more terrifying than this, she wanted to share those things about herself. Wanted to tell him that she had a sister she barely spoke to but was now trapped with, and a gorgeous niece and nephew she wished she knew better. She wanted to tell him that she loved black-and-white films and indie music and talked to her mum every Thursday evening and that she wanted cats and the time to read all the books that piled up on every surface of her room. She wanted him to tell her she was a free spirit, and to perhaps, just for a moment, see herself as someone who chose not to follow the rules, and not as someone who couldn’t make anything last.