Page 68 of Not Just for Christmas

Chapter 29

‘Thirty minutes to turn from farmer to someone fit for a restaurant,’ I muttered, kicking off my boots.

He grinned. ‘Better get started. You’re on the clock.’

‘Very funny.’ I peeled off my muddy layers, nerves prickling. ‘This is a mistake. What am I supposed to talk about? I haven’t seen them in two years.’

He tossed my coat onto a hook and tidied up my boots. ‘Think about it in the shower. You’re going.’

A crash echoed from the front room.

‘That’s not the piano tuner, is it?’ I said, already dashing out into the hall.

He shook his head. ‘Gone hours ago. That’s your son.’

Dylan had wasted no time in sourcing someone to come and get the piano into shape. A man had driven all the way from Surrey and had been here by eight this morning.

The two of us peered into the front room. Sam was at the piano stool, banging merrily on the keys. Gus’s chin was on his lap. I sneaked out my phone and took a picture.

‘So cute,’ I whispered to Dylan. ‘And enthusiastic if not tuneful.’

‘Just you wait,’ Dylan grinned. ‘He’s asked me to teach him. By the time I leave, he’ll be amazing.’

‘By the time you leave, I’ll have invested in some noise-cancelling headphones.’

A pang hit me. Dylan had only been here a matter of days, but the two of them had formed a far stronger bond than I could have imagined. It was lovely to see.

‘You’re down to twenty-five minutes,’ he reminded me.

‘Yikes.’ I darted upstairs. ‘I’d better start praying for a miracle.’

I showered, shaved my legs, applied make-up and emerged in a towel, almost colliding with Dylan on the landing.

He did a double take. ‘Didn’t recognise you without the mud.’

‘Haha,’ I squeezed past him, self-conscious. ‘Do I still smell of farmyard? That’s the big question.’

Before he had a chance to reply his phone began to ring. ‘It’s my agent. Mind it I take it?’

‘Go ahead.’ I rifled through my wardrobe, searching for something that wasn’t a fleece or jogging bottoms. How had my life become so small? Once upon a time I’d be the first one to suggest a night out, or a get-together here at the farm. And invariably I’d be the last one still up after everyone had gone to bed. I flicked through shirts and dresses that felt as if they belonged to another woman, another life.

I wanted her back; I wanted my joie de vivre back. It was time to start living again.

The thought hit me like a thump to my chest as I pulled out a pair of black velvet trousers and two smart tops.

Dylan’s voice drifted over. ‘Hey, Will, I’m putting you on speaker, what’s up?’

Will boomed out from Dylan’s phone. ‘Just left the Phoenix Records Christmas party. You missed one helluva night.’

Dylan caught my eye and smirked. ‘My night was pretty cool too. First, Santa arrived by boat, then I helped a mom give birth to twins.’

I held up the two tops: emerald silk and red satin. ‘Which one?’ I whispered.

He pointed to the green one. ‘Matches your eyes.’

I slipped back into the bathroom to get dressed, secretly pleased with the compliment. My usual method of choosing clothing was to check whether something was warm enough or clean; if it ticked both boxes, even better.

‘I talked to Karl about that after the LA gig,’ I heard Dylan protest gruffly. ‘And no, I didn’t come to England because I split from Amelia. I’m here because I was invited to spend the holidays with the people I love.’