Page 36
Twelve
Manchester, four weeks later
Squeezing through the crush of Albert Square, a passing rain shower did little to dampen Alex’s Yuletide cheer. Three days before December 25, the heart of the annual Manchester Christmas Markets was aflutter, its wooden chalet-lined streets playing host to perusing crowds and a rainbow of bobbing umbrellas. The sweet smell of roasted chestnuts competed on the dank breeze with smoky grilled bratwurst, tickling Alex’s nose as she searched for her last gift—something special for her grandmother, Joan.
Alex checked her phone: only twenty minutes! Soon Mark would be in her arms again, fresh from four weeks of rehearsals and principle photography on his Irish movie. Her National tote bulged with chocolate truffles and wine—sweet treats to share later.
Stopping at a chalet specializing in handcrafted glass jewellery, she closed her umbrella, shaking away any raindrops hitching a ride. There had to be something there Joan would adore. Bangles, nope. Earrings, no—she had said, “they fly around too much while riding my motorbike.”
The Sherlock theme erupted from the pocket of her parka, battling the stall’s holiday music.
“Hey, Lucy. What’s up?”
“Fucking Simon, that’s what. Next time I offer to help cook Christmas lunch, give me a smack to the head.”
Alex rolled her eyes. “What’s he done now?”
“He just texted a recipe and a shopping list. Bloody vegans.”
“Don’t tell me…you’re making a nut roast. How Gavin & Stacey.”
“I wish. No. Curried lentil, parsnip, and apple soup.”
“Ew, puke.”
“Yup, that’s what it looks like in the photo.”
Alex shifted backwards, allowing the stall owner to parlez with a frantic Parisian tourist. “Try not to think of us on Christmas morning, lounging by the fire enjoying Helen’s bacon baps.”
“Yeah, rub it in. I’d kill for bacon Christmas morning. So, where are you, anyway? Sounds like the UN.”
“The markets.” Alex smiled at the charm bracelets tinkling in the breeze.
“Still shopping? Did you rob a bank?”
“Very funny. I’m using panto money, and I pawned a few things; I wasn’t wearing the diamond earrings Mom gave me for grad, so—”
“You what? That’s it, I’m returning the gift you gave me and giving you the money.”
“You will not—”
“Fuck. My boss is back…chat later?”
“Sure, but don’t panic if it goes to voicemail.”
“I hope it goes to voicemail if you and Mark are shagging.”
“I would never answer mid-shag. I’m not Freddie!”
Lucy squealed.
“Love ya, babe.” Alex disconnected the call and bounced in her ankle boots.
The Sherlock theme rang out again: Mark’s mum.
“Niamh, Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, love. We’re all checked in, ready for Malta. I tried Mark but got his voicemail—again.”
