Marriage and Other Games (32 page)
At the end of the afternoon, Catkin drew the raffle.
Charlotte won. The prize was Christmas dinner. A huge free-range turkey. A sack each of potatoes and carrots. A net of Brussels sprouts. A handmade pudding. Two dozen mince pies. And a cake.
It was no use to her whatsoever. She was going up to London for Christmas Day, to see Gussie. And so she donated it to the children’s hospice, to a round of applause. They might not clap so enthusiastically, she thought wryly, if they knew who she really was, and what her husband had done. But it went a small way towards assuaging her still guilty conscience.
Eleven
A
ny idea that anyone in Withybrook had of going elsewhere for Christmas was put paid to on Christmas Eve morning, when snow started falling thick and fast out of the still skies, smothering the moors within minutes. It would be madness to attempt to go anywhere. The gritters never came this far. Most of the roads across the moor were blocked. Sheep were left to fend for themselves as farmers gave up the futile attempts to get their Land Rovers out with bales of extra hay. They just had to pray their flocks had the stamina to outlive the weather.
ny idea that anyone in Withybrook had of going elsewhere for Christmas was put paid to on Christmas Eve morning, when snow started falling thick and fast out of the still skies, smothering the moors within minutes. It would be madness to attempt to go anywhere. The gritters never came this far. Most of the roads across the moor were blocked. Sheep were left to fend for themselves as farmers gave up the futile attempts to get their Land Rovers out with bales of extra hay. They just had to pray their flocks had the stamina to outlive the weather.
The bells of the church rang out to its own flock for midnight mass. Charlotte could hear them, sitting in her little house, and suddenly felt the need for company, for the comfort of strangers. She had been planning to go up to Gussie’s for Christmas. It would be the first time she had returned to London since she had left, and she thought she felt strong enough to return and face her past. But now it was out of the question. She was stranded in Withybrook. Completely cut off. Maybe it was for the best, she thought miserably. Being in the bosom of Gussie’s exuberant, madcap family would probably only highlight the hopelessness of her own situation. And although Gussie had absolutely insisted they would love to have her, she would still feel like an outsider, the one who didn’t belong. And at least if she stayed here she wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into someone she knew and being snubbed.
She slipped on her coat and shut the front door. She’d attached a holly wreath to the knocker, woven through with white organza ribbon, in a nod to the festivities, but she hadn’t bothered with a tree. And she’d had no cards. After all, no one knew where she was. She wondered if any had arrived at their old house in Parsons Green. There might have been a few misguided souls left in the country who hadn’t heard the scandal, and had sent her and Ed season’s greetings. She imagined the new owners consigning them to the bin. The thought depressed her, and she tried to shake it out of her head as she made her way up the high street to the church. The snow crunched satisfyingly underfoot. It had remained crisp and hard and white, not yet reduced to the greying mush that London snow soon turned to. She turned in through the gate, and walked through the churchyard, surrounded by the proudly erect tombstones of former villagers, many bedecked with floral tributes left by relatives heedful of the time of year as Christmas pricked at their conscience.
Inside, the church was warm, glowing with candlelight, the organ gently wheezing out ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear’, while the congregation stamped the snow off their feet and compared notes on the weather. It was surprisingly full, given that only those within walking distance could make it, but the inclement conditions had brought out a sense of community in the inhabitants of Withybrook. They felt the need to come together and bemoan their lot.
Charlotte spotted Sebastian, lolling in a pew at the front, tucked up in a preposterous Afghan coat and a pair of mirrored sunglasses that gave him the air of a dissolute seventies rock-star. He patted the seat next to him when he saw her.
‘This is the family pew,’ he said. ‘But I’m the only bloody one here. Catkin’s stuck in London. She went to some terrible C-list party last night and couldn’t get down the M5 this morning. Or so she claims. She’d probably far rather spend Christmas with her showbiz friends than be stuck down here with me.’
Charlotte slid onto the pew next to him and stroked the arm of his coat admiringly.
‘Excuse the stench,’ he grinned. ‘It was my mother’s, when she went through her hippy phase. It stinks of patchouli. But it was the warmest thing I could find.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought this was your scene,’ Charlotte said.
‘You’re kidding?’ Sebastian pushed up his sunglasses and looked at her. ‘I love it. I’ve been to every midnight mass here since I was born. I’d never spend Christmas anywhere else.’
This was true. He loved the ritual. The way the service never changed, although the vicar might. The one thing he wished was that his parents were here. Really, thought Sebastian, he was a sentimental old fool, the polar opposite of the public’s perception of him. But this was where he belonged. He still couldn’t quite understand how his mother and father preferred to be in Barbados at this time of year, though he knew the weather suited them much more than the icy Exmoor drafts.
Charlotte spotted Fitch coming in the door, in a Russian hat and a greatcoat. She waved him over, and he slid into the pew next to her, reaching out to shake Sebastian’s hand. They’d chatted in the pub often enough on a Sunday night, and Fitch had fitted some granite work surfaces in Sebastian’s studio.
‘I never usually come to church,’ he whispered, ‘but I suddenly felt the urge for company.’
Charlotte touched his arm in a gesture of sympathy. She knew that Hayley and the girls had flown off to Dubai two days before, and that he must be missing them dreadfully.
Sebastian was craning his neck to see who else was in the church, and spotted Penny coming in, tentative and anxious. He waved her over too.
‘All God’s little lost lambs,’ he said happily, as she hurried over, grateful for a friendly face.
‘Bill was supposed to drive the kids back down from Bristol this afternoon,’ she explained. ‘He couldn’t even get across the Downs. Looks like I’m stuck on my own for Christmas.’
‘Join the club,’ said Sebastian. ‘We’ve all been abandoned by our nearest and dearest.’
As the organist struck up ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’, Sebastian gave a little smile. He might not have his family here, but his pew was filled with friends. And having Charlotte near him always lifted his heart. He thought of his studio, filled with her likeness, then turned to look at her profile. Had he done her justice? That little nose, sprinkled with freckles? Those frank, green eyes with the long lashes? She turned to look at him, slightly disconcerted by his attention, and he looked down at his hymn-book. He wasn’t a weirdo, a stalker, but he’d have to be careful not to behave like one.
After the service ended with a rousing ‘Hark the Herald Angels’, a couple of ladies from the village served mulled wine from a big punch bowl, and passed around mince pies. Charlotte, Sebastian, Penny and Fitch huddled together at the top of the aisle.
‘Well,’ said Fitch, ‘if we’re all on our own for Christmas Day, why don’t we get together? I’m happy to cook. You’re welcome to come to me for lunch.’
The four of them looked at each other. Nobody wanted to spend the day alone.
‘I’ve got crates and crates of booze,’ said Sebastian. ‘What do you want - Bollinger? Veuve?’
‘You can have my turkey,’ offered Penny. ‘It’s not huge, it was only going to be for me and the kids, but it’s going begging. And I’ve got a pudding.’
‘I’ve got some things I was going to take up to my friends,’ finished Charlotte. ‘Christmas crackers. And loads of nice cheese.’
‘Perfect,’ said Fitch. ‘Shall we say midday?’
He felt a huge sense of relief. He had been dreading a silent, lonely day in the house, waiting for the phone to ring. Now he had a project, and company, and something to think about when he went to bed later.
As Charlotte left the churchyard, she saw Nikita kissing a lanky young lad of about seventeen by the gate. She deduced it must be Brindley. Then she watched as three of Nikita’s little brothers and sisters swarmed round, and the five of them set off for home, mittened paws in gloved hands, pom-poms bobbing. Who was she to meddle with the status quo and tantalise Nikita with the promise of a better life? The girl looked quite happy as she was, bossing her siblings about, arm in arm with her boyfriend, greeting the rest of the villagers she’d grown up with. She was safe and secure in this environment. There would always be someone to watch out for her. That was the advantage of a tight community like Withybrook. They looked after their own. Not like people in London, who turned on you like a pack of dogs when something went wrong. She was lucky to be here, she decided.
The next morning, Charlotte slept in. She had left the heating on all night because of the snow, and was so warm and snug she didn’t wake until half past ten. After all, it was Christmas Day and she didn’t have to work, so her body had allowed her to relax. She walked over to the window and looked out. It was so silent, a gentle snow still falling, the flakes drifting towards the ground aimlessly. The snow in the road was pristine; no one had attempted to drive through it yet. It was ridiculously pretty; a Christmas-card cliché. It was hard to believe there was anyone else awake in Withybrook, but Charlotte presumed there must be by the tell-tale plumes of smoke. She imagined children emptying out stockings, tearing at wrapping paper, squeals of excitement, and felt the usual tug at her heart.
She hadn’t sent Ed any sort of Christmas message. And now she wondered if she should have done. He must be feeling dreadful, banged up with all the other inmates, institutional jollity forced upon them in the guise of soggy sprouts and paper hats. But then, she reminded herself, he was the reason she was stuck in exile. If it wasn’t for Fitch and his kindness, she’d be on her own with nothing but her radio for company.
She turned away from the window sharply. She wasn’t going to waste any more time feeling sympathy for Ed, especially when he had so adroitly turned the tables on her. Instead, she was going to enjoy the day with her new friends. She ran down to the kitchen, made herself a pot of tea, then packed up a basket with the things she had been going to take up to Gussie as an offering: local cheeses wrapped up in greaseproof paper, smoked trout, a huge pork pie and some jars of chutney, and a bag of handmade chocolates. She scooped up the clockwork snails she had bought as stocking fillers for Gussie’s four children and wrapped them in some white tissue paper, tying them with a length of velvet ribbon. They might provide a bit of light relief later in the afternoon.
Then she ran back upstairs to have a hot bath. She put on a short cream wool kilt and a cream cashmere sweater. She blow-dried her hair properly and realised it had grown quite a bit. She put her pale butter-scotch suede boots in the top of her basket of goodies and slipped on the wellingtons she had finally managed to acquire as they were a total necessity in Withybrook, then headed out of the door to pick her way carefully down the road among the snowflakes.
Catkin sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed, staring at her BlackBerry.
She had phoned every mainline train station, every cab firm, and had even, in a moment of madness, contemplated a helicopter, but the bottom line was there was no way out of London. And now, if she wasn’t going to spend the day alone in her flat with whatever was available in the corner shop, she was going to have to take Martin Galt up on his invitation.
He had been at yesterday’s party: Christmas drinks thrown by the producer of Hello, England, a typical media free-for-all with drink flowing like the Thames and the odd canapé which everyone ignored. She had panicked when she’d seen him, but he had been more than friendly. Obviously Sebastian’s appalling behaviour hadn’t prejudiced him against her.
‘Why haven’t you been in touch?’ he chided.
‘Why haven’t you?’ she countered bravely, then wished she hadn’t been so bold, because he was a man who loved a challenge and she’d seen a glint of more than just amusement in his eye.
‘If you’re still stuck here tomorrow,’ he’d murmured, ‘I’ve got a table at Claridge’s. There’s a few of us going. Inge’s up in Scotland - I’m not even going to try to get there.’
She’d nodded politely, certain at the time that by morning the snow would have melted and she would be on her way back down to Withybrook, but as she had made her way home, dizzy with too much cheap Sauvignon Blanc, more snow had fallen, sealing her fate.
Claridge’s it was.
She phoned Sebastian.
‘Happy Christmas, darling,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light. ‘I’m so sorry. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to get down.’
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