Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

Chapter Four

‘So you’ve had to make a list of all the places you went with Patrick?’ Bobbi said as she arranged a bouquet of pink roses and cream stocks. ‘I bet that didn’t make you feel very happy, did it?’

‘Not really, but what’s done is done.’ I tapped a pen on the order pad and stared out of the window at the drizzly rain. It was only just after lunchtime, but the cars driving past already had their headlights on. My mood was as gloomy as the weather.

‘I’m really rather proud I’m the only one who got to meet Patrick,’ Bobbi went on, wrapping a cream ribbon around the base of the stems.

‘Only briefly. You didn’t even speak to him, did you?’

‘I know, but I still got to see him. Your mum was so jealous, do you remember?’

I grunted, feeling guilty again. Patrick had caused a lot of resentment between me and my parents. ‘When was that, anyway? It was quite early on, wasn’t it? Back last winter?’

‘Yes, January, I think. It was really cold and rainy, and I’d already left to get my bus, but I’d forgotten my bag so I had to come back. He’d parked his big, posh car outside the shop and was holding an umbrella over your head as you locked up. I remember thinking it looked really romantic, like something off one of those old-fashioned romantic postcards.’

I scowled, not wanting to remember details like that. Better to remember him as a selfish bastard who never turned up or called than a romantic hero, protecting me from the rain. All the same, memories of that night bombarded my brain, with Patrick being at his most charming and funny. We’d eaten dinner at a country pub a few miles away and then he’d stayed at mine until Sunday afternoon. It was only one of a handful of times we’d spent the whole weekend together. Usually he’d have to leave the day after, or even the same night on one occasion. I pulled the piece of paper I’d noted down the dates on from my pocket to check it was on the list. The date was there but the details of where we’d been were missing. The trouble was, I’d spent the last few months trying to forget him, so wilfully remembering every detail and writing them down in chronological order was quite an effort. With a sigh, I noted down where we’d been and the fact he’d stayed all weekend.

‘If I tell Anthony I met him, do you think he’d take me for dinner, too?’ Bobbi asked.

I laughed. ‘You could give it a try. He’s a bit old for you, though.’

‘Oh yeah, he’s way too old for me. What is he, like, forty or something?’

‘He’s thirty-five, I think.’

‘He’s not too old for you then?’

‘No, but I’m part of the investigation, depressingly enough, so even if we wanted to be together, which we don’t,’ I lied, ‘we couldn’t anyway.’

Bobbi looked at me in surprise. ‘But you do want to be with him, don’t you?’

I thought about last night’s kiss and tried to remember my reasons for not wanting to be with him. I’d give myself a stern talking to last night, after he left. He’d already mislead to gain information about Patrick and I needed to protect myself. ‘Not since I found out he lied to me.’

‘He didn’t really lie, did he? He told you he was a detective.’

‘Yes, but he left out the bit about how he was investigating my ex-boyfriend and then proceeded to ask me questions about him.’

‘That’s quite clever, though, isn’t it? Because then he’d be able to gauge how you felt about the police and if you had any idea Patrick was up to no good.’

I shot her a look. ‘I don’t think it’s strictly ethical, though.’

‘Well, no, but I really like him,’ Bobbi said, cheerfully. ‘Not just because he’s handsome, but he has a nice aura about him.’

‘Aura? What are you talking about?’

‘You know, the feel you get off him. He’s just so pleasant and nicely spoken. He seems like a real gentleman.’ She leaned on the counter, and looked at me appraisingly. ‘You’d look good together.’

‘Oh yes? Why’s that then?’

‘You’re both so old-fashioned.’

‘Old-fashioned? This is retro, darling. Vintage. It’s not old-fashioned,’ I said, indicating my 1940s-style swing dress. It was one of my favourites, blue with cream birds. I’d worn it to try and cheer myself up. ‘And he’s not exactly old-fashioned. That suit’s probably handmade from some tailor in Savile Row.’

‘No, but he’s got an old-fashioned charm about him. He’s so polite and well-mannered. Not like most men you meet today. Most men are like “Get your tits out, darlin’”, but I bet he’d be like “I wonder if you might possibly consider showing me your breasts?”’

‘Bobbi!’ I squeaked, starting to laugh. ‘What kind of men do you know? Besides, it’s probably his work persona. I was thinking before that’s probably how he gets people to confess. Charms it out of them.’

‘I’m sure he likes you, though,’ Bobbi said. ‘You can tell by the way he looks at you. He’s got a right twinkle in his eye.’

‘He has not.’ I touched my lips where he’d kissed me last night. ‘Besides, you only saw him yesterday before he dragged me off to the police station, and he looked guilty and uncomfortable.’

‘He hardly dragged you off, and he couldn’t take his eyes off you.’

‘He looked shifty.’ I drew in a breath and let it out as a sigh. ‘I’m so fed-up today. I could scream. Why can’t I find a nice, uncomplicated man?’

‘You’ve been out with nice, uncomplicated men in the past,’ Bobbi pointed out. ‘But then you got bored.’

‘How about a nice, uncomplicated man who’s not boring then?’

‘Maybe Anthony is boring.’

‘Yes, I bet he is,’ I said savagely. ‘I bet he’s really bad in bed, too.’

‘Bound to be.’ Bobbi nodded in agreement and then gave me a sideways glance that said she didn’t believe a word of it. I didn’t either. My thoughts returned to the kiss in the bar and I sighed longingly before trying to conceal it by turning it into a yawn. I was really tired today. After Anthony had left last night, I’d spent the rest of the evening going through my calendar and trying to pinpoint the dates of the weekends I’d spent with Patrick. I’d found the tickets I’d mentioned at the police station in a hat box in my wardrobe among dried rose petals the colour of old blood. I’d tipped them out, disgusted with myself for keeping them, but kept the box because it had the address of a Parisian florist on the bottom. Patrick had sent me a few bouquets by mail from this particular florist so it was possible he held an account with them. If so, Anthony might be able to trace him through that. It was better than nothing, anyway.

I still wasn’t sure why I’d kept all this stuff after we’d broken up; it wasn’t what I usually did. But then Patrick was the first man I’d truly cared about. He seemed so sophisticated and mature compared with the other boys I’d been out with in the past. Patrick was different. He was older and already a successful businessman. I suppose I was a bit in awe of him. He had a big personality and took charge of every situation. He knew about food and wine and wore expensive suits and Rolex watches. Elena had gone mad at me when I’d told her this, ranting on about how superficial it all was and how I should be judging him on how much time he spent with me. I was so mad I didn’t speak to her for a week. Not that she noticed, of course; she was too loved-up with Daniel to realise. But I could never stay mad with her for long, and she’d forgiven me for being suspicious about Daniel when she first got together with him. It was hard to believe now that I’d ever thought he was using her. How wrong could I have been? Still, I was happy to be proven wrong where Elena was concerned.

I wasn’t so happy to be proven wrong about Patrick, though. But when I sat and thought about it, I couldn’t think of anything that meant he couldn’t be a criminal. The only thing I could think of was that I couldn’t possibly have dated a criminal. I didn’t do that sort of thing. I’d never been attracted to that whole ‘bad boy’ persona thing girls went for. I liked men who were good and smart and clean-living. Patrick had seemed to be all of those things.

The hat box and receipts were in the back of my car now, waiting for Anthony to stop by and collect them. He hadn’t said he would, but I thought it was likely. As a result, I spent the rest of the day watching out of the window for him and jumping every time a customer came into the shop. It made me cross that I wanted to see him again so badly, and it made me even crosser when closing time arrived and he hadn’t made an appearance at all. Bobbi went home and I locked up the shop before going out into the courtyard to drive home. The rain beat down on my head as I crossed to my car, soaking my hair and the shoulders of my coat. Anthony’s car glistened wetly next to mine, and I turned and glanced up at the doorway to his flat. The light was on in his hallway, so presumably he was in. I paused for a second, debating whether I should knock or not, before taking the hat box from the back of my car and going up the stone steps to his front door.

There was no answer at first and I was just starting to make my way back down the steps, thinking he wasn’t home, when the door opened and Anthony appeared, framed in the light of his hallway.

‘Oh! It’s you!’

He was wearing dark-rimmed glasses and his shirt collar was open. I stared at him for a moment too long before remembering what I was there to do. Trotting back up the steps, I thrust the box at him and wiped some rainwater out of my eyes.

‘I’ve made the list and there are some receipts and things in there that might help. Also, there’s an address for the florist he used at the bottom of this box and I’m wondering if he had an account. I doubt it will help but you never know.’

My heart was hammering as I turned away to walk back down the steps. Those glasses were just too cute.

‘Don’t go, Rachel. Come in.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘I don’t want to disturb you. I just thought you’d want that as soon as possible.’

‘You’re not disturbing me at all. Come in, I’ll make you a drink. You must be freezing standing out there, and you’re soaked through.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Slowly, I walked back up the steps and into the hall, feeling awkward and uncertain. Should I be here? I could do without feeding my desire for him. Maybe I should make an excuse and leave. But even as I was formulating a reason to go, Anthony was shutting the door behind me and telling me to go upstairs. The apartment was designed with its three bedrooms on the lower floor, and an open-plan living area with kitchen, dining area and living room upstairs. It smelt deliciously of beef casserole.

‘I was just about to have dinner,’ Anthony said, following me upstairs. ‘Your mum made me a casserole.’

‘My mum?’ I said, incredulously. ‘When did she make you a casserole?’

‘She called round before. I think it’s a house-warming gift. She even apologised for not making it before. She’s very sweet, isn’t she?’

‘I haven’t even seen her this week,’ I grumbled, a bit offended she hadn’t made some for me, too. I loved my mum’s casserole. ‘In fact, she hasn’t even phoned to tell me she’s back from holiday!’

‘She said she only got back last night and was in a mad rush. Please stay and eat it with me. I’ll never eat it all. She’s made me a huge pot.’ He went to the cooker and stirred the contents of the saucepan on the hob.

‘You can always freeze it,’ I suggested, even though I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and my stomach was rumbling. It smelt gorgeous.

‘There’ll still be loads left even if you have some. I don’t know if she thinks I need fattening up or something. I’ve only warmed half of it up, but there’s more than enough for both of us. Have you eaten already?’

‘No, I’ve just finished work.’

‘Well then, take off your coat and sit down.’ He nodded towards the round oak table on the other side of the room. A pile of papers was stacked to one side of an open laptop. ‘Excuse the mess. I’ll move that in a minute.’

Unbuttoning my coat, I moved towards the table as if in slow motion. I couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Anthony placed a plate of steaming casserole in front of me virtually the minute I sat down, and then whisked away his laptop and files.

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me. Your mum made it. What would you like to drink?’

‘Just water, thanks.’

Filling two glasses from the tap, Anthony carried them over before placing a plate of crusty bread in the centre of the table.

‘Mmm,’ he said, tucking into his dinner. ‘This is gorgeous.’

‘I know, I do love my mum’s stew.’

‘Can you cook like this?’

I shook my head. ‘Not really. So, when did she bring it round?’

‘About four o’clock this afternoon. I’d just got in from work.’

I pulled a face. ‘That was sneaky. She could have come and said hello to me. I wonder if I’ve upset her somehow?’

‘Your dad was waiting with his engine running. I think they had to be somewhere.’

‘Oh, okay.’ I still felt a little bit miffed but I supposed she had a lot to do and it was sweet of her to make Anthony some food. I knew she’d been disappointed he was moving in when she was away.

‘So, how was your day?’ Anthony asked.

‘Okay. How was yours?’

‘Frustrating. We keep drawing a blank in finding Patrick. We’ve got everyone else we think is involved, we just can’t find him.’ He blew on his forkful of food and looked at me curiously. His eyes looked bigger behind his glasses. ‘So, you definitely haven’t seen or heard from him since you told him it was over? Despite the fact he said he’d phone?’

I nodded, chewing my food slowly. ‘Definitely. Did you manage to get onto my phone?’

‘It’s gone to another department. Did he know anyone else in Chester? You said he was here on business? What business was that? Where was his meeting?’

‘He never said. It was a one-off, I think.’

Anthony frowned. ‘Did he ever mention anyone he knew in Chester? Or did you see him speak to anyone when you went out?’

‘No. Never.’

‘When you met him, you were waiting for someone else?’

I felt my cheeks redden. ‘Yes, I was just about to leave when Patrick came over.’

‘Who were you waiting for?’

‘Someone I met on an internet dating site.’ I swallowed uncomfortably. My humiliation was complete.

‘You sure it wasn’t Patrick all along? You can be anyone you want on those sites, can’t you?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Why would he do that? That’s just weird.’

‘Well, I suppose it means he gets to check you out before you know who he is, and then he looks like a hero for rescuing you when you’ve been let down.’

My jaw dropped. ‘Seriously? People do that?’

Anthony shrugged. ‘He’s not the most honest person in the world. I’d say he’s pretty much capable of anything. I mean, to leave you dangling, waiting for more phone calls after you dumped him for standing you up is pretty rotten. That was why you broke the phone, wasn’t it?’

I sighed heavily and carried on eating. Reaching for the bread, I ripped off a chunk and dipped it into the gravy. ‘I was angry, sure, but in my head it was over anyway and nothing he could say or do was going to change that. It wasn’t like I was hoping we’d repair the relationship. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to marry him any more. I felt like I didn’t even know him. He was so secretive. He never answered any questions I asked him with a straightforward reply. It was all “oh, you know how it is, baby, blah, blah, blah, change the subject”, but I didn’t know how it was at all. I didn’t have a clue. We never even talked about where we’d live once we were married. My life is here in Chester, but he’s based two hundred miles away in London. I was never going to be willing to move to London.’

Anthony glanced up in surprise. ‘Why not? People move all the time. Look at me. I’ve lived all over the place.’

‘Where have you lived then?’

He shrugged. ‘London, Essex, Hull, Tyneside, Sheffield, Birmingham. All over.’

‘Doesn’t it get lonely moving about all the time?’

‘No. It keeps life interesting. Seeing new things, meeting new people.’

I sighed. ‘I suppose I’m just a homebird, really.’

He chuckled. ‘We’re back to the fact that your shop’s called The Birdcage. Did you have any qualms about taking on your mum’s shop?’

‘Not at all. I always wanted to work there. I love it.’

Anthony’s brow was still creased in disbelief. He pushed his plate away, the food already gone. ‘So you left school and just went straight into working in the shop?’

‘No, I went to college and then did a business degree at uni.’

‘Which uni?’

‘Liverpool.’

He laughed and sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Ooh, don’t go too far now, will you? That must be almost a whole hour away. Did you come home every night for your tea?’

‘No!’ I said, feeling annoyed with him. ‘I lived in a shared house with some friends. I had a great time.’

‘And then when you graduated you came home and just worked in the shop?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re happy?’

‘Yes.’ My voice faltered and Anthony looked at me.

‘You’re not happy?’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes, I’m happy. It’s just that…’ I ran a tongue over my teeth, unsure of how to put into words what I’d been feeling lately. ‘Sometimes I feel like I peaked too soon. Does that make sense? I came out of university, moved back home, started working in the shop. Then my gran died and left me her house and Mum retired and now I run the shop. So I’m twenty-six now, and I have my own home and my own shop, pretty much, and it’s wonderful, but it feels like I came by it too easily. Does that make sense?’

Anthony stroked his chin and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘It’s a lot of responsibility.’

‘Yes, but it’s not the responsibility, really. It’s what comes next. People work for years to achieve what I’ve got, but I’ve got it already. That makes me sound like a spoilt brat, and I don’t mean to sound like that at all. I love it. Most of the time I don’t think like this at all and my head is full of building up the internet side of the business and attracting more clients and offering really different and edgy bouquets. I want the shop to feel like a little boutique that has a really unique signature style. And I’d love to hold more workshop tutorials; you know, floristry classes for beginners, that sort of thing. We had one the other week, just a small one, where Bobbi and I showed people how to make their own Christmas wreaths. It was lovely. We had wine and cheese and it was such a lovely evening. I’d love to do more things like that. But then sometimes, you know, late at night, when it’s dark and I’m lonely, I get to thinking that maybe my life will always be like this. Maybe I won’t meet anyone else ever again. Maybe I won’t get married and have kids. Maybe I’ll always live in my gran’s house and run my mum’s shop. Never growing, just living the same life I’ve always lived for the rest of my days. And that would be fine, really. It’s a nice life. I’d be lucky for that to happen. You know, steady and safe and drama-free. But there’s also the worry that maybe I’ll lose everything my mum’s ever worked to build up. What if I cock it up and the business folds?’ I took a deep breath and looked at him. He was watching me closely, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Either that or he was falling asleep. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been rambling on for ages. Ignore me. The simple answer to your question is life is good, but I worry a lot.’ I took a sip of water. ‘You must think I’m mad.’

‘Not at all. I think you’re very brave.’

‘Brave? Me?’ I laughed incredulously.

‘No, really. You’ve stepped up and taken on your family business, allowing your mum to retire. That’s an honourable thing to do.’ He cleared his throat and shifted position in his chair slightly. ‘I have a family thing. It’s not exactly a business… well, sort of… but when I came of age I ran so far and so fast from it my feet didn’t touch the ground. Taking on that… stuff… tying myself down… it terrified me. Still does now.’

‘Well, you have your own job now.’ I smiled encouragingly. ‘Your parents must be very proud of you.’

He laughed. ‘Not so you’d notice.’

I frowned slightly. ‘Do you still see them?’

‘It’s just my mum now. Dad died when I was fourteen.’

‘Oh no, I’m sorry. That must have been awful.’

‘Yes.’ He nodded slowly. ‘It was at Christmas time, too. I still don’t celebrate it.’

‘You don’t celebrate Christmas? Not at all?’

‘Nope. I hate it. Everything about it pisses me off. The lights, the trees, the decorations. The way people rush about all stressed-out, spending money they haven’t got. The wasted food. The drunk drivers on the roads. That’s how my dad died. Head-on collision with a drunk driver, asleep at the wheel.’

‘Oh no, that’s horrible! I’m so sorry.’ Covering my mouth with my hands, I looked at him, eyes wide with horror.

‘I expect you love Christmas, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded. ‘My mum and brother celebrate. It’s just me who’s the miserable bastard.’

‘Well, it’s understandable. How old’s your brother? Does he remember?’

‘Sort of. He was only nine when it happened. He’s married with two kids now.’

‘Will you see them on Christmas Day?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll send presents.’

‘What about your mum?’

‘She’ll go to my brother’s.’

‘So, you’re alone for Christmas?’

He shrugged. ‘Just another day.’

I gave him a sad smile. ‘Has your brother taken on this family business then?’

‘No. My mum still runs it. Do you want a coffee or anything?’ Leaning over, he picked up my empty plate and put it with his own before taking it to the kitchen.

‘Oh, err, yes, please. Unless you want me to go?’

‘No, you can take me through your timeline.’

‘Oh great. I might have known I wouldn’t escape that easily.’

‘Of course not.’ He chuckled as he placed a coffee pod into the coffee machine on the side and waited while it filled the mug below. Crossing to the breakfast bar, I took the lid off the hat box I’d brought and took out the list.

‘Go and sit on the sofa.’ Anthony pointed towards the big, oyster-coloured squashy sofa in the living-room area.

‘I love this sofa,’ I said, sinking into its soft depths. It was made from a suede material that my dad said was completely impractical for a rental property. He had a point, but I’d managed to convince him by telling him he needed nice furniture to attract the right type of tenant. ‘I helped choose it.’

‘You did?’ Anthony sounded surprised. ‘The colour’s quite muted for you, isn’t it?’

I laughed. ‘I chose the paint for the walls, too.’

He looked at the pastel green in surprise. ‘Thank God they’re not pink!’

‘I was under strict instructions from my dad. Thank you,’ I said, accepting the coffee he passed to me. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m a bit fed-up of all the pink myself. Maybe I’ll redecorate at some point.’

Anthony sat down on the sofa next to me and pulled the coffee table nearer so we could put our drinks down. Placing my coffee on the nearest leather coaster, I smoothed out my list and offered it to Anthony.

‘It’s not very interesting. I doubt it will lead anywhere.’

Anthony’s eyes scanned the list. Pressing his lips together, he frowned. ‘Hmm.’

‘It’s funny really, looking at that list. It shows how little time we actually spent together.’

‘Hmm,’ Anthony repeated.

‘I must have been mad to agree to marry him.’

‘Yep.’ Anthony laughed.

I looked at him, surprised, and he shrugged. ‘Well, you know… it doesn’t look good on paper, does it?’

There wasn’t much I could say to that really. I’d pointed it out, after all, and it really didn’t look good at all. But then that list didn’t take into account the emotion of those meetings. The laughter and affection we’d shared and the sheer joy of seeing him and spending time with him. Maybe the rarity of our meetings had made them even more exciting. All that longing to see him just fed the passion. Of course, in the early days there had been phone calls and gifts to keep me interested between visits. It was when the phone calls stopped and his visits got rarer that the excitement and passion fizzled out, replaced instead by resentment and sadness.