One Christmas Morning, One Summer’s Afternoon: 2 short stories

Sensing her mistress’s unhappiness, Peggy shuffled along the sofa and inserted her wrinkled, piglike face under Laura’s arm. Laura stroked her smooth fur gratefully. ‘Looks like it’ll just be you and me for Christmas, old girl.’ Was it weird to put up Christmas decorations that only you and your dog would see? ‘Perhaps we’ll do Christmas lunch at The Fox,’ Laura mused out loud. ‘That’s a bit less tragic than turkey for one, don’t you think?’

The phone made both Laura and Peggy jump. After the miscarriage and her months of deep depression, Laura’s London friends had all stopped calling. A ringing phone these days meant her mother, or Harry Hotham calling about the play, or just occasionally—

‘It’s Daniel.’

Just the sound of his voice was like a shot of pure happiness in the arm.

‘Look I’m about to go into this school thing. But I wanted to call and say I really miss you. I’m gutted about this weekend, I really am.’

‘Me too,’ said Laura, exhaling with relief. The seed that Gabe had planted was already beginning to wither.

‘And I was wondering – do say if you think this is too forward, or you’re not ready – but I thought maybe the two of us should spend Christmas together.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Daniel Smart walked into Harrods with a spring in his step.

This was going to be a great Christmas.

The last year had been an utter nightmare from beginning to end. The divorce, the bitter end of his affair with Lenka, not to mention the immense stress of producing his most recent play had all weighed heavily. But, quite unexpectedly, fate had brought Laura Tiverton back into his life at exactly the opportune moment. And now here he was, picking up a new dinner jacket to wear to the Furlings Hunt Ball of all things, now only a week away. He felt as excited as a schoolboy about to break up for the holidays. So much rested on this trip to Fittlescombe, but Daniel was ready for the challenge.

Few places on earth were as festive and Christmassy as Fittlescombe village, but Harrods food hall was one of them. As he stepped inside, Daniel’s senses were immediately assaulted by the scents, sights and sounds of the season. Wafts of cinnamon and nutmeg drifted over from the bakery, where smiling chefs were cheerfully sloshing brandy into bowls of Christmas pudding mixture. At the confectionary counter, mountains of marzipan glistened in every shape and colour, and sugar mice sported Christmassy red bows, piped in icing around their necks. There were hams and turkeys and huge bowls of glistening cranberry jelly. There were mince pies and candy canes, and vats of piping-hot mulled wine served in bone-china mugs decorated with holly and ivy. Carols rang out through the loudspeakers and everybody, it seemed to Daniel, was smiling.

Picking up a box of German sugarplums for Laura, because the packaging was so exquisite, and a single warm mince pie for himself, Daniel hopped on the escalator up to menswear. Given the pressures on his finances right now, he’d perhaps been hasty in splashing out quite so much for a new, bespoke dinner jacket. But Furlings Hunt Ball was the hottest ticket in England this Christmas, and was bound to be teeming with influential people: writers, producers, actors, investors. Telling himself it was a work expense and tax-deductible, Daniel mentally reduced the price by 40 per cent and pushed the image of his accountant’s disapproving face out of his mind.

‘I’m here about the jacket. Is it ready?’

The gay assistant looked wounded. ‘Of course it’s ready, sir. We are never late on our bespoke orders. If you’d like to follow me.’

He led Daniel into a changing room. The jacket, in pure wool and immaculately cut, was duly produced and lovingly slipped onto Daniel’s back. While the assistant fussed around him, pulling at the hem and straightening the cuffs, Daniel admired his reflection in the mirror. The deep, true black of the jacket contrasted marvellously with his tanned skin and dark-green eyes, and clever tailoring at the waist accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. It had cost an arm and a leg, but the confidence it gave him was priceless.

‘Is sir satisfied? We’re quite happy to make further changes if sir feels the sleeves are too long or the stitching at the lapel is a little too fine.’

‘It’s perfect,’ said Daniel.

* * *

‘It’s perfect, Mrs Worsley, absolutely perfect. You’ve done a marvellous job.’

Tatiana Flint-Hamilton dropped her suitcases in the grand marble hallway at Furlings and beamed at the housekeeper. Tati had known Mrs Worsley since childhood and was well aware of the importance of keeping the old battleaxe sweet. With Mrs Worsley on her side, she had a chance of deflecting at least some of her father’s anger. But, with the two of them ranged against her, this unexpected trip home was bound to be a disaster.

‘You said you weren’t coming.’ The housekeeper’s face was set like flint. Tati could have struck a match off it to light her much-needed cigarette. ‘We rearranged the entire seating plan.’

‘I know. The thing is, I was so cross with Daddy about the Bertie thing, I sort of lashed out.’

‘Bertie?’ Mrs Worsley wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘You mean the duke? The married man you took off with, breaking your poor father’s heart?’

‘Yes, but we’re not together any more.’ Tati cocked her head to one side and pulled her most adorable mea culpa face. It never failed to work with men, but Mrs Worsley was unmoved.

‘You upset Mr Flint-Hamilton no end, you know. First the affair, and then writing to him like that, saying you wouldn’t bother coming home. You know how much this ball means to him.’

‘Which is exactly why I’m here,’ said Tati. ‘To put things right.’ Her fixed smile was starting to give her jaw-ache. God, Mrs Worsley was a dragon, as humourless as a Glasgow drunk after the whisky’s run out. ‘Where is Daddy, by the way?’

‘Out,’ the housekeeper said coldly.

‘In that case I’ll have a bath and a nap,’ said Tati, giving up on the charm offensive. It clearly wasn’t working, so what was the point? ‘Ask Jenny to bring my bags up and unpack them for me, would you? And please don’t wake me. I’ll be down when I’m ready.’

Mrs Worsley watched Mr Flint-Hamilton’s wayward daughter as she skipped upstairs, as gloriously unaccountable as any spoiled child. With her flowing, honey-blonde hair, high cheekbones and endlessly long legs, Tati had the wild beauty of a racehorse, and the stubborn temperament of a mule. She could be charming when she wanted something, and generous, and on occasion Mrs Worsley had known her to be capable of great kindness. But she was also vain, insecure and deeply, deeply selfish, swanning through life with all the entitlement of the very rich and very beautiful. Most of all, she entirely lacked any sense of duty. As duty was her father’s lifeblood, this naturally made for strained relations between the two of them.

Rory Flint-Hamilton had hidden his feelings when he received Tati’s angry letter informing him that she would boycott this year’s ball. But Mrs Worsley could see how saddened and embarrassed he was, mortified by the prospect of having to explain his daughter’s absence to so many important guests.

Now, she’d ditched the royal playboy, and apparently divested herself of the unsuitable footballer too. With no new plaything to distract her, she’d decided to show up at the last minute and grace Furlings with her attendance after all.

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