Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm

My phone beeps again.

LEAH! Will you answer a flipping text, please? I’m starting to get so worried that I broke out the capital letters. Send me a picture of the place or something! Is the dwelling better than we expected?

I hit reply and my fingers hover over the empty text box. It’s great, I type and then delete it. I can’t lie to her but how can I admit that I’ve made such a huge mistake? I know she’ll try to help. I know she’ll tell me to come back to London and sleep on her sofa, and she’ll offer to help me find another job and probably get someone from the law firm to draft a letter to Scottish Pine Properties demanding my money returned because the pictures were inaccurate, and that would be great, but how much of a failure can one person be? I made this mistake, I should be the one to fix it.

More tears blur my eyes as I sit there staring at the screen of my phone, hating myself because I don’t know what to say to my best friend. Chelsea and I text each other all day, even when we’re in work and aren’t supposed to have our phones on us. Thinking of something to say to her has never been a problem before.

I push the phone onto the dashboard and cry harder. I know she’s going to ring in a minute because I haven’t answered, but I’m crying so much that I can’t even see the screen to type now.

I feel more alone than I’ve ever felt before. I just want my mum. What would she tell me to do? What would she and Dad do in this situation? I already know the answer. Mum would’ve found a mop and bucket and started cleaning the house and Dad would’ve gone out for a good look around to assess how bad things actually were before panicking about it. Mum would’ve whipped out a gigantic bar of chocolate and somehow produced a cup of tea, and promised that things would look better in the morning.

I don’t know how long I sit there having a good cry. I miss them, and I don’t allow myself to miss them very often, because I inevitably end up as a snot-drenched wreck, but none of this would’ve happened without their accident, their money, and their love of Christmas and the real Christmas tree that stood proudly in front of our living room window every December. I let the grief consume me in a way I haven’t for many months now. In front of Chelsea and Lewis, Steve, work colleagues, and acquaintances who were friends once but have barely spoken to me for the past two years because they don’t know what to say, I pretend I’m fine. The last time I sobbed in my own flat, a neighbour banged on the door and yelled at me to keep it down.

I look up at a glimpse of light coming towards me. It must be headlights on the road – the first car that’s passed since the estate agent zoomed off. It’s moving slowly for a car though, and as I blink tears away, I see it’s only one beam of light, not two, and it’s on the grassy verge, not the road.

Just a dog walker, I tell myself. Mountain lions wouldn’t carry torches so it’s nothing to worry about.

Until whoever it is stops at the edge of my driveway and the beam of the torch settles on the house, and then slides across the gravel to point directly at the car. Or, more specifically, my red, wet, snotty face in the car, and the owner of the torch moves towards me.

I recognise the faded jeans and the fall of dark hair across shoulders.

Oh, come on. It’s like he’s got radar to detect the worst possible moment and time his arrival accordingly. I’ve still got tears streaming down my face and I’ve been crying so hard that I can barely catch my hitching breath. I cannot deal with him right now.

If I stay still, maybe he won’t see me, but I know it’s hoping for too much. It’s dark and the light is on inside the car – I’m literally a flame to a petulant moth. I sink down in the seat and pull the blanket up further over my face so I can barely see out, but it’s no good, I can feel the beam of torchlight on me, coming closer.

I do the sensible, adult thing and stare stubbornly at the house, pretending I haven’t seen him. Maybe he’ll get the hint and go away? I stare resolutely ahead, even though I can sense the shadow outside the car window and see the beam of light disappear as he turns the torch off.

It still makes me jump when he knocks on the window.

Bugger. I sniff hard and turn away to swipe my hands over my face, trying to brush away the evidence. Maybe it’s dark enough that he won’t notice the red puffiness?

I paste a smile on my face and turn back to roll down the window just as he’s about to knock on it again.

‘Noel,’ I say, my voice thick, the fake smile pulling painfully on the skin of my lips.

‘What are you doing out here?’ His voice has that same half-amused half-sarcastic tone that he had earlier. He rests his arm along the open window and his head appears in the gap, but he suddenly looks taken aback and his voice turns serious. ‘Are you crying?’

Well, one point for observation, I suppose.

‘No.’ I don’t know why I’m bothering to deny it; if the tears streaming down my face don’t give it away then the snot definitely will.

‘What’s wrong?’

I should turn around and snap something at him, but his voice is soft and those two simple words sound so caring and genuine. No one has asked me that in months. I struggle to keep my emotions hidden in public, and when I hang out with Chels, if I slip up and look upset for a moment, she gives me a hug but she doesn’t ask me what’s wrong because it’s obvious.

I go to say ‘nothing’, but it comes out as noth-urrth as another sob gurgles out of my throat and more tears fill my eyes and spill over. God, why am I like this? Why can’t I even hold it together in front of this rude man? He’s going to love this, isn’t he? He already thinks I’m stupid, and now he finds me crying in the car. He’ll have a field day with this. He’ll probably go and tell all his mates about this silly girl who thought she could run a Christmas tree farm and make sure the whole town has a good laugh about it.

I turn away again and bury my face in the blanket. I can’t even pretend not to be crying now. Maybe allergies?

My nose is running and I know there’s a pack of tissues in the glovebox, but the passenger seat is so jam-packed that I can’t open it fully. As I’m trying to snake my hand in the inch-wide gap and feel around for them, a packet appears in front of my face.

I take them from his hand and wrestle the packet open with wet fingers. They’re soft and thick and large, and I pluck one out and hide my whole face in it. If I can’t see him then he can’t see me either, so maybe he’ll go away? That’s bound to work, right?

I breathe into the tissue for a few minutes but he doesn’t go away.

I can feel the warmth of his presence beside the car, hear his breathing and the crunch of frozen gravel under his boots with every movement. Even the scent of juniper and dark cinnamon aftershave has wafted into the car and it’s unfair that someone who is this much of a twat can smell so good.

I wipe my face on the tissue and blow my nose, managing to make the most undignified sound someone has ever made in front of a fellow human before. I take a deep breath, and force a smile onto my red, puffy, tear-stained face, and … well, I intend to turn to face him, but I lose my nerve at the last second and end up staring intently at the steering wheel instead.

‘Are you okay?’ He speaks before I have a chance to say anything. His Scottish accent sounds warm and gentle. It makes tears well up again because it’s another question that people usually ask me when they know full well that the answer will always be a cheerful ‘yep, thanks’ no matter how I really am, but he says it so earnestly that I feel like I could tell him.

Not that I’m going to, obviously. Finding me like this has probably made his day, there’s no need to make his month too.

‘Fine, thanks.’ My voice is thick and it shakes on both words. I swallow hard and try again. ‘What was it you wanted?’

‘I came to see if you were okay.’ He’s quiet for a moment, which gives my eyes plenty of time to start watering again because he’s got a caring tone that he has no right to have. ‘Which you’re clearly not.’

‘Well, there you go then,’ I snap, betrayed by the sob that comes out instead. ‘You’ve found out what you wanted to know. Goodbye.’ I have to feel around for the window button, intending to roll it up, but I press the wrong direction and it makes a clunking noise because it can’t go any further down.

‘I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay, Leah. I can’t walk away and leave you sitting out here in the cold. What’s wrong?’

Even if I wanted to, I can’t answer him because I’m crying too hard. Snot is dripping from my nose again and tears are streaming down my face, dropping onto the blanket, and I wrestle another tissue from the packet on my lap and try to restore some semblance of dignity.

‘Is this because of me?’ He asks gently. ‘Because of what I said earlier?’

‘Hah. Don’t flatter yourself.’ I snort and a snot bubble escapes. I’m doing an amazing job of the dignity thing so far.

‘I didn’t mean it in an egotistical way. One of the reasons I came over was to apologise. I was too harsh earlier and I overstepped the line, and I am sorry, really.’

I hate him because he sounds so genuine. Maybe it’s the accent. He has a way of sounding sincere that leaves me unable to tell if he is or isn’t.

I blow my nose again and scrub my hands over my face, telling myself that I need to tell him it’s fine and say goodbye, but a really really microscopically tiny part of me doesn’t want him to go yet. Before I’ve figured out how to say anything, he moves out of the window and the car door is pulled open from the outside, and he crouches down beside me.

The movement surprises me and I look at him without thinking. He looks even better tonight than he did earlier. He’s got the same well-fitting jeans on, black welly-boots halfway up his calves, a long waterproof coat with wooden toggles closing it diagonally across his chest, and his dark hair is sticking out from under an oversized bobble hat, looking windswept and touchable.

He nods towards the radio, where ‘Fairytale of New York is coming out of the dashboard. ‘I’ve never been a fan of this song but is it really that bad?’

I reach over and switch it off.

‘You can leave it on. It’s never too early for Christmas music.’

‘Finally, someone who understands,’ I say, so surprised by someone who agrees with my stance on festive music in October that I forget about crying for a moment. ‘I told my friend I’d dusted off the Christmas playlist for driving up here and she nearly disowned me because it’s too early.’

‘It’s nearly the middle of the month. That makes it practically Christmas. If mince pies are in the shops, it’s fine to play Christmas music.’

I can’t take my eyes off that lip piercing again as he grins.

‘So,’ he starts, pressing one hand against the doorframe to balance himself, ‘my mum came in earlier, rubbed my ears and said “that was from Leah.” Would you happen to know anything about that?’

An unexpected laugh bursts out at the crystal-clear mental image. ‘Oh, for god’s sake, I said Gizmo, not you.’

‘Yeah, he probably would’ve appreciated an ear rub more than I did.’

‘Has she got problems with her hearing?’

‘Aye, but it’s undiagnosed because doctors can’t do much about “selective” hearing.’

‘I think all parents have that. My mum was the same …’ I trail off and swallow past the lump in my throat. I’ve just about got the tears under control, I can’t start crying again.

There’s a charged silence. I know he’s picked up the ‘was’ in that sentence, and I can almost hear him deciding on the best thing to say.

‘At least you didn’t tell her to give me a Bonio.’

That makes me laugh again but I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my head.

‘Go on then,’ he says eventually. ‘Apart from having no water, no electricity, no heat, and no food, why are you outside crying in the car?’

It sounds as pathetic as it must look, but he doesn’t seem as harsh and judgemental as he did earlier.

I take a few deep breaths and lean my head back and close my eyes. ‘It’s not because of what you said, it’s because you were right. This place is a disaster and I have no idea what I’m doing. The house is cold and damp and broken, my phone ran out of battery because I had to use it as a torch, and my best friend has been texting all afternoon asking how wonderful it is, and I haven’t replied because I don’t know how to tell her the truth about what a stupid mistake I’ve made.’

His coat rustles as he shrugs. ‘Tell her it needs work but you wanted a challenge. Here, give it to me, I’ll write it for you.’

I don’t know why, but I take the phone off the dashboard and put it in his open hand. I never trust anyone with my phone, but I don’t think twice about handing it to him.

I’m almost hypnotised by his fingers as they fly across my screen. I watch him with a strange mix of gratitude and amusement, until he turns the phone around and shows me what he’s written.

It’s a great area and the neighbours are the most wonderful people I’ve ever met. Farm needs a bit of work but I wanted a challenge.

I laugh at the remark about the neighbours and give him the nod to press send.

It beeps with a reply before he’s even had a chance to hand it back to me, and he laughs when he looks down at the screen.

Have you found a gorgeous, sexy farmer in a kilt yet?

Noel laughs. ‘Please let me reply to that?’

I nod. In for a penny and all that. When he holds up the phone to show me what he’s written before sending, it reads:

Yes, I have! The only thing missing is the kilt – too well-ventilated – but the wellies are sexy enough to make up for it! We might have a romp amongst the pumpkins next door!

I burst out laughing again, thankfully minus any snot bubbles this time. ‘Romp? Who uses the word “romp” these days? Have you time-travelled from a Charles Dickens novel?’

He shrugs as he presses send again. ‘Made you laugh though, didn’t it?’

The skin of my face is taut where the tears have dried, but I can’t deny it. ‘Chelsea’s going to know I didn’t write that.’

‘She’ll probably think you’re hanging out with your sexy new neighbour in his kilt and welly-boots.’ He winks at me, making the lip piercing shift and glint in the light of the car. ‘And before you go getting any ideas, I would never defile the pumpkins like that.’

Before I can say that I’d rather snog a Jack O’Lantern than romp anywhere near him, Chels texts back again.

Romp? Bloody hell, are you in Scotland or the 1870s?

I take the phone back and quickly type a response.

That was Noel, he thinks he’s clever, and also of the Victorian era, apparently.

She replies instantly.

Ooh, sexy name! Fittingly festive! Please tell me he sounds like David Tennant!

I hold the phone up to show him and he laughs. ‘Do I?’

‘No.’ I don’t tell him he sounds better than David Tennant. Instead, I type back to Chels:

No, but he looks like the sexiest version of Luke Evans you’ve ever seen.

I go to throw the phone back onto the dashboard without showing Noel my reply, but he plucks it out of my hand and reads it.

‘Cheeky bugger,’ I mutter, realising that talking about his looks while he’s crouched next to me was probably not the best idea.

Chelsea sends back a series of drooling emojis and he laughs again. ‘I don’t know who that is. If I Google him, I’m going to find he looks like the back end of a mangled cow, aren’t I?’

It makes me laugh again. ‘No. Surprisingly, that wasn’t an insult.’ I take the phone back out of his hand and push it onto the dashboard. He leans heavier against the doorframe of the car and shuffles his feet with a wince. He’s been crouched there for ages, his legs must be getting sore. And I need to stop thinking about his legs in those well-fitting jeans.

‘It’s not as bad as you think, you know.’

‘What, this place?’ I glance up at the tumbledown house looming over us. ‘I think it’s the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. The only way it could be worse was if I’d accidentally bought a slurry pit. Which, in some parts of the house, is actually not an unfair description.’

‘What I said earlier … I was out of line. You took me by surprise and it’s taken until now for my brain to catch up with my mouth. I shouldn’t have been so blunt.’

‘But you were right. I don’t know the first thing about Christmas trees. The extent of my horticultural experience is pulling dead branches off a houseplant and putting some crocus bulbs in the lawn for Mum one winter. How did I ever think I could be a Christmas tree farmer? It would be bad enough if it was the working farm I’d imagined, but this … I can’t do this.’

‘But you were right too,’ he says gently. ‘You can learn. And it really isn’t as bad as it seems. You’ll see when you look around tomorrow. Your trees aren’t all dead. Most of them are overgrown, but they can be sheared. Weeds can be pulled. You have fields full of saplings that didn’t survive so you can dig the ground over and start again in the spring. There’s so much potential here for someone who isn’t afraid of a challenge.’

I didn’t think I was, but I’m definitely having a wobble tonight.

‘If you phone the electric and water companies in the morning, they’ll have you back on by lunchtime. As for the house, it probably needs a few repairs but it’s still structurally sound.’

‘There’s ivy holding it up.’

‘Ah, but it’s structurally sound ivy.’ He looks towards it, nearly overbalancing with the movement and his hand grabs at the seat to stop himself falling, his arm brushing against my thigh. ‘Can I tell you what I think?’ He shifts his hand back to the doorframe, waiting for a response. He wasn’t unforthcoming with his opinion earlier, but now I get the impression that if I told him to mind his own business, he would. ‘I think you come from a flat in London which has always got hot water, electricity, and central heating, and whatever you expected Peppermint Branches to be like, it wasn’t this. And now your fight or flight response has kicked in, and you’re sitting here wanting to run away, and you’re disappointed in yourself for wanting that, and you’re also a bit embarrassed because you’ve built it up so much in your mind, and seeing the actual place has left you deflated and panicking about how you’re going to deal with it.’

I try to muster up some indignation and tell him he’s wrong, but he’s hit the nail on the head with surprising accuracy. ‘How do you know that?’ I ask instead, my voice so quiet that he has to lean in to hear me.

‘You’re not the only one who’s ever made a mistake.’ His voice is just as quiet and he looks away for a moment and then turns back to me. ‘I know this house well. I don’t think there’s anything that can’t be fixed. Can I see inside?’

‘What, now?’

‘Well, mainly I’ve got to get up because my legs are killing me with cramp. I’m too old to be crouching like that for long, so I was just looking for an excuse not to admit I’m old and creaky and in agony here.’

I can’t help watching as he stands up and stretches. He looks in his late thirties. I’m 36 and he can only be a couple of years older than me. I should look away, but I can’t tear my eyes off him as he shifts from one foot to the other and stamps his feet, keeping his hands on the car for balance.

‘I’ve not been inside since Mr Evergreene died, but the outside gives a good indication of the state of things. Maybe I can help?’ He hesitates. ‘And I’ve just realised that I’m a complete stranger and I didn’t make the greatest of first impressions earlier and you probably don’t want to be alone in a dark house with me, so don’t worry about it. I didn’t mean to be pushy.’

The fact that he’s aware of that makes me trust him a lot more. And honestly, the thought of going back into that house by myself is a much scarier option. He seems knowledgeable and if he could give me even an indication of where to start … ‘That’d be great.’

He looks surprised that I’ve agreed and moves away from the car to give me space as I swing my legs out and groan when I stand up because I’ve been sitting still for too long.

He’s still trying to get feeling back in his legs with some demented version of the Hokey Cokey.

‘Why are you being so nice?’

‘I don’t know whether to be offended that you think I’m such a horrible person or just to apologise for being such a twat earlier.’ He sighs. ‘Because I can’t bear seeing people cry. No one with a heart could watch someone else cry and not try to help in any way they can.’

The way he speaks is so gentle that it’s a war with myself not to start welling up again.

‘If you’re anything like me, you just needed to let out a bit of frustration before you pick yourself up and get on with it.’ He leans across and pushes his torch into my hand. ‘Here. Let me go and grab some supplies and I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Supplies? At this time of night?’ I call after him because he’s already started walking off across the driveway, his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved into his pockets.

‘You’ll see,’ he replies without turning back.

‘Watch out for those mountain lions,’ I call before he reaches the road.

He laughs, and this time he does turn back, the wind blowing his wavy hair across his face. ‘There aren’t any mountain lions.’

‘I knew that,’ I mutter, but I don’t think he hears me.

Obviously there are no mountain lions. I knew that all along. Mountain lions in Scotland. Hah. No one would’ve fallen for that.

Chapter 5

It’s not long before there’s a knock and I open the front door to find Noel at the top of the three steps, laden with stuff. ‘What’s all this?’

‘Supplies.’ He hands me a folded-up air mattress and a foot pump, and then pushes a sleeping bag at me. Then he bends down to collect something else from the ground by his feet while adjusting the rucksack on his back.

‘Are you moving in?’ I look at the array of things in bewilderment. How did he manage to carry all this at once? His arm muscles are obviously as strong as they looked through his shirt earlier.

‘No, you are.’ He shoos me out of the way while he drags a little heater and bottle of paraffin in with him and closes the door behind us.

I watch as he stomps his boots on the remainder of the doormat and looks around. The smell of his autumnal woody aftershave and the chemical hint of paraffin from the bottle he’s carrying have almost obliterated the cloying smell of damp emptiness that permeates the entire building. His eyes fall on the half open kitchen door and he shakes his head. ‘Evergreene had been meaning to fix that for years.’ He glances between that and the living room and then up the stairs before looking back at the kitchen. ‘That’ll be the cosiest room. Let’s take everything in there.’

He watches in amusement as I squeeze through the gap, pushing the air mattress through first, tossing the pump after it, then squishing myself through, getting my boobs unpleasantly squashed, and pulling the sleeping bag in behind me. When I’m finally in the kitchen and panting for breath from the exertion, his hand slots around the edge of the door and he lifts it easily, pulling it fully open. He gives the hinge a good smack with the flat of his hand and it stands upright, making me feel like a bit of a fool. Why didn’t I think of that?

He looks around by torchlight. ‘If I set up this heater and pump up the mattress, you’ll be nice and cosy in here. You can “camp out” until you’ve got the bedroom sorted.’ Before I have a chance to say anything, he shrugs the backpack off his shoulders and holds it out to me. ‘Mum sent this over for you.’