Ivy Lane: Winter: (8 page)

And I’d never seen him look so happy. ‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling as Liz joined us on the porch.

‘We’re all set inside,’ she said. ‘The mulled wine is in the urn on low, the glasses are all laid out and I think everything’s ready.’

‘We’ll get off then, Tilly, unless you’d like us to help you with the lights.’ Nigel slipped a proud arm around Liz’s shoulders and the pair of them grinned goofily at each other.

Oh, that first flush of love. I remember it well. I blinked rapidly as unbidden tears popped into my eyes. Here we go again. That was possibly the only downside of Christmas; I lived on a permanent knife edge of emotional outpourings. Christmas carols were my absolute weakness; I’d yet to make it to the second verse of ‘Silent Night’ without my voice going all wobbly.

I shook my head and smiled. ‘I’ll be fine, Nigel. You two go and get ready. Besides, I don’t want to turn the lights on until you’ve gone. Then it will be a surprise when you come back later.’

I waved them off and reminded them to drive carefully on the snowy roads.

We had had our first snowfall during the night and when I’d woken up this morning I’d been quite alarmed by the muffled silence in Wellington Street until delightful realization had dawned. I’d bounced out of bed to get my first glimpse of the Christmas-card beauty of my street and I’d been ridiculously excited ever since.

The daylight had already faded and I had almost finished. Good job really, as I still had to dash home, change into something stunning and be back here for the festivities in little more than an hour.

I wrapped the end of the cable around the final wooden upright on the porch, climbed down from the stepladders and held my breath as I tried the electrics.

Ta dah! At the flick of a switch the pavilion was transformed from a damp and dreary hut to a fairy-tale house. I stood back to admire the sight and pressed a hand to my mouth to stop myself from squealing. It was absolutely breathtaking.

‘Sterling work, Tilly,’ I murmured to myself as I moved the ladders to the centre of the porch.

There was just one more thing to do.

I tied a big red satin ribbon around the huge bunch of mistletoe that I’d bought from Kingsfield market, climbed back up the ladders and fixed it just above the front door.

I smiled to myself; this would put a twinkle in many a person’s eye this evening. Kissing under the mistletoe was de rigueur at all the best Christmas parties. And this was definitely going to be
the
best Christmas party, if I had anything to do with it. My friends at Ivy Lane had done so much for me over the year and this was my way of thanking them. For bringing me back to life.

Inside the pavilion I checked that the mulled wine was simmering nicely before switching off all the lights except those on the Christmas tree. I paused and looked around the room before locking the door, my heart swelling with pride. Nigel was right, everywhere did look wonderful. We’d set up a small Christmas tree adorned with red baubles and strings of silver beads as well as hundreds of tiny fairy lights, of course. The entire room was festooned with garlands of ivy and holly picked from the allotment and dozens of little candles were dotted about the room ready to light at the start of the evening.

As I drove away, I glanced at the magical picture behind me, the pavilion twinkling in the darkness and the bunch of mistletoe hanging like a big question mark above the door.

I looked away and concentrated on the road ahead.

My party outfit for this evening consisted of a short-sleeved teal satin mini dress, which floated elegantly from around my legs and gathered softly around the scooped neck. It was very flattering and, worn with a tiny black cardigan, black tights and heels, it was verging on the sexy side for the Ivy Lane pavilion, but for once, I decided to throw caution to the wind. It was Christmas after all and if I couldn’t let my hair down at Christmas, when could I?

I ruined the effect slightly by setting off from home in wellingtons with my heels tucked into my handbag, but it couldn’t be helped. Better to arrive in wellies than with a broken ankle. I’d hoped to be one of the first to arrive in order to witness everyone’s gasps of wonder when they saw all the fairy lights, but shuffling along the icy pavements had taken longer than I’d anticipated and I could already see people inside as I approached the steps.

As I paused on the porch under the mistletoe to change my shoes, Gemma and Mike arrived.

‘Christmassy dot com, Tilly! Everywhere looks amazing!’ she cried as she waddled up the steps towards me like a side-stepping penguin. Mike was following closely behind, carrying an assortment of bags in one hand and supporting his wife’s bottom with the other.

I helped her up the last step and laughed as I pulled her into my arms. ‘Hello, you! I knew you wouldn’t let me down with your appreciation of my efforts.’

I was so relieved to see her. Part of me had been worried that the baby would come before the night of the party and whilst I was sure she would rather be propped up in bed with a new baby in her arms, selfishly, I was delighted that she had made it.

And she looked absolutely radiant. She wore a long black dress with tiny crystals around the low neckline with a long black coat over the top and her hair sparkled with little diamantés. The baby was due in a matter of days and I had a sudden prickle of tears as I realized that this would probably be the last time we’d see her at Ivy Lane for months.

‘Promise me we’ll still be BFFs when the baby comes,’ I whispered as she returned my hug.

‘Promise,’ she said, kissing my cheek. ‘And I don’t think we’ll have long to wait for that to happen,’ she added in a faint whisper close to my ear.

Which didn’t sound at all worrying . . .

I glanced at her sharply but she gave me a don’t-say-a-word look.

‘How are you feeling, father-to-be?’ I said, releasing Gemma to kiss Mike.

‘Excited, nervous and scared witless.’ He shot a smile of pure adoration at Gemma.

‘Aww,’ said Gemma and I at the same time.

‘You go in, love, I just want a quick word with Tilly,’ said Gemma, nudging her husband towards the door.

‘A quick word,’ said Mike with a frown, ‘it’s too cold out here for you.’

She rolled her eyes and he reluctantly left us to it.

‘He’s right,’ I said. My lips had started to go numb and as Christmassy as it was on the porch, standing under the mistletoe might actually be construed as looking a teeny bit desperate. ‘Let’s go in.’

‘Oof!’ Gemma bent forward, leaning her hand on the porch railings, and started to pant.

‘Gemma?’

She held her hand up to silence me. I shut up and stared.

As soon as she was able to talk again she glanced over her shoulder to check we were still alone. ‘Tilly, don’t say a word, but I’m in labour,’ she hissed.

Only Gemma could come up with a sentence like that.

‘Well, yes, I gathered that much,’ I hissed back. I began to breathe rapidly with her. I had a woman in labour right here. It was all I could do not to scream for Mike, for help, for anyone, but she’d asked me not to. ‘Are you completely mad?’

‘Oh, I’ll be ages yet,’ she said airily now that the contraction had passed. ‘There’s no need to panic and if I’d mentioned it to Mike, there’s no way he’d have let me come to the party.’

‘Well, no and rightly so, I’d say.’

‘Oh Tilly, you are sweet,’ she smiled breathlessly, ‘but this is my only Christmas party and I bought this maternity tent-dress especially for it and if I’d gone into hospital I’d have missed out on wearing it. But don’t worry. I’ve organized for Mia to spend the night at a friend’s and I’ve got my hospital bag in the car. We’ll just go straight there from here. It’ll be a doddle!’

‘And very lovely you look too,’ I said. ‘But I’m really not sure this is the best place for you.’

‘Oh it is,’ she said, widening her eyes. ‘At home I’d just be pacing around worrying. The party will take my mind of it for the next couple of hours.’

She scrunched up her face and bent over again as another contraction hit her. She reached into a pocket in her coat and brought out a little controller.

‘Full blast this time, I think,’ she muttered.

I recognized the white square in her hand from research into my own pregnancy, it was a TENS machine, designed to give gentle pain relief. I frowned. I hoped it was up to the job of disguising full-on labour from everyone including her husband at the party.

‘Are you sure about this?’ I said as soon as the pain passed.

She nodded and took my arm.

‘Merry Christmas, everyone!’ she yelled as we walked into the pavilion together. She turned to me and tapped her nose. ‘Mum’s the word.’ She winked at me, sucked in her breath and went over to join Mike.

Thirty minutes later I was on my second mulled wine and had really started to enjoy myself. I’d had several compliments about my dress and many more about the party itself.

‘I love the Secret Santa idea, Tilly,’ said Vicky, clinking her wine glass against mine. ‘Cheers!’

‘Cheers,’ I responded and took a warming sip. Vicky was looking ravishing tonight in a red velvet blazer, black trousers and spiky heels.

‘It’s always a bit awkward trying to second guess who on the allotment will give you a Christmas present and who won’t,’ she added. ‘This is a much neater way of doing it.’

‘Thanks, Vicky. I’m glad you think so. And the soup kitchen will be delighted with all the gifts for their Christmas party tomorrow too.’

The Secret Santa idea had gone down really well. I’d put everyone’s names into a hat and we’d all pulled one out and bought our recipient a present costing no more than ten pounds. I’d had to buy a present for Graham, Helen’s husband, and had found a little solar-powered radio that I thought suited his green ethos and would be perfect to bring to the allotment with him next summer. We’d all put our Secret Santa gifts on the table, clearly labelled for the recipient. There didn’t seem to be one for me yet. Not that I’d been checking, obviously.

At a nod from Peter, Nigel turned down the volume to gentle background level and Peter asked us all to find a seat. Nigel had done an amazing job with the music. I’d been a bit sceptical at first when he’d offered to take charge of the party tunes, assuming we’d have nothing but Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra’s Christmas medley, but I’d been way off the mark. He had set up his iPad and wireless speakers and was blasting out a mix of everything from Beyoncé to Michael Bublé.

Peter joined Christine in front of a table, which was groaning with trophies and shields, and cleared his throat. ‘Now for the formal bit of the evening: the presentation of the Annual Show prizes. And then we’ll all open our Christmas presents.’

‘Keep it short, Pete,’ cried Dougie, ‘I’ve got a lot of ladies to kiss under that mistletoe.’

‘Ladies, if you could kindly control yourselves, we’ll be as quick as we can,’ said Peter, tongue firmly in his cheek.

‘But before we present the prizes, we have some exciting news,’ announced Christine, clapping her hands together.

I looked over at Gemma anxiously, wondering if the impending birth of her next grandchild was ‘the news’. Gemma waved back. She looked a bit flushed and fidgety but otherwise fairly calm. I gave her a thumbs-up, turned back to Christine and sipped my drink.

‘We’ve had an email from Aidan Whitby from the
Green Fingers
show.’

My heart thumped wildly against my ribcage as I swallowed. The spiciness and heat of the mulled wine hit the back of my throat and the liquid somehow missed its target. I choked and coughed, turned puce and then I gasped for breath.

I hadn’t been expecting to hear his name again. And if I’d been under the impression that I was over him, I now knew unequivocally that I wasn’t.

‘Sorry,’ I croaked to the thirty or so pairs of eyes that stared at me full of concern.

Christine raised her eyebrows at me warily and I gestured for her to continue. ‘Our episode of
Green Fingers
has been nominated for an award for best TV documentary!’

Everyone clapped. So I clapped too. They all smiled and I smiled too, so hard, in fact, that my cheeks ached. That was amazing news. I was pleased for Aidan, delighted even. And he deserved it, he was brilliant at his job, the whole team was brilliant. I felt proud to have been part of it.

But my eyes were burning and my stomach was flipping over repeatedly like a performing seal. Aidan had emailed Christine. He was still in touch with Ivy Lane, but just not with me. Had he asked Christine about me? I wondered. Did he know I’d phoned him? Why, why, why had that girl answered? And why had I left it a whole month to call him?

Suddenly I’d had enough of this party. I didn’t feel Christmassy any more. I felt cross and sad and fed up.

Christine was still talking. The awards evening was a big posh do in London in the spring and Aidan had sent invitations for two people to attend.

Please don’t expect me to go to that
.

I knew without looking that Gemma was sending me sympathetic vibes, but I didn’t meet her gaze. I stared at my toes and concentrated on not looking as miserable as I felt.

‘So to the prizes . . .’ Peter began the presentation of the awards and my shoulders slumped with relief. True to his word, he and Christine handed out the various trophies, cups and shields with efficiency and speed and even I got a mention for my prize-winning apples. The apples I hadn’t even entered.

Before long there were just two prizes left on the table. A large shield and a small silver cup.

Christine picked up the shield, opened her mouth and paused before speaking.

‘The Ivy Lane Committee trophy, as most of you know, goes to the plot holder with the most points awarded overall at the annual show. And this year . . . this year—’ Christine’s voice broke and she pressed a hand to her mouth.

I felt a lump in my throat. I was pretty sure who had won.

Peter stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on Christine’s shoulder. ‘This year’s winner is Alf,’ he finished for her. ‘Would you all please raise your glasses to absent friends? Alf, we miss you dearly. Merry Christmas, old chum.’