The Christmas Surprise (29 page)

‘It doesn’t seem like him?’

‘No, not really.’

Hye grinned.

‘You’re right, it’s not at all like the old sod. He’s bought the plot, you see. Wants to build flats on it or something. But he has to run it as a community site for now and show he’ll still make it part of the community. Building regs and all that.’

‘Oh!’ said Rosie. ‘Oh, that explains it. How many flats?’

‘Between you and me,’ said Hye, ‘they’ll be an eyesore.’

‘Oh God, really?’

‘Totally. They’ll ruin the view of the church and he’ll have to knock into half the graveyard as well. But he’s getting his own way so far.’

‘That’s appalling,’ said Rosie. ‘That really is awful.’

Hye picked up his cake.

‘People need places to live, Rosie. And until he starts building, or offloads the site, he’s running a community centre.’

Which was how, four days later, Rosie found herself in the kitchen, chopping onions like a demon. She had been amazed that Roy had agreed immediately to the invitation when she’d popped into the surgery. In fact he seemed to see it as something totally expected, that of course she should want to have him round for dinner. Perhaps, it struck her horribly, perhaps he thought they had been getting on really well these last few years.

Stephen had looked horrified and desperately tried to pretend he was doing something else that night, but Rosie said Tina and Jake were already coming, and Stephen relaxed a little and she knew he and Jake would chat about livestock the entire evening and nobody else would get a word in edgeways. She’d invited Roy’s wife Laura, the traumatised mouse of a woman who never spoke two words – in fact, Rosie realised, she hadn’t seen her around for ages – but Roy had coughed and said Laura was busy that night, so it was just him. Probably just as well, Rosie caught herself thinking. He was going to be hard enough work as it was.

Tina had been speechless with gratitude, and was planning her charm offensive. She had a forty-eight-point plan on why he should let them borrow his hut.

For back-up Rosie had invited Moray, whose easy charm meant he got on well with just about everyone, plus he and Roy shared a certain professional courtesy; Pamela, who would probably have turned up anyway; and Lilian, of course, who didn’t want to miss out on any of the fun. She folded out the tiny table to its full extent, pushed the furniture against the walls and borrowed chairs from all and sundry, but it was still going to be a very tight squeeze in the little sitting room.

‘This is why we need to move,’ she had pointed out to Stephen as they squished past one another in the hallway.

‘So you can throw dinner parties for people you don’t like?’ said Stephen. ‘Seriously? Okay, I’ll tell the estate agent.’

Rosie rolled her eyes.

‘I know, as if we don’t have enough on.’

She was making a huge coq au vin, with lots of roast potatoes to soak up the gravy, and wilted greens, which Stephen observed was just a bunch of greens that were neither one thing nor the other and she had growled at him and he had retreated and announced he was taking Apostil for a walk.

‘I’ll try not to take him to the pub,’ he shouted as he left.

‘You probably could,’ pointed out Rosie with some degree of accuracy, ‘and everybody would think it was the sweetest thing ever.’

By seven she was just about ready, although she could really do with a quick shower after slaving away in the kitchen. She washed quickly, then looked at her hair – VERY frizzy after all the steam; it looked like she’d stuck her fingers in the plug socket. She pinned it up and tried to pull out a few artistic fronds, but they looked very peculiar too. Finally she just left it, and slapped on some BB cream and pinky-red lipstick.

Pamela had turned up earlier and lain about reading Italian
Vogue
in front of the fire, accompanied by Mr Dog, who, to Rosie’s extreme annoyance, absolutely adored her. Then she’d announced that seeing as Rosie didn’t seem to need her in the kitchen, she was going to get ready.

The doorbell rang. Vainly attempting to plaster down her hair, Rosie rushed out of the kitchen, only to be greeted by the door of Lilian’s room being thrown open. She couldn’t help it; she gasped. Pamela, who was tall anyway, appeared even taller in enormous spiky heels, towering nearly as high as the door frame. Her long skinny legs – that before had looked a bit spindly and sad, but now looked utterly magnificent – were encased in tight shiny leather trousers, the kind Rosie would look at in
shops and wonder who on earth would ever buy such a thing. She was wearing some kind of shimmering translucent high-collared black shirt, made of a material Rosie didn’t recognise, and over it a shaggy fake-fur gilet in pure black with one studded shoulder. Again, Rosie would have passed it by thinking it was hideous, but on Pamela it looked absolutely outstanding.

Her hair was a miracle: a great thick cascading bouffant of shiny blonde locks that didn’t look at all as if their owner survived on a diet of cigarettes, miso and (Rosie had noticed) the odd purloined Sherbert Dip Dab. And her face looked as if it were barely made up at all, just long, innocent, shiny eyelashes, flawless creamy skin, natural lips …

‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Rosie. ‘You look like you’ve beamed in from another planet.’

Pamela tried her normal scowl, but underneath it all she was clearly pleased.

‘A good planet?’

‘Amazing,’ said Rosie truthfully, thinking it was no use her trying to put more make-up on now; she’d only look like the hired help.

‘I’ll get the door,’ said Pamela. Rosie looked at her. Pamela didn’t normally offer to do anything.

‘Cool,’ she said, removing the tea towel that had somehow ended up hanging off her shoulder.

There, standing in the doorway clutching a bottle of
Malik’s second cheapest wine, his face looking so bemused and startled that Rosie wished she had her camera to take a picture, was Roy Blaine.

‘Uh … uh,’ he stuttered. It was the first time Rosie had ever seen him speechless.

‘Hi,’ said Pamela coolly. This was not at all the nervy, stressy woman Rosie had got to know over the last few days. No wonder she’d been so successful at work. She held out a perfectly manicured hand. Roy held out a slightly sweaty, pudgy-looking one.

‘Well, come in then,’ said Rosie, smiling as warmly as she could manage. Where were Stephen and Apostil? This was going to be a long night as it was.

But Roy was still standing on the doorstep, seemingly transfixed and unable to let go of Pamela’s hand.

‘Yeah?’ said Pamela.

Roy shook his head in disbelief.

‘You,’ he said. ‘You have the most perfect teeth I have ever seen.’

Pamela smiled, and Roy smiled back, and between the two of them Rosie thought they might be able to abolish street lighting, so she hurried them inside, Roy still utterly transfixed.

‘Hello,’ she said, steeling herself to kiss him on the cheek and not make a face afterwards. ‘Thanks so much for coming.’

Roy handed her his coat without looking at her,
making Rosie feel like the under scullery maid, and Pamela announced she’d make some drinks. Had Rosie not had a lot of things on her mind, she would probably have had something to say about this, but a pot was boiling over and she could see Jake and Tina marching nervously up the road, Jake looking uncomfortable in … oh my God, was that a
tie
he was wearing? Wonders would never cease … and before she knew it, she could hear Pamela’s American tones going, ‘I think I’ll make martinis!’ and Roy saying, ‘I’ve only ever had Martini Bianco,’ and Pamela laughing and saying, ‘Doctor Blaine, you are so funny!’ and Roy preening and saying, ‘Actually, in the UK not many people know to call their dentist “Doctor”, and Pamela saying, ‘Really, in America, EVERYBODY does’, and Rosie rolled her eyes and went and answered the door.

Tina and Jake shuffled in, looking shy, and Rosie hugged Tina and told her not to worry, her coq au vin would win him over, and if it didn’t, Pamela probably would. Then Moray turned up with Lilian, a glint in his eyes. He brought two bottles of champagne and a box of toothpicks and said the only way to get through tonight was if everyone was thoroughly trollied, and she’d best feed Apostil now because she’d be asleep later, and Rosie said, don’t be ridiculous, she was a sensible mother now, and Moray asked her if the social worker had installed secret CCTV and Rosie said possibly, but Lilian would serve the same function.

Lilian, comfortably installed in the best armchair, harrumphed very loudly at this, but one second later made a cheerful noise as she took a tentative sip of the glass Pamela had offered her.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Finally, SOMEBODY in Lipton who knows how to make a martini.’

Rosie gave her a sharp look. She’d tried Lilian’s version; it tasted like rubbing alcohol.

‘When do you drink proper martinis? Have you had a million secret trips to the Ritz that I know nothing about?’

Lilian looked at her severely.

‘I’ve done all sorts of things you know nothing about,’ she said sternly. ‘Have you never heard of the sixties?’

‘You were forty by then, though, weren’t you?’

‘I am very, very disappointed in you,’ returned Lilian. ‘Oh, where’s your baby? Have you put him down somewhere and forgotten about him again?’

‘I’m just going to the kitchen,’ said Rosie.

Tina sat down beside Lilian.

‘I want to hear about the sixties,’ she said eagerly.

‘You should,’ said Lilian. ‘Might learn a thing or two.’

Rosie noticed that Pamela was making Roy another cocktail. That was good, hopefully. Maybe they could get him to sign something whilst incapacitated.

As she went back into the kitchen, she heard a rapping at the back door. It was Stephen, Mr Dog and Apostil, all jolly and pink-cheeked.

‘How’s it going?’ said Stephen. ‘Me and Apostil aren’t coming in unless everyone’s being nice and my sister is behaving herself.’

‘What about Mr Dog?’

‘He’s a tart for canapés.’

This was true, he’d already wagged his way indoors. Lilian would have a thing to say about muddy footprints.

‘No, it’s fine, it’s fine. Where
were
you?’

Stephen sighed, and his expression changed.

‘God, it’s nice coming home.’

‘What?’

He rubbed the back of his neck as she unpinned Apostil from the sling and kissed Stephen gently on the nose.

‘Don’t ask.’

‘That is absolutely guaranteed to get me not to ask. Yup, totally.’

She tickled Apostil, who grinned gummily.

‘Tell Mummy where Daddy was! Tell me now or no milk.’

‘He’s a daddy’s boy,’ said Stephen fiercely. ‘He’ll never rat me in.’

In fact he didn’t have to. Rosie glanced down and spotted that Stephen’s trouser legs were covered in dog hairs.

‘Ha!’ she said. ‘I am Sherlock Holmes, and I do declare you have been at your mother’s!’

Stephen looked shocked for a moment, then resigned.

‘Seriously,’ he said. ‘You’re good.’

‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘Why?’

Stephen shrugged. His handsome face looked suddenly sad.

‘I just … I just wanted to ask her if she’d reconsider. About Peak House.’

‘You’re kidding,’ said Rosie, shocked. ‘You went behind Pamela’s back?’

‘I know, because she just stabbed me in the front.’

‘And you didn’t consult me first?’

Stephen looked disgruntled.

‘I thought it would be a nice surprise.’

‘What, to know we ran begging to your mother?’

Instantly Rosie could have bitten off her tongue. That sounded awful, and so unfair. Stephen just looked at her.

‘Well, what did she say?’ said Rosie. She already knew the answer, of course.

‘I’m going to go and get a drink,’ said Stephen, in a steely voice.

‘What’s up, you two having a domestic?’ said Pamela cheerily, entering the kitchen. ‘Have you guys got any more ice? I never understand this deep belief in England that ice is, like, rationed.’

They both fell silent. Rosie was fuming inside, and couldn’t believe she’d stoked the matter up again. It didn’t help anything.

‘Here’s the ice!’ she said, pasting a bright smile on her face. ‘Everyone seems to be loving your martinis.’