What Happens At Christmas... (9 page)

Next door to the shop, there was a wine warehouse. That morning she had searched her father's house for a cellar, but without success. Presumably mention of it in her father's will had been just standard legal terminology. Seeing the wine shop, she went in and invested a considerable sum in bottles of wine to create her own personal stock.

After squashing everything into the Porsche, she sat down in the driving seat and phoned Julia.

‘Hi, Jules, how did it go with Scott?'

There was a pause, long enough for Holly to start thinking the worst, before Julia replied. ‘Amazing, Hol, just amazing.'

‘You enjoyed the opera?'

‘Stuff the opera. It was what came afterwards.' There was another pause before Julia added mischievously. ‘And, the answer to that one is… me. Quite a few times. Oh, Hol, it was fantastic.' Clearly, the evening had been a success.

Holly was delighted to hear her friend sounding so jubilant and she mouthed a silent prayer that this relationship might last the distance. Then she told Julia everything that had happened to her since they had last spoken. Unsurprisingly, Julia was most interested in the two men, closely followed by the dog. Finally, she asked Holly, ‘So, what happens next?'

Holly had just been talking about the dog. ‘I'll have to see whether he comes and tries to get into bed with me tonight. He's awfully smelly.'

‘Holly! Get the man to take a bath.'

Once Holly had explained about Stirling's attempt to throttle her earlier that morning, she managed to fend off any further enquiries about Justin and Jack and asked whether Julia was coming down to see her parents at Christmas. They lived in Exeter, which was less than an hour away. It was arranged that Julia would come to stay with her in Brookford for a couple of nights before Christmas and then go to her parents' home. In spite of her experience with Scott the previous night, Julia sounded very keen to renew acquaintance with the two handsome men from Brookford.

That evening, Holly decided once again to go for dinner at the Five Bells. She made a resolution not to let this become a nightly occurrence or she would need a whole new wardrobe in a larger size. In fact, most of that afternoon she had been considering what items she might want to buy to add to her existing wardrobe, now that she had suddenly become super rich. Shoes, definitely. She hummed to herself as she brushed her hair and put on her Alexander McQueen heels that made her about three inches taller.

She pointed them out to the dog when she came back downstairs again, just in case he hadn't noticed. ‘You never know who we might meet in the pub after all, Stirling.'

He leapt out of his basket and headed for the door. Was the ‘P' word part of his canine vocabulary, Holly wondered, as she put on her jacket and picked up his lead. He was looking very smart in his new red collar and she patted him on the head. She had become unexpectedly fond of him in a very short space of time. Somehow, the fact that he was her father's last companion made him more than just any old dog. She got the feeling it would be hard to give him away when she returned to London, but she had no choice. Then she had a sudden thought; maybe Jack might like him. They both got on so very well together. She decided to float the idea across him next time they met.

Thought of Jack reminded her of the wine. She had bought a couple of bottles of a good Meursault for him, to say thank you for his help and hospitality. She glanced out of the back window, but his Land Rover wasn't parked behind the house. Presumably he was still out at work. Picking up a pen, she scribbled a thank you note and tucked it into the bag with the bottles. As she and Stirling left the house, she popped next door and set the bag on Jack's doorstep. She wasn't worried about somebody coming along and stealing it. She had already worked out that the only visitors to this part of the village after dark were badgers or foxes, neither of which were likely to have developed a taste for white Burgundy.

There was one little contretemps on the way up the dark lane to the pub. As they passed under the trees by the village green, she distinctly felt her right foot land in something soft. She checked to see that nobody else was around and then bent down to smell it. She straightened up again in annoyance.

‘Horse shit!'

The dog came back to see what she was talking about, but he had the good sense and the night vision to avoid stepping in it as well. She went over to the long grass and did her best to wipe the shoe clean. Without being able to see what she was doing, it wasn't easy. She muttered a few unprintable imprecations directed at horses, riders, stables and anything to do with equitation as she did so. Finally satisfied, she set off once more for the pub.

The dog led her up to the door and, once inside, immediately picked out the table she had occupied the previous night. He flopped down beside it, warmed by the heat of the fire. He looked as if he belonged there. Holly had been meaning to clip on his lead and tie him to the table, but he looked so settled, she didn't bother. Instead, she went over to the bar and ordered another glass of the Pinot Grigio she had drunk the previous evening. While waiting to be served she surreptitiously studied her shoe. From what she could see without bending down or taking it off, it was clean again. She harrumphed silently.

The girl behind the bar gave her the menu and pointed out a board marked
Saturday Specials
. Holly studied it as the wine was poured. As well as the usual pies, pasties and mussels, tonight there was a choice of starters and some really rather fancy sounding dishes. She passed on the starters, but ordered a portion of
Ragoût of
Wild Boar with Polenta and Blue Cheese
. She was a fan of French and Italian food, so this combination sounded worth trying.

She returned to her table and was pleased to see the dog lying stretched out on his side where she had left him. His tail thumped against the floor as she approached. He was only pretending to sleep and he was watching all the other customers with interest. Holly sat down beside him and did the same.

Two tables were occupied by couples, but the focal point this evening was a large and very noisy group of people, standing at the far end of the bar, clearly celebrating something, as most of them were drinking champagne. They looked as if they were all in their sixties or seventies, some maybe even a little older, the men wearing suits, the women dolled up to the eyes with plenty of jewellery in evidence. Some of the colours on display were bright, to say the least. One lady in particular, with suspiciously blue hair, was wearing what looked like two stripy orange and green deckchairs in a warm embrace. Holly transferred her attention back to the dog, doing her best not to giggle.

‘Excuse me my dear, would you like to join us in a wee drop of the good stuff?'

Holly looked up in surprise. ‘I'm sorry?'

He was a jovial man with grey hair that might have started life ginger. His face was flushed and dotted with freckles. Unexpectedly, he was wearing what looked like full Highland dress, complete with kilt and sporran.

‘We're celebrating Bertie's retirement. He's stumped up for champagne all round so do take a drop with us.' His accent was Scottish, and definitely more Edinburgh elite than the rough end of Glasgow. He raised his left hand which had half a dozen empty champagne flutes gripped between his fingers. Adeptly he set one down in front of her and filled it with what was, from the label, good champagne. He hesitated and then made a decision. Setting another glass beside it, he filled that one as well. Putting the bottle down on the table he shrugged in her direction. ‘What the hell, eh? Sláinte!' He handed her a glass, took the other for himself and drained it.

‘Thank you… and Bertie, very much indeed. Which one's Bertie, so I can say thank you?'

‘The silly old sod standing under the mistletoe. Not that it's going to do him any good at his age.' The Scot grinned at her, picked up the bottle and moved on to the next table. Holly waved her glass in the direction of the man under the mistletoe and received a bellow in return.

‘Cheers.' And Bertie was a cheery-looking man. His cheeks were cherry red and his nose would have put Rudolph the Reindeer to shame. He gave Holly a boisterous wave and beside him the blue-haired lady that Holly was already thinking of as Marge Simpson added a slightly less effusive one. Just then, Holly's dinner arrived and she concentrated on that, as did Stirling from the floor, his nostrils twitching every time she took a mouthful. She was, however, impressed to see that he didn't get up and try to beg. Her dad had trained the young dog well.

The food was excellent and Holly managed to eat almost all of it. A combination of a light lunch and the cold outside resulted in her body needing calories and that's what it got. When she couldn't manage any more, she finally laid down her knife and fork. There was a piece of polenta left over, about the size and shape of a pack of cards. She caught the dog's eye. It was quite clear that, even from down there on the floor, his nose had told him exactly what was left on the plate – its size, weight, taste and quite possibly calorific content. Hoping that this would not encourage him to start begging for food at table, she picked up the polenta and handed it down to him. He took it remarkably delicately from her fingers and then, with one quick movement of his head, he swallowed the lot.

‘You want to try taking your time over your food, you know, Stirling.' She gave him a smile and, just for a moment, it appeared as if he smiled back. He gave a heartfelt sigh and collapsed back onto the carpet, licking his lips for any remaining crumbs. Holly looked up. The group of older people had by this time disappeared into the dining room and peace and quiet returned to the bar area. She glanced at her watch. It was only nine o'clock but, once again, she felt really tired. Maybe it was the Devon air.

She was just thinking about getting up and heading for home when one of the men who had been among the group of champagne drinkers appeared from the direction of the restaurant. He went over to the bar and spoke quietly to the barmaid. Holly saw him extract several banknotes from his wallet and hand them over. The girl nodded and disappeared from sight. He leant on the bar and looked around while he waited.

He was probably well into his sixties or even older, his hair white as snow, but still thick and immaculately styled. Holly knew a thing or two about designer clothes and it didn't take a degree in fashion to tell that his midnight blue suit and highly-polished black leather shoes had cost a fortune. As she watched him, his eyes reached over to her table and to the dog on the floor. He blinked, hesitated and then walked across to her. As he reached the fireplace, he stopped and looked down at Stirling.

‘Is that you, Stirling?' The dog was far too lazy to stand up, but his tail began to thump against the carpet. The old man nodded to himself a few times and then turned to Holly.

‘Good evening. My name's Redgrave, Howard Redgrave. I hope you won't mind me interrupting your meal, but I saw you here with Stirling and a sudden thought occurred to me. You wouldn't be in some way related to my old friend George, would you? George Brice?'

‘Good evening Mr Redgrave.' Holly smiled at him, partly because he looked like a charming man, and partly because he had clearly known her father well. ‘Yes, George Brice was my father. My name's…'

‘…Holly. Well, I'll be damned, Holly, Holly.' He caught her eye. ‘Tell me, did he manage to see you before he passed away?' The jollity had left his voice and he was sounding more sombre.

Holly shook her head. ‘I'm afraid not. I only heard about his death a couple of weeks ago. You see, we had lost contact completely.'

Mr Redgrave shook his head sadly. ‘I know. He often spoke about his little girl.' He made an attempt to cheer the conversation up. She saw his eyes on her, a definite twinkle in them. ‘Not such a little girl now, Holly. He would have been so proud to have such a beautiful woman as a daughter.' She shook her head, but he brushed her protests aside. ‘I have a lot of experience of beautiful women. Worked with them all my life, so I know what I'm talking about.' Now she was blushing. ‘Yes, he would have been very proud.'

Just then the barmaid reappeared with a magnum of champagne. Mr Redgrave gave her a little wave and then turned back to Holly. ‘I'm afraid I have to go back to the festivities next door, but I hope to see you again. Are you here to stay now, or is this just a flying visit?' As he spoke, he made movements with his hands towards the barmaid for her to open the bottle.

‘I work in London, I'm afraid, so I'm only here for a couple of weeks to clear my father's house.'

Mr Redgrave shook his head sadly. ‘Such a shame. Such a shame George never got to see you at the end, and such a shame you're leaving us.' There was a pop from the bar and he cheered up. ‘Well, at least you'll be here for Christmas?' Holly nodded. ‘Then do please consider yourself invited to my party on Christmas Eve.' He grinned at her. ‘Social highlight of the year, you know. Anyway, I'll drop you in an invitation.' He gave her a smile and went over to retrieve the bottle of champagne. He then returned to her table, ignored her protests, and filled her glass with champagne. Then, with a simple, ‘Good night, Holly,' he left the room.

Day Three

Sunday

Holly was woken by the sound of rain beating down on the roof of the house. She reached for her phone and saw that it was almost eight o'clock. The room felt pleasantly warm so that signified that the boiler was still working. She pushed the duvet aside, got up and walked through to the bathroom. As she did so, she heard the familiar clicking sound from downstairs of Stirling's nails on the flagstones and a little whine of greeting.

‘Be with you in a minute, Stirling.'

She put the bathroom light on and took a good look at herself. Her recent walks in the fresh air were definitely doing her good and she had more colour in her cheeks. Whether she was as beautiful as the old man had said was debatable, but she was reasonably happy with what she saw. After cleaning her teeth, she ran her fingers through her hair and decided to wash it after she had taken the dog for his walk.