Tilly Bagshawe - One Christmas Morning, One Summer’s Afternoon - 2 short stories

Deciding to take the back way to Briar Cottage, she turned left up Lovett’s Lane, which took her directly past Furlings. The house was a Queen Anne gem, one of the finest examples of eighteenth-century architecture in the country. In perfectly square red brick, its façade almost completely covered with wisteria, Furlings managed to combine grand, stately-home proportions with quite unparalleled prettiness. The symmetry of the original sash windows – facing onto formal gardens famous for their topiary, as well as for a two-hundred-year-old maze – was softened by the rolling parkland that surrounded the house on the other three sides. Tonight, lit from within and with its chimneys cheerfully smoking, the house looked as warm and inviting as any fairytale castle. Suddenly Laura realized just how badly she wanted to have Daniel as her date for the Christmas Hunt Ball, to play Prince Charming to her Cinderella. What was the point in spending money she didn’t have on a beautiful dress if no one who mattered was going to be there to see it?

Just as she had this thought, there was an ominous splutter from the Fiat’s ancient engine and the car quite suddenly lost all power. Thankfully, Lovett’s Lane was deserted, and Laura was able to glide to a stately halt on the grass verge. But without headlights, and with nothing but a crescent moon and the distant lights of Furlings to guide her, she could barely see more than ten feet in any direction. Worse still, she’d left her coat back at the church hall, and was woefully underdressed for the December chill in jeans and a thin Uniqlo sweater. Pulling her mobile phone out of her bag, she saw that it was completely dead.

‘Fuck!’ she shouted out loud, getting out of the car and stamping her foot in anger on the frozen ground like a thwarted child. Could today possibly get any worse? The walk home to Briar Cottage from here was about thirty minutes in daylight, but at night and without a torch she was afraid she might not make it all. She could walk up Furlings’s drive and knock on the door, but she barely knew the Flint-Hamiltons, and this was an annoyance rather than emergency. The third option was to walk back to the village and ask for help there. Hugging herself for warmth and rubbing her hands together against the cold, she began to trudge down the hill.

After only about a hundred yards, she saw headlights coming her way. Thank God. Standing in the middle of the road, she flagged the car down.

‘Bit late for a walk isn’t it?’ Gabe drawled, rolling down the window of his Land Rover. It looked warm and luxurious inside. Coldplay were playing on the stereo, and a smell of new leather wafted out into the crisp night air. ‘I thought you were going to London.’

‘Change of plans,’ said Laura through gritted teeth. Gritted, chattering teeth. ‘My car just gave up the ghost.’

‘Uh huh,’ said Gabe. Was he smiling? Bastard. ‘I expect you’d like a lift home then, would you?’

Laura nodded grudgingly. Why, why, why did it have to be him ? Of all the people who could have driven past. She tried the passenger door but it was locked.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me nicely?’ said Gabe. He was clearly enjoying himself.

Laura bit her tongue. If she played along she’d be home in the warm in five minutes, as opposed to being stuck out here for the next hour. ‘May I have a lift?’ She smiled sarcastically.

‘Please,’ said Gabe. ‘Go on. It won’t kill you.’

‘May I have a lift … please?’ said Laura.

With a click, the door unlocked. ‘Hop in.’

‘So,’ said Gabe, as she fastened her seatbelt. ‘Mr Perfect stood you up, did he? Got a better offer?’

Laura watched his arrogant features break into a grin and felt suffused with loathing. Why was he such an utter, utter dick? And why could nobody else in Fittlescombe see it? OK, so he was handsome in a rough-and-ready, farmhand sort of a way. But it hardly made up for his fatally flawed character, his rudeness, his vindictive streak masked as humour.

‘He had a meeting about his son,’ she said stiffly. ‘It was last-minute and it couldn’t be helped.’

‘And you buy that, do you?’ Gabe asked casually, not taking his eyes off the road.

‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.’ Folding her arms, Laura stared out of the window in silence.

Gabe responded by turning up the music, ejecting Coldplay and tuning into Radio 1. Some awful teen band were playing, one of those Christmas songs with synthesized sleigh bells and cheesy lyrics about snowflakes and children’s wishes. Gabe hummed along tunelessly, strumming the steering wheel in time to the music until at last they arrived at Briar Cottage.

‘I’ll walk you inside.’

‘No, thank you. I’m fine,’ said Laura.

‘I wasn’t asking,’ said Gabe. ‘It’s not gonna be my fault when they find you on your doorstep tomorrow morning, dead from hypothermia because you’ve forgotten your key.’

The garden path was treacherously icy. In her flimsy loafers, Laura found herself slipping all over the place. Throwing her arms out wildly to try to get her balance, she ended up leaning on Gabe, whose work boots gripped the ice like crampons. Halfway to the door, without asking, he scooped her up under one arm as if she were a stepladder or a Nativity play prop, depositing her on the front step like a Christmas parcel. Blushing furiously, as much from anger as embarrassment, Laura jammed her key in the lock so hard she almost snapped it.

‘You might want to invest in some boots,’ said Gabe as the door swung open and she practically fell inside. ‘And an AA membership. Next time I might not be driving by.’

‘Oh no! What on earth would I do then?’ Laura said waspishly.

Gabe scowled. ‘You might be a bit more grateful.’

‘And you might be a bit more—’

‘What? A bit more what?’

He stepped forward, so he stood just inches away from Laura, his broad shoulders filling the narrow cottage doorway like a marauding Viking warrior. It was a challenge, and Laura’s cue to step back, but something kept her rooted to the spot. For a few seconds words failed her. They remained locked in standoff.

‘Never mind,’ she said eventually. ‘To be honest with you, Gabe, I’m cold and I’m tired and I would like to go to bed.’

‘Fine. Goodnight.’ Gabe turned to go, a look of cold thunder on his face. Ungrateful cow.

Just as Laura was about to close the door behind him, resisting with some difficulty the urge to slam it, Gabe suddenly changed his mind. Turning around he said bluntly, ‘He’s lying, you know. Daniel. He’s using you.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Laura practically screamed with exasperation. ‘Using me? Using me for what ? Daniel’s an amazing, talented, phenomenally successful playwright with a flat on Pelham Crescent and God knows how many millions in the bank. I’m an unknown, ex-television writer with a defunct Fiat Punto, a fat dog and an arsehole on my doorstep who I’m going to be forced to work with every fucking day between now and Christmas Eve and whose sole purpose in life seems to be to make my life hell! What could Daniel Smart possibly, possibly want from me?’

For a moment Gabe just stared at her. He’d never seen Laura lose her rag quite so comprehensively before. Her cheeks were flushed apple red, a combination of her high emotion and the biting cold, and her mass of dark curls had escaped their elastic band and fell to her shoulders in a gloriously tangled cascade. The overall effect was disturbingly sexy, but Gabe pushed the thought aside.

‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,’ he said coldly. Stalking off down the path, he heard the cottage door slam loudly behind him. Serve her right if it falls off its hinges in the night and she freezes to death. Stupid, stubborn woman.