Tilly Bagshawe - One Christmas Morning - A perfect Christmas treat!

At last the train pulled up at Fittlescombe station. There was no snow this time, only grey drizzle and a wind that sliced at Daniel’s face like a razor blade as he stepped onto the platform. A lone figure in a thick Puffa jacket, woolly hat and multiple scarves stood next to the ticket office. They were so swaddled in layers of clothing, they could have been male or female, fat or thin, old or young.

‘Laura?’

‘Daniel!’

They hugged awkwardly. Laura looked at his thin sports jacket, worn over a tight-fitting cashmere sweater in duck-egg blue. ‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘Bloody freezing.’ He grinned. ‘Where’s your car?’

He was every bit as handsome as Laura remembered him, tall and fit with thick chestnut hair and eyes the same dark green as the baize on the snooker table in the Balliol College bar.

‘Follow me. It’s a bit of a banger, I’m afraid. I’m between jobs at the moment so I’m, er, economizing.’

Daniel squeezed himself into the tiny Fiat Punto. His legs were so long they practically touched the ceiling. ‘Please tell me you live close by.’

He looked ridiculous, doubled over in the passenger seat. Laura burst out laughing. ‘Five minutes, honestly. I’ll drive fast.’

As they hurtled along the back lanes of Fittlescombe, Daniel’s attention was divided between looking at Laura – he couldn’t assess her figure beneath the enormous coat, but her skin still looked flawless and the dark curls and almost-black eyes were just as he remembered them – and the village itself, picture-perfect despite the awful weather. No wonder so many influential people from the theatre and TV worlds chose to live out here. It was only an hour and a half from London by train, but it was a different world.

It was four o’clock and darkness was already starting to set in by the time they pulled up in front of Briar Cottage. But if anything the twilight enhanced its decrepit charms. Lights blazed cosily from the downstairs windows, and a thin trail of smoke from Laura’s afternoon fire snaked up into the air above the sloping roof.

‘Wow. Pretty. It looks like every writer’s dream. You must be so productive out here.’

‘Oh, definitely,’ Laura lied. It wouldn’t do to sound like a failure in front of Daniel. He didn’t need to know that she’d spent half of this morning watching Deal or No Deal on television and the other half stuffing dirty laundry into drawers and cupboards so Daniel didn’t think she’d become a total slattern. Not that she expected anything to happen between them. Or even wanted anything to happen. It was too soon after John.

Inside, Daniel dropped his overnight bag on the floor and took off his jacket, watching out of the corner of his eye as Laura peeled off layer after layer of clothing. Unwrapped to a pair of black corduroy trousers and a chocolate-brown sweater, she was plumper than she had been at Oxford, but definitely still foxy. Thankfully, at least half of the extra weight seemed to have gone on her boobs.

‘Let me take that.’ She reached for his jacket, opening the hall cupboard, then closing it again quickly when an assorted medley of dirty wellies, scrunched-up coats and dog chews tumbled out of it onto the floor. ‘It’s a lovely cottage but there’s not as much storage as I’d like.’ Laura blushed.

She’s still sexy , thought Daniel.

‘We’ll hang it in your room. Come on up.’

Following her up the narrow cottage staircase, admiring the curve of her bottom in the slightly too-tight cords, Daniel found himself being led into a low-beamed back bedroom. A small double bed with a chintzy eiderdown took up most of the room, with a small mahogany wardrobe propped up next to the window and a tiny bedside table the only other furniture.

‘If you’d like a bath, it’s across the hall. There are fresh towels in the cupboard. I thought we’d go to the pub for supper later. Might be a bit more jolly than staying in.’

In fact Laura had intended cooking at home, but the Moroccan lamb tagine she’d spent most of yesterday preparing was now a charred mess glued to the bottom of a casserole. Even Peggy had turned her nose up at the remnants of her mistress’s abortive culinary efforts. The Fox’s steak-and-kidney pie beckoned.

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