Charlotte Phillips - The Present - The must-read Christmas romance of the year!

‘For a while?’ she said. ‘What about now?’

She had gone back to sorting through some old junky-looking ornaments now, not looking at him. The business had been the last thing on his mind since Sean had gone. Beyond the fact that it funded the distraction he needed, his interest in it was pretty low.

‘Now it’s more about what I do in my own time. I’m not going to lie on my deathbed thinking: I wish I’d fixed a few more fences. Not when every day could be my last. So I work from one trip to the next. I’ve got a few local clients like Olive, and I have a guy who covers for me when I’m away. And I pick up other work ad hoc. I can do that anywhere I go, people always want house maintenance work doing, it’s a good source of instant cash if you get stuck.’

‘You mean you work to pay for your holidays?’ she said. ‘That’s no big deal, we all do that.’

Not to the degree that he did.

‘When I finish one trip, I think that’s it for a while, but before I know it I just get restless and start looking for the next thing, the next place, or whatever. I work for a bit, and then get away again.’

Get away really was the right description. The distraction just never lasted long enough.

‘And what kinds of places do you go to?’

Anywhere that doesn’t make me look back and make comparisons.

He pulled down a couple of black bin liners and added them to the to-be-checked stack next to Lucy.

‘Just new places. I don’t usually go back to places I’ve been before. I do some sports stuff, marathon running, diving. Stuff like that.’

‘And you go with friends?’

Sean flashed into his head. The need to get her off this subject.

‘Yeah, sometimes. Anything yet?’

‘Nothing yet,’ she said. ‘Maybe there isn’t anything, and all this will have been a waste of time.’ She sighed. ‘And I’ve got a to-do list for Christmas that would have Mary Berry in tears.’

She opened the next box and pulled out a stack of postcards.

‘Travel isn’t really my thing,’ she said conversationally.

He hadn’t counted on this. Hadn’t counted on small talk. He didn’t answer. Didn’t want to encourage her to probe him for his life story. She was a journalist, incessant questions were probably part of her actual psyche.

‘I like being at home too much,’ she went on. ‘Having a base, you know. Family.’ She glanced up at him and he nodded noncommittally. ‘I mean, constant itchy-footed travel is fine as long as you don’t have responsibilities or ties.’

‘Responsibilities can hold you back, to be fair,’ he said. ‘You only get one life, right? I just kind of realised that I didn’t want to waste too much of it on work.’

She stopped what she was doing and looked at him, and he was sure he caught an eye roll.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Nothing,’ she replied, closing the box and pushing it to one side. ‘Just that I totally get it now.’

‘Get what?’

‘Why I’ve seen you out in town maybe half a dozen times in the last six months, in that wine bar on the high street or whatever, and not once have I seen you with the same girl. And why Gran used to say all your relationships are five-minute wonders.’

She looked at him with mock disapproval, so he winked at her.

‘They’re actually more of a five-hour wonder,’ he said. ‘On occasion, an all-night wonder.’

This time the eye roll was massively exaggerated.

‘For goodness’ sake. There is more to life than living minute-to-minute,’ she said. ‘Having goals to work towards, proper security, knowing what the future holds, building a family.’

‘But all the time the future might not hold anything at all,’ he said. ‘You ever think about that? Ever think about just doing whatever fun thing you want to in the moment just because you can ? It could all be over tomorrow, and any amount of planning ahead doesn’t change that basic fact. And when it is, I will have the comfort of knowing that I lived every second to the fullest that I could, and I didn’t waste a moment more on work than I needed to.’

‘Well, if you want to clock off for the day, don’t let me stop you,’ she said. ‘I mean I’m really grateful for your help, but this stuff isn’t part of your job description, is it?’

‘I wasn’t actually seeing this as work,’ he said. ‘The quest for a school photo of you has real comedy appeal.’

An exasperated laugh. She looked around her, pretending to search for something else to throw at him.

He hauled another box across to her while he pondered how lovely her laugh sounded. She looked up at him from where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a half-smile still on her face.

‘I didn’t mean to sound critical,’ she said. ‘If I did, I mean. About the responsibility thing. It’s up to you what you do with your life, and if you don’t have responsibilities then hey, good luck to you.’ She slid her fingers under the cardboard flap of the box. ‘It just reminded me for a second of someone I know who’s free spirited travel-wise, and they could do with being a bit more organised and up to speed with their family responsibilities for a change.’

Clearly not her boyfriend. The email he’d had from the guy had smacked of responsibility and organisation of exactly the kind he avoided like the plague.

‘My mother,’ she supplied. ‘She doesn’t really do reliable. Reliable doesn’t really sit well with travelling abroad pursuing a delusional singing career.’ She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t bother me, I’m well past caring. I just think she could rock up and spend a bit of time with Gran, especially now.’

‘I’ve not met her,’ he said.

‘You wouldn’t have. Not unless you happened to like hanging out in jazz bars at holiday hotspots in the Med. Hang on …’

She’d been rummaging through a box while talking, and suddenly pulled out a stack of papers, tied together with an ageing ribbon.

‘I think I might have found something.’

She tugged at the ribbon until it fell loose, and she flipped quickly through the papers.

‘They’re the right time frame,’ she said. ‘Letters and postcards by the look of it.’

Her face was alight with excitement. She stood up and hefted the box into her arms.

‘I can’t see properly in this light, I’m going to take it down to the kitchen and have a better look.’

He stood up next to her and grabbed the box out of her hands before she could protest.

‘No you’re not. I’ll bring it down. You can make the coffee.’

In the kitchen, Lucy unpacked the box carefully. A collection of papers. Some old black-and-white photographs. She picked one up. How small it was. A young woman with her hair tied up in a scarf sitting on a fence, smiling and shielding her eyes against the sun.

‘Look,’ she said, moving close to Jack. She was suddenly aware of how tall he was as he leaned in to check the photo out. ‘That’s Gran, right?’

‘It’s definitely her,’ he agreed. ‘The exact same grin. Where is she, some kind of farm?’

There were chickens pecking at the foot of the fence, tufts of grass.

‘I haven’t a clue.’

She turned the photo over.

‘Cheshunt 1944,’ she read aloud.

‘Hertfordshire,’ Jack said. ‘She must have been living in Hertfordshire.’

‘She’s lived here in Canterbury for as long as I can remember. Her whole married life in this house. My mum was born in the living room, right through there.’ She nodded through the open kitchen door and down the hallway. ‘And I’m sure Gran grew up around here. She’s one of those people who’ve lived in the same area their whole life.’

She could absolutely see the appeal of that.