‘Did he say Sebastian?’
Oh, rats. Trust her to cut to the chase. ‘Uh—yeah. He did.’
‘As in Sebastian Corder? At Easton Court? Is that where you are?’
‘Uh—yeah.’ Her brain dried up, and she ground to a halt, but it didn’t matter because her mother had plenty to say and no hesitation in saying it.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me last night! Are you all right? Of all the places to be stuck—is he OK with you? And you said “they”—is there someone else there? His family? A woman? Not a woman—oh, darling, do be careful—’
‘Mum, it’s fine—’
‘How can it be fine? Georgia, he broke your heart!’
‘I think it was pretty mutual,’ she said softly. ‘Look, Mum, I know it’s not what you want to hear, but we’re OK, and we’re alive, which is the main thing, and he’s being really generous and it’s fine. And there’s nobody else here, just us. His family were coming today. Don’t stress. Nothing’s going to happen.’
Nothing more than the kiss they’d already exchanged, but they’d promised each other no repeats...
‘You can’t just tell me not to stress, I’m your mother. That’s what we do! And he’s—’ Her mother broke off and floundered for a moment, lost for a definition.
‘What?’ Georgie prompted softly. ‘An old friend? And at least we know he’s not a serial killer.’
‘He doesn’t need to be. There’s more than one way to hurt someone.’
And didn’t she know that. ‘Mum, it’s fine. I’m a big girl now. I can manage. Look, I have to go, he’s made coffee for us and then we’re going to decorate the tree. I’ll give you a ring as soon as I know what’s happening with the snow, OK? And give Dad a hug from us and tell him we’ll see him soon. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’
She hung up before her mother could say any more, and turned to find Sebastian watching her thoughtfully across the table.
‘I take it she’s not impressed.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You’d think you were holding us hostage, the fuss she’s making.’
‘She’s your mother. She’s bound to stress.’
‘That’s exactly what she said.’ She sat down at the table with a plonk and gave a frustrated little laugh. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘About your mother, who you have no control over, or the weather, for which ditto?’ He smiled wryly and pushed the biscuits towards her.
‘Here, have one of these before your son finishes them all, and let’s go and tackle this tree.’
EASIER SAID THAN DONE.
It took the best part of an hour to wrestle the tree into the room and get it in the right position, and by the end of it he was hot, cross and had a nice bruise on his finger from pinching it in the clamp.
‘Look on the bright side,’ Georgie said, standing back to study it critically. ‘At least it’s a nice soft fir and not a prickly old spruce. And it fitted under the beam.’
He stuck his head out from underneath it and gave her a look. ‘Just don’t tell me to turn it round again,’ he growled, and she smiled sweetly and widened her eyes.
‘As if. It looks good. It’s even vertical. That’s a miracle in itself. So, where are the decorations?’
He worked his way out from under the tree and stood up, brushing bits of vegetation off his cashmere sweater. Probably not the best choice of garment for the task in hand, but with Georgia in the house he didn’t seem to be able to think clearly. ‘In my study. Come and have a look.’
She followed him to the room that they’d christened the music room, under her bedroom. There was a desk in there positioned to take advantage of the views over the garden, and apart from the laptop on the desk, there was nothing to give away that it was an office. She wondered how much work he did here, or was planning to, or if it was just a weekend cottage.
Some cottage, she thought drily.
There was a stack of boxes beside the desk, and he pulled one of the boxes off the pile and opened it on the desk. ‘I’m not convinced they’re child-friendly.’
Probably not, she thought, eyeing the expensive packaging. The decorations were all immaculately boxed, individually wrapped in tissue paper and made of glass. Beautiful though they were, she wasn’t in a hurry to put them in reach of Josh.
‘Not good?’ he asked, and she shrugged.
‘They’re lovely. Beautiful, but they aren’t really safe within his reach. He’s a bit small to understand about cutting his fingers off.’
Sebastian winced. ‘We could put them higher up, out of his reach.’
‘We could. And we could decorate the lower part with other things. And they aren’t all glass. Look, these ones are traditional pâpier maché, it says. They’ll be all right, and I can make gingerbread stars and trees, and decorate them with icing—have you got icing sugar and colourings?’
He raised his hands palm-up and pulled a face. ‘How would I know?’
‘You put the stuff away in your kitchen?’
He shook his head. ‘My mother put a lot of the food away. She was here when it arrived. I was still in London.’
‘Ah. Well, in that case we’ll have to go and look or be imaginative. There are fir trees in the grounds. We can find fir cones and berries and things—’
‘May I remind you that everything in the garden is submerged under a foot of snow?’ he said drily, and she smiled.
‘I’m sure you’ll manage. Coloured paper? Glue? Sticky tape?’
He had a horrible feeling the tree was going to end up looking like a refugee from a craft programme on the television, but then Josh crawled through the kneehole of the desk pushing his stapler along the floor and making ‘vroom vroom’ noises, and he suddenly didn’t care what the tree looked like. He just wanted Josh to be safe, and happy, and together they could have fun making stuff for the tree.
Well, Josh could. He wasn’t sure he’d be so thrilled by it, but hey. Josh was just a kid, and Sebastian wasn’t going to put his own feelings before the child’s. No way.
‘Let’s put this lot on the top half,’ he suggested, ‘and I’ll go and see what I can find in the garden while you make the biscuits. I’m sure I’ve got ribbon and sticky tape and coloured wrapping paper left from the presents.’
She smiled, her whole face softening. ‘Thanks. That would be great. OK, Josh, let’s go and make the tree pretty, shall we?’
‘Lights first,’ Sebastian said, picking up the box.
‘Do they flash?’
‘No they don’t,’ he said, appalled. ‘Nor are they blue. Christmas tree lights should be white, like stars.’
‘Stars twinkle,’ she pointed out, and started singing ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star’, but he’d had enough. Laughing in exasperation, he turned her shoulders, gave her a little push towards the door and followed her back to the sitting room, trying really, really hard not to breathe in the scent of her perfume.
* * *
‘Your mother rang.’