But as I stare past the elf to the car driver, heat sears through me. It’s the kind of hot flash under the collar I haven’t felt since I used to blush on the school bus every morning as a teenager. My face bursting into flames at the slightest provocation was why sixth-form bad boy, Rory Sanderson, singled thirteen-year-old me out for my own personal conversation as he made his way down the gangway to his seat at the back. Every single morning. By the time he left for uni, one tweak of his eyebrow from a hundred yards was enough to turn me scarlet. I just wasn’t prepared to meet him today. Especially with me jammed between Santa and an elf, doing an impression of the old woman who crawled out of the sea.
I shudder inwardly as I stare into the car. The rock-star long hair might have been trimmed back, but the broad grin I’m staring straight into is unmistakable. And it hasn’t lost an ounce of the kind of insanely inflated self-belief that I suspect came from having his own personal tractor from the age of ten. There are crinkles around the kind of come-to-bed eyes that were only one of the reasons for his legendary status. Rumour had it he also burned down the school music room due to a fault on his guitar amp. What’s more, he was the only pupil with the cheek to call Mrs Wilson, the deputy head, ‘darling’, and the charm to live to brag about it. Although thinking back, I reckon it was him driving a car off an actual cliff top that fast forwarded him to the top of every mother’s banned boyfriend list.
‘Holly-berry-red-cheeks? What the hell are you doing here, dripping all over Santa’s sleigh? Did you take up swimming? I thought you always hated water?’
If it’s divine payback for me lying earlier that’s hurled him into my path here, let’s be clear. I’d rather have a hundred rogue waves crashing down on my head than come face to face with the awful Mr Sanderson again. Since I last heard of him light years ago, storming the world of corporate law in Bristol, I’ve stupidly let him drop off my ‘worry about and avoid at all costs’ radar. And this is him all over. Straight in there, claiming to remember a person’s intimate details. Familiar as if I only saw him yesterday.
For a second I’m wishing he’d caught me at some do I’d made a big effort for. That I’d had a shit-hot professional blow dry, got my long lasting lippy on, squeezed into some killer dress I probably don’t even own. At least then I’d be coming from a position of strength. The thing is, right now my hair is in rats’ tails, I have half the beach in my fake fur, but I’m so bright red from the wind and the cold, no blush on earth is going to make it any worse. That particular scenario might never happen ever again. This is my one chance to lay the ghosts and wipe the floor with him. It’s one of those iconic now-or-never moments. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, drag my coat closer around me and launch.
‘Actually, you know what I hate more than water?’ I’ve barely been here half an hour and I’m already talking in questions. ‘It is Rory, isn’t it?’
‘It was last time I looked.’ He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and nods. ‘And? I’m all ears here. And I’m sure Santa and his elf can’t wait to hear either.’
That back chat is only what I know to expect. If there’s a confused frown overlaying that laid- back smile of his, it’s probably because I’m coming on so kick-ass here. Believe me, I’m actually shocking myself too. You wouldn’t believe how liberating it is, when for one time only you don’t have to worry about blushing.
‘Well …’ I pause to drag in a breath and my chest ends up expanding so much I feel like a cat with its fur standing on end. ‘I hate inconsiderate drivers who force their way into spaces that don’t even exist.’
He pulls a face and his voice rises in protest. ‘Excuse me, but I’m the injured party here. Your friend Santa’s the one who cut me up.’
So likely. ‘You always were a knob head. For one time only you’re going to have to grow some balls, give in and back up. It’s obviously escaped you, but ponies don’t have reverse gear.’ Even though I’m on a roll here, I actually just meant to tell him to grow up. But whatever. I ramp up my scowl. ‘You wouldn’t want ashes instead of presents in your Christmas stocking, would you? Seeing as you’re still behaving like a kid.’ I know it’s the elf’s line, but it’s too good not to borrow.
As Santa leans past me, his voice is conciliatory. ‘Sorry she’s so prickly, Rory. You’ll have to forgive her, she’s just come all the way from London.’
Rory’s actually laughing, damn him. ‘Don’t worry, Gaz, I haven’t had a tongue lashing like that in years and I’m loving every second.’
My jaw freezes. For every reason. ‘You two know each other too?’
Santa gives me a strange stare. ‘Of course we do. This is Rory Sanderson, a.k.a. the Mr Huntley and Handsome, our eminent local wine supplier.’ He pauses to cock an eyebrow at me. ‘He’s a lovely boy. I’m sure this unfortunate squeeze here wasn’t deliberate.’
The elf purses his lips. ‘Rory’s solely responsible for keeping the fizz flowing in St Aidan, and our own personal Adonis in the Chamber of Commerce. I can’t think of anyone we’d rather be wedged in a crack with.’
The disgustingly attractive Sanderson body is obviously still working its magic then, despite it being twenty years older. It wasn’t that any one bit was particularly spectacular. But working as a whole, the effect was apparently knock-out. Not that I was ever a public fan. I made damned sure I never admitted to any of my misplaced teenage lusting.
‘No need to be quite such a tart, Ken.’ Santa’s looking daggers at the elf.
Rory looks like he’s choking back his laugh. ‘Great, we all know I like to claim that most of the upmarket hangovers in St Aidan are down to me. Anyway, if you hang onto the pony, Gaz, I’ll get out of your hair –’ He leans forward and eyeballs me, ‘– definitely not implying you look like a haystack, Holly. Or a witch who rode through a hurricane.’ He leans back again, and it’s obvious when he lets his smile go, that’s exactly what he means. ‘Then you can all get on with your day.’
Clamping my hands on my head, I try to find a snappy last word to hurl, but my wisecrack stream has totally dried. Instead I’m left, mouth sagging, staring at his manoeuvres. It’s only at the very end of his six point turn that I see past the Bad Ass Santa Brew transfers on the window and spot the two baby seats in the back of the car. I swallow hard and hang on to my deflating stomach as the engine purrs away. Rory Sanderson with kids? I did not see that one coming. Though why I should give a damn, I have no idea.
‘Holleeeeeeeeee …’
I turn as I hear my name. A shriek like that can only mean one person. ‘Poppy?’
She’s haring down the mews, blonde pigtails shining in a sudden shaft of afternoon sun, her Barbour coat flapping. ‘Great transport, Hols! Here’s me searching for you everywhere and you’ve been hijacked by Santa. How wild is that?’ Her forehead wrinkles into an appalled frown as she comes close. ‘Jeez, what happened here? Did you drive through a car wash?’
Frankly I’m relieved it’s not worse. ‘We collided with an early Christmas wave.’ Now I’m climbing down and shaking the sand out of my hair, it’s easier to laugh it off. ‘But thanks for the lift, Santa, it was way more exciting than a taxi. Take this for your charity box.’ I grab a tenner out of my pocket and push it into his hand.
Poppy leaps backwards as I land next to her. ‘No hugs for you when you’re this wet, even if you do look