‘It’s just as well I ignored your demands to put the porridge back on the shelf, then.’ He took one of her hands, rubbed a thumb over the back of her slender fingers, perfect nails. ‘It would be a pity to spoil these.’
‘Nathaniel…’ The word came out as a gasp.
‘Fortunately, the staff canteen opens at seven,’ he said, cutting off the little thank you speech he could see she was working up to, letting go of her hand. He didn’t want her thanks. He didn’t know what he wanted. Or maybe he did. He just wasn’t prepared to let go of the past. Admit it. ‘It takes time to get everything pitch perfect for the public.’
‘Well, that makes sense, I suppose.’ She sounded doubtful. ‘If you don’t like to cook.’ She turned back to the island, continued putting away the cold food. ‘What are you planning to do for Christmas? I don’t imagine the store is open on Christmas Day.’
‘No. Obviously, I’ve tried to persuade the staff that it’s a good idea, purely for my own convenience, you understand, but for some reason they won’t wear it.’
Bad choice of words.
She wasn’t wearing nearly enough. If she was going to stay it was essential that she cover those shapely legs. Those sweet little toes with their shiny red nails. Or he wouldn’t be answerable.
Nathaniel frowned and Lucy swallowed. Hard. She was totally losing it.
‘I’m sorry. That was unbelievably rude of me. You’ve probably noticed, but I tend to say the first thing that comes into my head. Obviously, you’ve got family, friends.’
A cousin, at least.
‘I’m never short of invitations,’ he agreed, ‘but, by the time the big day arrives, all I want to do is open a tin of soup.’
‘You can have too much of a good thing, huh?’
‘Remind me again,’ he invited, ‘what exactly is good about it?’
‘You don’t like Christmas?’
‘I repeat, what’s good about it?’
‘Lots of things. The fun of choosing gifts for the people you love.’ No response. He didn’t love anyone? No…‘Planning the food?’ she offered quickly, not wanting to think about the red rose in the room upstairs. ‘Oh, no. You don’t cook. How about a brass band playing Christmas carols in the open air? The sense of anticipation. The faces of little children.’ She didn’t appear to be making much impression with the things that she loved about Christmas so she tried a different tack. ‘How about the profits, Nathaniel? Remind me, how much does it cost to take a sleigh ride to Santa’s grotto?’
If she’d hoped to provoke him into a show of emotion, she would have been disappointed.
‘Would you care to see a breakdown of the costs involved in designing and creating a visual effects spectacular that will satisfy children who’ve been brought up on CGI?’ he enquired, clearly not in the least bit excited by the cost or the finished product. ‘You’re right, Lucy. Christmas is a rip-off. A tacky piece of commercialism and if I could cancel it I would.’
‘I didn’t say that!’
‘No? Forgive me, but I thought you just did.’
‘What I was doing was offering you a personal reason to enjoy it.’
‘The profit motive? Sorry, you’re going to have to try harder than that.’
‘Okay. Come down to the grotto and listen to the little ones for whom it’s all still magic, the wonder still shinybright.’
‘At a price.’
‘I know. And I wish every child had the chance to see it.’ She reached up for an egg basket, hanging over the island. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing it myself.’ Then, because he was a cynic and she was a fool, ‘Should any of them ask you, by the way, the reindeer are parked on the roof.’
‘They are?’
‘Well, obviously. Santa’s here so where else would they be?’
‘Good point.’
‘And you might warn Groceries that there’s likely to be a rush on chilli-flavoured cashew nuts. You wouldn’t want to miss a sale.’
‘That would be tragic.’ Nat felt the tension ease from his jaw as his mouth hitched up in the makings of a smile. ‘I know I’m going to hate myself for asking this, but why would there be a rush on chilli-flavoured cashew nuts?’
Lucy responded with a careless shrug and he found himself holding his breath, wondering what was coming next.
‘I happened to let it slip that Rudolph eats them to keep his nose bright. Dido promised to keep it secret but I can’t guarantee that she won’t try a little one-upmanship on her sister.’
‘What an interesting day you’ve had, Lucy Bright.’
‘It’s had its ups and its downs,’ she admitted. ‘That was definitely an up.’
‘Why cashew nuts?’
‘Oh, well, peanuts can be a problem. You know. Allergies…’ She regarded him steadily, waiting. Then, ‘Come on, Nathaniel Hart. Get with the plot.’
Realising he’d missed something, he lifted his brows, inviting her to provide the punchline.
‘Elf and safety?’
It took a moment but then he shook his head. ‘I do not believe you just said that, Lucy Bright.’
‘Actually, neither do I,’ she said solemnly. And then she snorted with laughter.
The sound rippled around the kitchen, bouncing off doors, windows, an array of steel tools hanging from the four-sided rail above the island.
Waking everything up, Nat thought, setting up a hum that seemed to vibrate through him until he was laughing, too.
‘Do you have a kettle, do you know?’ she asked once she’d recovered. Then, as he reached for it, ‘I don’t need to be waited on.’
‘I do know how to boil a kettle. Tea?’ he offered. ‘Or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Oh, tea, I think. Camomile, if you’ve got it. It’s a bit late for coffee.’
Only if you were able to sleep.
She transferred the eggs from the carton to the basket while he filled the kettle, switched it on. Stretched up on her toes to replace it.
Her hair had dried into a froth of little tendrils that curled around her face, against her neck. All she needed were wings and a white dress and she’d look more at home on the top of a Christmas tree than dressed as an elf.
Eggs safe, she picked up a punnet of baby plum tomatoes and looked at them for a moment, then at the plain white china mugs he’d taken from the cupboard, a tiny frown buckling her forehead.
She wasn’t beautiful, there was nothing classic about her features, yet there was a sparkle in her green eyes that made everything right. Made something inside him begin to bubble, catch like a motor that hadn’t been used in a while, that had to be teased into life with a touch, a smile, laughing lips that begged to be kissed.
Like a limb that had gone to sleep, the return to life hurt.
He turned away, almost with relief, as the kettle boiled and reached for one of a row of polished black canisters.
‘It’s not camomile,’ he apologised, extracting a couple of tea bags. He rarely drank tea and discovered that they were disconcertingly beige in this monochrome world. ‘I’m afraid Earl Grey is the best I can do.’