Mince Pies and Mistletoe at the Christmas Market Page 11

  ‘Yes,’ I said with a smile, relieved that it was finally all over, ‘of course.’

  ‘My next guest is a new tattooist who has just moved to the city and he’s here to talk about the sudden upsurge in the popularity of bespoke body art. I couldn’t help noticing you have a small tattoo on your back. What inspired you to get it done and do you have any more hidden away anywhere?’

  ‘Oh well,’ I stammered, my heart hammering in my chest and my words tripping over themselves. ‘I was very young when I had it done, I’d just turned eighteen. I can’t imagine I’ll have another one, so I’m no expert on bespoke body art.’ I was clearly floundering.

  ‘I have one that matches,’ Steve blurted out, ‘but mine is on my leg.’

  ‘Oh really,’ said Jennie, ‘how sweet, matching tattoos. So are you two a couple then?’

  ‘We used to be,’ Steve mumbled, before looking at me apologetically and mouthing ‘sorry’.

  ‘Well, there we have it folks,’ Jennie said, tidily rounding up her tenuous link, ‘perhaps this pair could stick around and ask our next guest about some cover-up options!’

  Steve and I forced a laugh as she handed over to the newsreader.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry,’ she said, her radio persona completely abandoned the second her microphone was turned off, ‘I thought it would make a good link. I should have asked you before we went on-air.’

  ‘No harm done,’ I insisted, but knowing full well that someone would have told Dad about the radio spot. Not only did he now know of my involvement with the switch-on, he also knew I had a tattoo. He was going to hit the roof.

  I might have been well over the age of consent but Dad was certainly not a fan of tattoos, piercings or even slightly bold hair dye for that matter and I just knew I was in for another ‘while you are under my roof’ lecture as soon as I got home. This latest debacle certainly wasn’t going to help heal the rifts that had become even deeper since I arrived home.

  ‘Well played, Mr Thompson,’ said Jennie, turning to Paul who bent to give her a brief kiss on the cheek, ‘I think you might have played a blinder there.’

  ‘Time will tell,’ he said, helping me back into my coat, ‘time will tell.’

  ‘Well I hope so,’ said Jennie, ‘for your ratings’ sake.’

  ‘No,’ said Paul firmly, ‘for the town’s sake actually.’

  There were a dozen or so people crowded around the door as we tried to leave the building and walk back to the car.

  ‘What did you have to go and say that for?’ I hissed at Steve while we waited patiently for Paul to sign a few autographs and take some self-indulgent selfies.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Steve, running a hand through his hair, ‘I could see how mortified you were and thought I should try and say something to help.’

  I tutted loudly and rifled through my pockets for my phone which I could hear pinging away. I hoped it was going to be a text from Tom congratulating us on a job well done, but it wasn’t.

  ‘Well there you go,’ I said, tossing Steve my phone when I had finished with it. ‘Have a read of that and promise me that if you feel like helping me out in the future, you’ll resist the urge.’

  To soften the blow of the text from my dad and to celebrate the overall success Paul was convinced the radio spot had been, he insisted that we ended the afternoon with a bottle of champagne.

  ‘Ordinarily I’d have a chauffeur to ferry me about, but as I’m designated driver today I obviously won’t indulge,’ he said regretfully.

  ‘Me neither,’ I insisted, ‘thanks but no thanks.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ he laughed, ‘you two really look as if you could do with a drop of fizz to put the spring back in your step!’

  ‘Oh come on, Ruby,’ said Steve, plucking at my coat sleeve. ‘I was only trying to help. Please don’t make me feel worse than I do already!’

  I looked from Paul’s pout to Steve’s hopeful, wide-eyed smile.

  ‘Oh, go on then,’ I finally relented, not wanting to be a party pooper.

  ‘Yes!’ said Steve, playfully punching my arm.

  I ignored him and carried on talking to Paul.

  ‘But I don’t know where you’ll find an off-licence around here.’

  ‘An off-licence,’ he laughed. ‘I don’t need an off-licence! Steve, would you please be so kind as to fetch the bottle and glasses from the chiller in the boot?’

  ‘You aren’t serious!’ I laughed.

  ‘Of course I am,’ Paul winked, ‘what sort of celebrity would I be if I left home without the obligatory bottle of Cristal?’

  Steve and I, ensconced in the back of the car, managed to drink the whole bottle between us on the journey home and consequently fell to chatting about old times and some of the mischief we had got into that last summer before our cosy little world came crashing down around our ears.

  ‘Do you remember,’ he laughed, as he topped up my glass, ‘that ridiculous seaside inflatable I used to keep in the back of the van?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I hiccupped. ‘It was our one concession to comfort, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Until it went bang,’ he reminded me. ‘An air bed really would have been a more practical option.’

  ‘But a rather obvious one,’ I giggled. ‘I’m fairly certain your dad would have worked out what you wanted it for.’

  ‘So you really think he had no idea why I insisted on driving around with a giant plastic crocodile on top of the carrots and onions?’

  ‘Oh don’t.’ I cringed, mortified to think that our clandestine trysts had been so glaringly obvious. ‘And anyway, the poor old croc wouldn’t have gone bang had you not . . .’

  ‘You two all right back there?’ called Paul from the front.

  ‘Uh huh,’ we chorused and burst out laughing again.

  Although reluctant to walk me to the house door when we arrived back in Wynbridge, Steve didn’t have much choice as I was little unsteady on my feet and ridiculously giggly.

  ‘I’d forgotten how funny you are when you’re drunk,’ he said, taking the opportunity to slip an arm around my waist as he helped me out of the car.

  ‘I’m not drunk,’ I said, leaning towards him and instantly moulding into the sorely missed contours of his toned rugby physique, ‘just a little tipsy from all those bubbles.’

  ‘Well, you should stay a little tipsy,’ he said looking down at me. ‘I like you tipsy. You’re much more like the old you when you’re tipsy.’

  ‘Now don’t start all that,’ I said, poking him in the chest.

  ‘All what?’ he laughed, looking down at me.

  ‘Ruby!’ shouted Dad, suddenly appearing at the front door. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, are you drunk?’

  ‘No,’ called Steve, ‘she isn’t drunk, Mr Smith. Just a little tipsy.’

  Crippled with laughter I clumsily tried to push Steve away and Dad, after scanning the road to see how many neighbours were twitching their curtains, disappeared back inside.

  ‘You,’ said Steve, when we finally reached the door, ‘are in serious trouble.’

  ‘I know,’ I giggled, thinking of more than the impending showdown with Dad, ‘I know.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Ruby Sue,’ he smiled down at me.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ I hiccupped again.

  Chapter 12

  By the time I’d managed to struggle free of my jacket, pull off my boots and make it into the kitchen for a glass of water, Dad had had the benefit of an extra few minutes in which to think over exactly how many things I’d done in the last few days to upset him and it was immediately obvious that he wanted to ‘talk’ to me about quite a few of them.

  ‘Oh Ruby,’ he said, his tone loaded with pent-up frustration, ‘a tattoo, and right where everyone can see it. I can’t deny I’m sorely disappointed.’

  I took a deep breath to quell the bristling sensation in the back of my neck and promised myself I would remain as calm as was humanly possible with a system which now felt pumped ful
l of top shelf champagne.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ I sighed, ‘a tattoo, but no, not on public display and actually only really visible if I’m on the beach and wearing a bikini, so not particularly likely to cause a local scandal. It really is no big deal.’

  ‘It’s what’s commonly known as a “tramp stamp”, isn’t it?’ he said with a sniff, as if the whole thing was something unsavoury and certainly not for the likes of him, ‘and I suppose it’s got Steve Dempster’s name written all over it.’

  Having taken a moment to calculate that I had drunk perhaps a little more than half of the bottle of Cristal on the journey home, I was suddenly beginning to feel considerably bolder and not at all inclined to wait quietly until Dad had finished ranting. I didn’t know whether the water I had drunk had fired the fizz around my veins or whether I’d simply had enough of being spoken to like a child, but I was determined to give him back just as good as he was determined to throw at me. All those high hopes for our happy reconciliation seemed but a distant memory. Every conciliatory move I’d made had been met with him taking a step back and I’d had enough.

  ‘A tramp stamp,’ I began serenely, as if imparting great wisdom, ‘is a derogatory term used to describe a tattoo which sits below the waist but above the backside and is clearly visible whenever clothes part while bending over or stretching up. As my tattoo is situated more towards my hip than my spine and is really rather tiny, it cannot be described as a tramp stamp and no, it certainly does not have Steve’s name emblazoned all over it, or love or hate or mother for that matter!’

  ‘But he said he has the same one,’ Dad said, his tone beginning to sound more weary than wound up. ‘Live on air, Steve Dempster said that you both have the same tattoo.’

  ‘We do,’ I shrugged, trying not to think back to the secretive planning and heady excitement that had engulfed the day we had travelled to Norwich to get them done, ‘but unless you were going to view them side by side, which I admit would be a fun position to get into given where they are,’ I added, just to fuel the fire a bit more, ‘you would never know they were a matching pair.’

  As the seconds ticked by I could feel my temper beginning to bubble almost beyond my control. I was just as angry that my productive afternoon had been spoilt as I was by Dad’s attitude towards something so private that actually at the end of the day had nothing to do with him.

  ‘Where did you go to get them done?’ he asked, tactfully choosing to ignore my Kama Sutra-like suggestion.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because not all these places are clean, Ruby,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Most of them don’t follow the hygiene rules and regulations, you know.’

  ‘And how would you know that?’ I laughed. ‘When did you become an expert?’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ groaned Mum as she walked into the kitchen. ‘Will you give it a rest, Robert? It’s done, end of, and as Ruby is a young woman well over the age of consent and not your little girl any more, there really is nothing you can do about it!’

  I knew Mum must have heard enough from him by that point because she would never usually say a word when Dad went off on one. Ordinarily she would let him run out of steam in his own time, but clearly she had reached saturation point, as had I.

  ‘But she knows how much I hate them,’ Dad continued, as if my actions were a personal affront.

  Mum was having no more of it.

  ‘Oh, we all know how much you hate them,’ she snapped, her voice rising, ‘which is why you haven’t got any.’

  I couldn’t suppress the little hiccup that escaped as I thought of Dad pinned in a chair having Mum’s name in script tattooed next to his heart.

  ‘Now,’ said Mum, turning to me, ‘I am going to put the kettle on and you are going to tell me all about how this business with Paul Thompson really started. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing, has it, Robert?’

  ‘No,’ Dad confirmed, wearily pulling out a chair and sitting at the table, ‘it hasn’t.’

  I braced myself for the next barrage of insults and accusations, but thankfully none were forthcoming. I stole a quick glance as he rubbed his hands over his face and stifled a yawn. He looked tired, resigned almost, and had I been completely sober I would have perhaps had the heart to feel concerned, but as it was I simply took his demeanour as defeated. Finally I had clocked up a victory.

  ‘Even the mayor has been on the phone!’ Mum laughed.

  ‘Oh really,’ I said, turning back to her, ‘and what did the mayor have to say? Was he annoyed by the sudden change in events?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ laughed Mum with a nod towards Dad, ‘couldn’t be more delighted. Huge fan apparently! Can’t wait to meet the man himself!’

  The very last thing I needed on Saturday, November the twenty-sixth was a hangover, but I had one and I no doubt deserved it. Fortunately the extra adrenaline pumping through my veins kept the worst of it at bay, and with the market and town so busy and a couple of last-minute errands to run for Tom, I didn’t have time to dwell on my aching head and just focused on applying myself to the jobs in hand.

  The weather was cold and crisp but clear, perfect for the evening’s entertainment, and I couldn’t wait for everything to get started so we could see if our combined efforts had been worth all the hours we had been putting in.

  ‘How’s your head?’ called Steve, as he finished stringing up an extra set of twinkling fairy lights and some more bunting on Gwen’s stall.

  ‘Not the best,’ I admitted, tossing him his daily dose of mince pies, ‘I’m trying not to think about it to be honest. What about you?’

  ‘Surprisingly clear,’ he said, wandering over with his toolbox and tearing into the bag of pies, ‘but then I didn’t have to face the wrath of your dad, did I?’ he added, before cramming his mouth full of crumbly sweet pastry.

  ‘Quite,’ I said, stamping my feet on the cobbles in an attempt to get the blood flowing back to my frozen toes. ‘But he wasn’t all that bad, to be honest,’ I added, thinking back over everything that had been said.

  ‘Really?’ Steve gaped, showering me with crumbs. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘He probably would have been,’ I explained, passing him a serviette, ‘but he didn’t get the chance to really launch off. Mum soon shut him up when she’d heard enough.’

  ‘Good for your mum,’ he laughed.

  I watched as he polished off the second pie and finished re-packing the bits and pieces he had used to secure Gwen’s lights and bunting and when he looked back up he was bright red.

  ‘All that talk yesterday got me thinking about us, Ruby; our trip to Norwich and the day we went and got the tattoos done in particular,’ he said, with a small smile.

  ‘Me too,’ I admitted.

  ‘I’ve still got those silly photos we had taken in that booth in the mall afterwards.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said again.

  ‘They were happy times, weren’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, because they were. ‘They were the best.’

  We looked at one another for a second and I could have been eighteen years old again. Part of me wished I was. With every conversation and fleeting glance it was becoming increasingly (and painfully) obvious that I was never going to stop wishing for what we could have had. If only I could turn off my heart, I thought, then perhaps I’d stop finding him such a turn-on.

  ‘You know I only did what I thought was for the best back then, Ruby, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I sighed, struggling to fight down the desire to fling my arms around him and tell him how I still felt about him. How I had always felt. ‘I probably didn’t at the time, but I do now.’

  ‘But if I could turn the clock back . . .’

  ‘If you could turn back time,’ I cut in as Mia came striding into view, looking every inch the pristine snow queen and making my heart sink like a deflated balloon, ‘you’d be a millionaire.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know what you meant,’
I said, looking over his shoulder, pointing in Mia’s direction and therefore effectively drawing a line under the conversation. ‘I think you’re wanted.’

  ‘Oh God,’ he sighed, muttering under his breath as he went to meet her, ‘she wasn’t impressed with my radio performance at all.’

  Given what had been discussed live on-air, I could hardly say I blamed her.

  Fortunately as the market was still heaving and time was so tight to get everything finished I didn’t have the opportunity to dwell on my regrets and disappointments. In fact, with the benefit of hindsight, and the added vision of Mia wandering about looking saintly and desirable, I couldn’t help thinking that it was probably best that I hadn’t said anything after all. I mean, what would have been the point in stirring it all up again? If he was still single I might have felt differently but given he had Mia in tow, he was hardly pining away for me.

  Just because he was feeling a bit guilty about the way we’d parted didn’t mean that he wanted us to actually get back together again. Had I not arrived in Wynbridge when I did I dare say he wouldn’t have given me a second thought. These fresh feelings were simply the result of my unexpected return and a timely bottle of champagne, nothing more.

  Ordinarily by four in the afternoon, especially during the winter, Wynbridge town centre would be pretty much deserted and the market ready to call it a day, but on this particular Saturday there were people crammed everywhere and the air was bristling with a palpable air of excitement and heady anticipation for what was to come.

  All the stalls were now prettily lit with extra sets of lights and Pete had already fired up the candyfloss machine which lent its own sickly sweet scent to the air in stark contrast to the mouth-watering smell of the pork that Amber and Jake had had on the spit all afternoon. Tom had even managed to trace the dozen or so small braziers that had been made to mark the millennium and dotted them around the place, and with an adult to keep each one blazing away and safe, the little market square looked every inch as jolly and inviting as it sounded.

  ‘What do you think of my Rudolph?’ asked Lizzie, as she staggered over from the Cherry Tree with a large plywood reindeer tucked under her arm. ‘Shirley and Bob asked me to help them paint him so the kids can play pin the tail on the reindeer and look, Bob’s even rigged up a little red light bulb so his nose actually glows!’