Page 17 of The Village Christmas Party

I glance over at a lady chatting to him at the buffet table and handing him another napkin, and I wonder if it’s his wife?

I put all thoughts of him away as I get on with the task of finishing my gingerbread house. I don’t mind that mine isn’t really in the same league as one or two others, especially Audrey’s, if I’m honest. I wonder if they have all been practising.

‘The lady at the buffet table isn’t sitting on the same table as hot shop guy,’ Gemma tells me as we put the finishing touches to our houses. ‘She must have just been a Good Samaritan, passing him some more napkins. Oh, and he’s been looking over, you know.’

‘Gemma, I’m sure he hasn’t,’ I tell her, appraising my handiwork I’m not sure green was the right colour for the window frames after all, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. ‘And I don’t really care if he has,’ I add.

‘Sure, you don’t.’ She smirks, adding a final jellybean to her impressive looking roof.

‘Has he really been looking over?’ I ask, despite myself.

‘Ha. And you tell me you don’t care. Yes, he has, at least twice. I can’t help noticing him as he is straight in my line of vision.’

‘Well, whatever. He’s probably just looking over and silently cursing me for soaking him,’ I say, although I wonder whether he has really been checking me out? Or perhaps it’s someone else at the table.

‘That must be it then,’ she says. ‘He’s plotting ways to get his own back. I wouldn’t walk past his table if I were you, he might throw something on the floor for you to slip on.’ She grins.

A few minutes later, I can’t resist glancing over and he and his daughter are concentrating on putting their finishing touches to their house. I can’t deny it’s an adorable scene watching them both.

Soon enough, the decorated houses are standing proudly on tables as Jo prepares to judge them, clipboard and pen ready in her hand.

The evening has been interspersed with the raffle, and the little girl with the guy from the shop – I wonder what his real name is? – squealed with delight when she waved her pink ticket and received the toy hamper, filled with colouring books, a cuddly toy, and a chocolate Santa.

A lady from our table won a foot spa and an older bloke, who was accompanying his wife, was delighted to win a bottle of whisky.

‘And now,’ says Jo, clapping her hands together. ‘The main prize of a cookery lesson at the bakery in January. Along with the trophy, of course.’ She lifts a golden gingerbread man trophy. ‘I’ve been really bowled over by the talent in the room this year,’ she says kindly. ‘But having had a good look around at some of your very impressive houses, I am thrilled to say I have selected a winner,’ she announces as murmurs can be heard around the room.

She strides towards our table, and people glance at each other in anticipation. I know the winner won’t be me, but there is already one clear winner in my mind. And it seems that Jo agrees.

‘This is the most beautifully decorated gingerbread house I have seen in a long time,’ says Jo, pointing at the masterpiece in front of her. ‘It’s immaculate and pretty, and looks just like the house from “Hansel and Gretel”, even prettier if that is possible. So huge congratulations go to…?’

‘It’s Audrey,’ says our winner, blushing slightly and grinning from ear to ear.

‘Well done, Audrey. An outright winner if ever I saw one,’ says Jo as the crowd bursts into thunderous applause.

She hands Audrey the golden trophy. ‘I’ll get your details to book you in for the bakery lesson,’ she tells a delighted Audrey. ‘Well done.’

‘Wow, I can’t believe it,’ Audrey says, placing her hand on her chest. ‘I’m in complete shock. I never win anything.’ She is genuinely thrilled.

‘You deserve it, love,’ says a woman at the end of the table. ‘Mine looks like it’s been in an explosion.’ She roars with laughter as she points at the house, its roof dripping with icing, and the left wall threatening to cave in. ‘I’ve had a blast though. And the house looks like it has too.’ She giggles, and we all laugh along with her.

Audrey asks if I mind her going home with the lady from her street, who has driven here, and I tell her of course I don’t, thrilled that she has made a new friend.

‘So do you fancy the pub then? Finish the evening off with a nightcap?’ asks Gemma as she links arms with me and we step outside into the crisp night air.

‘Nice idea, but I must get home and take a wash out of the machine and into my tumble dryer, or the clothes will smell if I leave them overnight.’

‘Surely not? Leaving them for a day or more I can understand, but not what, eight hours?’

‘Um, well maybe not, but I can’t take the chance. I swear my bedding smelt weird last time I left it until the next morning, so I had to wash it all again. And I don’t want to leave the tumble dryer on when I go to work as it’s a fire hazard.’

‘If you say so.’ Gemma rolls her eyes at me, but she’s laughing. ‘I should probably get back too, come to think of it. I’m pretty sure my skirting boards need cleaning.’ She frowns.

‘Are you taking the mickey?’ I pull a face.

‘Me, really?’ She looks up and whistles. ‘You know I’m only teasing. And maybe it is best if we call it a night as we have work in the morning.’

‘I think so. No doubt there will some overindulgences in the days to come anyway.’

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