Page 6 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
‘Yes,’ I reply as Kate ends the call.
I think about the office for a moment. I dread to think what all the gossips will be saying right now. My situation will be the most exciting thing to happen there in ages. But for once I decide that I don’t care. Let them gossip. I won’t be going back there again. However, I’m glad Kate called; she had always been one of my more trusted colleagues and knowing she too saw the advert makes me feel a little happier about its validity.
I’m about to pop my phone back in my bag when notifications for two emails and a text arrive on the screen. They all inform me of exactly the same thing, that the sender has just seen an advert that sounds ‘perfect for me’.
‘Okay, I get it, I get it!’ I call, looking up, and an old lady pulling a tartan shopping trolley gives me a strange look as she passes me on the pavement.
So, which way now?I think, silently this time, as I hurriedly consult my map again.
I follow the route on my phone until I reach the end of the street. As I turn a corner, the road suddenly opens out into the most beautiful Georgian square.
‘Wow,’ I say, looking around me. ‘This is beautiful.’
The square is much like many of the others I’ve occasionally passed through in this part of London. A small area of grass and trees – like a tiny park – is surrounded by black wrought-iron railings. It’s then protected from the outside world even further by terraces of elegant Georgian houses that line its four sides.
These attractive little squares usually come as a welcome respite from the stark, grey, modern buildings that have taken over much of central London, but this one I find myself in now is particularly lovely.
I see where you got your name, I think as I look up at the tall trees dotted through the park, most of them now almost bare for winter. Each one has at least one bunch of mistletoe clinging to its high branches.
Now, which way is number five?
I follow the pavement, and the distinctive Victorian gas lamps, around the edge of the square, trying not to get too distracted by the stylish houses, all with shiny black front doors and pristine cream-coloured steps leading up to them. Some have cheerful window boxes planted with berry-rich winter plants or winter-flowering pansies, and all of them have freshly painted black railings and bright white lattice windows.
‘Three … four … ah, number five.’
The brass plaque at the side of the door not only has the number five etched into it in black, but the wordsChristmas Housetoo. I stand a little way back from the house to see if it looks any different from all the others in the square. But there appears to be nothing unusual about this particular house except that it has a bright red door instead of a black one. It’s five storeys high – a basement, three floors with tall windows, then what I assume is a little attic room at the top of the house. It has the same black railings as the others, and the same fanlight window over the top of the door. Except in the middle of this particular house’s fanlight, etched into the glass in gold, are the wordsSt Nicholas.
How interesting can one house’s history be?I stare up at the tall building in front of me. Yes, I’m sure it’s had many owners over the years, but they can’t all have a story to tell, can they? I can’t see how there will be enough content for me to write about for any length of time. However, beggars can’t be choosers, I remind myself. I need this job, otherwise I’ll have no choice but to go back to Owen.
Besides, it might be quite nice to live in a large house in an affluent central London neighbourhood for a while, instead of Owen’s poky little flat in North London.
‘Right, then,’ I say, bracing myself for immediate disappointment when I tap the house’s brass door-knocker. ‘Let’s find out what lies behind this red door.’
I move towards the house and climb the four shallow steps. Then I reach out to grab the knocker, but before I get to it the door suddenly opens and I stumble forwards.
‘Oops, sorry!’ A well-dressed man with neat chestnut-coloured hair has to put his hands out to stop me from falling into him. ‘Didn’t see you there.’
‘H-hi,’ I manage to say as I recover my balance and my composure. ‘I-I’m here about the advertisement.’
The man looks blankly back at me.
‘Sorry, I don’t actually live here,’ he says awkwardly. ‘I’ve just been helping them get their tree in. Estelle always insists on a real tree every Christmas apparently, and this year’s one is a monster.’ He gestures to the window to his right, and I see a lush, green, undecorated Christmas tree filling it. ‘I’m just the next-door neighbour.’ He gestures to the other side of him. ‘That’s me on the name plate,’ he says proudly, pointing to a brass nameplate on the house next door. ‘Ben Harris. I’m a solicitor. My office is next door here at Holly House, and my flat is upstairs. I’ve just moved in.’
‘Oh … that’s nice.’ I don’t really know what to say. ‘I … I might be moving in here too. I believe there’s some sort of job available. I just hope I’m not too late. Do you know if they’ve had many applicants?’
Ben shrugs. ‘Sorry, like I said I just moved in a couple of days ago. All a bit weird actually – the office and house suddenly came up for rent and I just happened to see the advert. They wanted a tenant to move in quickly, so I was able to get it at a great price. Well, a great price for around here.’ He grins, and his kind, dark eyes twinkle.
I can’t help but smile coyly back at him. Ben is a bit too good-looking, a bit too confident, and, if he can afford to rent in this square, a bit too rich as well. A deadly combination in my experience and one usually to be avoided.
‘Angela, is there someone at the door?’ a commanding female voice calls from inside the house. ‘That barrister chappie seems to be talking to someone on our steps!’
Ben grins. ‘I’m a lawyer, Estelle,’ he calls back over his shoulder. ‘A solicitor if you prefer, now I’m back in the UK again. Not actually a barrister. And don’t worry, I’m just going.’
A cheerful-looking older woman appears behind Ben. She has red curly hair pinned wildly to the top of her head and she’s wearing a brightly patterned apron over her blue denim dungarees. She looks a little flustered as she wipes her floury hands on her apron.
‘Sorry about that,’ she says as Ben moves aside. ‘I was in the kitchen. Are you here about the job by any chance?’ she asks me hopefully.
‘See you around,’ Ben says, lifting his hand as he makes his way past me down the steps to the pavement. ‘Good luck with the job. Bye, Angela!’
