Page 2 of A Winter Kiss on Rochester Mews
Not only did Mattie now worknext doorto a bookshop, she’d also been to Paris. In fact, she’d lived in Paris for three whole years and had danced to freeform jazz in seedy bars on several occasions. But that was long in the past and Paris was now dead to her, yet she still dressed like Audrey Hepburn inFunny Face: long, dark-brown hair caught up in a ponytail with a blunt-cut thick fringe which was the perfect foil for her permanently arched eyebrows, above eyes which were the exact same shade as a mink coat her grandmother had once owned.
And like Audrey, Mattie always wore black. Before Paris and especially after Paris, she wore black. In summer, a black cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and slim-fit black cropped cigarette pants, and the same pair of Birkenstocks she’d been wearing in summer for years. On winter days like today, she swapped the shirt for a jumper, the cropped trousers for a longer version and the Birks for a pair of black Chuck Taylors.
Wearing the same thing every day (Mattie had many black shirts, jumpers and trousers, both cropped and long – it wasn’t like she wore the same two pieces every day until they crawled to the wash basket of their own accord) was practical and quick. No agonising over a wardrobe full of different colours and styles. Which was just as well, because as Mattie stepped out onto the cobblestones of Rochester Mews and locked the front door behind her, she’d be unlocking it again at seven thirty the next morning. Such was the lot of someone who had a hell of a lot of breakfast pastries to bake before the tearooms opened at 9 a.m.
Mattie’s phone buzzed insistently.
WHERE ARE YOU? HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE TO CHUCK TOGETHER SOME FLAKY PASTRY?
But that was tomorrow. And Mattie wasn’t going to think about tomorrow, especially the part where she had to get up at six, while it was still dark. She was going to think about the large glass of wine that she hoped was waiting for her.
Mattie wasn’t disappointed. As soon as she hefted open the heavy door of the pub around the corner from Happy Ever After, swapping the waft of fish and chips from There’s No Plaice Like Home opposite for the fug of beer, someone waved frantically at her.
‘Mattie! Over here!’ yelled Posy, the owner of Happy Ever After and sender of multiple, needlessly dramatic text messages, as if they hadn’t bagged their usual corner table and banquettes and Mattie might not know where they were. ‘Your wine is perfectly chilled.’
Mattie dropped gratefully onto an empty stool and picked up the glass of Chenin Blanc. ‘Thank you,’ she said fervently. ‘And cheers.’
As they all clinked glasses, Mattie checked for panic in the eyes of her co-workers. Posy, who was fairly heavy with child and drinking elderflower cordial and soda, the glass resting on the top of her bump, looked serene. Verity, the manager of the bookshop, was nursing a gin and tonic and a faintly harried expression, but then Verity always looked faintly harried. And then there was Tom, and Mattie didn’t really care what Tom’s mental state was because Tom was on her list.
Mattie’s list, as Tom well knew, was not a good list to be on, so she ignored him.
‘How are you?’ she asked Posy and Verity. ‘How was the world of bookselling today?’
‘Very, very busy,’ Posy noted with a quiet satisfaction. She rubbed her bump and then very gently and delicately burped. ‘Thank God for that. Have I mentioned that I have the worst indigestion?’
She had. Several times a day, ever since her three-month mark had passed and she was able to tell people that she was pregnant. Now she was almost at seven months and couldn’t even look at a tomato any more, much less eat one.
‘I read somewhere that if you have indigestion when you’re pregnant, you’ll give birth to a baby with a freakishly full head of hair,’ Verity said, which did little to cheer Posy up.
‘Sebastian has very thick hair, so it’s obviously all his fault,’ she said mournfully. ‘I wish I’d fallen in love with a bald man instead.’
Fascinating though this was, it didn’t really explain why Mattie had been summoned so urgently. ‘What was with all the emergency text messages?’ Mattie asked. ‘Is Rochester Mews earmarked for demolition or something?’
‘What? No! It’s much more serious than that.’ Posy gasped. She turned a suddenly anxious face to Mattie. ‘Have you any idea what the date is?’
Was it some kind of trick question or was it pregnancy brain? Mattie glanced over at Verity, who shook her head as if to say that she’d already had a similar enquiry from Posy. And then Mattie managed to catch Tom’s eye. She couldn’t help but recoil and Tom’s upper lip curled, which meant that he was about to make some dull observation, but before he could, Posy clapped her hands.
‘It’s the twenty-fifth of November,’ she cried. ‘The twenty-fifth? Do you know what that means, Mattie?’
‘Is it one of those random national days that have been invented by advertisers or PRs? National Pie Day? No, I’d know about it if it were. National Hug A Puppy Day?’
‘I think it must be National Humour Pregnant Ladies Day,’ Tom murmured with the little smirk that someone needed to tell him was very unattractive.
‘No! More like National Annoy Pregnant Ladies Day,’ Posy snapped, digging Tom in the ribs with her elbow, which wiped the smirk off his face pretty sharpish. ‘It’s a month until Christmas! Worse! There are only thirty days in November so actually, it’s thirty days until Christmas. Thirty days!’
Her panicked statement was met with blank looks.
‘How is this news to you?’ Tom ventured, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses so he could peer sternly at Posy’s flushed face. ‘You can’t turn on a TV without falling over some cloying, sentimental Christmas ad featuring woodland animals. The supermarkets have been flogging mince pies and stuffing balls since August.’
Tom had a point. ‘Surely you noticed the streets of London are adorned with Christmas lights and decorations?’ Mattie asked.
Posy placed a hand on either side of her bump. ‘Forgive me for being a little preoccupied,’ she said huffily.
‘I have mentioned Christmas promotions and extended opening hoursseveraltimes,’ Verity said in a more conciliatory tone. ‘We had a whole conversation about getting new Christmas lights for the trees in the mews.’
‘No. Nope, I have no memory of that,’ Posy insisted, her voice starting to tremble, which meant that soon she would be crying. When she wasn’t trying to burp, Posy was trying not to cry – pregnancy really didn’t agree with her. ‘And now I’ve had an email from the Rochester Street Traders’ Association demanding that I pay my share for our joint Christmas decorations, and all the other shops are doing extended opening …’
‘Yes, I did already mention this,’ Verity murmured as Mattie shot her a sympathetic look. ‘Quite a few times, as it goes.’
