Page 62 of A Winter Kiss on Rochester Mews
‘So? I bet everyone will have done all their Christmas shopping by then,’ Posy said blithely, as if she hadn’t worked in retail for the last eight years and knew nothing of the frantic hysteria that gripped people on the last weekend before Christmas.
‘Anyway, this is also the busiest time of year for Dad,’ Verity said.
‘Really? Is it? Why?’ Nina asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Sam said with all the scorn a sixteen-year-old boy could muster. ‘It might have something to do with it being the birth of Jesus Christ.’
‘Well, take two days off this week. Say, Wednesday and Thursday,’ Posy was undeterred. Nothing was going to stop her from giving Verity her perfect engagement, Christmas trading hours be damned. ‘Love is more important than Christmas and this way you’ll be back before the weekend.’
‘I don’t know, Pose.’ Verity twisted her hands anxiously. ‘Johnny might not be able to take the time off.’
‘But he’s his own boss,’ Nina pointed out. ‘He can take time off anytime he wants, the lucky sod.’
‘You’re having Wednesday and Thursday off and that’s an order,’ Posy said, settling her hands over her bump once more. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to fire you and don’t think I won’t. You probably haven’t noticed but my pregnancy hormones are making me quite crazy and irrational.’
Although he hadn’t said anything at the time, Tom was quite furious about the prospect of Verity swanning off to Lincolnshire and leaving the shop one man down.
‘I know that she mostly just lurks in the back office, but now we’re expected to cover all the website orders ourselves on top of everything else, including manning the Mistletoe Booth,’ Tom complained the next morning.
Mattie was in the tearoom kitchen doing her inevitable prep and knocking up a quick croque missus for Tom, with the back door wide open because the kitchen was steamy hot and she didn’t want her dough to get too warm.
‘Isn’t Posy getting cover in?’ Mattie asked as she happily battered flat a stick of butter.
‘She says we’ll manage,’ Tom said. He was perched on a stool in the no-man’s land between tearooms and kitchen. ‘I beg to differ, but then I get accused of being a complete curmudgeon who’d begrudge Verity her newly engaged happiness.’
‘Her pregnancy hormones are getting worse by the hour, but don’t tell Posy I said that …’
‘Don’t tell me what?’ Posy had managed to waddle up behind Tom without either of them noticing. ‘What’s happened? What’s wrong? Have we been done by the council for using the oven upstairs? I knew this would happen! Have you given people food poisoning by using out of date bacon in the pigs in blankets?’
‘I’m insulted that you would even think that,’ Mattie sniffed and before she could cast imploring eyes at Tom, the traitor used her to further his own agenda.
‘Mattie doesn’t know how we’re going to cope with Verity gone either,’ Tom informed Posy with a put-upon sigh. ‘I just dread to think how many website orders we’re going to get while Verity’s away during the final posting dates.’
‘Oh dear! Why didn’t I think of that?’ Posy put a hand to her forehead. Without being asked, Tom vacated the stool and took Posy’s arm so he could help her onto it. ‘I’m a fool for love, that’s my problem.’
‘You were just trying to do something nice for Verity,’ Mattie said, thankful that she was now onto folding and kneading her dough, the familiar movements soothing in such anxious moments. Posy was eight months pregnant but she looked like she was about to pop and shouldn’t she be on maternity leave by now? ‘I’m sure it will all be fine.’
‘You’re stressing me out. I’m not meant to get stressed,’ Posy said, now looking like she was one more disaster away from a complete nervous breakdown. Then, as was so often the case with Posy and her mercurial mood swings, her attention shifted and focused first on Tom now leaning against the door jamb, and then on Mattie who was cling-filming one of her bowls of dough. ‘What were you two doing in here together, all cosy? Are youfriendsnow?’
She made being friends sound like a quite unsavoury pastime. ‘Friends!’ Tom snorted, which hurt Mattie’s feelings a little. ‘We’re almost colleagues who just happen to share a living space.’
‘I do think that we could describe ourselves as flatmates by now and no one would be surprised,’ Mattie said tartly. ‘I mean, we’ve eaten dinner together twice, so we’re not just sharing a living space. We are living … like … communally.’
‘You’ve had dinner together twice?’ Posy asked.
‘Soon it might even be three times. Mattie’s having to work later and later on her never-ending flaky pastry prep, so I was thinking that tonight we could get fish and chips from No Plaice Like Home.’
Mattie allowed herself a small, grateful smile. She and Tom had moved so far on in their evolving friendship that he wanted to spend the evening with her. ‘Sounds like a plan. I’m too tired to even think about doing any more cooking,’ Mattie said, putting the last bowl in the fridge.
‘And I’m not going out tonight because you’re working me to the bone, Posy, and I refuse to cook because this one provides a running commentary on everything I’m doing wrong,’ Tom said with a weary gesture at Mattie who stuck her tongue out at him. ‘Harsh things have been said about my misuse of her non-stick saucepans.’
‘He won’t use a wooden spoon and ends up scraping the bottom of my pans with metal utensils,’ Mattie said, as she untied her apron. ‘I can only take so much.’
‘Right. OK, then,’ Posy muttered, her eyes fixed on the pair of them. ‘I probably would say that you are flatmates verging on friends verging on I don’t even know what.’ She shook her head. ‘Anyway, entertaining as this is, I came to get something for my mid-morning bun break.’
‘It’s not even half past ten, I still haven’t had breakfast,’ Tom said, his eyes intent on Mattie as she took his beloved croque missus out from under the grill and placed it on a plate. ‘That looks good and just an extra dash of …’
‘Yes, I know, Worcester sauce,’ Mattie said, opening the bottle and giving the piping-hot open sandwich a sprinkle. ‘Before you ask, we don’t have any non-Christmassy napkins.’
