Page 50 of A Not So Quiet Christmas
Chapter 29
It still wasn’t properly light as I led Frank down Little Leatherington’s main street. I hadn’t slept very well following Seb’s emotional outburst. He’d been through a lot of changes in the previous twelve months and his little brain was obviously still trying to get to grips with the impact of his parents’ divorce and as a result of seeing him like that, I’d spent the night more catnapping than anything. In the end I’d become so frustrated at not being able to properly drop off, I’d climbed out of bed, thrown on the day before’s clothes, and headed out into the dawn air.
As I trudged along with sleep in my eyes, I had to wonder what I’d been thinking when I’d succumbed to Seb’s request. Having never hosted a Christmas lunch before, I didn’t have a clue where to start. I wasn’t a complete numpty in the kitchen, but I doubted cooking for three was the same as cooking for one; especially when, in my experience, cooking for one usually involved a microwave.
Never in my life had I oven-roasted a whole turkey, let alone had to bring multiple timings into the mix thanks to everything else that went on the plate. As Frank and I made our way back to Number 3, Bluebell Row, I knew the best chance I had if I wanted to anywhere near succeed, was to get Jules on the case. Calling her, however, would have to wait and not just because of the ungodly hour. First, I had to get my date with Oliver out of the way so I could focus; another reason why I’d spent most of the night tossing and turning. Wondering why I’d agreed to that too, I tried to ignore the butterflies in my tummy. I had so much to do in the run up to Christmas Day, with less than a week to go, my time could have been better spent.
At last, the sun began to show itself, causing the hard frost that had settled in the surrounding fields to glimmer and shine. Sheep lay chest down, with their heads resting on the cold ground in front of them. And there was a mist in the distance, while winter birds heralded the new day.
Letting myself and Frank into the house, I headed straight for the kitchen. Clicking the kettle on, I stared out into the garden while I waited for it to boil. The sun shone in the increasingly blue sky, brightening up the whole space. “At least we have the weather for it,” I said to Frank, of my date with Oliver.
As I made my drink, he nudged his bowl my way with his nose, showing me he had other priorities. I scoffed and picking it up to feed him, wished that filling my belly was all I had to think about.
While Frank ate his breakfast, I drank my coffee, then headed back upstairs to get showered and dressed. I didn’t have a clue what Oliver had planned for the day. Although when it came to my attire, it didn’t really matter. Having expected to spend my time in Little Leatherington dog walking and not much else, dress code or not, I already knew my clothing options were limited. I opened the wardrobe in my room and stared at the rail. Rifling along the hangers it appeared I had jeans, jeans and yet more jeans, along with a sweater, another sweater and yet more sweaters. I could already see Jules shaking her head if I even dared wear such an ensemble for a date.
I plonked myself down on the bed, feeling annoyed. Partly because I hadn’t come prepared for all eventualities and partly because my failure seemed to matter. I wondered what was wrong with me. Yes, there were times when I needed to play dress-up. But I had to ask if meandering around the Yorkshire Dales in the middle of winter was really one of them? I sighed. As much as I wanted to deny it, on that occasion it was. I took another deep breath and exhaled again, wondering what to do.
“Unless…” I looked towards the door and the landing beyond, realising I did, in fact, have another option.
I’d styled my hair into a messy chignon, put on a bit of mascara and lip gloss, and, as I swept my way downstairs, had the air of a movie star.
Initially, I’d felt uncomfortable as I rummaged through the black bin bags containing Aunt Lillian’s clothes. Like a looter, or one of the vagabonds who stole Ebenezer Scrooge’s belongings as he lay on his deathbed inA Christmas Carol. But trying on glamorous item after glamorous item, I soon got lost in the fun of it. Talk about a mood lifter; there had been so much to choose from.
In the end, I’d opted for a 1950s raglan blouse, made out of cool, crisp cotton. Navy blue in colour, it had cuffed three-quarter length sleeves, with four contrasting huge white buttons running down the front. Its collar came down towards the chest in a lapelled fashion and it teamed perfectly with a pair of my own skinny jeans and borrowed grey woollen trench coat. I looked down at my feet. Even my trusty Doc Martens looked great. “What do you think, Frank?” I asked. Heading into the lounge, I gave him a twirl.
I stopped still thanks to a knock at the door and my heart skipped a beat. This was the first date I’d been on in a year and despite not expecting anything to come of it, I still felt nervous. “You be good,” I said to Frank, who’d snuggled himself up on the sofa. I grabbed my bag and exited into the hall, pausing to take a deep breath. I glanced down at my attire to give it a final once-over, before opening the door to greet Oliver.
He wore a white Oxford button-down shirt, a textured blazer, and wool chinos. Finished off with a pair of brown brogues, he looked smart yet casual and I thanked goodness I hadn’t simply thrown on a jumper. “Ready to go?” he asked.
I nodded and, stepping outside, closed the front door behind me.
“You look nice,” he said.
Taking in his appreciative smile, butterflies once again played havoc in my tummy. “Thank you,” I replied. Happy to accept the compliment, I didn’t have the heart to tell him half my outfit belonged to a dead woman.
