Page 15 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
Rachel snatches up her phone and scrolls. Hundreds of gingerbread creations stream past in a blur. Who’d have known there were so many ways to bang a few bits of gingerbread together? With brows knitted in a frown, a cute little wrinkle between them, she’s fiercely intent. Every so often she pauses, reads a little, then carries on with an impatient shake of her head. At last, her finger settles on one.
“This is it.” She stabs at the screen, eyes bright with excitement. “Look—a gingerbread church, complete with steeple.”
I lean in to get a better view, fighting to stay focused despite her closeness and the hint of her perfume.
“It’s ambitious,” she continues, scrolling through the instructions, “but it looks incredible. If we can pull this off, we’re guaranteed to win.” She glances up at me, her competitive spark flashing. “Let the others build their boring little houses. This’ll blow them away.”
It is incredible, but I’m at a loss as to how we turn the puzzle pieces spread across the worktop into something that looks like the picture.
“Okay,” I say, hoping it sounds upbeat, even as my belief we can win shrinks to a speck. Three hours felt generous when the challenge was announced; now the oversized kitchen clock seems totick louder just for us. We burned minutes choosing what to build. Now we’ve got a masterpiece to produce with what’s left.
Rachel grabs a large knife from a block and peels the plastic off the gingerbread. The smell of spice fills the kitchen. She wields the weapon with confidence, the tantalising pink tip of her tongue between her teeth as she measures.
Meanwhile, trying to make myself useful, I grab bowls from a cupboard and begin emptying bags of sweets into them.
“We need to make the icing for piping the designs first,” Rachel calls over her shoulder. “You mix it while I get the walls and roof cut out.” Smart. Divide and conquer; maybe we’ll claw back some time.
I rummage in drawers and find one filled with assorted mixing bowls. I tug at the bag marked ‘icing sugar’ and it tears open unexpectedly, the fine powder spilling out. A cloud of white billows into my face. I make the mistake of breathing in with a gasp and instantly start to choke.
I’m bent over, hacking my lungs out, eyes watering, when I feel a hand circling between my shoulder blades. I relax into the soothing sensation, and the coughing ebbs away.
“Thanks. Guess we’re even,” I croak out. Rachel leans in across my shoulder. Her look of concern lasts only a split second before she erupts into laughter.
“Oh my fucking god…Teddy…you should see yourself.” She can barely speak through her giggles. “Your entire face is covered in icing sugar.”
I rub my cheek with the back of my hand and, sure enough, it comes away coated in white powder.
“It’s not that funny,” I mutter, but I can’t help the smile spreading across my face. I like that I can make Rachel laugh, even if it takes making a dick of myself to do it.
“It is when you look like The Joker,” she wheezes, reaching out to brush some of the sugar from the tip of my nose.
The touch of her fingers against my skin makes my breath catch.
Just like last night when she’d choked on her mojito and I’d found myself with my arm around her, patting her back, our faces inches apart once she could breathe again.
Just like this morning when she brushed the dirt from my face and I wanted to take charge of the moment and kiss her. That same electricity crackles between us now.
“Hold still,” she says, her voice softer as she continues wiping away the powder. Her eyes meet mine, and the laughter fades, replaced by something deeper, more serious. I wish the clock would stop right here.
I resist the urge to lean into her touch, to close the distance between us. I’m still not sure about pushing her. Instead, I clear my powder-clogged throat and try to make a joke of it.
“My hero,” I say, the words sounding far too earnest.
Rachel’s hand lingers on my cheek a moment too long before she pulls away, a flush rising to her face that has nothing to do with her laughing fit.
“Now we’re definitely even,” she says quietly.
The next couple of hours are exquisite torture as we move in a dance around the kitchen. Hands brushing, hips touching as we manoeuvre in the tiny space. We’re twined over each other, arms crossed, each bracing a wall of the gingerbread structure as we waitfor the royal icing to set firm. We exchange satisfied smiles as our vision slowly takes shape.
When I’m poised, mouth open in concentration, trying to place sweets in a neat line on the ‘footpath’ leading to the church door, she leans in to pop one into my mouth.
As she bends over, balancing the two roof panels in place, her long hair falls forward, tips trailing in the icing. I step behind her and scoop it up, holding it safely away. It’s like golden silk between my fingers, and I catch a whiff of coconut—her shampoo probably. I have this urge to bring it to my nose and inhale deeply, but I resist. That would definitely be weird. I don’t want to shatter the bond these small intimacies have built between us and have her pull away.
Under Rachel’s direction, we make a damn good replica of the church in the picture. Sure, the icing decorations drizzle down the sides—my fault for not adjusting the amount of water to account for the wasted icing sugar. Despite Rachel’s careful cutting and measuring, the walls don’t stand square—again my fault through my inability to keep my hands totally still while the royal icing was drying. The steeple is on a dangerous lean for the same reason. Imperfect, but the clock won’t wait for perfect.
However, I can take credit for what I think is the masterstroke that might just give us the win. One year, my sisters made edible stained glass windows out of boiled sweets. Even though they made a hell of a mess, the result was pretty good, and tasty, too. At great risk to Poppy’s oven, I crank it up as high as it can go, and with the help of almost an entire roll of tinfoil, produce six colourful panes. Two shatter as I lever them off the foil. The surviving four, eggshell-fragile, are enough for the window openings Rachel cutin the gingerbread walls. She fits them, sealing the edges with royal icing as putty. We’re on the final stretch. If this sets, we’ve got a shot.
Then she hands me the board, and I’m on transport duty to the manor house. I’m inching through the lounge doorway when her hand shoots out, catching my wrist. The church lurches, and I steady it. No disasters this close to judging.
