Page 16 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“Wait. I’ve got an idea,” she whispers, as if she’s about to commit industrial espionage.
She rummages in the huge, lit Christmas arrangement on the hall table and pops up grinning, three little electric tea lights in hand. After a quick check no one’s watching, she nicks a skinny pine sprig from the display and, with one sweep of her hand, strips the needles, leaving a pointy twig. Tongue caught between her teeth in concentration, Rachel manoeuvres each candle through the church door.
Now that’s the masterstroke.
I’m glowing as I set it down next to the others’ creations. The glow fades when I see what we’re up against: the precision of Liv and Garrett’s little house, the flamboyance of Ollie and Sam’s decoration, and the neatly iced Christmas motifs all over Haley and Christian’s perfect cottage.
Rachel reads it on my face. She tucks in beside me and whispers, “We should get first place on originality alone for making a fucking church. It’s basically twice the size of Liv and Garrett’s. And we’re the only ones with kick-arse stained glass windows. Wearegoing to win this, Teddy.”
Tommy and Loreena take their places at the end of the table—pens poised, faces neutral. Here we go.
Liv and Garrett’s perfectly square build draws Tommy first. “Proportions are true, walls upright, joins clean.”
“And charming, too,” Loreena hums. “The little path and wreath are delightful. I’d have loved a touch more drama, though.”
Tommy nods. “Technically sound, stylistically safe.”
He moves on to admire Haley and Christian’s, praising their consistent piping and roof pitch that’s bang on.
“But perhaps missing a wink of colour?” Loreena lifts a brow.
Our turn next. I draw in a breath as Rachel’s hand tightens around mine.
Tommy tilts his head, chin parked on his hand, eyes razor-keen on every seam.
“Ambitious scale on the church. One buttress is drifting, and the eaves are a touch wavy. But the internal candles work.”
I wince—that wobble’s on me. The candles are all Rachel; fingers crossed they’re enough.
Loreena’s on our side, swooning over the jewel-toned ‘stained-glass’ panels, and the bit of theatre with the lights.
Then it’s Ollie and Sam’s wild one.
Tommy surprises me by approving the “maximal decoration”, and even I have to admit the walls are dead straight.
“It’s joyous,” Loreena exclaims. “Surprises everywhere without tipping into gaudy.” I disagree, but she’s the judge.
“Technical best in show,” Tommy says.
“And the most fun.” Loreena beams at them. “Our winner.”
We’ve lost. The score sheets show a three-way tie for second on ninety points—and a whopping ninety-six for the sweet-plastered cottage.
I’m sure Ollie and Sam found an extra secret supply. Not wanting to look like a bad sport, I resist calling them out for cheating, but their smarmy smiles still annoy me. It has to be Rachel’s competitiveness rubbing off on me. Or maybe it’s the need to win for Memories That Matter—either way, I’ve never felt so upset to lose.
I try not to glare at the winners doing a stupid victory dance around the lounge. Ollie twirls Sam under his arm with flashy rock’n’roll moves, and she squeals in delight. Their smug celebration makes our defeat sting even more.
But their joy is short-lived.
Loreena raises a hand. “Hold on there. It’s not over yet,” she declares. “There’s a little extra surprise.”
Rachel and I break into twin grins of delight. The competition isn’t finished after all.
“Don’t despair,” Loreena continues, addressing those of us who lost the first round. “There’s another chance for you to win points. A sort of people’s choice award.” She pauses dramatically. “There’s a fête at the church this afternoon. Your gingerbread houses will be auctioned off. Whatever your house sells for will get added as points to your score.”
Ollie and Sam’s triumphant dance falters. They exchange worried glances as Rachel nudges me with renewed hope. The final verdict will come from the highest bidder, and we’re not out of this contest yet.
I’d love nothing better than to stand beside Rachel for the auction, but it’s settled: only the girls are heading to the village fête. Sensible. The last thing we need is Stellar Riot strolling past the mince pie stalls and drawing a plague of paparazzi to the gates of the manor. They’ll sniff out the wedding soon enough, but every extrahour the secret holds, the better for the security lads ghosting the grounds.
