Page 3 of Christmas Spirit
Roland huffed. “I am obliged. The woman strong-armed me, but I agreed. If I say I’ll do something, I will. I’m heading out in fifteen minutes, but if you’re not here when I pull the car around, the agreement will become null and void.”
Roland swung around on his heel and stomped off. Georgie opened his mouth to call out that he didn’t need the lift, just as the first snowflakes fell, withering the words on his tongue.
Chapter Two
“Damn Julia.”
Roland ground his teeth together as he threw the last of his luggage into the boot of his Range Rover. He’d planned on taking a slow and leisurely route back to his house on the south-west fringes of London, stopping for an early dinner at a recently opened but already lauded and critically acclaimed gastropub he was keen to try out. What those plans hadnotinvolved was Georgie Forrester.
Julia had grabbed his arm and stopped him from walking on past, quite literally standing in front of him, hands on hips, and blocking his way. The woman may have been small, round and as fluffy looking as a marshmallow, but underneath she was as hard as a rock. She’d known in which direction his route towards home, albeit in a circuitous manner, would take him, when she had all but instructed him to give the moody and sullen kitchen boy a lift to the station. Julia had been taking no excuses.Your Range Rover’s large and comfortable… It isn’t stuffed full of luggage and Christmas gifts… You’ll almost be passing the station… And Georgie is a member of your team…
He’d been in a bad enough mood as it was, knowing he was going home to his empty, soulless house with nobody other than himself for company. Now, he was in an even worse mood, as the careful plans he’d made were no longer going exactly how he wanted.
It’s going to snow… Twelve miles is too far to walk… It will take no time at all… Show some Christmas kindness…
If she wanted to encourage Christmas kindness, then why couldn’t she have bloody well taken Georgie? But Roland knew the answer to that as soon as he’d seen Julia’s overladen car. He’d been cornered, she knew it and so did he, and now he was lumbered with an unwelcome guest.
Twelve miles. It would take no time in the car. But he wasn’t prepared to get caught up in the town centre traffic. The boy could get out and walk the last half mile to the station and he could put his well-laid plans back on track.
Ready to go, Roland drove around to where he’d left Georgie waiting for him. The boy had had as little desire to take the lift as he had to give it. Georgie’s face had fallen as soon as he had seen him, the shadow in his big, smoky grey eyes and the down turn of his red lipped mouth making him look even more sulky than usual. Maybe he’d done them both a favour and decided to walk after all. But no, Georgie was still standing there, and he was standing alone. Every single one of their colleagues had left the Manor to start their Christmas holidays.
“On the back seat,” Roland barked. He only meant the rucksack, but Georgie climbed in after his pack.
“Thanks,” Georgie mumbled as he pulled on the seatbelt.
“I was referring to—oh, never mind.”
Roland put the car into gear and crunched his way along the gravel path towards the gates that opened onto the narrow public road. Instead of driving through, Roland pulled up, and a small man dressed in Pendleton Manor livery limped out from the booth, and made his way over.
“I thought everybody had gone,” the man said, squinting through the thick lenses of his glasses. “I was about to lock up. Anybody else coming?”
Roland shook his head. “No, Sid, I’m the last. How’s the leg? I hope it’s not giving you too much trouble?”
“You’re very kind to enquire, Mr. Fletcher Jones, and you’re the only one who ever does. It’s the weather, you see, the cold and damp always play havoc. I’m getting old. Maybe it’s time to retire.” Sid laughed.
“Nonsense. And no talk of retiring, the place wouldn’t be the same without you. Here, a tot or two of this should help.”
Roland reached into a large bag in the footwell of the passenger seat.
“Happy Christmas.” Roland held out a heavy bottle, filled with dark gold liquid. “And give my best wishes to your wife.”
The man’s face lit up. “Why thank you, Mr. Fletcher Jones. I most certainly will have a tot. But not just me, because a splash of this will light up like a treat on top of the Christmas pudding.”
Roland answered with a tight smile. The brandy was top quality, almost a hundred pounds a bottle.
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, he’d received dozens of packages and parcels. They’d all contained the best of this and the best of that. Top of the range festive food, artisan chocolates, and alcohol from the many suppliers he dealt with, all wishing him, as Executive Chef and master of the kitchens at Pendleton Manor, the season’s greetings.
He never kept a thing that was sent to him.
Each and every gift, designed to ensure his good custom for the coming year, was given to his staff. He made sure everybody got a share of the booty. His gaze flickered to the rearview mirror, to Georgie, hunched up by the door and looking like he wanted to melt into it. Had his young kitchen boy, whose big eyes always reminded him of a deer caught in the headlights, received anything? Roland couldn’t remember, but it was too late to worry about that now. The brandy was the last of it, a forgotten bottle Roland had spotted at the last minute.
With a wave and a happy Christmas, Roland drove through the wrought iron gates. Swinging the car around to the right, Pendleton Manor disappeared from view.
“I’ll take you to the top of the high street, and then you can walk the rest of the way. It’s only about ten minutes from there.”
“Thanks. I can contribute to the petrol.”
“What?” Roland threw a glance at Georgie through the rearview mirror, and was met with a steady, grey-eyed stare.
