Page 7 of Christmas in Mistletoe
Ruby frowned. “It was once, Dad.”
“Had an argument with the living room fireplace, and the fireplace won,” Paul added.
Mary put an arm around Ruby, then angled her towards Fran. “Anyway, this is our daughter, Ruby. She lives in London, too. Ruby, this is Francesca.”
“Just Fran.” She was still holding her head.
Mary nodded. “Just Fran it is.”
“Hi, again.” Ruby didn’t quite meet Fran’s gaze. She clearly wasn’t sure how to play this, either. “Are you stalking me?”
Fran smiled despite herself. “I’m not a very good stalker, am I? I haven’t seen you in four months.”
There was a silence, broken eventually by Fran’s dad. “You two know each other?”
“Sort of.” Fran leaned over and grabbed her wine. She took a swig. “Ruby’s a folk singer. A really good one. I went along to one of her gigs and tried to sign her, but she turned me down.” Fran met Ruby’s gaze. “Maybe this is a sign you should say yes.”
Ruby gave her a measured smile. “I don’t believe in signs.” She paused. “But this is freaky. What are the chances of you being my new neighbour?”
“What are the chances?” Paul touched his wine glass to Fran’s with some force.
Fran made a face. If Paul smashed her wine glass, that would be her evening complete. Luckily, it held.
“However you two know each other, you have good taste in music, Fran. And you,” he pointed his glass at Ruby, “never told us you’d been approached again. You should think about it. It might work out this time.”
“And give up control of my life. We’ve been through this, Dad.”
“We have. But sometimes, a little help can be good. Especially if it gets you into places you wouldn’t get to otherwise.”
Fran winced. She focused on a time when her head wouldn’t be throbbing.
When she wouldn’t be in this kitchen with Ruby.
Who still didn’t want to sign with her.
“Enough, Paul. We have guests. I think it’s lovely you two know each other. You can be friends even if you don’t sign to Fran’s label, can’t you?”
Ruby eyed Fran. She gave a shrug.
Fran gave her one back.
It was like they were six years old, both being scolded by their parents.
“Anyway, have another sausage roll,” Mary told Fran, breaking the tension. “You looked like you were enjoying the first one until you spat it onto Ruby’s slipper.”
* * *
The roadfrom the farm to the bar had minimal street lights. At 8pm on a Saturday, it was also deserted. Fran took in a fresh lungful of country air; the faint whiff of manure lingered in her nose. She could see no animals nearby, but maybe that was just what the country smelled like? She had no idea. She’d grown up on the not-so-mean streets of Surrey.
Was walking on a road like this safe? She’d never do it in London. Then again, London had wider pavements and tons of cars. They’d been walking for five minutes and hadn’t encountered one. Their parents were up ahead, chatting merrily, their phone torches guiding them. Ruby was walking beside her. They hadn’t spoken a word in the past couple of minutes. If Fran had been hoping that meeting Ruby in her natural habitat might break down her barriers, it appeared to be doing the opposite.
“Sorry again about your slipper.” Was that a good opening gambit? Fran couldn’t think of anything else.
“No problem,” Ruby said. “I don’t normally have that effect on women, but there’s a first time for everything.”
Fran smiled. A little warmer. “I was just surprised it was you. When my dads told me I was meeting someone, I could almost tell they wanted to say, ‘she lives in London, you might know her!’ I never expected it was going to be true.”
“At least that’s something we can agree on.” A few more moments of silence.
