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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017

Copyright © Katey Lovell 2017

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © Books Covered 2017

Katey Lovell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008260644

Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008260637

Version: 2017-10-24

For Zachary. Thank you for brightening my world.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Clara

The Countdown

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Joe

Clara

Epilogue

Joe

Katey’s Advent Calendar of Thanks

About the Author

Also by Katey Lovell

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Prologue

Clara
Sunday, June 25th 2017

The beauty of a signature scent is also its danger. Everyone associates it with you. And Bella’s overbearing perfume had clung to Dean’s clothes the way a baby being left for the first time clings desperately to its mother.

Clara had been suspicious for months, but her stomach still churned as she told the tale. It felt like history repeating itself. ‘When I confronted him about it he didn’t lie. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. No one wants to be lied to, but no one wants to feel replaceable either, do they?’

‘He’s a scumbag,’ Deirdre replied. ‘A complete and utter scumbag. Cheating on you with his masseuse? It’s such a cliché. Especially after you introduced them.’ She shook her head disapprovingly. ‘I said it all along, he’s got no class, that one.’

‘Physio,’ Clara corrected absentmindedly, before finding herself adding, ‘He’s not a bad person’. Why she was defending Dean to her boss when she’d spent the previous night alternating between hurling abuse at him and crying for the relationship they’d once had, she couldn’t say. Things hadn’t been perfect for a long time – Dean had seemed distant, and Clara herself had been exhausted, carrying the pressures of work home with her – but why Bella? Clara couldn’t see the attraction.

‘He sure as hell isn’t a good one. He told you he was having a sports massage when all the time he was having a shag! It’s shameless. You should sell your story to the press. I can see the headline now, “Rovers player in Physio Romp”. I’m sure there’d be some money in it for you,’ she added, with a worldly-wise nod of her head.

If it wasn’t so tragic, Clara would have laughed. ‘I don’t think so. A former Man United youth teamer, who now plays semi-professionally for the local team? There’s no story in that.’

Deirdre was having none of it. ‘There’s always the women’s magazines. They’d be all over this. There was a double-page spread in one about a woman who wanted to marry her cat. Her cat! Your story busts that crap right out of the water.’

‘Why did you read it if it was crap?’ Clara asked, tongue firmly in her cheek. She knew full well how much Deirdre loved the weekly women’s magazines. She had a stash of them secretly shoved in her desk drawer.

‘I was at the hairdresser’s this morning,’ she replied haughtily, patting her softly permed locks to plump up the fresh waves. ‘It was practically thrust into my hands as I was sat under the lamps.’

‘Your hair looks good,’ Clara observed, noticing her boss’s hair had also turned a soft shade of ash blonde rather than its usual salt-and-pepper flecks.

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Deirdre smiled with pride. ‘Hey, maybe you should go for a new look too. Reinvent yourself. It might help you get over Dean.’

‘It’ll take more than a new hairdo to do that. I’m beginning to think humans aren’t cut out for monogamy. I should have learned from Mum’s mistakes.’

‘Not all men are dirty dogs.’

‘Dean is, though. And my dad was too.’ An acrid taste filled Clara’s mouth.

‘I still can’t believe Dean actually thought he’d get away with cheating on you right under your nose.’

‘The worst part is knowing I’m going to have to see her again. She helps our next-door neighbour with the exercises for her arthritis. Her and her perfume will be getting right up my nose.’

Deirdre laughed. ‘Good one. Nice to see you’ve not lost your sense of humour.’

‘If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry.’

‘And you’re sure you’ll be up to speaking in front of everyone tonight?’

Clara hoped so – the kids at the youth club had been talking about the talent show for weeks. They’d been diligently practising their dance routines and comedy sketches. One ambitious twelve-year-old had been keen to juggle knives whilst riding his unicycle until Deirdre had put a stop to it on health and safety grounds. He was reluctantly settling for using bean bags instead of blades.

‘Yep, I’ve set the chairs out for the audience and the microphone’s rigged up. I’ve taken the iPod dock through for any acts that need music and prepared a welcome speech for the parents. Oh, and I’ve got a bucket ready for collecting donations. Hopefully it’ll get people putting their hands in their pockets.’

‘As long as they take them out again with a fistful of notes,’ Deirdre said with a sigh. ‘The waiting list keeps on growing. What annoys me the most is that we’ve got the space, but can’t take any more kids on unless we employ more staff. Fat chance of that, looking at the finances.’

‘It’s tough times for everyone,’ Clara pointed out. ‘Even the big charities are struggling. But things will work out in the end. They always do.’

‘Are you talking about the staffing issue or are you back to talking about relationships?’

‘Staff,’ Clara said firmly.

Deirdre tutted. ‘It’s such a shame. A lovely girl like you shouldn’t be sat on the shelf.’

‘I’m twenty-seven and split up with my fiancé yesterday. That’s hardly on the shelf.’

‘Still, you don’t want to be on your own too long,’ Deirdre replied. ‘I’m sure we can find you a nice young man who treats you well and keeps his pants on around other women.’

‘Deirdre!’

A cheeky glint sparkled in the older woman’s eyes. ‘Who knows, maybe there’ll be someone at the talent show to put a spring in your step.’

‘Don’t start,’ Clara warned. ‘I don’t need a man.’

‘Oh, I know you don’t need one,’ Deirdre replied. ‘But everyone enjoys a good seeing to once in a while, don’t they?’

Clara wasn’t sure how to reply to that. Instead, she nodded, smiled and made her way to the youth club’s main hall. She’d fiddle with the speakers again, double check they were set up properly. She’d go and unblock the sink in the boy’s loos that was forever emitting an eggy odour. Anything rather than stay here, because she sure to goodness didn’t want to listen to her boss discussing the ins and outs, quite literally, of her sex life.

* * *

Clara peeped from behind the red velvet curtain that flanked the stage.

There was quite a crowd gathering in the hall. The additional emergency chairs that were usually stacked high in the broom cupboard and only brought out on rare occasions had been filled, and it looked as though it was standing room only at the back.

Her stomach fluttered at the prospect of welcoming the parents. Despite her apparent confident demeanour, Clara had never been a natural when it came to public speaking. She put it down to the time she fluffed her line in the nativity play at infant school. Her mum had tried to assure her that no one had noticed, but Clara hadn’t believed her then and she certainly didn’t believe her now. She’d been dressed head to toe in white, with cotton-wool balls sewn over the t-shirt to make it obvious to everyone she was a sheep, yet when it reached her turn to take centre stage, Clara had panicked. The only thing she’d managed to say was ‘moo’. A mooing sheep. No wonder everyone had laughed.

But there’d be no mistakes like that tonight; Clara had come prepared. She’d written notes on crisp white index cards to ensure she remained sharp and to the point.

Gulping down her nerves, she smoothed her hands over the rough fabric of her denim mini dress and stepped out onto the stage.

‘Good evening everyone, and welcome to The Club on the Corner’s annual talent show. This never fails to be anything other than a brilliant evening, where we get the opportunity to celebrate the talents of our wonderful members, so please whoop, holler, clap and cheer to show them your support.’ Clara paused as she looked out into the sea of faces, before quickly refocusing on her cards. She didn’t want to be thrown off her stride. ‘However, as many of you know, this is one of our main fundraising events of the year. We are committed to keeping our subs at the lowest possible level to ensure as many children and young people as possible can access all that we offer. However, demand is currently so high that although we have the space to accommodate new members, we don’t have the staff to supervise them. Our hope is that your donations will make a real difference, to both the club and the community as a whole, by enabling us to employ an additional member of staff. We’ve always made it our mission to work closely with other local groups, particularly the food bank and the hospital, as well as supporting local events such as the church summer fete and Christmas lantern march. Please dig deep so that the club you know and love can continue to thrive.’

A lump lodged in Clara’s throat. This place meant so much to so many, not least Deirdre. The club was her boss’s baby, the children who attended the closest she had to a family of her own. And not only the children – she was like a second mother to Clara too, never anything less than protective, supporting and mildly embarrassing.

‘But now, without further ado, I’d like to introduce our first act. Tonight Cally, Tiffany, Phoebe and Simone are The Club on the Corner’s cheerleading squad. Let’s give them a big round of applause!’

Clara initiated the clapping as the girls bounded on to the stage, waving fluffy red and white pompoms high over their heads. They looked full of pep and vim, and the audience clapped along to the rhythm of the cheesy music, encouraged by the energetic teens.

The temperamental sound system was working. That was a weight off Clara’s shoulders.

The night continued with a varied programme of acts. There were some fabulous dance routines showcased, some less than hilarious comedy acts and a surprisingly brilliant solo rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’ by a normally gobby girl called Shannon. There hadn’t been a dry eye in the house.

But it was Ted’s beautiful acoustic guitar-playing that ended up winning fair and square. The concentration etched on his face as he moved his fingers into the correct chord positions on the fretboard was endearing, and his delight when he made it to the end of the performance earned him the loudest cheer of all.

‘Nights like this make it worthwhile.’ Deirdre shook her collection bucket loudly as the crowds dispersed, making sure everyone was clear that a donation was expected. The families she knew best didn’t dare throw in loose change, instead pulling crinkled notes out of their wallets and back pockets. They knew that to give any less would be to face Deirdre’s wrath. It wasn’t worth the hassle. Far easier to cough up their hard-earned cash instead. ‘People want the club to succeed.’

‘We’ve got something special,’ Clara agreed. ‘There’s not enough in here to get close to what we’d need to employ a new member of staff, though, even in the short-term,’ she added glumly, looking at the smattering of money in the bottom of her bucket.

‘There’s got to be another way,’ Deirdre said. ‘It’s a shame Lynsey isn’t able to help out as often since she had the baby. An extra pair of hands made all the difference. Maybe we could ask about volunteers again? Some of the parents might help out if we can get a rota going.’

‘We didn’t get any interest last time,’ Clara reminded her. She was aware of coming across as the queen of doom and gloom, but it was true. ‘Part of the reason they like the kids coming here is so they get a bit of peace and quiet. They’re not likely to want to give up their time to spend it somewhere as loud and crazy as this.’

‘You never know,’ Deirdre said optimistically, as a generous grandfather dropped a twenty-pound note into her collection bucket. ‘We might fall lucky and find someone willing to give up a few hours for the cause.’

Simone, one of the enthusiastic cheerleading troupe who also happened to be the smiliest sixteen-year-old Clara had ever seen, appeared as though from nowhere, her tight, dark curls bobbing in bunches either side of her head.

‘Thank you for organising the talent show,’ she gushed. ‘It was fun, even though we didn’t win.’

‘Yeah, thanks Deirdre. Thanks Clara,’ added Tiffany, before chewing on her gum and blowing a large pink bubble. She was always chewing and popping, chewing and popping. Clara was amazed she’d gone without gum long enough to complete the cheerleading routine. Tiff could have been subtly chewing the whole time, she supposed, even though she most definitely hadn’t been popping. She wouldn’t mention that possibility to Deirdre, though. She was, quite rightly, big on following health and safety regulations to the letter.

‘You’re welcome,’ Deirdre said. ‘And I loved that routine. Those high kicks were brilliant, and when you ended with the splits it took me right back to my youth.’

‘You used to be able to do the splits?’ Tiff gawped, then chewed, then popped.

‘I was quite the gymnast back in the day,’ Deirdre said, a wistful smile passing over her face. ‘Splits, cartwheels, backflips – I could do the lot. I’d have given Olga Korbut a run for her money.’

The girls looked back at her in disbelief. Deirdre looked about as far from a gymnast as you could get, with her bulky build and the crutch she used whenever she had to stand for any length of time propping her up. Her dodgy knee had been giving her gip recently. Probably all those years of acrobatics finally catching up with her, Clara thought with a smile.

‘I’ve not always been this old, you know,’ Deirdre added.

And here was I thinking you were born old,’ Clara teased.

‘Ha-ha,’ Deirdre replied with a roll of her eyes. ‘Very funny.’ She turned her attention back to Simone. ‘Are your parents still here?’

‘They’re in the kitchen, washing the pots,’ Simone explained. ‘We thought it’d save you two a job.’

‘Oh, that’s so kind!’ Clara exclaimed. She didn’t add she was pleased that she might get home in time to watch the season finale of the drama she’d been glued to for the past month. It started at ten, and with a bit of luck, and the help of the families chipping in, she’d be back, showered and in her pyjamas by then. ‘I’ll grab a tea towel and start drying, if you’re alright hanging around here, Deirdre? You’re better at asking people for money than I am.’

She peered into Deirdre’s bucket, which held a healthy layer of notes with a shimmer of pound coins twinkling through the gaps. Clara’s bucket contained mainly copper and silver, where people had felt obliged to give something – anything – so pulled out whatever was lurking in their coat pockets. The fluff balls and sticky sweet wrappers mingled in with the coins attested to that.

‘You go and give them a hand,’ Deirdre said. ‘I’ll finish off here, and if Tiffany and Simone help me stack the chairs we’ll all get home sooner. It takes me a bit longer these days,’ she added, gesturing to the crutch. ‘Is that alright with you, girls?’

Simone set straight to it, putting one brown chair on top of the other and moving them to the corner of the room when they were stacked five high. Tiff was less enthusiastic, but begrudgingly assisted her friend.

‘Thanks, girls,’ Clara called from the kitchen as she grabbed a striped tea towel from the towel rail and started drying the mugs. They hadn’t been rinsed properly – bubbly suds clouding their glossy surfaces – but Clara was so grateful for the help that she didn’t feel she could complain. Simone’s family hadn’t wasted any time. The washing up was all but done.

‘Thanks, everyone,’ Clara said, passing the dried mugs to Simone’s mum to put away in the cupboard. ‘It makes things much easier for me and Deirdre if people lend a hand now and again.’

‘I’ll bet,’ Simone’s dad replied. He was the local vicar and a familiar face in the community. The strip-lighting was reflected off his shaved head as he grinned the same infectious grin as his daughter. ‘Don’t think the hard work you two put into this place goes unnoticed. We’re very grateful for everything you do for these kids.’

‘It’s worth it to see everyone enjoying themselves.’ Clara truly believed that, and loved being able to boost the confidence of the club members. There was a special atmosphere to the old place on showcase night, an almost palpable buzz of joy thronging through the building. ‘Plus, the kids are great, and it’s them we do it for.’

‘When I used to come here there was nowhere else for teenagers to go at this end of town,’ Simone’s brother added. ‘At least now there’s the indoor skate park, and the ice rink’s not bad since it’s been refurbished.’

‘They’re expensive, though,’ Clara pointed out. She’d been shocked at the cost of the tickets on a recent cinema trip with Deirdre, and that was before she’d splashed out on popcorn (sweet, naturally) and a large diet coke. By the time she was done she’d spent almost a day’s wages. ‘Not all the families around here can afford it. At least here they only have to find the money for subs once a term. Plus, some of the kids just want somewhere to hang around away from their parents.’

‘I suppose that’s what I did when I was a member. Me and my mates used to spend all our money in the tuck shop and then talk about music for a few hours in between stuffing our faces with strawberry laces.’

‘Strawberry laces. Good choice.’

‘We’d have competitions to see who could cram the most into their mouths,’ he laughed. ‘I managed forty-eight once.’

‘Wow. You must have a really big mouth.’ Clara clamped her lips together in embarrassment as she realised how insulting that sounded. ‘I didn’t mean any offence …’

‘None taken,’ he said with a shrug as he plunged the last mug into the soapy water and rubbed it with a battered scourer. ‘There,’ he proclaimed, placing the mug on the draining board. Suds slithered down its side. ‘We’re done.’

‘Thank you,’ Clara said genuinely. ‘You’ve been a great help, all of you. I’ll finish off here, though, if you want to get home. It’s getting late.’

The clock read half-past nine. She’d have to get a wiggle on if she was going to make it back home in time for her programme.

‘If you’re sure?’ Simone’s mum replied, reaching for her large straw sunhat. She was well presented, as though dressed for an event. Mind you, she always looked smart. Part of the role of being a vicar’s wife, Clara supposed.

‘Absolutely. There’s not much to do now, you’ve done most of it already. You go,’ she smiled. ‘And thanks again.’

‘It was a brilliant evening,’ the vicar added. ‘A real celebration of everyone’s talents. I’m glad I came.’

‘It was fun,’ Simone’s brother said. ‘I thought the girl who did Riverdance should have won, though. She was amazing.’

‘She was great, wasn’t she? She’s got dreams of dancing on the stage one day. She’ll probably make it too, she’s a hard worker.’

‘You are too, by the look of it,’ he said, sliding into his leather jacket.

‘Well, there’s no point doing anything half-heartedly. My work’s important to me.’

‘It shows. It’s nice to finally meet you, Clara. Simone talks about you all the time at home. And Deirdre too, of course.’

‘Nice to meet you too …’

Clara paused, realising she didn’t know his name.

‘Joe,’ he said, extending his hand to invite a handshake. ‘Joe Smith.’

The Countdown

Clara
Thursday, November 30th 2017

Clara had always loved everything about Christmas, and although Advent hadn’t yet started she was fully prepared for the season. She’d retrieved her collection of knitted Christmas jumpers from the back of her wardrobe (they were now hanging prominently from the picture rail in her bedroom so she could admire them in all their hideously gaudy beauty), and already done the majority of her shopping. Her cards were written and stamped, ready to go into the post box at the end of the road on the first day of December. And now she was trying to persuade Deirdre to let her decorate the youth club with spangly decorations galore.

‘There’s no way you’re putting them up today, Clara. Not a chance. It’s still November!’ Deirdre shook her head with such vigour that her monstrous clip-on earrings threatened to fly off. ‘The ones at home don’t go up until at least the middle of the month. If they were up any earlier I’d get bored. I’m gagging to take them down by Boxing Day as it is.’

‘Spoilsport,’ Clara pouted.

‘You’re not going to change my mind. It’s November. It’s too early.’

Clara sighed, ready to admit defeat. It was the same every year – she’d be itching to get the club covered in tinsel and glitter whilst Deirdre would be putting the Christmas dampeners on.

‘I’ve been patient. The supermarkets have had their decorations up since the day after Hallowe’en.’

‘Bully for the supermarkets!’ Deirdre blustered. ‘Go and work for them if you’re so desperate to have your bloody baubles up!’

Clara laughed. ‘You don’t mean that. We’re struggling enough as it is with the two of us running this place. You’d have no chance if you were doing it single-handedly.’

‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ Deirdre replied, a cryptic smirk curling at the corners of her lips. ‘I wouldn’t be doing it alone. My new volunteer would be able to help me out.’

Clara’s ears pricked up. ‘New volunteer? You mean someone’s actually been daft enough to sign up to spend their free time in this madhouse?’

‘Yes, and, what’s more, I think he’ll be great with the kids.’

‘He?’

‘Yes, he. He’s young and enthusiastic and it’ll be good for the boys to have a male role model. I know it’s all about equality these days, but I switch off the minute Jordan starts talking about football. What do I know about whether United would be better moving their right back into central defence or whatever it was he was rambling on about last night? This way he can chew someone else’s ear off about it rather than mine. Someone who might be able to make a more incisive comment than “Hmm, I don’t know”.’

‘Are you going to tell me who this saviour is or are you going to sit there teasing me all night?’

Deirdre jokingly tapped the side of her nose with her index finger. ‘I could tell you, but it’s far more fun to keep you guessing.’

‘You’re so mean!’ Clara hated being left in the dark over anything, especially when it came to the youth club. Deirdre might be the manager, but Clara had taken on more and more responsibility over the years until they were pretty much equals. Everything was a team effort, from budgeting, to choosing which fundraising events to run and which local groups to work in partnership with. Clara couldn’t remember the last time Deirdre had made a decision without consulting her first. ‘So you’re not even going to give me a clue?’

Deirdre shook her head once more. ‘Nope. This one’s for me to know and you to find out.’

‘Meanie.’

‘You love me really. And you’ll love me even more when you find out who our new volunteer is. I’ve got a good feeling about the two of you.’

Clara’s face dropped. Deirdre and her meddling.

‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. I’m not looking for a man. They’re smelly and lazy and slob about on the settee with their hands shoved down their pants.’ Clara remembered the time she’d called Dean out on that, because she’d been sick of the sight of him with his hands in his trousers. He’d insisted he wasn’t playing with himself but she’d had her doubts. The excuse that his hands were cold didn’t wash with her. Hadn’t he heard of pockets? ‘Not to mention they have a habit of sleeping around.’

Bitterness filled her mouth. She’d got past the sadness of their relationship ending, but she couldn’t get past the anger at being lied to and cheated on. It took a lot for her to trust someone. Watching her mum’s confidence dwindle away to nothing after her dad’s infidelity had been painful. Dean screwing around behind her back had only reaffirmed her distrust.

‘Not all of them, and not this one. This one’s a good one.’

‘I thought Dean was a good one, once upon a time,’ Clara grumbled in retort. ‘If there are good ones out there, why have you never got married, eh? Answer me that.’

‘I’m married to this place, remember. The club, the kids – they’re all the family I need.’

‘Well, maybe that’s enough for me, too,’ she answered defiantly. ‘Maybe I’ll be married to this place.’

Deirdre waggled her finger in front of her face, wearing a stern expression no one in their right mind would argue with. ‘I don’t think so, Clara. I think you need to trust me for once.’

‘I always trust you. Except when it comes to your decisions of when to put the Christmas decorations up, because when it comes to that you’re just downright wrong.’

‘The decorations can go up tomorrow. December the first. Which is still too early, but at least it’ll tie in nicely with the lantern parade. Plus Joe will be around then, so you can do it together.’

‘Joe? Simone’s brother Joe?’

Deirdre smacked the heel of her hand into her forehead. ‘I can’t believe I let that one slip. Me and my big mouth! But yes, he’s our new volunteer. Be nice to him, Clara. I’ve known Joe since he was eleven years old and he had lines shaved into his eyebrows like he was some sort of gangster. He was trying to be tough, but he’s was a softie then and he’s a softie now.’

She looked dreamy, and Clara suspected her boss was imagining Clara in a puffy meringue-like dress and Joe in a jet-black top hat and tails. Typical Deirdre, never one to let reality get in the way of a good story.

‘Don’t go getting any ideas, Deirdre. I barely know the guy.’

‘But you’ll get to know him,’ Deirdre reasoned. ‘Don’t rule anything out yet, that’s all I’m asking.’

Clara didn’t have the energy to argue. In ten minutes’ time they’d be opening the doors and the stream of excitable kids would flood into the hall ready to spend the next two hours wreaking havoc.

‘If I can’t have fairy lights, I’m going to need caffeine,’ she grumbled, heading towards the kitchenette.

‘Clara?’ Deirdre called after her.

‘Yeah?’

‘If you believe in the magic of Christmas, you can surely believe in the magic of love too.’

Clara rolled her eyes. Christmas was one thing. Love was something else altogether.

Joe
Friday, December 1st 2017

Joe’s stomach fizzed as The Club on the Corner came into view. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt this excited.

He’d been at a low ebb for such a long time. Not officially depressed – nothing that a doctor would prescribe medication for – but weighed down by a lethargy that had taken away his usual bounce. ‘It’s a perfectly normal part of the grieving process’ the GP had said when Joe had finally given in to his mum’s desperate pleas to seek help. ‘Survivor guilt.’ It was supposed to be reassuring, but he’d left the surgery more defeated and deflated than ever.

Joe had tried to keep moving forward and not to dwell on events of the past, but sometimes everything was so damn overwhelming. When guilt-induced anxiety had reduced him to tears at work last Christmas as he’d unpacked a delivery of poinsettias, he’d taken it as a sign and halved his hours at the hardware store. When spring brought longer and lighter days he’d felt a little stronger, but by then he’d decided the freedom of part-time hours suited him. He had money saved, and it wasn’t as though he’d been a big spender to start with. He had plenty of clothes. He didn’t smoke and although he enjoyed a beer, he didn’t often drink to excess. Socialising took place mainly at his flat or at the home of his friends, usually Billy and Emma’s, since the arrival of baby Roman earlier in the year. Other than rent, bills and food, Joe didn’t have any regular outgoings, and the only real extravagance – annual trips to Jamaica to see his maternal grandparents – were paid for by his parents. He lived a simple life, and it worked for him.

But after taking a step back for the best part of a year, Joe was excited at the prospect of volunteering. He had a soft spot for The Club on the Corner, where he’d spent so much time during his most formative years.

If those walls could talk they could tell a story or two about Joe Smith. They’d seen his first kiss, a clumsy snog with a petite girl with a penchant for heavy eyeliner. They’d watched on as he’d broken his arm when he was fooling about breakdancing with Billy and a guy called Simon who he hadn’t seen in years. He wondered if the graffiti Billy had dared him to scrawl one reckless Friday night was still on the wall in the games room. He’d been petrified of getting caught, because no one wanted to get on the wrong side of Deirdre; so although he’d accepted the challenge he’d written his name in the tiniest writing he could, discreetly hidden in a gap between a plug socket and a skirting board. That room had also been where he’d first met Michelle, her skills at eight-ball pool enough to make every boy in the place fall for her. When she’d chosen Joe from the many admirers he’d been unable to believe his luck. The Club on the Corner … it had actually changed his life.

From the outside the building looked much the same as ever. Two big wooden doors painted in a vile pea-green shade detracted from the grandeur of the Victorian architecture. The paint was tired and peeling away near the hinges, and Joe vowed to make time to give it a sanding down and a fresh coat if Deirdre would allow him. It wouldn’t take much to tart it up and make it look more inviting.

The lead window panes were beautiful, very much of the era, and the arch above the doorway stated ‘Vestry Hall’, a nod to the building’s original use as a more general meeting place. The green-and-cream sign advertising the youth club was attached to the terracotta brickwork, along with a handwritten laminated notice stating ‘Waiting List Now in Operation’. Joe hoped his volunteering would give a few more kids the opportunity to join up.

The smell in the large entrance hallway transported him back in time. It was dusty, like an antiques showroom. Although Deirdre had always kept the place spick and span, the air was heavy with history and secrets.

‘Joe!’ Deirdre exclaimed, wrapping her arms so tightly around him that he caught his breath. ‘It’s good to see you.’ Her eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d turn up. Thought you might have chickened out.’

‘Ah, it can’t be that bad. I know what it’s like, remember? I spent many a happy night here.’

Deirdre shook her head. ‘It’s all different these days, Joe. The kids grow up so fast. And the technology they’ve got! It was bad enough when you and Billy got that camera phone, remember? You were taking pictures of everyone and everything, but the photos were all grainy. Now they film each other and put it online for the world to see. They’ve got the Internet at their fingertips. It’s all gone too far, if you ask me.’

‘It’s a different age,’ Joe agreed. ‘The iPhone Simone’s got is better than mine. But all her friends have got them. They don’t know any different.’

‘We had none of this new-fangled stuff back in my day,’ Deirdre poo-pooed. ‘And we all turned out alright.’

A glint appeared in Joe’s eyes as he took the bait. ‘That’s debatable.’

‘You cheeky so-and-so! It’s a good job I like you. I wouldn’t let any Tom, Dick or Harry get away with that.’

Clara appeared from the kitchen, carrying a mug in each hand.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’d have made you a drink if I’d known you were here. I didn’t hear the door go. I can always brew up if you want one, there’s water in the kettle still, freshly boiled.’

‘Clara.’ Deirdre gave a stern look over the top of her steel-rimmed glasses. ‘You’ve met Joe before, haven’t you? Simone’s brother. He used to be a member here so I know him well. He’s a good lad, but you’ll have to keep your eye on him. He used to be one for the ladies when he was a teenager.’

Joe held his hands up in defence. ‘I could have you for slander, Deirdre Whitehall. I only had two girlfriends in the whole seven years I was a member at The Club on the Corner.’

‘You must have got serious young,’ Clara interjected. ‘I’ve only had one relationship I’d class as serious.’

‘And the less said about that the better,’ Deirdre added pointedly, before turning to Joe with a grimace. ‘Stupid bugger was sleeping with his masseuse, can you believe?’

‘He must have been an idiot,’ Joe replied, rubbing the heel of his hand against the chocolate- brown skin of his forehead. He could feel the start of a stress headache coming on. Probably from nerves. He really hoped it wouldn’t develop into a full-blown migraine.

‘He was,’ Clara replied shortly. ‘Didn’t realise it at the time, though, obviously.’

‘You had a lucky escape,’ Deirdre said. ‘Imagine if you’d married him!’

Clara shuddered, then pulled her thick black woollen cardigan more tightly across her chest. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘They were engaged, you know,’ Deirdre continued, wrinkling her nose in obvious distaste. ‘But I always had a bad feeling about him. He thought he was better than Clara, because he was a local star. I told him on more than one occasion that Clara’s the star around here. I must have had an angel watching over me the day she came for her interview.’

Clara tutted and her cheeks flushed pink. It made her appear vulnerable.

‘I don’t know about that,’ she replied modestly, before visibly perking up. Her shoulders sprang back, her eyes brightened. ‘But … it’s December the first today, and you know what that means.’

Deirdre rolled her eyes theatrically, while Joe watched on with interest.

‘Hand over the keys to the store cupboard. It’s time to unleash the decorations.’ Clara waggled her eyebrows excitedly before doing a dance of delight on the spot. ‘You can’t put it off any longer, it’s well and truly time to count down to Christmas.’ She grinned enthusiastically in Joe’s direction and Joe forced an uncomfortable smile. So Clara was a Christmas junkie. ‘Don’t you just love Christmas!’ she enthused, clapping her hands together.

Joe didn’t have the guts to tell the truth – that one of the reasons he’d volunteered at the youth club in the first place was to avoid all the preparations. He’d hoped to lose himself in endless games of table tennis and conversations about which teams had a chance in the FA Cup this season. Anything, so long as it didn’t involve Christmas. Since Michelle’s death, the festive season had never been the same.

‘Here you go,’ said Deirdre, handing Clara a long silver key attached to a small red key fob. ‘But don’t go overboard,’ she warned. ‘Leave Santa’s grotto to the Trafford Centre.’

‘Don’t worry, Deirdre. You can rely on me.’

‘When it comes to Christmas, she doesn’t know when to stop,’ she said with a laugh. ‘You’re not an elf in disguise, are you Joe?’

‘Far from it.’ He was aware his voice was short – clipped – so in a vain attempt to lighten the mood he added, ‘Green’s never been my colour.’

Clara laughed. ‘I’ll get you in the Christmas spirit soon enough. Come on, let’s get that box down. If we work fast we’ll have the whole place dressed before the kids arrive.’

She turned on her heels, beckoning for Joe to follow on.

Deirdre gave a little wave before saying, ‘You’d better get a move on. Christmas is a serious business to Clara. Oh, and good luck!’

Joe smiled weakly as he followed Clara, who was enthusiastically humming ‘Jingle Bells’, all the while silently thinking he might need all the luck he could get.

* * *

By the time the majority of the main hall had been decorated, plastic pine needles from the artificial tree that stood proudly on the stage were coating the well-trodden parquet flooring and Joe had clumps of silver glitter clinging to the tips of his fingers. Long metallic decorations were strung from the beams overhead, reminding him of the ones his parents had had in his childhood, and thick swaths of scarlet tinsel curled around the creamy-white pillars, so they resembled barber’s poles.

‘Just the lights to test now,’ Clara said, crossing her fingers in front of her. ‘They should be fine, they were new last year.’ Then she frowned and added, ‘But have you got a torch feature on your phone?’

Joe nodded. ‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘Good. Get it out and set up ready, just in case.’

‘In case what?’

‘In case the lights trip the electrics. That’s what happened last year. The whole place went black and I could hear Deirdre shouting but couldn’t see where she was. It was like something from a film.’

‘And Deirdre doesn’t like to relinquish control of anything,’ Joe smiled.

‘Tell me about it,’ Clara replied, unravelling the tangled wires. ‘She’s not always the easiest person to be around.’

‘But you like working here? I mean, I suppose you must or you’d have got a different job.’

‘I love it,’ she said, her eyes bright. ‘It’s the kids that make it special, but the whole place has a positive vibe that makes it so much easier to come to work. I joke about Deirdre, but she’s a friend as well as a boss. I never understand when people complain about their job, because I’ve always loved coming here. I guess I’m lucky.’

‘Sounds better than my job.’ Joe thought of how he’d spent the morning stock-taking. He’d had one customer, a pensioner looking for polyfilla. That had been the extent of his social contact – one customer in a four-hour shift. And although he’d like to think he’d made a difference, Joe couldn’t, hand on heart, say he had.

‘What’s it you do?’

‘I work at a hardware shop at the far end of the Northern Quarter. It’s pretty dull, most of the time.’ He shrugged his diffidence. ‘I’m only there part time these days, though. Hard to believe I used to do forty hours a week. Most of the time I was twiddling my thumbs.’

‘Fancied a change of scene?’ she smiled, and Joe’s stomach twisted. It was an innocent enough question, but he didn’t want to talk about the reasons behind the changes in his lifestyle.

‘Something like that.’

‘Well, there’s not much time for thumb-twiddling here,’ she warned, plugging in the lights. ‘We’ll be glad of the extra body. In the past we’ve tried to get people to help out but no one’s volunteered.’

‘I know what a difference this place makes to the kids,’ Joe said, ‘and I’ve got the time to give, so it makes sense to help out.’

‘Well, we really appreciate it. Now … the moment of truth.’

Clara flicked the switch and the lights pinged on, the multi-coloured bulbs twinkling perfectly against the hardwood flooring.

‘At least they didn’t trip this year,’ Joe said.

‘It’s a relief,’ Clara agreed. ‘Now we need to get them around the tree before we open the door. In five minutes’ time it’ll be bedlam in here.’

Joe pushed himself up off the floor, scooping up the string of lights. ‘Let’s get cracking, then.’

‘Thank you so much for helping.’ An enormous beam of gratitude took over Clara’s face. ‘Don’t you just love Christmas?’

‘I used to,’ he muttered under his breath.

Clara didn’t reply and Joe was unsure whether she’d heard him or not. He suspected he’d been drowned out by strains of Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’, which was playing over the sound system.

And although he wouldn’t admit it out loud, Clara’s enthusiasm was infectious. Joe was beginning to feel just a little bit of the festive spirit.

* * *

‘Calm down,’ Deirdre warned, holding out her crutch to funnel the rush of kids spilling out of the building onto the street. ‘There’s no need to run.’

‘Oh, I think you’ll find there is,’ Clara replied. ‘Don’t you know that Christmas is coming?’

‘In three and a half weeks!’ Deirdre said in an exasperated tone.

‘Ah, come on. It’s the night of the lantern parade and light switch-on, they’re bound to be excited.’ Clara grinned. ‘I’m pretty excited myself.’

‘Really?’ Joe said. ‘I’d never have guessed you liked Christmas …’

‘Everyone likes Christmas, though, don’t they? Except for Mrs Scrooge over there,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘There are so many happy memories tied up with the season. It’s not only the lights and the presents and overdosing on rich foods; it reminds me of happy times with my mum and grandparents. We lived with them for a while, and they always made a big deal out of Christmas. All the rules would go out of the window for December, and no one minded. I’d laze around in new pyjamas watching films with my gran, then we’d settle down together around the open fire and play board games way past my bedtime. Happy times.’

Joe braved a smile, despite Christmas bringing very different memories to his mind than it brought to Clara’s. There had been happy times, and lots of them, but they were now tainted by the special person he’d shared them with being so cruelly snatched away.

‘Do you still do that?’

‘Spend the day in my pyjamas?’ Clara laughed. ‘Mostly, if I can get away with it.’

‘I meant, do you still spend Christmas with your grandparents?’

Her face hardened. ‘Not any more.’

‘Oh,’ he said awkwardly, feeling terrible. He, of all people, knew that losing someone cut deep. He should never have pried, it wasn’t his place. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really lucky to still have all four of my grandparents …’

‘They haven’t died!’ Deirdre replied, guffawing, as though the suggestion was absurd.

‘They sold up when they retired,’ Clara explained, throwing a withering look in Deirdre’s direction. The older lady’s shoulders were still shaking through laughing so violently. ‘They wanted to have more adventures while they’re still fit enough, so they put everything in storage and have been travelling ever since. They’re in South America at the moment. They climbed Machu Picchu last month.’

‘Wow.’ Joe was seriously impressed. ‘Whereas my Grandma Smith thinks her summer coach trip to Chester is a big adventure.’

Clara shrugged. ‘Anything can be an adventure, depending on how you look at it.’

Joe mulled the words of wisdom over as everyone ground to a halt outside the church hall, where a makeshift stage bedecked with fairy lights and something Joe assumed was an approximation of Santa’s sleigh was lit up by a spotlight. In reality it was little more than a mess of scarlet crêpe paper and cotton-wool rolls, and Joe dreaded to think what’d happen if it rained. It’d be a disaster. Crêpe paper and cotton-wool carnage.

The effect of so many lanterns en masse was nothing short of spectacular, the flickering flames (or in the cases of the youth-club kids battery-operated tea lights – Deirdre had made it clear she and Clara were taking no chances when it came to naked flames) giving the evening sky a warm amber glow. There was a nip in the air, which was to be expected now they were in December, and Joe was glad of his warm scarf and beanie hat. The hat in particular – a shaved head might suit the shape of his angular face, but it wasn’t doing any favours now the temperature was dipping to arctic levels.

There was a moment of hush as the local MP stood to address the crowd. She was a small lady, her petite frame drowning underneath a long, beige raincoat, which couldn’t have been doing much to conserve her body heat, but her voice was loud. She completely bypassed the waiting microphone, instead opting to increase her natural volume.

‘Good evening everyone, and welcome to our annual lantern parade and Christmas light switch-on. It’s fantastic that so many of you have braved the cold to come and support us in what has become a bit of a tradition in these parts.’ She rubbed her hands together. Joe couldn’t tell if it was with excitement or for warmth. ‘I’m delighted to have a very special guest turn on the lights for us this year, and what’s more, the council have invested in some new decorations to complement those from previous displays.’

‘Maybe more than half of them will actually work,’ Deirdre said, in a voice probably meant to be conspiratorial but which earned her a few glares from loyal locals. ‘What?’ she fired back. ‘It’s the truth. Last year they were a mess.’

‘I’m more interested in the special guest,’ Joe said, keen to change the subject.

‘Oh, it’ll be Santa flicking the switch,’ Clara replied. Her cheeks were rosy, a combination of the biting cold and the flattering half-light. ‘He does it every year.’

Joe couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘That’s a let-down. I was expecting Hollywood royalty the way she was going on.’

‘It’s hardly the Blackpool Illuminations. No big-name celebrity would turn up here and do it for nothing. The only media coverage they’d get would be via the free paper.’

As though on cue, an eager photographer pointed a lens in Clara’s direction.

‘And you,’ he said, physically pushing Joe closer to Clara in a bid to fit them both in the frame. ‘That’s a good one,’ he said dully as he took the photograph. ‘Look out for it on Thursday when the new edition comes out.’

‘We will,’ Joe said politely, as Clara rose onto her tiptoes to try and get a better view of the stage.

The politician was building up to a climax now as she encouraged everyone to join in with a rendition of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’. Her cringey dancing involved stepping from side to side like a particularly uncoordinated uncle at a wedding, and she didn’t seem to realise that people were laughing at her on-stage antics rather than singing along to the tinny backing track.

As the music came to a close everyone cheered (and jeered) as she motioned for quiet. ‘And now, without further ado, it’s time to welcome our special guest. Here he is …’

‘It’s “Santa”,’ Clara whispered, making air quotes with her fingers. ‘I’ll put money on it.’

‘… Rovers star striker, Dean Harford!’

Dean strolled onto the stage with a swagger – well, as much swagger as anyone could manage wearing an enormous puffa jacket. He pumped his hands over his head in a ‘raise the roof’ motion and the predominantly teenage crowd whooped their approval.

Joe lifted his hands above his head and joined in with the clapping, swept away on the wave of excitement. Dean might not be a major star, but on the local circuit this was quite the coup.

It was only as he saw Deirdre frantically shaking her head that he slowed, noticing Clara had lowered her lantern to the floor and turned her back on the stage.

‘What?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘What’s up?

‘I’m going to shoot off,’ Clara replied. Her voice cracked as she spoke. ‘The kids are getting picked up from here anyway and it’s nearly over. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?’

Deirdre sympathetically rubbed Clara’s shoulder. ‘Fine by me, love. I’ll see you tomorrow at the club.’

‘That was a bit sudden,’ he said, as he watched Clara disappear into the crowds.

Deirdre leaned in. ‘It’s Dean,’ she explained, spitting his name like an insult. ‘He’s the ex-fiancé. She’s avoided him so far, so I think him being here was too much for her to take.’

‘And everyone acting like he’s some sort of hero. No wonder she wanted to get away.’

His eyes followed Clara, who was slinking away down a gennel. Joe couldn’t repress the urge to go with her. More than anything, he wanted to let her know he understood how it felt to be sad, afraid and alone. His experience was different, but the resulting emotion was much the same.

‘Am I alright to go now, too?’

His eyes flickered back towards Clara and he caught a final glimpse of the tail of her coat as she turned a corner.

‘Go,’ Deirdre replied with a knowing smile. ‘I can finish off here.’

‘See you tomorrow,’ Joe called, already breaking into a jog as he made his way towards the gennel.

He’d definitely lost fitness. By the time Clara was back in view he was panting.

‘Clara!’ he called breathlessly.

She turned quickly, a look of startled surprise on her face.

‘Joe.’

Now he was closer he could see she’d been crying. Even in the semi-darkness her eyes looked red and small.

She laughed. ‘You must think I’m stupid, letting myself get in such a state over him.’ She dragged her hand under her nose and sniffed. It was noisy and ungainly. ‘We were together a long time and even though I know he’s a bastard, I can’t forget the past. We did have some good times along the way.’

‘I take it you didn’t know he was doing the light switch-on?’

She shook her head, the pompom on her bobble hat bobbing like a rabbit’s tail. ‘Not a clue. It’s always Santa, every year. They probably thought Dean was an upgrade.’ She laughed again. ‘I can just imagine how he revelled in being asked. He always liked to think he was some big-wig celeb. In his mind he was the next David Beckham.’

‘He’s well known around here. Especially since the cup run last year.’

The look Clara gave was scathing.

‘Whatever you do, don’t mention the cup run. It was all he ever spoke about.’ She tutted. ‘I went to that game, you know. Third round, versus Rochdale. Me and all the other “wags”. It was bloody freezing. It snowed all second half.’

‘I remember. I went to that match. A year ago this weekend.’

‘Really?’ She looked interested. ‘I’ve not been to a match since we split up. That’s one thing I don’t miss, standing out on the touchline come rain or shine.’

‘I’ll bet.’ He smiled softly. ‘Are you sure you’re alright? It must have shaken you up, seeing him unexpectedly like that.’

‘It’s made me realise what a lucky escape I had,’ she replied, although Joe could tell from the tremor in her voice she was masking her hurt. ‘Did you see him in that ridiculous puffa jacket? He looked like the flaming Michelin man.’

‘He did, too,’ Joe said with a laugh. ‘I bet if he’d fallen over he’d have never been able to get back up again. That coat could double up as one of those sumo-suits they have for corporate away-day bonding sessions.’

‘I wish he had fallen over, and that the photographer had captured it for good measure. And that it had made the front page of the paper. Am I a bad person for saying that?’

‘Nah. Anyone would think the same, given the circumstances.’

‘It’s not even about Dean, really,’ she admitted. ‘The whole situation made me doubt my judgement. I thought I knew him inside and out, but it turned out I never really knew him at all. That’s one hell of an eye-opener.’

‘Not all men are like him.’

‘That’s what Deirdre says, but with his actions, and what happened with my dad …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I’ve been asked out a few times since me and Dean split up, but I’m not ready to put my heart on the line again.’

‘Not all men are like him,’ Joe repeated. ‘And if you let me take you out somewhere, I’ll prove it.’

He could have sworn her eyes brightened, but when she spoke there was a hesitance in her voice. ‘Are you asking me on a date?’

‘No!’ Joe replied, a fraction too quickly. He forced himself to swallow down his embarrassment. ‘I don’t really do dates. I meant as friends. If we’re going to be working together, we might as well get to know each other.’

‘I can’t decide whether that’s really gentlemanly or if I’m a bit insulted.’

‘Well, I was trying to be gentlemanly …’

‘In that case, I’ll go out with you,’ she said, glancing up through her long, dark lashes. ‘On one condition.’

‘Go on …’

‘I can tell you’re not a fan of Christmas from the way you’ve acted tonight.’ Joe went to talk, but Clara raised mitten-clad hands to stop him. ‘You joined in, but the joy wasn’t shining out of you. Christmas is the most magical time of the year to me. So, I’m going to make a suggestion. You can take me out and show me that not all men are grade-A losers, if you’ll let me share exactly why I love the festive season so much with you.’

Joe sighed. Clara had piqued his curiosity. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘We’ll be seeing a lot of each other anyway, what with you helping out at the youth club every other night, so, as a thank you for volunteering I’d like to give you some festive gifts.’

‘Presents? I don’t think anyone in their right mind would argue with presents.’

‘On the nights you’re at the club I’ll bring you something to remind you why Christmas is so amazing. And on the nights you’re not volunteering, you can pick me up and take me out.’

Joe raised an eyebrow. ‘That escalated quickly. So we’ve gone from one date to multiple dates?’ He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he was aware of his heart beating faster than normal, and the sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Clara waggled what Joe thought was probably a finger, although it was hard to tell through the silhouette of her pink and blue striped mittens. ‘Not dates, remember? But a chance for you to prove there are still some chivalrous men out there that aren’t either married or gay.’

‘Challenge accepted.’

‘But there’s one more condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘Wherever you take me on these non-dates has to be Christmassy. I don’t care where, but it’s December. I want to feel festive.’

Joe wasn’t sure he was ready to embrace eggnog and carol singing and all the memories that were tangled up with the run-up to Christmas. The tree-decorating and lantern parade had been more than enough festivity for him. But because he already liked Clara he found himself saying, ‘Okay. You’ve got a deal.’

‘Fantastic,’ Clara replied. ‘I’ve got high expectations.’ She smiled before adding, ‘I’ll have your first gift ready for you tomorrow, if one night with the kids hasn’t put you off helping out.’

‘Not at all. I’ll be there with bells on.’

‘See, you’re already getting into the festive mood,’ she laughed as she started walking away. ‘Until tomorrow,’ she called.

‘Until tomorrow,’ Joe echoed, pulling down his beanie to cover the chilly tips of his ears.

As he headed back towards the now-glitzy lights twinkling above the square, Joe was pleasantly surprised there was a new-found spring in his step.

Clara
Saturday, December 2nd 2017

Clara couldn’t wait for Joe to arrive at The Club on the Corner that day so she could give him the first of his gifts. She’d been slogging away all afternoon, sorting out the seemingly endless amount of paperwork that was required to keep a youth club up and running in the twenty-first century, and was ready for some festive frivolity. Admittedly, she’d already managed to distract herself by attaching two new strands of thick golden tinsel to the edge of her desk. She’d seen them in the market that morning and hadn’t been able to resist. It was Christmas, after all.

‘Afternoon,’ Deirdre called cheerily, as she popped her head around the office door. ‘How are the accounts going, busy bee?’

‘Ah, you know. Not the most positive reading.’ Clara pulled a face. No matter how hard she looked at the numbers on the spreadsheets, there was no way she could make them add up. ‘Then again, it’s no worse than normal. We’ll keep ticking over. We always do.’

‘That we will.’ There was a pause, and Clara had a suspicion she knew where Deirdre’s conversation was about to head. She had that look in her eye that suggested she was ready to start digging. ‘So,’ she began, ‘what’s going on with you and Joe?’

‘Nothing,’ Clara replied. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

It was a half-truth, but Clara pushed away the guilt rising in her chest by assuring herself that Deirdre was only concerned with romance, and there was none of that between her and Joe. A hint of harmless flirting and a countdown to Christmas, but no full-blown love affair like her boss was craving.

Deirdre peered over the upper rim of her glasses like a TV detective scrutinising the evidence.

‘Nothing?’ she frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Because the way he came charging after you at the lantern parade … well, it didn’t seem like nothing to me. In fact, I’d go as far as to say it looked like the act of someone trying to get into your good books,’ she pressed, with a suggestive jiggle of her eyebrows. The implied meaning was clear. Deirdre’s voice might be saying ‘good books’, but her eyebrows were saying ‘bed’.

‘You said it yourself, Joe’s a nice guy. He could tell I was shaken after seeing Dean and wanted to make sure I was okay. That’s all there is to it.’

The mention of Dean was all it took to set Deirdre off. Dean-bashing had become one of her favourite hobbies over the past few months.

‘Didn’t he look ridiculous in that massive coat?’ Deirdre said. ‘And what the hell was that dancing all about? What a cock.’

‘Deirdre!’ Clara exclaimed. ‘That’s harsh.’

‘Not harsh enough. I speak as I find.’

Deirdre gingerly lowered herself onto the sofa that backed against the far wall of the office. Her face strained with the effort.

‘Oooof, that’s better,’ she said, sticking her right leg straight out in front of her. ‘My knee’s been giving me gip all day.’

‘You’re doing too much,’ Clara chided. ‘The aches and pains are your body telling you to take things more easily.’

‘Stop giving me orders. You’re not a nurse.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Clara replied, biting her tongue, ‘but I’ve been working with you long enough to know when you’re overdoing it.’

Deirdre’s face softened as she spied the tin of chocolates on Clara’s desk. ‘I’d feel better if I could have one of those orange creams …’

Clara froze rigid. The chocolates were her first festive gift for Joe, but she knew that if she tried to explain the countdown to Deirdre she’d only end up reading more into it than there was. It was easier to say nothing.

Reluctantly, she handed the chocolates over. ‘Knock yourself out,’ she said with a smile she hoped didn’t look forced.

Deirdre was practically salivating as she clamoured to pull back the seal. ‘A brand-new tin, what a treat. Means nobody’s hogged the best ones already.’

‘Like I said, knock yourself out.’

As Deirdre rummaged noisily through the confectionery, seeking the distinctive amber wrapper of her most coveted chocolate, Clara hoped there’d be more than a tin of empty foils to give Joe when he arrived for his shift at six o’clock. Although, she reasoned, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if that was all that remained. Not much says Christmas quite as well as a half-eaten tin of Quality Street.

* * *

By the time they were shutting the heavy doors after the last group of kids had left for the night, Joe looked beat. He leant against the door and let out a long, slow sigh.

‘I don’t know how you do this and look so young. I’m convinced I’ve aged twenty years in one night,’ he said, rubbing his fingertips against his cheeks.

‘Lightweight. One night and you’re ready to throw in the towel?’ Clara clucked her tongue sarcastically. ‘I expected you to have more staying power.’

‘I didn’t say anything about giving up,’ he clarified. ‘Just that I feel like I’ve been mauled by a pack of wolves, and my shoulder’s killing me.’

He massaged the joint, before rolling his shoulder in a circular motion.

‘You should never have told them you could breakdance. You should have known they weren’t going to stop badgering until you demonstrated your windmill,’ Clara teased.

The group of awestruck pre-teens had watched on in amazement as Joe showed off his flips and tricks with apparent ease, and Clara herself had been impressed. These were the kind of moves Diversity would be proud of and, she’d realised, Joe had a look of Ashley Banjo about him. Part of it was the height and rich skin, although Joe’s was darker than the breakdance king’s, but it was more the open face and wide, friendly smile. Clara had to admit, Joe was handsome, and, from what she knew, kind and unassuming too. The total opposite of blonde, show-off Dean in every possible way.

It had been Clara leading the applause when Joe had stood, arms folded across his chest and an unbelievable mean look on his face as he finished his routine, but she wasn’t his only fan. She’d noticed a group of girls whispering, and recognised their giggling ways as a sure-fire sign of a crush on someone older and unobtainable. She’d had a similar infatuation herself when she was twelve, with her maths teacher Mr Miles. He’d been the one thing that had held her interest in trigonometry and quadratic equations.

‘I’ve learned my lesson,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s swelling up.’

‘Come on,’ Clara said, nodding to the stairwell. ‘There’s all sorts of stuff in the first-aid cupboard in the office. I’m sure we can find something to make it more bearable.’

She started up the stairs, her fingers tickling the strands of tinsel that were wrapped around the banister.

‘Ouch,’ Joe said, as he slowly followed in Clara’s footsteps. ‘I think I’ve strained a muscle in my thigh too. I’ve not pulled off those moves for the best part of ten years.’

‘Well, you’ve still got it.’ Clara was glad Joe couldn’t see her face, which was half smug grin and half flushed cheeks. ‘Right,’ she said, pulling open a tall cupboard and whipping out a green bag marked with a white cross, ‘let’s see what’s in here.’

She unloaded bandages and plasters (always near the top, as they were the most frequently used) until she found a tube of Deep Heat. She tossed it to Joe, who caught it with one hand and a wince, before checking the use-by date.

‘These aren’t standard first-aid kit supplies,’ Joe noted.

‘This is the staff first-aid kit.’ Clara held up some of the other contents, which included a box of Alka Seltzer and a family-sized box of Rennies. ‘The Deep Heat is Deirdre’s, for when her leg’s playing up. She says the warmth helps her bones.’

Joe smiled. ‘And the Alka Seltzer?’

‘Mine,’ Clara admitted, shamefaced. ‘I had a couple of big nights out when I split up with Dean. I never came to work drunk,’ she added hastily, ‘but there were a couple of occasions where I was a bit … let’s say “worse for wear”.’

‘Ah,’ Joe said, raising a knowing eyebrow. ‘They work wonders, don’t they?’

He squirted a generous dollop of the smelly cream onto the palm of his hand before rubbing it into his shoulder, and Clara watched as he closed his eyes with blessed relief and exhaled.

‘That’s taken the edge off,’ he said finally.

‘I’ve got something else that might cheer you up.’ Clara walked to the desk and picked up the now half-empty tub. ‘This was supposed to be your first gift.’

His eyes lit up at the sight of the trademark purple packaging. ‘Chocolate. That’s exactly what I need right now.’

‘Don’t get too excited. Deirdre got to them before I had chance to hide them away.’

His lips curled up into a knowing smile. ‘So my first gift is a half-eaten tin of chocolates?’

‘Yep,’ Clara replied with a chuckle, relieved Joe could see the funny side of the situation. ‘I’m a chocoholic, but Deirdre is something else. As soon as she saw them she pounced. I’ll have to up my game next time I bring anything sweet for you.’

She handed him the tin and he prised off the lid. It popped as it loosened. ‘At least all the good ones are left,’ he said, taking in the golden wrappers of the toffees.

‘That’s because Deirdre can only have the soft centres. The chewy ones play havoc with her false teeth.’

Joe pulled at either end of the wrapper of a slender toffee finger, the sweet twisting as he unravelled it from its shimmering casing. He moaned as he popped it into his mouth.

‘So my first gift was a good choice, then?’

‘Mmm,’ Joe replied with a nod, still chewing on his toffee. ‘The Deep Heat works, but this is the best medicine.’

He swallowed it down, then offered the tin to Clara, who shook her head.

‘I’ll admit it, I had a few earlier too. What’s left are all yours.’

‘I admire your honesty.’

‘So food works as a gift for you?’

‘Food’s always a good choice,’ he said, selecting a second chocolate.

‘That’s useful to know.’

‘And what about you? I’m supposed to be taking you out on a non-date tomorrow,’ he reminded her. ‘And the place I was thinking of probably involves half your daily calorie intake. You’re not one of these women who doesn’t eat, are you?’

Clara swallowed down the laugh that was rising in her throat, thinking of how much she loved her food. If it wasn’t for her constant nervous energy about the future of The Club on the Corner she’d probably be a good few dress sizes larger than she was.

‘It’s safe to say food’s always good with me, too,’ she confirmed. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

And she realised with a jolt that she was. She really, really was.

Joe
Sunday, December 3rd 2017

Clara tilted her head back as she inhaled the super-sweet aroma that lingered in the air. Sugared almonds and cinnamon. Whiskey and mulled wine. Balsam and fir trees.

‘This place smells amazing.’

Joe grinned. ‘I know, right? The food here is incredible too. We’ll have to make sure we sample as much as we can.’

The Christmas market was thronging with people, all wrapped up against the elements with their thick coats, bobble-topped hats and woolly scarves. Wind-chapped cheeks and noses bright enough to rival Rudolph himself were all that was on show other than their eyes, sparkling with festive joy as they took in the array of wooden cabins selling everything from tree decorations to squidgy pastel cubes of fresh Turkish delight.

For tonight Manchester’s Albert Square was the heart of the city, alive with cheer. It was full of life and energy and the overwhelming sense of togetherness that the city had become known for after the horrific terrorist attack earlier in the year. Manchester was resilient, and Joe felt he had a lot he could learn from his home city.

‘Look at that!’ Clara squealed, pointing to a wooden hut selling squishy ring doughnuts by the dozen. They were piled high, dusted in a fine layer of speckled sugar that looked like morning frost. ‘Oh, I bet they taste amazing. And the stall next to it is selling Gluhwein. I could do with something spicy and alcoholic after the day I’ve had.’

‘We’ll drink later,’ Joe promised, ‘but let’s get something to eat first.’

‘Doughnuts?’ Clara sounded hopeful.

‘I was thinking something a bit more substantial,’ Joe laughed. He’d purposely not eaten all day, saving himself for the delicious fare on offer.

Clara pouted. ‘Spoilsport.’

‘You’ll enjoy your doughnut even more after a hot dog, I promise. Especially from the stand over there.’

He waved his hand in the direction of the town hall, where an enormous orange-faced Santa proudly watched over proceedings from his lofty vantage point high up above the entrance of the neo-gothic building. Joe couldn’t tell if it was meant to resemble Zippy from Rainbow or not, but it did. He found the Santa bizarre, and slightly sinister, so rather than dwell on it he grabbed Clara’s hand and began to weave his way through the crowds.

It was busier than he’d anticipated. He’d thought people might be having a quiet night in front of the telly before all the Christmas madness and mayhem really kicked off in the next week or so, but no … it seemed everyone in Manchester had decided tonight was the night to head to the town centre and splash the cash on gourmet food and overpriced Christmas ‘necessities’.

He’d been to one of the big European markets on Billy’s stag do. They’d wanted to go to Oktoberfest, but Billy’s brother hadn’t been able to get holiday from work at the start of the academic year. He was a chemistry lecturer, based at Manchester Met, and September and October were no-no’s for time off, unless he wanted to make enemies with the course leaders before he’d really started; so everyone else had fitted in around his plans instead. It wasn’t like he was the groom, nor even the best man (that honour had gone to Joe, and he’d been exceptionally proud of being picked for the job), but Billy had compromised on the stag do in a magnanimous act of brotherly love.

The group of ten had booked a dirt-cheap flight that set off from Manchester Airport at an ungodly hour and a ‘bargain’ hotel that had turned out to be a filthy hovel well out of Munich city centre. They’d had to get an underground train to access anything more than a corner shop or the ladies of the night that had lurked opposite the hotel’s main entrance, and Joe had accessed neither, nor had he wanted to. Some of the other lads had, though, which had repulsed Joe. He’d never had so much as a one-night stand and prostitutes were way beyond his moral compass.

On the last night, when he was steaming drunk after too many tankards of beer to count, he’d given a handful of euros to one of the girls. She couldn’t have been much older than Simone was now, her thick red lipstick clown-like and gaudy, her black dress short, tight and low- cut. There had been a sadness to her face, and her eyes darted around the shadows of the surrounding alleyways as she took the money. At the time Joe had thought she was afraid he was going to attack her, but with hindsight he thought the girl was scared in case her pimp saw her taking money from a potential client without earning it. He’d wished he could speak German, but as it was he could only say ‘Danke’ as he gave her the money, which he later realised meant ‘thank you’ rather than ‘please’. It weighed heavy on his mind and heart that he’d never know her fate.

He was snapped out of his thoughts as Clara shouted, ‘Don’t you just love it here?’ Even at full volume her voice could barely be heard above the blend of laughter and chatter and the mellow Christmas panpipe music blaring out over the speakers.

Joe didn’t love the crowds, but the way Clara’s face was shining perked him up enough to smile; that and the sight of the bratwurst sausage logo coming into view.

‘We made it,’ Joe said breathlessly as they joined a queue of people waiting for hot dogs. ‘And I promise they’re worth the fuss. I reluctantly came with Simone last week because she wanted to start her Christmas shopping and we ended up eating two of these beauties each.’

‘Two? But they’re enormous!’

Joe looked to the ground, guilty as charged. ‘I know. But honestly, when you’ve tasted it you’ll see why one wasn’t enough. They’re incredible. And we had to make the most of it, because once the markets are gone for another year there won’t be the opportunity to have them again until next November or December.’

‘Ah, so you’re making the most of the opportunity by aiming to eat your annual quota of hot dogs in a month.’

‘Exactly.’

The round-faced man in the hut was wearing a gigantic furry hat with earflaps that hung down like spaniels’ ears. It was at odds with the professional-looking apron he was wearing, the combination giving him the air of an eccentric elf. He beamed as he rubbed his palms together. ‘Good evening!’

‘Good evening,’ Joe echoed. ‘Can we have two of your finest hot dogs, please?’

The man nodded as he pressed the meat into a bread roll. The sausage was too long, poking out at both ends, and Joe was already salivating at the thought.

‘Onions?’ the man asked.

‘Yes, please,’ Clara replied quickly. ‘And lots of them.’

Joe pulled a face and shook his head. ‘No thanks.’

Clara looked on in disbelief. ‘A hot dog without onions? What are you, some kind of maverick? Next you’ll be saying you don’t have red sauce.’

‘I don’t.’

The look of sheer horror that passed over Clara’s face at that revelation made Joe snort with laughter.

‘I can’t believe I’m willingly spending time with someone who has such terrible taste in hot dogs. I bet you’re one of those weirdoes who has mustard too, aren’t you?’ The man offered the hot dog to Clara, loaded high with the soft, curled onions. She reached straight for the bottle of red sauce and drew two thick lines of ketchup along the top of the sausage. ‘Red sauce is the only way forward when it comes to hot dogs.’

Joe accepted a hot dog from the man and handed him a note in payment. When Clara reached for her purse, Joe stopped her. ‘My treat,’ he said, as she gratefully withdrew her hand from her bag and bit into her food.

‘Mmmm,’ she said, her eyes closing as she chewed the hot dog. ‘This is amazing.’

Joe couldn’t hide his pride, as though he’d made it himself from scratch. ‘I know, right? And I think it tastes better because we’re out in the cold and there’s all the smells. It tricks your senses into thinking it’ll taste a certain way and then it doesn’t at all. It’s a million times better.’

‘I couldn’t eat it like that, though,’ Clara said, nodding her head towards Joe’s plain hot dog.

‘I like it naked.’ As soon as Joe realised what he’d said he waited for Clara to pounce as she undoubtedly would.

‘If that’s not too much information then I don’t know what is,’ she said, with a salacious giggle.

Joe glanced coyly at the floor before meeting her eyes.

‘Oh, stop acting all innocent and virtuous, you don’t have to get embarrassed,’ she said. ‘We’re only having a laugh.’

She wrapped her mouth around the hot dog sausage and although he knew it wasn’t meant to be sexual – she was only eating, after all – Joe was aware of his cheeks getting warm. All the innuendo was making him hot under the collar.

‘I’m a vicar’s son, remember? I am innocent and virtuous.’

As though to prove the point he fluttered his eyelashes, and Clara laughed. It was a beautiful laugh, Joe thought, full on and loud and brimming over with positivity. Being around Clara was certainly a tonic. The heaviness that weighed down his heart lessened in her presence.

‘Yeah, right. I bet you’re not as innocent as you make out. No one is.’

‘That sounds like an invite for me to ask about your deepest, darkest secrets.’

‘Uh huh.’ She shook her head. ‘No way. This is about you, not me! Come on. Share something that’ll surprise me.’

Joe thought for a moment as he chewed on the sausage. The herbs and spice exploded on his tongue, fizzing like fireworks against the roof of his mouth. What could he share? Nothing about Michelle, not yet, and nothing about his ambivalence towards many aspects of life, either. He wracked his brains for something witty and light-hearted. There were plenty of minor exploits from his youth, but nothing shock-worthy. The time Billy dared him to go into the ladies’ toilets at The Club on the Corner and Deirdre had been lurking outside waiting for him because one of the girls had snitched on him. He’d got into a lot of trouble over that. Or when he’d downed the best part of a bottle of White Lightning behind the bus shelter, again a dare from Billy. Billy was almost always involved when he got in trouble, now he thought about it.

‘I kissed a boy once.’ The words were out of his mouth before he could think about what he was revealing.

‘Really?’ She looked surprised. ‘Even if I’d had a hundred guesses, I wouldn’t have predicted you were going to say that.’

‘Sometimes there’s more to people than meets the eye.’

‘You can’t say something like that and just leave it there,’ she said, looking forlornly at the now-empty napkin. All that was left of her hot dog were a few stray crumbs and a smear of red sauce. ‘Come on. Spill the beans.’

‘There’s not much to spill. It was during my first month at uni. The guy I lived next to in halls had a friend come to stay.’ He could picture him clearly in his mind’s eye, even now – the slicked-back blonde hair, the sharp, pale features, the all-black clothes. ‘He looked like the actor who played Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter films.’

Clara nodded her approval. ‘Not bad.’

‘We all went out to a club, everyone from our floor, and when we got back someone suggested we played spin the bottle. There were maybe ten of us still up, all steaming drunk. And when he spun the bottle, it landed on me. I thought he’d kiss the girl I was sat next to instead because he’d been flirting with her all night, but he didn’t. He walked straight across the middle of the circle and lowered down onto his haunches, placed his hands on my cheeks and kissed me.’

Clara fanned her hand in front of her face. ‘Sounds hot.’

‘It wasn’t. Not for me, anyway.’

Michelle had been there, sat on the other side of the circle, watching in amusement, not remotely threatened by someone else kissing him. If roles had been reversed he’d have been squirming with jealousy, but then Michelle had always been easy-going, a free spirit. She’d teased him mercifully about it forever more. At least, as forever more as they’d been granted, which hadn’t been long enough.

‘Were there tongues?’

Joe pressed his lips firmly together, wondering what had made him willingly share something so personal with Clara, who he barely knew. He’d not breathed a word of this to anyone who hadn’t been there, not even Billy.

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re a dark horse, Joe Smith. Snogging men after a drunken night out. I wouldn’t have had you down as the type.’

‘It was a game,’ he shrugged. ‘And it wasn’t for me. Anyway, why is it me revealing all this stuff? Make it fair, come on. Tell me more about you.’

‘I might go down in your estimation if I tell you too much.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘When I was fourteen I let Darren Wilder touch my boobs at the school disco.’

Joe laughed. ‘That’s not shocking, that’s just teenagers being teenagers.’

‘I graffiti-ed the toilets in the Imperial War Museum once on a school trip.’

‘What did you write?’

‘Clara was here,’ she laughed.

‘Stealthy,’ he nodded. ‘I like it. But it doesn’t shock me.’

‘I once climbed out of my window to go to an Avril Lavigne concert at the Apollo because I knew my mum wouldn’t let me go if I asked.’

‘Now that’s shameful. Avril Lavigne? Really?’

‘She had some classic tunes, I’ll have you know.’

Joe snorted. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘She did!’ Clara laughed, playfully slapping his arm. ‘I bet even you liked Sk8er Boi.’ She proceeded to sing it theatrically, and Joe found himself joining in. He hadn’t realised he still knew the lyrics after all these years.

‘Ha! I knew you were a closet fan.’

‘Simone liked her.’

‘She did not, you liar. She’s not the right age.’

‘It’s only that one song. It’s a catchy tune.’

‘It’s immense,’ Clara agreed. ‘But enough talk about Avril. Are you ready to hit the stalls? Because I noticed one back there that I’d like to have a look at.’

‘The one with the alpaca-wool hats?’ he grinned. The stall had stood out for Joe, the brightly coloured garments catching his eye. There had been shawls and ponchos hanging on a rack and one of those twizzly stands covered in hats with earflaps, like the one the sausage-seller had been sporting. Then there had been knee-high socks, thick and striped, and pairs of mittens that looked warm and snuggly, similar to the ones Clara had been wearing the evening of the light switch-on, but in an array of garish clashing colours.

‘Haha,’ she said, poking out her tongue. ‘That wasn’t the one I had in my sights, actually. There was a stall with wooden ornaments that I thought would make nice gifts. My mum is as nuts about Christmas as I am, so I always get her a new decoration as part of her Christmas present.’

‘Cool,’ Joe replied, before looking through the crowds to try and locate the stall. There were so many, and every hut looked alike. He hoped Clara could remember where it was because otherwise it could take a while to find. ‘Any idea which direction we need to head in?’

Clara wafted her hands around. ‘Somewhere towards the middle.’

Joe couldn’t help but smile at her vagueness. ‘We’d better get searching then, hadn’t we?’

And they amiably linked arms and headed off in search of the perfect gift for Clara’s mum.

* * *

‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ Clara said, as she ran her fingers gently over the smooth curves of a carved reindeer. The wood was varnished, yet the colour remained delicate and pale.

Joe wasn’t usually won over by ornaments, but even he had to admit they were beautifully made. The attention to detail was phenomenal and the intricate nativity scenes had particularly caught his eye.

‘Handcrafted in Scandinavia,’ said a ruddy-faced blonde in a fisherman’s sweater. ‘And all individual. You won’t find two the same.’

‘That’s what I like about them,’ Clara enthused. ‘That they’re all unique.’ She picked up a small reindeer, not much bigger than her thumb. ‘I think something like this would be best. Our place isn’t really big enough for one like that,’ she laughed, nodding towards the largest of the reindeers. It came up to Joe’s waist, and he wondered who would ever buy a decoration that big. He supposed they appealed to people who had mansions, or those families who turned their gardens into a winter wonderland for a month so it became a bizarre local attraction.

Clara handed the miniature reindeer to the stall-holder with a decisive nod. ‘I’ll take this one.’

As she handed over the money in exchange for the wooden trinket, now wrapped in shimmering silver tissue paper, she beamed.

‘My mum’ll love it. Thank you,’ she added, waving to the man as they moved on to the next stall, where a wild-haired lady was waxing lyrical about her homemade scented candles.

‘I’ve tried to conjure up some more unusual scents,’ she said, every word deliberate and pronounced. ‘Everyone likes vanilla, but I wanted to give them more of a Miranda vibe.’ Sensing Clara’s bemusement and mistaking it for confusion, she added, ‘I’m Miranda.’

‘Right,’ Clara said, stifling a giggle.

Joe elbowed her in the ribs, hoping it would encourage her to keep a straight face, but it only caused Clara to pull her hand to her face and clamp it over her mouth to hide her glee.

Something about Miranda’s manner was comical. She was intense, and Joe picked up on how the way she spoke, as though she was thinking about every word that came out of her mouth, was so at odds with how Clara blurted anything that came into her head the moment she thought it.

‘I create original blends that add the traditional Christmas aromas to the most popular scents.’

Clara moved closer and examined the labels, plain white with an embossed gold script. ‘Vanilla Berry, Cinnamon Rose, Sea Breeze and Balsam … Interesting combinations.’

‘Have a smell,’ urged Miranda, shoving a candle under Clara’s nose with such force that she jumped back in surprise. ‘This is Sunrise and Snowflakes. It’s a combination of summer mornings and winter nights.’

‘Wow,’ Joe said, swallowing down a laugh that was bubbling in his throat. ‘There really is something for everyone.’

Clara wrinkled her nose as she inhaled. ‘This smells a bit gingery,’ she said. ‘And maybe bergamot too?’

‘You’ve got a good nose for scents.’ Miranda’s bob of the head suggested she was impressed by Clara’s ability to pick out the key ingredients in her bespoke candles. ‘I bet you’re a woman who uses her senses to their full potential.’

She gazed intently at Clara, which Joe found unsettling, so he could only imagine how it must feel for Clara being in the spotlight like that. And what was she rambling on about, Clara using her senses to their full potential? Joe was beginning to feel both trapped and weirded out by Miranda and her scented candles, and was keen to escape. Not least because he didn’t fancy being coerced into buying a candle he’d never light.

‘Oh Clara, look!’

He started to wave frantically at a group of young people eating churros a few feet away. Never mind that he’d not seen the youths before in his life, if it got him and Clara away from Miranda and her candles, he didn’t really care.

Her eyes darted to where he was looking, just as a girl with bright-green hair gave an awkward smile and waved back.

‘We really should go and say hello,’ Joe said pointedly. ‘It’s a long time since I last saw … erm …’ he wracked his brain for a name that he could pretend belonged to the girl, ‘… Erin.’

‘We must,’ said Clara, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Joe was relieved she’d understood what he was trying to do and that she was willing to play along. ‘Nice to meet you, Miranda. I hope you have a successful evening.’

‘Don’t waste that nose of yours!’ Miranda called after them as they walked away as quickly as they could.

‘Thank you,’ Clara gushed when the pair were safely out of Miranda’s earshot. ‘I was beginning to wonder what she was going to say next. Talking about using my senses to my full potential and all the other mumbo jumbo,’ she laughed.

‘It might not be mumbo jumbo,’ Joe reasoned. ‘I was thinking we might put our sense of taste to good use again in a minute. That doughnut stall is just over there,’ he said, nodding towards a crowd of people queuing for the sugary delights.

‘And the Gluhwein. You did promise,’ Clara reminded him.

‘You’re right, I did.’

Clara linked her arm through Joe’s once more. ‘Now you’re talking. Tasting that is the kind of sense I don’t mind using to my full potential,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

Clara
Monday, December 4th 2017

The gloomy grey clouds hadn’t lifted all day, and the darkness they cast around the office at The Club on the Corner wasn’t encouraging Clara to work. The paperwork she’d been staring at was also tedious and depressing, so much so that she’d almost caved and opened the stollen she’d bought for Joe. The sweet bread-like texture dissolving in her mouth would have been an antidote to the charity submissions she’d been working on all day, first at home and then at the office. If the cake hadn’t taken so bloody long to wrap the previous evening she’d have opened it first thing; all that would’ve been left of it would be a Hansel and Gretel trail of crumbs leading from her house to the club. Or halfway to the club, more likely. It would never have lasted her all the way to work.

Stollen was another of the traditional Christmas foods that she couldn’t resist, and the brand she’d bought from a European supermarket on Ayres Road was her absolute favourite. It was packed with so much dried fruit that it wasn’t far off being a Christmas cake, and the icing sugar dusted on top was thick and generous. Most importantly was the marzipan rope woven through the centre of the dough, the sharp almond tang the perfect finishing touch. Her grandparents’ next-door neighbours were Austrian and gifted her family one of the cakes each year, and the sight of the distinctive wrapper alone was enough to set Clara’s mouth watering.

At the Christmas market Joe had mentioned in passing that he’d never tried stollen and she’d immediately known it was the next gift she’d get him. She only hoped he liked it as much as she did, because she’d gone for the biggest they’d had in stock.

Clara looked at the clock, noting it was later than she’d thought. She really should start setting up for the session, especially as it was doubling as a much-needed fundraising event. Deirdre had decided a bake sale was a relatively easy way to bring more money into the club, but Clara wasn’t in the mood for swarms of adults descending on the place. She loved being with the youngsters, finding them much easier to talk to than their older counterparts. They were more straightforward, less prone to game-playing. If they had an issue with you it’d come firing out in a hormone-fuelled rage.

Picking up her bag, along with her mum’s spotty cake tin, she headed downstairs, hoping people wouldn’t laugh her misshapen Smartie cookies out of town. Clara never professed to be a baker and didn’t aspire to be one either, and she’d only brought something along to the event to show her support. If no one wanted to buy them, she’d throw a tenner into the margarine tub they used for collecting money and take them back home herself.

* * *

Deirdre was flapping. She often got like this when there was an event, keen to show the club in its best light. Plus, of course, there was the near desperation, the need to make as much money as possible from this bake sale to keep the club open and available to as many young people as possible. Clara understood all that, but the tension in the kitchen rubbed off on her as soon as she walked through the door.

‘Oh, Clara. Thank goodness! I thought you were never going to come down.’ Deirdre peeled back the lid of a Tupperware container and examined the contents – mince slices – before adding the box to a pile. ‘I’ve got a system,’ she said, her voice hurried and flustered. ‘Buns and cupcakes near the kettle, biscuits next to the microwave and big cakes and Christmassy goods here on the table.’

Clara cast her eyes over the offerings. There seemed to be an awful lot of buns, plus an abundance of Cornflake Crispy bites, which were Deirdre’s speciality. She made them for every event, every time.

‘I’ve brought some biscuits,’ Clara said, putting her tin near the microwave with a tray full of beautifully iced gingerbread men. ‘They don’t look that appealing, though, I’m afraid.’

‘They’ll be fine,’ Deirdre said, ‘people buy anything at these bake sales. They’re not fussy.’

Clara didn’t rise. Much like the chocolate cake in the corner hadn’t. It was as flat as a pancake.

‘Who brought that in?’ Clara asked, pointing at the paper-thin cake.

‘Oh, that was Joe,’ Deirdre said with a laugh. ‘I don’t think he’s much of a baker. Bless him for trying, though, eh?’

‘It’s not so bad,’ Clara said, surprised at how quickly she jumped to defend Joe’s efforts. The cake was thin, but the chocolate buttercream smothering it still looked tasty and tempting. ‘And, like you said, people aren’t fussy. They’d buy anything if they thought it’d support the youth club.’

‘I hope you’re right, because if we don’t raise some money fast we’ll have to cancel the Christmas disco.’

‘We’ll find the money somehow,’ Clara said optimistically. ‘There’s been a Christmas disco every year since the club opened. We’re not going to start letting the kids down now.’

‘You’re right,’ Deirdre agreed, as she opened a tin. The tempting waft of chocolate brownie flooded out and Clara’s mouth started to water in response. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’

Clara rummaged in her bag for her purse. It was buried at the bottom, beneath a pile of crumpled receipts, an empty chocolate-bar wrapper and a couple of emergency tampons. Wasn’t that always the way? She took her rubbish and posted it in the bin, and removed the present for Joe, placing it on the work surface until she found the purse. Unzipping it, she took out a newly-minted coin.

‘Well, for starters, can you bag me up a piece of that brownie? And make it a large one. It looks amazing.’ She placed the pound coin in the margarine tub, the two-tone disc mingling in with the float of silvers and coppers.

‘Brianna Moore’s mum made it, so you know it’s going to be good.’

‘Ah, that explains why it smells amazing,’ Clara replied, inhaling deeply to get another hit from the sweet aroma. Mrs Moore had started up a small bakery on the same row as The Club on the Corner, and apparently the orders had been flooding in. She’d been especially busy over the summer with wedding cakes, and Clara imagined she’d be in demand over the Christmas period too, for those who had neither the time nor skills to cobble together a Christmas cake.

‘I’m going to buy the ginger loaf she contributed,’ Deirdre said with a wry smile. ‘And she’s donated a voucher for a celebration cake too as a raffle prize. I was going to ask if you’d stand on the door as people arrive to encourage them to buy a strip or two.’

Clara snorted. ‘Encourage? Bully them into it, more like.’

‘It’s a fantastic prize. Everyone likes cake. We could take a lot of money on that raffle, if we’re lucky.’ She picked up a bag and peered into it, looking most dissatisfied by the contents. ‘French Fancies,’ she said, with a disparaging shake of her head. ‘Shop-bought.’

‘Mr Kipling’s?’

Clara licked her lips. She loved French Fancies. They reminded her of childhood birthday parties, the bright icing drizzled with purest white zig-zagged lines brought back happy memories.

Deirdre shook her head. ‘Own brand.’

‘Oh.’

Clara was momentarily disappointed, until Joe strode into the room, a woven jute bag in each hand.

He held them up proudly. ‘More supplies!’ he announced.

Deirdre smiled half-heartedly. ‘You been busy doing more baking, Joe? You shouldn’t have.’

‘Oh no,’ Joe laughed. ‘It took me hours to make that chocolate monstrosity, there was no chance I was going to do any more baking. I got Mum to make something instead. She hadn’t realised the cake sale was tonight until I told her – she’d written it in the wrong space on the calendar.’

‘Oh, she’s a star finding time to bake like that.’

‘She appreciates the work the club does so she’ll always make time to support it as best she can. Plus, she’s the vicar’s wife. Baking’s what she does best,’ he joked.

‘I’d better go and look for that book of raffle tickets,’ Clara said, picking up her handbag. She didn’t fancy her chances of finding them, though. The stationery cupboard was a disaster area. ‘Are they where they were left after the summer fun day?’

‘In the box with the receipt book,’ Deirdre confirmed. ‘And make sure people buy plenty,’ she added. ‘Don’t let anyone get away with single tickets, make them buy a strip. Channel your inner sales girl.’

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