A Season for Second Chances(98)

Gaaaarrghhh! What’s wrong with me, I’m jealous of a dildo!



Annie laughed out loud.


Hahahahaha Well then let’s hope my stupid husband agrees to buy me out, so that I can buy you out, and you can come over here and usurp that wicked Mr. Knightley.


If he doesn’t pull his finger out soon, I’m going to drive to the Pomegranate Seed and shake the money out of him!


I’ll talk to him again. Let’s save the husband shaking as a last resort.





Chapter 75



The much anticipated Christmas festival celebrations were just hours away. The hob had been swallowed by two large catering saucepans, one containing a beef bourguignon and the other a rich vegetable and ale stew, which had been blipping contentedly on a slow simmer all afternoon. The Christmas tunes playing on a loop had spurred Annie and Gemma along as they cut out and baked enough sugar star cookies to sink the famous Willow.

John had been roped in to help Bill and Paul set the fires that would line the beach and act as both a beacon for ghost ships—mostly the ones that had been lured to the shallows by Willow Bay’s iniquitous forebears—and warming posts for chilly revelers. It seemed to Annie that the residents of Willow Bay spent a lot of time atoning for their ancestors’ misdemeanors. They were supervised in their endeavor by Emily, who had suspended her dislike of John for the sake of the festival and historical accuracy, and winked conspicuously at Annie every chance she got. Alfred lent a hand where needed. Only a handful of people knew that this would be his last day in Willow Bay, and that handful were determined—whether he liked it or not—to make it special for him.

Annie watched John wistfully as he worked. He was wearing old jeans and a knitted sweater with a Christmas tree motif and laughing and joking with Paul and Bill and even Emily. Though she knew they were doing the sensible thing by not becoming romantically involved, it didn’t stop the longing in her chest.

“He really likes you,” said Gemma, when she caught Annie looking out the window for the hundredth time.

“It feels like the fates are conspiring against us,” said Annie.

“Or maybe they’re just waiting until the time is right.”

Annie smiled and went back to sprinkling edible glitter over a batch of warm orange-spiced snowflake cookies.

Annie had decided to stay open all day today, so when Gemma left for the school run, Annie had a couple of hours to manage by herself before Billy arrived after school for the evening shift. At half past three, Sam’s van pulled up with Pam and Raye, and they wrestled Charles Dickens’s giant papier-maché ghosts into the back garden. Annie hoped the sight of these leering effigies wouldn’t induce Alex and Peter to turn tail and run when they arrived.

“Oh, Annie, it looks wonderful in here!” cooed Sam.

“You don’t think it’s too much?” Annie, swept up in the festive spirit, had added to the already bounteous decorations by interlacing more fairy lights around the café, which had begun to resemble an alpine chalet crossed with a Santa’s grotto in Las Vegas.

“Too much!” blustered Pam. “It’s Christmas; there’s no such thing as too much at Christmas.”

“I agree,” said Raye. “It feels magical in here, with all the wood and the twinkling lights, and that view. You’ve created a winter wonderland.”

“And let’s face it, it’s bloody bleak outside!” added Sam. “I dare anyone to walk past on a day like today and not be drawn in. Honestly, Annie, it’s like an oasis of cozy.”

Annie felt warm inside.

Maeve marched in. “Hello! Crikey, that smells good, what time are we eating?”

“Not till six,” said Annie.

“Good God, I’ll have withered to nothing by then. Better make me a large mocha to keep me going, and I’ll take a slice of that ginger cake. And a couple of those biscuits. And a packet of crisps.”

The folk band set up beneath a hastily erected gazebo and pretty soon their rendition of “Fairytale of New York” by the Pogues was filling the café as they warmed up. Alex, Peter, and Greg arrived just before six o’clock.

“And what the fuck are they?” asked Peter, nodding to the papier-maché giants stood like a grotesque welcome party by the steps.

“They are the ghosts of past, present, and future,” said Annie, pulling each of them in turn into a bear hug. “So, you’d better watch yourselves!”

“Mum, this is amazing,” said Alex, after they had given Greg the world’s shortest tour around the flat. They were standing in the café now. It was the first time they had seen it other than in photographs.

“He’s not wrong, Mum,” said Peter. “I’m really proud of you. Is that weird for a child to say to a parent? Fuck it, who cares, I am really proud of you!”

“Me too,” agreed Alex.

“I concur,” added Greg. “When my parents split up, my mum kept posting pictures of herself drunk, dancing on pub tables, and draping herself across men half her age.”

“Sounds like fun,” said Annie.

Greg grimaced. “This is a much bigger up-yours to Max than photos of you poking your tongue in a Greek waiter’s ear,” he said.

Annie hummed, and Alex and Peter nodded, looking as though they were glad to have dodged that particular bullet.