‘Never judge a book by its cover. I’ll see you day after tomorrow.’ He reached and pulled open the door. The blast of cold air reminded her that he wanted her gone. No need for pretence and certainly no need to try and sweeten her up with lots of empty, pretty words, not now that she had informed him where she stood when it came to any sexual involvement between them.
Georgie, even though she had come to recognise his dependability, still wasn’t completely sure that he would return to Devon from London. He would for Didi, but then he might very well try and persuade her to join him in London for a couple of days. He had been staging a low level attack over the past few days, using all the charm at his disposal, not to mention their rapprochement, to convince her that London was not all about concrete buildings, crowds and high levels of pollution. Like Georgie, she was immune to the carrot of great shopping and Pierre had wisely jettisoned that line of argument before it had had a chance to backfire.
Maybe Didi would be heading up to London and she, Georgie, would be safely ensconced down here, away from him, busy with her job and her silly Santa Claus traumas.
But no. A telephone call to Didi soon set her straight on that. Pierre was definitely coming back down and she was to pull out her finest clothes because he would be taking her out in the evening.
‘And never fear, darling, I won’t be playing gooseberry this time!’
When Georgie, thinking he might launch her own attack to getting Didi to join them for dinner, suggested dropping in with some quiche for lunch, she found her plans scuppered by a sprightly Didi who informed her that she was spending the day with some of her friends who had dropped off the radar during her slide into depression. Bridge and then tea in the village. She was just to enjoy herself with Pierre; they deserved it.
Georgie brooded that what they deserved, given the circumstances, certainly wasn’t the unbridled innocent enjoyment Didi had in mind.
By the time mid-afternoon arrived, her nerves were at breaking-point, not helped by the kids who had worked themselves up into a frenzy of excitement. The Christmas singsong was for the benefit of the parents. From behind the curtains on the stage, Georgie could hear them gathering in the small assembly hall, then the scraping of chairs as they took their seats. They would be uncomfortable but the performance was a scant half an hour, after which they would leave and Santa, wherever he was because he certainly hadn’t arrived as yet, would do the honours.#p#分页标题#e##p#分页标题#e#
She listened to the concert from the wings, ever watchful for any child suddenly in desperate need of the toilet or casually deciding to have a walkabout, perhaps in the direction of camcorder wielding parents. Her anxiety at spending the evening alone with Pierre had lessened considerably in comparison to her anxiety at discovering that he hadn’t shown up for his impromptu performance.
She need not have worried. The children were shepherded backstage, the parents were ushered out, and as she was rearranging the hall with the help of two of the teachers she looked up to see him in the doorway and for a few seconds she stilled, one hand on the back of the chair. Then she gathered herself and went across to him. Naturally the room had stilled. All eyes were on him, because as Santa Clauses went, Pierre cut an unreasonably dashing one.
‘Surprised to see me here?’ he asked coolly, reading her expression. His remote, vaguely hostile tone of voice was offset by the red and white costume, however, and the silvery white beard that he was holding in one hand. It was an effort not to grin so she looked down briefly and then called over to her colleagues so that she could introduce him.
‘You don’t look very plausible,’ she said, leading him in the direction of the staff room. ‘When did you arrive?’
‘Just in time to hear the final few bars of “Silent Night”.’
‘Beautiful, wasn’t it?’ Georgie couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him. Yes, he was in a foul mood and probably cursing her under his breath, but to see the man who ruled the waves in a red outfit that was several sizes too big, clutching a white beard and wearing a pair of black boots in which he was in obvious discomfort as they were probably a couple of sizes too small, risked engendering an attack of nervous hysterics.
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘I know, but I really do appreciate the favour, Pierre. Look, I’ve got a couple of cushions in the store cupboard.’ She produced two disreputable flowered cushions, which he gazed at in perfect, blank-faced bewilderment.
‘What the hell am I supposed to do with these?’