Christmas at the Beach Cafe(25)

I lay there thinking about all the times I’d woken up in this flat on Christmas mornings, and a flood of childhood memories came rushing back. How Ruth, Louise and I had shared Jo’s spare room, the three of us whispering excitedly in the darkness. How we’d discovered the ‘reindeer’ hoof prints on the beach one Christmas morning and stared saucer-eyed with the thrill. How we’d always be dragged out, rain or shine, on the post-lunch seaside walk to ‘blow away the cobwebs’ as Jo liked to say. How we hung up the red felt stockings she’d once made for us, which became stuffed with goodies overnight . . .

Hey, talking of stockings . . .

I moved my feet and felt a strange weight at the bottom of the bed, and in the next moment could almost hear the high-pitched girlish shrieks of Christmas mornings gone by, back when I still believed in magic. He’s been! Father Christmas has BEEN!

I grinned across at Ed even though he was still sleeping. Christmas was all about magical moments, even when you were a grown-up. I was glad I lived with, and loved, a man who was still a kid at heart, just like me. I had wrapped up Ed’s stocking presents the night before and hidden them in my biggest cable knit slippersock under my side of the bed. Very slowly and carefully, so as not to wake him, I rolled over and reached down a hand, patting around on the floor until I found it. Then, every bit as slowly and carefully, I lifted up the slippersock and placed it at the bottom of the bed, near the bulge of his feet.

I was just congratulating myself on how stealthy and sneaky I’d been, and how maybe I was wasted in a café and should be a professional jewel thief, when I noticed that his eyes were open now and he’d witnessed the whole thing. Ahh. Okay. Maybe I was best suited to working in a café after all.

‘Merry Christmas, gorgeous,’ he said, his voice husky, and pulled me in for a long, slow smooch. For a delicious few moments, I forgot about everything that had been bothering me lately – parents, Jake, Melissa, bare bums in the national press, the lot – and lost myself in those kisses. Christmas kisses. This was more like it.

‘Guess what?’ he murmured, sliding a hand up my pyjama top in a way that made me shiver. ‘I’ve just thought of another new tradition.’

Later on, we cuddled up in bed and opened our stocking presents together: chocolate truffles, soap, a pair of silver star earrings, new lacy knickers (all for me, if you were in any doubt) plus a satsuma, an apple and a bag of gold-wrapped chocolate coins. It was perfect.

And then the phone started to ring.

Annie was first. Her boiler had broken down and they had no heating, hot water or means to cook their turkey. Was there any chance she and Martha could join us for lunch? ‘Of course you can,’ I said, full of Christmas Day bonhomie and goodwill to all men. ‘Two more won’t make any difference. Come along whenever you want.’

Then it was Ruth, calling to wish us all a merry Christmas and could she have a word with Mum, please, because she wanted to finalize arrangements for her Boxing Day get-together?

Next were Ed’s parents phoning to say Happy Christmas, then Louise rang too.

‘Unplug that phone for goodness’ sake,’ Amber said at last. ‘We need to give you something, Evie.’

And suddenly, everyone was there in the kitchen together – Ed, my parents, Amber and Jake – with secretive smiles on their faces. Ed held out a parcel wrapped in blue and silver paper. ‘This is from all of us, really,’ he said.

I stared around in surprise. All of them? What? When had this been decided?

‘Open it, then!’ Amber laughed.

Intrigued, I ripped open the paper to see . . . Oh. My laptop. My laptop?

‘Open it,’ Ed urged. ‘Try pressing the ‘On’ button.’

I did as I was told and it sprang into life with the familiar little tune. ‘You got it fixed!’ I cried. ‘Oh guys, thanks so much.’

‘Well, we didn’t do that bit,’ Ed said cryptically. ‘It was Seb who sorted that out for you.’

Good old Seb! He was the teenage whizzkid who’d once been the most hopeless assistant ever to work in the café, bless him. ‘And is the recipe book still okay?’ I asked breathlessly. ‘Did he manage to retrieve the document?’

‘Why don’t you have a look?’ my mum said, her mouth twitching in a smile.

What had they done? I clicked to open the document, my fingers shaking a little. Then I gasped as an image came up, one that I didn’t recognize. A photo of the Beach Café I’d taken back in the summer, with the words ‘Recipes From The Beach Café’ laid out across it. It was the front cover for my book.