Christmas at the Beach Cafe(3)

Then, at some point when we were teenagers, we were playing a very boisterous game of charades, and Louise managed to knock another angel off the tree during a particularly flamboyant mime. This angel came off much worse, with only her sweet little head left intact, and was thereafter known as ‘Louise’. Only one angel – ‘Evie’ – was left perfect and unblemished. Naturally.

Sod it, I thought, as I stacked the breakfast things in the dishwasher. The first of December wasn’t too soon to start putting up a few decorations, was it? I wasn’t about to rush off to Tregarrow Farm and buy my tree or anything yet, but it wouldn’t hurt just to get a couple of things out of the attic. A bit of tinsel, maybe. A string of fairy lights to weave along the mantelpiece . . .

I didn’t tell Ed what I was plotting as he disappeared off to shower. I’d surprise him, I decided, by hanging up one or two little Christmassy touches to celebrate the fact that December had arrived. And maybe – yes! This could be one of our new festive traditions: first of December, first few decorations. Evie Flynn, you are a festive goddess, I told myself with a grin.

Once I could hear the shower running, I pulled down the loft ladder and clambered up the metal rungs into the cold darkness of the attic. Since moving into the flat above the café back in May, I’d only been up here a couple of times to store a few boxes of belongings and a suitcase full of ‘office clothes’ that I’d hopefully never need to wear again. I was pretty sure that somewhere in the depths of the cobwebby gloom, I’d noticed a box labelled CHRISTMAS. I flicked on a torch and shone the light around, shivering in my pyjamas as the white beam lit up the dark corners. Ahh – there it was.

I crawled gingerly forwards and manoeuvred the box past a couple of old trunks, a broken Victorian hatstand and another box helpfully marked STUFF. Oof, it was heavier than I’d expected.

I heaved the box all the way back towards the hatch, then lowered my legs down the ladder, fumbling to get a foothold on a rung. Then I braced myself, arms around the box’s cardboard sides. Okay. Got it. Now for a slow, careful descent . . .

The slow, careful descent didn’t turn out quite how I’d hoped. Halfway down, my big toe became hooked in one leg of my slightly-too-long pyjama bottoms and I stumbled, losing my footing. The box fell with an ominous-sounding thump, and I tumbled down after it, barking my shin on the last rung as I landed.

‘Ow! Bollocks!’

Ed emerged from the bathroom with just a towel around his waist to find me hopping around in pain, clutching my scraped leg.

‘What the hell . . . ? Are you all right? What are you doing?’ he said.

‘I just – ’ I began, then broke off as I saw, to my horror, that the box of precious Christmas decorations had fallen heavily on its side, the cardboard buckling at one corner. I stopped hopping and rushed over to right it, then pulled open the cardboard flaps, and plunged my hands in amongst the reams of tinsel, faded paper chains, baubles . . . Where was my angel? Please let her be okay.

‘Oh no.’ I slumped against the box as my fingers found her. Scarlet beads of blood appeared on my fingertips where the broken glass had pierced my skin. ‘Oh shit. Look, Ed. She’s ruined. The last angel – I just smashed her.’

‘We might be able to glue her back togeth . . .’ Ed started saying, but his voice trailed off as he saw just how beaten-up the angel looked. She was now in at least four pieces, with a crack splitting her beautiful head and both wings missing. It was obvious that even a squad of professional supergluers would be shaking their heads apologetically at the prospect of any kind of mending attempt.

I could feel my bottom lip quivering – delayed shock and pain from the fall along with a pang of terrible guilt that I’d let Jo down. It wasn’t as if I had all that many links to her left . . . and now I’d just broken a really special one. It felt as if Christmas was spoiled before it had even begun.

Before I could stop myself, I’d dissolved into tears. ‘I’m such an idiot,’ I wailed, sobbing into Ed’s shoulder. ‘I’ve ruined everything!’





Chapter Two




Three emergency Advent-calendar chocolates later, as well as an enormous nose-blow and quite a lot of deep, hiccupping breaths, I managed to pull myself together. I swept up the shards of glass and dumped them in the bin with a heavy heart. No use crying over smashed angels, I told myself sternly.

‘Fancy cracking on with the recipe book today?’ Ed asked, once the box of Christmas decorations had been pushed into the spare room safely out of sight.

‘Good idea. How about mince pies? Now that it’s December and all.’ I felt a glimmer of a good mood returning at the thought. The first mince pie of the year was always a moment to celebrate, wasn’t it? And if ever one was needed, it was now.