Twenty-one
Helen’s Christmas tree was an architectural marvel of festive precision.
Each ornament sat in geometrically calculated perfection, suspended at a mathematically exact interval, and transparent fishing line held trinkets in rigid colour-coded formation.
The tree looked less like a spontaneous celebration and more like a Christmas installation , that someone had vacuum-sealed, pressed and unfolded from last year’s fastidiously labelled storage box.
‘Sorry about this,’ Helen said, popping the cork on a bottle of Prosecco, as if second nature. ‘But after dealing with thirty sugar-crazed seven year olds performing ‘Little Donkey’ for two hours, I need this.’
The cork hit the ceiling with a satisfying thunk , leaving a tiny mark that joined several others. Not her first impromptu celebration then , thought Ivy.
Omar leaned against the doorframe, looking more relaxed than Ivy had seen him in days. ‘I’ve never had a traditional English Christmas before.’ he said.
‘Well, this is hardly traditional,’ Ivy began, but Fred cut her off, accepting a brimming glass from Helen. ‘Nonsense! Impromptu parties are the best Christmas tradition,’ he declared, raising his glass. ‘To friends, both old and new.’
The Prosecco fizzed on Ivy’s tongue, sharp and sweet.
She watched Fred over the rim of her glass as he helped Helen connect her phone to a small speaker.
This was fun, having a circle of friends, being part of a community.
Her eyes lingered on Fred, his arm muscles taut as he helped Omar carry the sofa to the side of the room.
Fred may not reciprocate her love, but that didn’t matter.
Friendship and connection were more important.
Music filled the small cottage – not carols, but something Ivy vaguely recognized from the radio. Before she could process what was happening, Fred had grabbed her hand.
‘Come on, Ivy! This was our song!’
‘We don’t have a song,’ she protested, even as she allowed herself to be pulled into the centre of Helen’s tiny living room, the furniture now stacked haphazardly against the walls. She took a gulp of fizz, before setting the glass down.
‘Course we do. Village fete, 2008. You’d had two glasses of punch and insisted on dancing.’
Had she? The memory surfaced hazily: a warmer night, younger faces, Fred spinning her under the stars while a local band played jazz. She’d forgotten that entirely.
Apparently, Fred hadn’t. He spun her around, his hand firm at the small of her back. When had he learned to dance like this? When had his eyes developed those appealing crinkles at the corners?
‘I’m far too old for this,’ she laughed, breathless.
‘Rubbish,’ Fred replied, twirling her again. ‘You’re just getting started.’
Across the room, Helen had coaxed Omar into dancing, demonstrating some moves that seemed to involve a lot of shoulder shimmying.
The young man watched, entranced, before attempting to mirror her.
His usual solemnity dissolved into laughter when he bumped into the Christmas tree, knocking off a few ornaments which bounced merrily on the carpet, as if joining in the dance.
Two songs later, Ivy collapsed onto the sofa, flushed and giddy. Fred disappeared into the kitchen, returning with refilled glasses and a large bowl of crisps.
‘You’re full of surprises tonight,’ Ivy said as he settled beside her, close enough that she felt the warmth radiating from him.
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Madam Vicar.’
Something in his tone made her heart flutter. What is happening? she wondered, accepting another glass.Was Fred flirting? Or was he trying to tell her that he was having a secret dalliance with a younger woman?
The evening blurred pleasantly: more music, more dancing, Helen teaching them all a ridiculous drinking game involving Christmas carols and forfeits. Ivy guffawed, watching Fred’s attempt to sing ‘Good King Wenceslas’ while hopping on one foot.
During a slow song, while Ivy was catching her breath over a glass of Prosecco, she noticed Omar pull Helen close. Before she could register her surprise, he leaned down and kissed her, tentatively at first, then with more confidence when Helen made no move to pull away.
Ivy nearly choked on her Prosecco. The brazen hussy! Poor Fred must feel crushed; Helen was flitting between men like a deranged Christmas butterfly.
‘They make a lovely couple,’ Fred murmured, following her gaze.
‘Couple?’ Ivy spluttered. ‘But she’s been flirting with you!’
Fred’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Helen?’ He chuckled. ‘I don’t think so. She’s been trying to get Omar to notice her for weeks. Besides, she’s far too young for me.’
Ivy inhaled, feeling those words sending a tingle of excitement through her body. She might still be in with a chance.
By eleven, Helen was decidedly wobbly, slurring her words as she attempted to explain investigative journalism techniques.
‘I think someone needs her bed,’ Fred observed as Helen missed the sofa entirely and landed on the rug with a giggle.
Ivy sighed. ‘I’ll help her. Why don’t you two start clearing up?’
‘C’mon, Helen,’ she said, hauling the younger woman to her feet. ‘Big day tomorrow.’
‘Christmas soon,’ Helen mumbled happily, sounding as if she was only twelve.
Ivy guided her up the narrow staircase, keeping the younger woman pressed close to the wall.
Helen stumped upwards, apologizing, explaining she couldn’t make tomorrow to discuss FF – it was the Parent Teacher Association night.
‘You had fun tonight, didn’t you?’ she asked, slumping on the steps.
‘Yes, it was good fun.’ And Ivy realized she really had enjoyed herself. ‘But you’ve got a class of children waiting for you in the morning.’ She put her hand under Helen’s armpits, hefting the teacher upright. ‘Let’s get you some water.’
Helping Helen onto the bed and passing her a rinsed-out tooth mug full of water, Ivy paused to reevaluate the facts.
If Helen only had eyes for Omar, and had never been flirting with Fred, that meant that there was a chance –she had to admit, quite a big chance – that the feelings for Fred that she’d been wrestling with might not be one-sided.
Shutting the door on Helen, Ivy descended the stairs, her heart thudding. She found the men in the kitchen washing up the dirty glasses, their sleeves rolled up, working in companionable silence.
Fred looked up as she entered, a dishcloth in his hands, his smile making something pleasant unfurl in her heart.
Omar passed a rinsed glass to Fred, who polished it vigorously, as if rubbing away the sins of those who would soon drink from it.
‘I’m going to check on Helen, before I go home.’ said Omar, grinning. Then he left.
‘Subtle, isn’t he?’ Fred chuckled.
‘Transparent as glass,’ Ivy agreed, blushing.
‘More wine?’ Fred offered, moving slightly closer.
‘Just a little,’ she said, though her glass was still half full.
Sensing another flush of heat, she took a gulp of wine to disguise it.
His hand grazed hers and she didn’t move away, unsure if the contact was intentional.
She valued Fred’s friendship too much to complicate things.
This careful balance they’d maintained for years – the odd dinner, helping with parish events, cleaning out her roof gutters – it worked perfectly.
Upstairs, floorboards creaked as Omar moved about, no doubt congratulating himself on his matchmaking scheme. Ivy suppressed a smile. The man could barely manage his own affairs, yet here he was, orchestrating hers.
She looked at Fred’s calloused gardener’s hands imagining her softer ones in his. The thought was dizzying, delicious. And, suddenly, terrifying.
She set down her glass. ‘I should get home, see to Jezreel,’ she said.
‘Good night, Ivy,’ said Fred and held her gaze. In his eyes was the promise of something wonderful to come, like the first chime of church bells on Christmas morning .
It was three hours since the streetlamps had sparked into life against the inky sky, and side by side in the pub, Trish and Ivy were working methodically, sustained by a constant stream of strong coffee and hot mince pies. Their focus was on the documents that Hazim had sent .
Ivy was finding it difficult to concentrate.
Her thoughts kept spiralling away from numbers and onto Fred.
Trish had strategically chosen a table at the far end of the pub, close to where the mistletoe hung, ensuring that they weren’t disturbed by customers elbowing their way to the bar.
No one wanted to linger under that seasonal decoration.
Trish adjusted her reading glasses. ‘What do you make of these travel expenses?’
Ivy examined a document, wishing it was something other than travel expenses she was questioning. Would she ever shake off that memory of exposing those inflated expense claims? ‘One-way tickets,’ she said. ‘Athens to London. Three different people in the same month.’
‘And here,’ Trish pointed. ‘Five separate hotel bookings in Istanbul. Two nights each, all different weeks.’
Ivy nodded, her lips pursed. Expenses. She’d been there, seen it, done it and was wearing the T-shirt. ‘All seems above board,’ she said carefully. ‘International work requires travel.’
Trish looked at her quizzically. ‘You don’t think it’s odd? All these one-way tickets?’
‘Probably poor planning,’ Ivy replied, shuffling papers. ‘Or maybe they returned on different dates and Hazim didn’t take copies of those trips.’
‘I suppose,’ Trish said doubtfully. ‘But look at this,’ she continued. ‘Payments to Coastal Transport Ltd. What for? FF is effectively a school.’
Ivy sighed and reached a hand around to stretch her stiff neck. Omar said he’d been concerned about the charity paying for something similar. Were they finally getting somewhere interesting? ‘I just wish Omar would get involved. He worked for FF. He might know what that company actually does!’