Chapter Five
Christopher
While Nash is changing, Christopher somehow finds himself further down an anxiety spiral. He’s not the best in novel social situations, and this is really fucking novel.
It’s a very weird thing to meet someone you feel you know. But really, it’s Nash’s characters he knows – perhaps that’s why the man himself feels so alien.
Nadeau himself is famously rather private.
There never seem to be interviews or profiles of him.
The last thing Christopher remembers was one of those Google autocomplete video interviews by Wired, where Nash said he liked tacos and found it weird that so many of the questions were about who he was dating and where he lived.
The number of interviews he’d done really dropped off after Parental Units, his first role in a family drama where he played a trans teenager.
After going through puberty on screen, perhaps it was understandable that he wouldn’t want to subsequently share much else with a world so obsessively curious about trans bodies.
The thing Christopher had noticed about Nash was that he always seemed to be alone.
Some kind of island, apart from the others.
He was never papped, and never posted pictures of himself with his famous friends.
At one time, Christopher had thought it was just privacy, but on the Christmas-movie Reddit that Christopher followed way too intently, someone who had assisted on one of Nash’s film sets said that Nash was just like that. Kept to himself.
Is it weird that he knows all this?
It is, isn’t it?
As Nash will be on his way back into the main café any moment, all being well, Christopher decides that he will just have to pretend he doesn’t know who Nash is.
Yes, that’ll be much more casual and won’t prolong the situation.
Hopefully, Christopher can keep his cool and Nash can just chalk up any prior awkwardness to him being British.
Nash returns from the bathroom in a clean pair of dark blue jeans and a brown checked shirt that appears to be lined with faux fur. In his hands are his damp clothes. ‘Is it okay if I hang these up for a second?’
Christopher points to a radiator. ‘Hang them on there.’
Nash does as he’s told, thankfully, before taking a seat. In front of him, Christopher deposits a steaming hot cup of espresso in a tiny cup on a saucer, with a wrapped-up Biscoff biscuit on the side – he keeps a box of them under the counter just in case. Normally, they’re unofficial Tegan snacks.
‘Thanks for all this. You’re a lifesaver.’
Nash gives him a lopsided smile that makes Christopher feel strangely exposed.
Christopher nods awkwardly and returns to the safety of his counter, where he can pretend he’s doing anything other than noticing how handsome Nash is.
Because he really is. He might scowl down at his phone, but it’s kind of hot.
And when he takes a sip of his espresso, Christopher finds himself licking his own lips.
What exactly are you supposed to do when the man of your dreams walks into your life? Especially when he arrives underdressed and exhausted. Ask for his number, probably. Make him a hot drink at the very least, and he’s done that. What now? Kit would absolutely tell him to get a grip and help him.
Nash drags him from his horny reverie with a ‘What do I owe you?’ In his hand, he holds a black credit card, one of the ones that Christopher is pretty sure only exist for the seriously famous or seriously rich. The tills are all booted down – because they are closed.
‘It’s on the house. Call it a Christmas miracle.’
‘Thanks. This coffee is the best thing that’s happened to me today.’
Christopher clears his throat and stares intently at the counter he was permanently wiping before Nash Nadeau walked into his life. And for some reason, he says, ‘Just so you know, sheep truck is not a standard form of public transport here.’
‘Oh yeah? I figured it kind of made sense given how old everything is here in Merry Old England.’
‘Wales.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re not in England. You’re in Wales,’ Christopher says a little haughtily.
‘Isn’t Wales like part of England, though? Isn’t that why there’s a Prince of Wales or whatever?’
Christopher has been in Wales long enough to know exactly how some people feel about that particular royal title.
And that’s apart from the way Wales gets lumped in with England all the time.
Haf had told him that people never properly recognise Wales as a country seemingly as if to purposely annoy her – she likes to bring this up during the rugby, when she gets particularly patriotic.
‘No. It’s not. There are four countries, and the United Kingdom or Britain is them put together.’ He’s pretty sure there’s a lot more nuance to it than that, but this will have to do.
Nash nods, taking this in. ‘Noted. Sorry, I just need to check something.’ He goes back to his phone without another word, and so Christopher takes the hint to busy himself until he’s needed.
On the back of a paper bag, he decides to take inventory of the bakery contents he could eat over the next few days.
It feels wrong, but needs must – after all, who knows what state the supermarkets are in and there’s no way he’s going out in that weather again today.
Though, he’s going to need a supply run if he wants to avoid rickets.
From across the café, he hears Nash swear. He looks up through the service window to see Nash waving his phone over his head.
Christopher takes one of the little cards with the Wi-Fi code on from the counter and lays it on Nash’s table. ‘The signal can be wonky, but luckily we have Wi-Fi in this country.’
He meant it as a joke, but if he’s honest with himself, he’s quietly pleased with the look of embarrassment that washes over Nash’s face.
‘Thanks,’ Nash says, somewhat chastened.
From his safe place behind the counter, Christopher says, ‘Do you need any help by the way? You said you might be lost?’
‘Yeah, I’m trying to work that out.’
‘I think trying to work out if you’re lost probably counts as being lost.’
‘I think you’re right,’ sighs Nash. ‘I’m supposed to be staying . . . well, I hope it’s nearby. I had some stuff open on my phone but at some point it refreshed and now it won’t load. But I had shown the sheep-truck guy and he said he’d dropped me off in the right place, but who knows.’
‘Are you here on holiday?’
The page on Nash’s phone loads incredibly slowly.
‘You could say that. It’s more like a solo escape. Though looking at this weather I feel as if it’s more like a trap.’
‘You’re here on your own?’
‘Just me and my mountain of soaked laundry.’
‘So, are you visiting friends or family?’ Christopher asks, though if that was the case, surely Nash would be calling someone.
‘God no,’ Nash answers. After a second, he looks up. ‘Not that I hate them or anything. I just mean, I don’t have family here.’
This is all very strange, though. This confirms no one is filming anything, and if he was here for work, there’d be some kind of entourage, surely.
The page finishes loading. Unfortunately, Nash looks as baffled as he is relieved. He cranes his neck to look out the front window from his seat.
‘Well, do you need some directions?’ Christopher offers, equally baffled.
‘I think I need some pronunciation help. I should have Duolingo’d before I came, but man, I really hate that owl.’
‘Show me?’
Nash walks over to the counter, and when Christopher takes the phone from him, their fingers touch ever so briefly.
A glorious shock runs up Christopher’s arm that he tries really very hard to ignore.
Thank goodness for the counter, though it would be easier if Nash wasn’t leaning over it towards him.
He’s shorter than Christopher expected, but that’s because he half presumes all famous people will be taller than he is, even though he’s taller than most people.
As though there’s some kind of special height-enhancement available just for celebrities, along with all the other slightly horrifying surgical options.
It would be so easy to just look up and see how long Nash’s eyelashes are in person.
How soft his gently curved lips look.
His eyes are green, his traitor brain says.
Christopher gulps down the frog in his throat. It takes him a few seconds to realise that Nash spoke.
‘All this just serves me right for making my assistant book for me.’
Wait. His assistant?
A nagging prickle runs up the back of his neck.
It can’t be.
When Christopher glances down at the phone, he sees a booking confirmation. And right there is his address. Pantri Bach, Station Road, Pen-y-M?r.
Oh no.
This can’t be.
‘Do you know where this is? Penny Mire?’ Nash nudges him, clearly confused by his total lack of response. ‘Is it far from here?’
‘Pen-y-M?r,’ Christopher croaks.
‘So you know it?’
‘You’re here, actually. Or there. Pen-y-M?r is this town.’
What the hell is he going to do? Nash Nadeau, the Nash Nadeau, can’t possibly stay here.
‘Man, what a relief,’ Nash says, his voice sounding hollow in Christopher’s ears. ‘I was right to have trusted Gethin the sheep guy with my life after all.’
Christopher feels as if he might be about to pass out. He still can’t bring himself to say anything helpful.
This Christmas was already turning out weird, even before he discovered his celebrity crush was supposed to be house-sitting for him.
Except now, Christopher can’t leave. He has to stay here himself.
And now he has to tell Nash that . . . what? That he can’t stay here after all? There is no script for this and Christopher feels so desperately lost.
‘I . . . you’re here.’
‘Yeah, you said.’
‘No, I mean. It’s the flat upstairs. Sorry, I was expecting a Tessa.’
‘That could be my name,’ Nash says airily, which makes it Christopher’s turn to look embarrassed. ‘I’m just razzing you – I’m Nash.’ He holds out his hand to shake, which Christopher takes in his. ‘Nash Nadeau.’
Christopher does his absolute best not to react.
That was the plan, right? Pretend you don’t know who he is.
This is the moment where his path could diverge; he could say oh yeah, are you that guy from the Christmas films or he could keep up this ruse that he definitely does not owe his mental health to Nash’s IMDb credits.
In the end, he chooses the original plan.
‘Christopher Calloway.’
‘Nice to meet you. So… can you show me up to the place?’
Christopher shuts his eyes, bites his lip and takes a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid there’s a problem.’
‘A problem?’
‘Yes.’
‘With the flat?’
‘Well, not just the flat.’
‘Okay . . . are you going to tell me what it is or are we going to continue this cryptic back and forth?’
‘The flat is no longer empty, as it was going to be when advertised, due to a change of circumstances.’
‘But I booked it? So, I should be able to stay here?’
‘Yes, but as you’re well aware, there’s been an enormous snowstorm.’
‘My guy,’ Nash says, wiping his face with his hands, ‘I am so exhausted. Can you drop the very British politeness, and just straight up tell me what’s going on? Please.’
Christopher takes a deep breath. ‘I own the flat, yes, and I also usually live in the flat. And I was supposed to go to stay with family in Yorkshire while you were staying here.’
Realisation dawns on Nash’s face. ‘But you couldn’t get there because of the weather.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Right.’ Nash runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Crap, I really should have thought this through.’
All of a sudden, Nash looks much smaller than he did a few moments ago. The brash swagger has all melted away. He looks desperate.
‘Is there anywhere else to stay in this town? I mean, could you help me find somewhere? I really, truly do not know where I am and I can’t get hold of Tessa and you’re literally the only person I know in possibly the whole country so . . .’
In his heart of hearts, Christopher knows the answer is no.
Didn’t Shaz say yesterday that the pub is totally out of action?
None of the other holiday flats will be empty at this time of year, and even if they are, how will they even get Nash there?
He doesn’t know anyone well enough to ask them to put Nash up apart from Shaz, who has her mother-in-law staying in the spare room.
At least for tonight, there really is nowhere else.
As if in confirmation, the wind howls outside, battering the windows in their frames.
Since Nash arrived, the snow has resumed falling with such vigour that Christopher suspects he might have to dig them out when they do try to leave.
They’re going nowhere today. Not unless either of them has survival skills and a death wish.
And Christopher can’t leave Nash without somewhere to stay. Turning him away would be pretty counter to the whole Nativity story aspect of Christmas. If he hadn’t rented his flat out, Nash wouldn’t be here. As weird as it is, he’s Christopher’s responsibility now.
And it’s going to be extremely weird.
Christopher hopes that, at the very least, his television upstairs has gone to sleep so that Nash doesn’t walk into the flat to see a huge picture of himself on the screen. The universe owes him that one, surely.
‘Look, you’re just going to have to stay with me for tonight, at least while we work this out.
The flat is small, but there’s just enough space for both of us.
Tomorrow, if the weather is better, we can look at finding you somewhere else, but we’re not going anywhere in that unless you can call back Gethin the sheep farmer. ’
‘The one time I regret not getting someone’s number,’ Nash mutters to himself.
This rattles Christopher from his speech for just a second, but he keeps going. ‘I really think it’s safest if you just stay here, even if that means you’re shacking up with a stranger. I’m sorry, this probably isn’t what you were expecting.’
Nash doesn’t say anything for a minute, presumably thinking his way to the same inevitability Christopher has already reached. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay then,’ he says, and for the first time, that earnest look that Christopher recognises from his films appears on Nash’s face. ‘Thank you for this, man.’
As Christopher locks the front door he murmurs, ‘Don’t thank me just yet.’