Chapter Sixteen
Christopher
When Christopher awakes, he’s alone. The sheet is still warm to the touch on Nash’s side, so he must have got up recently. Hopefully, Nash managed a good long sleep. From the growing sunshine outside, Christopher seems to have, and he definitely feels better for it.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Nash wanders back into the room, steaming cup of tea in hand and a paperback from Christopher’s shelf under his arm.
‘Oh, you’re awake,’ he says.
‘Yeah I just woke up. Did you sleep okay?’
‘Yeah thanks. I needed it.’
Good, thinks Christopher. Good.
Nash sets the cup down on top of the bureau with the book, which turns out to be The Moon of Gomrath.
‘I didn’t take you as a fantasy reader.’
‘Oh, yeah. Loved that stuff as a kid. I decided to challenge myself by picking the most ridiculously named book on your shelf.’
‘You missed The Weirdstone of Brisingamen.’
‘I swear you’re making that up. That cannot be an actual book’s title.’
‘I’m not. It’s a real book by the same man, Alan Garner.’
‘Well, either way, I guess I’m about to learn some exciting new British words.’ He sits down on his side of the bed and pulls the cover up over his lap.
It’s strangely intimate, perhaps even more so than sharing the bed to just sleep, because now they’re choosing to share the same space.
Before Christopher can ponder that further, Nash says, ‘Thanks for nagging me last night. I’m finding it hard to switch off from some work stuff, so on this occasion, it was appreciated.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Nash gives him a heavy-lidded look that Christopher can’t translate, but doesn’t say anything else for a few beats. Eventually, he says, ‘Where did you get those pyjamas? You look like Kevin McCallister.’
Christopher huffs. ‘You’re the blond one here.’
‘All right then, you look like a child from some kind of period drama. Or Christopher Robin.’
‘That’s who I was named after.’
‘Of course you were.’
‘My mother bought me them last Christmas,’ he admits. ‘We always do Christmas pyjamas.’
A pleased grin spreads across Nash’s face. ‘Oh, that’s far too easy. Want anything?’
Christopher ignores the churn in his stomach. ‘Make me a tea?’
‘Okay. I’ll make breakfast too, so we’re fuelled up for the day.’
‘That’s kind of you.’
One thing he’s quickly learning about Nash is that he takes compliments and criticism similarly – always with a little dose of snark in return. If he were a cat, the fur on his back would bristle. He mumbles something that sounds like ‘No problem’ mixed with ‘Whatever.’
Christopher reaches over to the bedside table for his phone and checks the time.
It’s late for him, though still very early in the day.
Normally, he’d be putting loaves in the oven having proved them for hours, ready for them to be served hot and fresh when the bakery doors opened.
It’s a Saturday, too, so prime for people popping by doing their shop or heading down to the beach.
It feels weird to be in bed this late. He misses the routine of a day running the bakery, as much as the lie-in is nice.
First thing they should do today is check in at the community centre so that Tamara can direct them.
He gets out of bed with a stretch, and when he opens the curtains he sees another fresh layer of snow has fallen over the town.
It’s no deeper than before, but it’s no better either.
Just to be sure, he runs through the various transportation and weather websites he’s been repeatedly checking over the last few days.
The roads are being cleared in some places, but there’s still a very clear do not drive unless there’s a serious emergency warning in place due to black ice across the whole country.
The trains are still a mess, and only a few lines down south are running a very small timetable.
Everywhere else is frozen over. And obviously no planes are going either.
It looks as if Nash is going to be stuck here through Christmas, and perhaps it’s better if they accept that now, rather than carry on with the pretence that he’s just staying one more night, just one more night.
He fetches his suitcase from the living room, where the majority of his clothes still are, and puts on a clean navy shirt paired with some nice, but admittedly not particularly warm, chinos.
December 23rd feels ever so slightly too early to break out the Christmas jumper, but he opts for a Christmas-adjacent Fair Isle red-and-white knitted jumper.
On the side table, his phone buzzes.
Kit: Hey, can you message us back, maybe in the group? I know you’ve checked in with Laurel and Ambrose, but I’m just a bit worried about you, and you know how I hate it when I must feel something. X
Well, that sounds as if Ambrose and Laurel haven’t spilled the beans on his accidental lodger. That’s one big conversation he needs to have today, but there’s a bigger one he needs to get over and done with first, with said lodger.
He finds Nash in the kitchen standing at the hob, where he is heating up one of the big cast-iron pans, a square of butter swirling in the middle like molten gold.
He wears one of Christopher’s aprons over a thick knitted cardigan, the sleeves rolled up almost to the elbow, revealing the soft golden hair and unseasonal tan on his forearms. Or, presumably, seasonal for LA, where they don’t seem to actually have seasons.
Though to be fair, he’s quickly learning that Wales doesn’t have many – there’s the cold rainy season and then, apparently, the warm rainy season, which he is supposed to look forward to.
‘Nice sweater,’ Nash says.
‘Jumper. But yes, thank you. An old Christmas present from Laurel.’
‘I’m making pancakes. American style, I can’t do the crepe thing. You want?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
He slides a cup of tea across the counter towards Christopher.
‘I thought I’d better get you full of breakfast and caffeine if we’re going to be driving around and cooking all day.’
‘Careful, Nash, or you’ll have me thinking you’re considerate,’ Christopher says with a smile, hoping it reads as a callback to last night. He can’t be sure though, because Nash just looks kind of blank this morning. ‘Do you need any help?’ Christopher adds, when Nash responds with nothing.
Nash picks up the jug of batter and waggles it. ‘No thank you. I can make pancakes just as good as you, Mr Professional Baker.’
Christopher watches as the batter slips into the pan, forming perfectly fat little circles. ‘Unless they’re crepes, of course,’ Christopher retorts.
‘Hmm, I’ve changed my mind. No pancakes for you.’
Christopher laughs. ‘I might have some bits for toppings in the freezer, so I’ll make myself useful and get those out. But I promise not to interrupt the delicate art of gently frying batter.’
‘I’ll allow it.’ Nash tips the first pancake onto a baking sheet and slides it into the warm oven.
That’s about as effusive a yes as he can expect from Nash, so Christopher busies himself gathering ingredients.
From the cupboard, he finds an old slightly sticky bottle of maple syrup that prompts Nash into a disgruntled ‘You call that syrup?’, and in the bakery downstairs, he finds some chocolate for shavings, and icing sugar, and manages to retrieve a bag of frozen blueberries from the chest freezer.
He doesn’t usually use frozen, but they were cheap and good for making a sauce or ensuring he occasionally eats some fruit.
He also finds some wrinkled lemons in his fridge in the flat – they might not have much juice in them, but there’ll be just enough to make a nice compote.
‘Are you particularly hungry?’ asks Christopher, as he sidles up next to Nash at the hob to mix up the sugar, blueberries and lemon juice in a pan. On the countertop are multiple vats of pancake mix.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Just a lot of batter.’
‘Well, it’s not all for us, is it?’ Nash says, clearly a little exasperated. ‘I thought we could make some spares for anyone who wants some. They’re quite good if you cool them down and wrap them up quickly so they can’t go stale. And easy to heat up in the toaster.’
‘Well. That’s me told,’ Christopher says, feeling the tips of his ears heat up with embarrassment. Christopher hates it when their gentle teasing reveals that Nash is actually doing something nice for someone else. If he’s honest with himself, he likes the sparking back and forth, just a little.
The blueberries give into the heat, the juice releasing from them into the sugar and lemon, sending up a heavenly, zingy smell into the air.
He searches for something normal and casual to say and lands on, ‘Happy twenty-third of December.’
‘Is that its own holiday here? Like Boxing Day?’
‘Sadly not.’
‘Maybe we can make it one. Pancake day.’
‘Oh, we have one of those already. You know, the day before Lent. We all eat pancakes for dinner.’
‘Oh yeah, I think we used to do that as a kid in Canada. It’s been way too long. The US don’t really have it. We’ll have to come up with something special for the twenty-third in this fascinating country I appear to be stuck in.’
‘Ah, yeah. So, we should talk about that.’
Nash groans as he adds another short stack into the oven to keep warm.
The hairs prick up at the back of Christopher’s neck. ‘God, it’s not that bad is it?’ He didn’t mean to say it out loud, though he did think it, and it came out all sharp and sulky like . . . what? Like they’re friends and Nash has upset him? Nash doesn’t owe him anything.
To Christopher’s surprise, Nash holds up his spatula in a gesture of peace. ‘It’s not about you. Sorry, I’m
just . . . there’s some work stuff going on I need to deal with, and being here with the time difference makes it much harder.’
Heat gathers around Christopher’s collar, but all he can get out is a small nod.
‘From what I can tell, there’s no chance I’m going to get out of the UK until after Christmas,’ Nash continues.
‘You can stay here,’ Christopher blurts out. ‘Obviously.’