6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
W illow woke. Her head pounded, but seeing the cup of tea and painkillers on her bedside table made her smile until she sipped the cold liquid. Still, it was a long time since someone had brought her a drink in bed. The memory of the early morning tea followed by melted cheese on toast when their stomachs growled was fresh in her mind. Despite the pain, maybe this Christmas Eve would not be as bad as she expected. The house was quiet. Silent except for Vincent’s gentle snore. The folded duvet on her sofa confirmed what she suspected; Nate was gone.
‘So much for following the nurse’s orders. Not that I need mollycoddling. I’ve had worse hangovers.’ Willow stomped across the kitchen and flicked the radio on, hoping the festive chatter would wash her disappointment away. It wasn’t as if she needed him. She could continue her day as planned, but a nugget of loneliness settled in which she knew would be absent if yesterday hadn’t happened. The boiling kettle released a satisfying whistle. Willow prepared her morning tea her way, vowing to return Rosa’s teabags as soon as the tea revived her. The poky kitchen diner was a mishmash of retro fittings that came with the flat and from flea markets, but her favourite part was her wall of shelves displaying her collection of eclectic teapots and teacups. None matched, and they provided a splash of colour she loved. The chosen festive pot and cup refused to raise her spirits. As she looked outside, her garden, hidden beneath a white blanket, was untouched except for a lone trail of footsteps showing his departure.
‘It’s your fault I feel like this. You know the routine. Today is for relaxing, preparing for tomorrow and enjoying solitude after months of chaos, but your meddling has spoilt it. Bringing him here, making him stay. You’re worse than Rosa with her matchmaking. What were you thinking?’
Vincent chirruped in response. His love for talking back was her favourite quality of the Maine Coon breed, but today she needed more.
‘There’s a reason I’m happy being the mad cat woman down Witch’s Yard.’ She slammed a bowl of food in front of him.
‘Do you always talk to your cat like that?’ Willow stood up too fast, causing her head to spin. Nate continued, ‘Actually, don’t answer that. I assume it is an occupational hazard for mad cat women.’
‘You came back?’ Willow blushed. Nate stood in the doorway, hair damp and his clothes sprinkled with snowflakes, holding a cardboard box.
‘Of course. I promised the nurse I would and couldn’t face being stalked another day by your cat, but if I am staying, I needed to change and bring provisions.’ He gave her a paper bag; her stomach grumbled with the hit of cinnamon when she peered inside at the cinnamon rolls and Danish pastries.
Nate pushed a mound of paper and unopened mail to one side of the chipped Formica kitchen table to unpack his box. A coffee grinder, fresh beans, and a French press were revealed. ‘You’re a coffee snob!’
‘No. I am, how did you put it? A connoisseur. Besides, have you seen your coffee? Not only is it instant, it requires a pickaxe to get it out of the jar.’
Willow reached inside the cupboard and grimaced at the thin layer of dust on the jar’s lid. When she looked at the solidified mass, she was unable to defend herself.
‘You’re not the only one who likes a ritual. Now watch and learn.’
***
Willow sank into the steaming water, sending bubbles overflowing the bathtub, much to Vincent’s delight. He batted the foam with his giant paws as it floated in the air.
‘You never grow up, do you?’
Candles flickered in the draught from the windows, her eyes grateful for the subdued lighting. Her cheek smarted as she dunked, but the tension in her muscles eased in the heat. For the last few weeks, she had dreamt of this day: no boring music, orders to fulfil, or emotional customers to deal with. Despite the financial sense of opening on Christmas Eve to catch the last-minute shopper, it wasn’t worth the mental exhaustion she’d experienced the first year she traded. Spellworking, even when performed subconsciously, required energy; once she’d locked the Emporium’s door, she crawled up the stairs with exhaustion and she fell asleep on the sofa to wake on Christmas Day evening. She vowed never to do it again. Yule might have taken over as her mainstay celebration, but Christmas Eve retained the seed of magic planted by her mum, a complete Christmasphile even when times were hard. The belief that the impossible was possible lingered long after her belief in Father Christmas faded. It was her day to indulge in happier memories while watching her mum’s favourite movies and eating freshly baked gingerbread. It was her time to relax, except today she couldn’t. Not with alien sounds from downstairs, and not when the person making them made her want to seduce him.
At his insistence, for safety reasons alone, the bathroom door remained unlocked. She swirled her fingers in the water, a warning tingle gathered in her fingertips. Maybe if she wished hard enough, he would climb the stairs to check her well-being and come in.
For God’s sake, Willow, get over it . The energy in her hands swiftly receded. Nate was only there because he had to be, not because he felt anything more than duty. Her emotions were at odds with her usual MO. Relationships longer than a night were rare and they were always on her terms; her home and talking about her past was strictly off limits, yet last night her guard had slipped, easing her into easy chat, laughing, and fuelling her desire for him.
When was the last time she felt like this? There was a crush she had at seventeen with the local bad boy she was convinced she’d marry and change his ways, then there was a guy at uni who was constantly drunk, but his handsome face and muscular arms made up for his beer breath and lack of intellectual conversation. More recently there was a man on his best friend’s stag do whose Scottish burr made her swoon. That was one summer solstice night to remember; she smiled. One bonus of living in a tourist town was the potential for no-strings-attached summer flings, where they could both walk away after enjoying the chase, a lustful night, or days. A memory of the blazing sun warming her sun-kissed shoulders and dancing in the azure sea snuck in. Arms pulling her away from the gentle waves lapping over her bare feet, a shocked giggle—She slapped the image away. No, not even the ill-fated whirlwind summer she chose to scrub from her history was ever like this. Never did an inner voice unfurl from deep inside her and whisper it wanted more like it did last night when they shared food with Rosa’s tea or now, as she imagined him stretched out on her sofa flicking through the TV channels. Her stomach flipped, urging her to listen, act, and ignore the alarm bells warning her not to get involved because if she did, she was playing with fire. The faint aroma of coffee drifted throughout the flat and Willow became grateful for its bitter aftertaste and the furry texture of her tongue. This sobering reality shook her from the thoughts of passionate embraces.
Thankfully, Vincent left her alone as she dressed, so he didn’t witness the several outfits she tried before slipping on her battered leggings and faded, slouchy hoodie left over from her student days. If she couldn’t rely on her own willpower to dampen her desire, this would prevent him from noticing her. Willow groaned when she realised the sweatshirt had been in her life for half of it. Time flew by at an increasing pace. Forty years old , she thought, looking in the mirror, and I have a shiner only a clever use of make-up could disguise. She dabbed her finger into the healing balm and massaged it into her swollen cheek, blocking the memories of Nate’s fingers lingering on her face. They should change the head injury leaflet to warn patients about inappropriate attachments. She didn’t fancy him, nor was there any other connection. Her feelings were just bruised neural connections and would subside with the headache, and life could continue as before.
***
The sound of the creaking and sloshing water while Willow bathed made Nate glance to the ceiling; he forced himself to focus on the figures acting out a dramatic scene until the actors drew each other into a passionate embrace. They didn’t help dispel the image in his mind of her naked body immersed in water. He flicked through channels and increased the volume. Unlike his modern apartment, where noise was minimal, this building groaned; as the archaic heating heated the rooms, pipes clanged and clunked, giving it a rhythm of its own while enveloping the activity of its residents. Like the kitchen, the furniture in the lounge was a collection of mismatched, mainly pre-loved pieces. As far as he could see there was no theme or colour scheme, but together, they created a cosy, welcoming atmosphere helped by the glowing Christmas tree and blazing open fire beneath the mantelpiece decorated with evergreen foliage and berries. It was a contrast to his spacious open-plan apartment space overlooking the London skyline with its underfloor heating and mod cons. His Christmas decorations were coordinated in the current colour palette and kept to a minimum. Not that he had put them up himself. George hired a professional to tend to it while he was at work, yet he knew every pine cone and decoration on Willow’s tree was hung with care and she probably dried and strung the berries and fruit herself. He imagined each bauble held tight to its own story. Had she sung carols while placing the fairy on the top of the tree and danced like she had in the shop when she thought she was alone? The ginger feline strolled in, leapt onto the sofa, and nudged Nate until he stroked him. Nate stretched out, relaxed and decided this room felt like a home.
‘Feel better?’ he asked when Willow came in, avoiding his eyes. The ice queen was back. He had hoped the tension between them had thawed after their shared tea and coffee, but the bath had rebuilt the wall. What was it with women? The monosyllabic reply and the following silence infuriated him. Her cat had been plaguing him for days and he was doing her a favour, but she refused to acknowledge him. She bore no resemblance to the woman he saw dancing through the cracks of the blind, being free and happy, nor the cautious but confident professional who’d opened the door of the store. Wearing an overgrown top that fell from the shoulder, emphasising her long neck, she looked vulnerable, especially curled up on the opposite chair, hugging a cushion as a barrier. She might be different to Rebecca in every way, but she was just as high maintenance.
Vincent abandoned him in favour of slinking onto his owner’s lap.
‘I can switch the TV off if the noise is too much?’ he said.
‘It’s fine, carry on watching it.’ She shrugged, making him sigh deeply. If the warmth he glimpsed last night and earlier over coffee didn’t return, it would be a long few hours.
‘Who’s that?’ The framed photo on a nearby shelf caught his eye. The candid shot was of a tanned man, a similar age to himself, he guessed. He had one arm draped around a laughing Willow and the other around a giggling teenager with tumbling red hair. Joy captured with a click of a button.
‘Oh, that’s Glenn, a friend, and Amber, his daughter. They are coming for Christmas dinner tomorrow.’
‘A friend?’ he said, still studying the photo.
‘Yes, a friend. Hang on, you thought I was going to be eating a microwave dinner for one, while watching the Queen’s Speech, didn’t you?’
‘It crossed my mind. You’re rather prickly and you yourself said you were the mad cat lady. They are solitary by nature, aren’t they?’ he quipped, not mentioning the freezer drawer full of frozen meals for one he saw when searching for ice yesterday.
‘I’m not that bad.’
‘Your mood is just for my benefit then, or are you in caffeine deficit and in need of a cup of tea? I can put the kettle on.’ He went into the kitchen after giving the picture a last glance. If she hadn’t said differently, he would have sworn the photo showed a couple. A family.
After challenging Willow about her need for the extensive teapot collection, Nate sat on the floor beside the low table pulled into the centre of the room as she demanded. With Bing Crosby crooning in the background, he watched as a kneeling Willow arranged several bowls, teapots, and saucers on a deep bamboo tray. A cast-iron teapot sat on the hearth to keep warm.
‘Every tea has its preferred temperature to stew, and method to make. Some of my collection is for aesthetic pleasure alone, others like these are used to make the perfect tea.’ She poured warm water into a small clay pot and over the tiny delicate bowls. He dreaded picking them up, fearful his large hands would crush them. ‘I first saw this in a tiny restaurant in Soho in London, and I realised how similar this ritual was to spellcasting, and how in the past tea made magic accessible, but now it gets lost in the desire for speed and convenience. The magic of tea isn’t in the taste but in the preparation. It gives you space to take a deep breath and gather strength before helping a distraught friend. It is a momentary distraction from grief as the meditative ritual takes over or it creates bonds when people drink together. A cup of tea is more than a beverage but is used to show love, comfort, or it gives focus, energy. It’s all about the intention.’
Nate’s muscles relaxed while he watched Willow perform the mesmerising tea ceremony. Time slowed along with his breath and heartbeat as he focused on the clinking of the pots, the swirl of the water before it was poured down the slots of the tray into the well underneath, and her soft voice explaining the reason for each step. He closed his eyes when encouraged to smell the intoxicating fragrance before tasting. The delicate flavour preceded the fullness of the tea. When he opened them, he saw her watching him with a knowing smile.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked.
‘Calm, relaxed but awake like I’ve had a good night’s sleep,’ He noted her transformation from a prickly guarded person to a serene, relaxed woman with a hint of fey—he was bewitched.