Chapter 12
She’d promised herself she’d shake off her inner Grinch and buy some decorations.
In Saint-Léonard, lights had been strung along the high street – pretty stars with ice-blue centres, rows of holly leaves, traditional baubles – sparkling in the dull, cloud-shadowed air.
It had been uplifting to drive through the town centre and feel bathed in a kind of magical glow, to see the shops with their individual Christmas trees outside, their windows lit with twinkling garlands.
Few people decorated the fronts of their houses, but here and there you’d see lights wound along a balcony railing, or the shimmer of a tinsel-decked tree pushed up to a window. Decorating her own house, even if few people got to see it, seemed like a positive thing to do.
Trees were easy to come by, and she’d pick one up from the local market on Saturday. But she’d need something to put on it and this Christmas market was the perfect opportunity.
Within half an hour she’d filled a bag with a mixture of handmade ornaments. Clear baubles filled with tiny reindeer or candy canes and tied with red ribbon, carved wooden reindeer with painted red noses, a string of crocheted stars, each one different from the last.
The stalls were abundant and as she stopped, stallholders would converse with her, tell her how items were made, offer to wrap her purchases in thin tissue paper pushed into a paper bag.
It was strange being alone: most people seemed to be in couples or family groups.
Children ran ahead of their parents clutching barbe à papa on sticks, or enormous lollies that swirled with colour.
Couples strolled arm in arm. Friends conversed in the street, rapidly in French, exchanging updates and bisous.
Nicola reminded herself that her aloneness was temporary.
Steven would be here for next Christmas and all the Christmases afterwards.
Back home, she had parents who loved her, even if they didn’t travel well, a sister who was always on her side.
And she had Lucien, a new friend; three weeks ago she’d never met him, which went to show that life could change in an instant.
She’d make more friends over the coming weeks and things would start to feel a little less bleak.
She was drawn to a stall draped in scarves, each one individually knitted by the woman who sat there, still clacking needles, as if to prove she had the necessary skill.
Although she was tempted, Nicola was all set for scarves after her last market, but then she noticed thick knitted socks and handmade slippers in wicker baskets at the front of the stall and decided to take a look.
She selected a pair of red, fleece-lined socks, imagining herself sitting in front of the fire, feet up, her toes toasty and warm.
Then, on instinct, she bought a pair for Lucien as well.
She’d give them to him on his last lesson before Christmas.
The slippers were beautiful too – hand-stitched felt, non-slip suede soles and interiors packed with natural fleece, purportedly from the woman’s own Angora goats.
Nicola liked the idea of slippers in principle, but for some reason could never get herself to wear them.
Once, Steven had bought her a pair for Christmas: enormous snowmen, with grinning coal smiles and carrot noses.
She’d laughed and worn them for a couple of hours, before almost tripping down the stairs and deciding she was better off without.
Suddenly she remembered Monsieur Rémi and his threadbare slippers.
Before she thought it through, imagined how she’d explain why she’d bought them for him or whether he might even want a gift from her, she’d picked up a large pair and asked the woman to wrap them with the rest of her purchases.
If she changed her mind or didn’t feel as if she could gift them to her neighbour, well, she could always keep them for Steven, or her father perhaps.
The market had distracted her from her damp feet and soggy jeans for some time, but after about an hour or so the cold began to bite. The ends of her jeans felt stiff and almost frozen, so she slipped into a café for warmth and coffee.
Originally, she’d intended to put on her new socks, replacing her wet ones and giving her feet some well-needed respite.
But the socks she’d found were so beautiful, the thought of slipping them into her rather muddy, soggy trainers was unappealing.
She’d warm up, head home, then change – keeping the socks as beautifully pristine as she could for now.
Sitting in the warm café, with even her feet thawing, she looked out at the artisan stalls and could suddenly imagine herself, next year, selling paintings; maybe even Christmas cards, painted with angels, for locals to send to those they missed at this time of year.
It could be yet another string to her bow, but more than that, it would make her feel part of things, part of the whole build-up to Christmas, responsible in some way for spreading Yuletide joy.
The snow had stopped falling and the walkway through the market had been cleared by the footfall of seasonal shoppers.
But there was still snow on the awning of the café, on the canopies above the stalls.
Cars on the road just beyond the pedestrian area would pass, some balancing inches of snow on their roofs, their windscreens and lights the only parts scraped clean by their owners.
Hopefully, she thought as she sipped her hot chocolate, her route would have been cleared and there would be no slipping into snowdrifts on the way home.
Her phone rang in her bag and she pulled it out: Steven.
Checking her watch, she realised it was almost midday – ordinarily he’d be asleep by now after a night shift.
‘Hello?’ she said, as quietly as she could, noticing an old lady shooting her a look, and trying to make an apologetic face. ‘You’re up… late?’
‘Hi, Nic, everything all right?’ Steven’s tone sounded a little clipped.
‘Yes, why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Just you called like three times. I was worried something was up.’
‘What would be up?’
There was a silence. ‘Sorry, I don’t know. I’m overthinking. Shattered.’ He laughed, sounded more like himself. Then, ‘Where are you anyway?’
‘I’m at a café in Saint-Léonard-de-Noblat.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s a lovely town. Not far from Eymoutiers. I’ll show you when you come. I just thought I’d make the most of the Christmas market here.’
‘Another market.’ There was a pause. ‘Are you with that bloke again?’
‘Lucien? No. I’m on my own.’
‘Good.’
The ‘good’ made her bristle. It wasn’t her fault that she’d had to take company wherever she could get it, whatever its gender. And she’d already told him that Lucien was married. ‘Thanks a lot,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Well, wouldn’t you rather I had company? You want me to be alone or something?’ How was every conversation these days balancing on the precipice of an argument? Why was it so easy to slip into this territory where every comment was barbed like a prison fence?
‘Of course I’d like you to have company.’
‘Well then.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Look, I’m tired. My shift overran. One of the kids… well, it’s not looking good. And Andie, my replacement, she got held up in traffic. Ignore me.’
She softened. Steven’s job often left him completely wrecked, and it sounded like he’d had a very difficult shift. ‘It’s OK, I get it,’ she said. ‘But you have to know how much I wish you were here. It’s not easy on my own.’
‘I know.’
The pause, this time, was more comfortable. Filled with longing, the desire to reach out to each other thwarted by 600 miles that stretched between them.
‘It’s not easy here, you know, either. Being on my own,’ he said.
‘I know. But it’s not exactly my fault.’
‘It’s not my fault either, Nic!’
‘I know!’
Somehow they’d slipped back into their rut. ‘Look, I’d better go and get some sleep. We’ll talk properly later?’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
When they’d hung up, she realised her whole body, so relaxed from the infectious Christmas cheer of being at the market, had tensed.
She drained the last of her chocolate drink, accidentally ingesting some of the cocoa sludge that had gathered in the bottom of the cup – bitter and thick in her mouth – then, thanking the staff, left the café and found herself back on the street.
The market was still in full swing, piped music being played over tinny speakers; people still swarmed around stalls and children still ran, rosy-cheeked, clasping festive treats, but somehow nothing seemed quite as charming as it had before.
She was tired, was all, she decided. Head down, she began to make her way back to the car park. She’d pick something up for lunch on the way home, then spend the afternoon sorting her decorations and planning for more. She’d yet to buy lights and a tree, but it was a start at least.
‘Oof!’
The man’s torso seemed to come from nowhere.
Before she knew what was happening, she found herself tipped over in the street, her bags flung asunder, wooden ornaments rolling.
She looked up to see the artificially rotund belly of a Santa impersonator.
He was tall, the trousers of his suit slightly higher on the leg than ideal, and as he leaned down towards her, his beard hung forward off his face to reveal a man much younger than traditional Père Noel.
‘Madame, I am so sorry.’ He reached out a hand and helped her to her feet.
She felt tears prick her eyes. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, ‘it was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
A woman handed her her bags. She’d bent and gathered all of Nic’s purchases. ‘Here,’ she said.
‘Oh. Thank you.’
Father Christmas was still looking at her in concern. A group of children began to gather around him, one or two pulling impatiently at his coat.
‘I’m fine, really,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Well, take care.’
The group of children were getting more insistent now – one or two of them jumping up and down, trying to get his attention.
Then one of them looked at Nic, at her green coat, obviously noticing its slightly different style, its old-fashioned appearance.
‘It’s Père Noel’s wife,’ he whispered in awe.
And suddenly the children were surrounding her too, clutching at her coat, chattering excitedly about Christmas.
Nicola looked up at the man who’d floored her with his stomach just moments ago and couldn’t help but laugh.
She was still smiling on the way home as she passed the place where Chloé’s car had got stuck and she’d helped her out.
Still smiling as she parked her car on the drive.
Something about the market, the ridiculousness of being bumped into by Père Noel, about her own new identity as his wife and the excitement of the children when they ‘realised’ who she was had lifted her spirits.
In fact, she thought, as she began to pull her bags from the boot, it would probably be a good idea to ride this wave of Christmas cheer and take Monsieur Rémi’s slippers to him before she changed her mind.
Putting her other purchases back in the car for now, she picked up the felt slippers and made her way carefully along her neighbour’s drive.
The snow here was completely undisturbed apart from the prints of what looked to be some sort of bird close to the front step. There were no lights on inside, but then it was daytime, no real need for artificial light in the icy but bright afternoon.
She knocked and waited for the sound of the old man’s shuffling feet. Eventually, she heard him making his way, grumbling a little under his breath. The door flung open and there he was, looking as dishevelled as ever, his hair in disarray, his slippers still fraying at the edges.
As he took her in, he gave a small gasp, as if she were the last person he expected to see. ‘Mon Dieu!’ he said, hand on heart.
She felt suddenly shy. ‘Sorry. It’s just… I went to the Christmas market,’ she said, holding up the slippers. ‘I saw these and… well, I thought you might like them.’
Monsieur Rémi’s brow furrowed as he took the bag from her. He pushed the tissue paper aside to reveal the handmade slippers, and pulled one out.
Almost instantly his hand shot to his mouth.
For a moment, she thought he might break into a smile. But then she realised something else was going on. Monsieur Rémi’s mouth stretched; his hand shook a little.
And to her shock she realised he was crying.