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‘That’s right, not long at all and she’s very much looking forward to them.’
‘I bet,’ said Jen, twirling a strand of black hair around her finger.
A silence stretched between them and Caitlin began to fidget. She was usually at ease talking to anyone but this pleasant, pretty woman, who had once been loved by Sean, made her flustered. Caitlin couldn’t help wondering if Jen secretly hated her for callously breaking her ex-husband’s heart. Or maybe Caitlin was vastly exaggerating her own significance in Sean’s life and Jen knew nothing about her history.
‘Anyway,’ said Jen, hugging the papers close to her chest. ‘I’d better get on.’
‘Yep, me too. Lots to do,’ said Caitlin, though she had absolutely nothing to do other than buy a loaf of brown bread, with no seeds or Maisie would moan about them getting caught in her teeth. ‘It was good to see you again.’
‘You too. Take care, Caitlin.’
With an awkward half-wave, Caitlin walked off but she hadn’t gone far when Jen called after her, ‘I’ll tell Sean I saw you, though you might see him yourself, of course, if you’re going to the Christmas market that’s being held by the church. He’s manning a stall there, the fundraising one for Max, and probably will be for the next hour or so. If you just happen to be in the area.’
Caitlin smiled to herself, embarrassed that Jen had seen through her lie about the short cut, but glad that Sean’s ex-wife definitely didn’t hate her. She turned and raised a hand to the young woman, who smiled in return and gave a brief nod.
* * *
Around two dozen stalls were clustered together, draped in fairy lights, and festive music was blaring out across the village green. The huge fir tree, paid for by the residents’ association, was now covered with Christmas decorations, and a smell of caramelised sugar and cinnamon wafted under Caitlin’s nose.
It was such an evocative scene that reminded her of markets long gone. She and Isla would browse the stalls, spending what little money they had on enamel jewellery, hot chocolates and gingerbread men.
Pulling out her phone, Caitlin sent a quick text to Maisie: Xmas fair on village green near church. You should come down. It’s fun.
A reply shot back immediately: Is it though? Sounds sad to me.
Her words were followed by a vomit emoji.
At least she’d tried. Caitlin decided not to think about Maisie and bought three gingerbread men instead, which she dropped into her canvas bag, alongside the loaf from Gilly’s Bake Shop.
She began to wander around the fair, enjoying the sounds and smells but also on the look-out for a mop of fair hair. And when she eventually spotted Sean in the distance, she felt an unfamiliar rush of happiness. He was selling cakes on a stall beneath a large banner that read: Heaven’s Cove Fundraising for Mighty Max.
Caitlin watched him for a moment while he chatted and laughed with customers and dropped fairy cakes into paper bags. It was ridiculous but she had the same feelings of butterflies in her stomach that she’d had fifteen years ago.
‘Hi, there.’ Sean glanced round and gave her a beaming smile. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m soaking up some festive spirit, though it seems a little early when we’re only just into December.’
‘Are you one of these people who doesn’t put the tree up until a week before the big day?’
‘Not until Christmas Eve, actually,’ she joked.
‘Perfect. You’re a woman after my own heart.’ He winced slightly and gave a sheepish grin. ‘Probably not the best choice of words in the circumstances.’
‘Probably not,’ Caitlin agreed with a smile. ‘Anyway, if you’re such a scrooge on the quiet, why are you here at a Christmas fair?’
‘It’s for a good cause. Gavin at the garage has a young son with disabilities, who’s called Max, and he’s trying to raise enough money to set up an inclusive playground, here on the green. Kids in wheelchairs miss out when they can’t go on swings and roundabouts, but there’s specially adapted equipment available that they can use. All kids should be able to play and have fun.’
‘I quite agree. How much do you need to raise?’
‘A lot. We’ve raised a fair bit already, with sponsored walks and swims, but I’ll need to sell a shedload of cakes to reach the target.’
‘Did you make the cakes?’
‘Good grief, no,’ Sean snorted. ‘I wouldn’t inflict my cooking on anyone, except for my curry. I make a mean chicken balti.’
‘I remember.’
‘My repertoire hasn’t expanded much in the last fifteen years so Gavin’s friends and family made these. Would you like some?’
