Page 35 of The Cotswolds Christmas Fair

‘Your turn.’ She nodded to a rather flustered-looking woman walking past, clutching a bundle of bulging shopping bags.

‘Single mum,’ he said. ‘You think those bags have got Christmas presents for her kids, but no, they’re full of essentials – nappies, baby milk. She spent five minutes looking at the cheapest bottle of vodka and imagining going home and necking it while the kids play at her feet. But she resisted.’

Jen pulled a face. ‘Bit dark!’

He leaned on his elbows, so close that she could almost feel his lips brush her cheek, and smiled. ‘Ah, don’t worry, she’ll be all right. Father Christmas saw her resist the vodka when he was on his reccy, she and the kids are getting a great Christmas. And she’ll go to a New Year party –’ he leaned even closer – ‘and meet her prince charming.’ He sat back in his seat, still smiling. ‘Happy ever after!’

In Jen’s version the single mum would get a high-flying job, have a glittering career and provide for her three adorable children that way. But she thought better of tackling him with a feminist argument right now.

They continued this way, telling stories about the people that passed until the light faded, and the staff began pointedly wiping the empty tables around them. Anthony’s stories had more drama, but always a happy ending. Hers, unusually given that she wasn’t a Christmas lover, centred more around Father Christmas and escaped elves.

Their casual coffee meet-up became a meal, the meal became drinks, and afternoon slipped into evening. The stories they told each other were no longer about strangers passing in the street, but their own. They’d both had country childhoods and escaped to the city as adults, both had a sister and adored that sister’s children – two nieces for Anthony, a niece and nephew for Jen.

As they sat curled towards each other on a sofa in a softly lit corner of a bar, Jen told him that she rarely spoke to Julia, that Julia was the favourite, the one who had done everything right while Jen had watched helplessly as her own life fell apart. She didn’t go into details about what led to the tension between them. She told him how hard it was to be trapped with her, how she could sense Julia’s desire to reconcile but couldn’t bring herself to forgive and forget. She described the infinite cuteness of the children and how making up for lost time with them was worth every awkward sister moment.

He listened, his blue eyes sympathetic, his expression serious, resting a hand on her knee.

‘Families can be tough,’ he said when she finished. ‘But all of that – that judgement you feel, you know, the feeling like you’ve somehow . . .’

‘Failed?’

‘Yes. That’s just perspective. I don’t think of it like that. Just because you’ve chosen not to give in to the nine-to-five job and the two-point-four kids doesn’t make the way you live less valuable. You’re not conventional, you’re more interesting than that. And people like us, we make braver decisions, you know? Sometimes they’re harder.’ He smiled. ‘But they’re way more interesting, right?’

She smiled. She’d never really considered that where she was in life was a choice, much less a brave one, rather than the result of disasters that had befallen her. She wanted to be the person Anthony saw her as. She wanted him to think of them as ‘people like us’.

‘I’m glad you think so,’ she said. ‘So what about you? Any dark secrets to share? Did your sister steal your inheritance or something?’

He grinned and shrugged. ‘Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid. All boringly amicable – we get on, the kids are cute, her husband’s decent and we’ll all have a bloody lovely time at my parents’ for Christmas.’

Jen laughed. ‘That’s lucky; my brother-in-law is the most boring man on earth, just a guy in a suit, you know? I bet he does no housework or childcare, I’m worried Julia’s secretly really unhappy. But I can’t believe it’s all so hunky-dory for you, I thought you were some kind of tortured artist?’

‘No, but you might be tortured if you ever see one of my pictures or hear one of my poems!’ He pulled a face. ‘You a poetry fan?’

Jen swallowed the last of her gin and tonic, and looked past him. The crowds had thinned out, and the bar had emptied. ‘Of course,’ she said.

‘Oh dear, so you’ll know mine’s rubbish then,’ he said, grinning and swirling the last dregs of his whisky. ‘Who’s your favourite?’

The last time Jen had read a poem she’d been at school. She loved reading, she was never happier than under a blanket with her nose in a book, but she preferred novels. ‘Sylvia Plath,’ she blurted, the only poet she could think of off the top of her head.

‘Ooh.’ He screwed up his face. ‘No one can compete with that!’

Relieved, she breathed again. ‘And you?’

Jen nodded and tried not to lose focus as Anthony spoke of the poets and artists he admired. She did her best to appear knowledgeable and cultured, the girl who was unconventional and brave and interesting. She wondered whether he was buying it. Because she’d give anything to be that girl.

At last they could no longer ignore the fact that the bar was empty and the staff were desperate to close up and go home. Anthony helped her into her coat and, as they stood on the street while the last revellers tottered away down the snowy street, he leaned in.

Her heartbeat quickened, and she moved closer, already imagining the press of his lips against her own. Instead, she felt the gentle brush of them against her cheek. Opening her eyes, she found his face close to hers as he gazed at her, and stroked a stray curl from her face.

‘See you again?’ he asked.

She nodded. Of course. A smile split across his face.

‘You know, I’m not – I don’t normally feel . . .’

She was shaking her head. ‘Nor me.’

That smile again, dazzling her.