The wind howled, and the rain hammered the roof like a hail of bullets.
‘Alexa, play Christmas songs.’
Lucy couldn’t resist lifting the lid of the Tupperware box containing the mince pies she’d baked that morning. She inhaled deeply. The notes of apple, currants, spicy fruit and buttery pastry, coupled with Bing blasting out ‘White Christmas’, transported her back to her childhood; sitting by the blazing fire in her grandparents’ kitchen at Glenmara Lodge, on the banks of Loch Lomond, snow falling.
She checked her watch. Just ninety minutes to get everything done before her taxi was due to take her home for the special Advent supper.
She unwrapped the Christmas wreath of aromatic spruce, holly, frosted pine cones, red berries and cinnamon sticks, which she and Elena had put together with a little help from Michael Bublé and a bottle of mulled wine.
She hung it proudly on the teashop door, just below Valentina’s ornate scrolled lettering:Giancarlo’s.
Prickles ran down her neck. Again she felt a strong connection to this man she’d never met, but whose positive and loving presence was all around.
The lights in the factory flickered as a crack of thunder pierced the late afternoon sky, pulling her back to this world and the tasks still to do.
She went to the store cupboard and dragged the ladder across the tiled floor to the teashop, singing as she went. Taking one of the brightly decorated panettone boxes, she climbed to the top step and reached up towards the ceiling. She looped the ribbon onto one of the hooks protruding from the beam. A whiff of citrus, mixed with vanilla, floated under her nostrils, triggering a wave of excitement, at the prospect of her first Italian Christmas.
By the time she had hung the last box, she had a crick in her neck and her arms felt like lead. Carefully placing her foot onto the top rung, she was starting to make her descent when she suddenly became aware that she wasn’t alone; she could feel someone’s eyes drilling through her back. Her singing trailed off, her head whipping around quickly, causing the ladder to wobble precariously.
‘Attenzione!’ The tall stranger sprang towards her, grabbing both sides with his chubby, ring-covered hands.
‘Grazie.’ She picked her way carefully down to the ground. ‘How did you get in?’
‘Scusi?’
She checked her watch. ‘You’re early.’
‘Early?’ The man fixed Lucy with a baleful gaze as he removed his black fedora, sending it skimming through the air and landing squarely on top of the urn. She noticed the light bouncing off his shaved head and a fierce scar which ran down the length of his right cheek.
Lucy drew a shaky breath. ‘I ordered the taxi for half-past.’
‘Well, well, well. What have we here?’
He was now strutting around the teashop, dark trench coat swaying, like he owned the place, examining everything in detail. ‘Taxi?’
‘Yes. My name is Anderson. Lucy Anderson. I ordered a taxi to take me to…’ Her voice disintegrated. There was another roll of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning, causing the lights to flicker again. Wham!’s ‘Last Christmas’ blared through the speakers.
The stranger was now flicking through the reservations book. ‘Business is good, eh?’
‘Yes. Very. Would you like to reserve a table?’ she asked, her voice taking on an odd tremble.
His fingers drummed the counter, his lips curling into a snarl. ‘No.’
Lucy swallowed hard. ‘If you’re not my taxi driver, and you don’t want to book a table, then—’
His reptilian gaze was now locked on the picture of Giancarlo.
‘—why are you here?’
A strange sensation tumbled through Lucy.
He slid her a steely sideways glance.
She took an instinctive step back, snatching a look at the door.
He took her hand and clasped it firmly, the rings digging into her fingers, the sickly scent of his aftershave wafting under her nose.
‘Arrivederci,Lucy Anderson.’
