‘Not really my best Princess Di moment,’ she said, feeling herself hot with embarrassment.
‘I was never into Princess Di,’ he said. ‘I was more of a Demi Moore fan.’
‘Oh?’ Christa was still holding his hand, wondering why she felt flickers of delicious anticipation inside her stomach.
‘You know inGhost? The short hair, big eyes, that laugh.’
Christa nodded, trying to think if she did know any of Demi Moore’s traits and could they possibly be traced back to her.
Was she still dreaming? Was she still dribbling in the car?
And then the moment finished. Marc dropped her hand and turned away from her and closed the car door with a thud.
‘Right then,’ she said. ‘I better get to bed. Pancakes in the morning, if you’re up early enough.’
‘I have a phone call at five am so I will be,’ he said as they walked towards the house.
Inside they took off their coats and Marc locked the front door as Christa went upstairs.
‘Goodnight, Marc,’ she said. ‘Thanks for being so understanding and supportive.’
He looked up at her. ‘My hocks are your hocks; now Hammy Christmas to you and to all a good hock.’
Christa stifled laughter. ‘That makes no sense.’
‘I’m tired – throw me a bone,’ he said as he climbed the stairs.
‘I have a ham hock I could throw you tomorrow,’ she said as she walked backwards down the hallway.
Marc walked backwards in the opposite direction.
‘That’s truly hocking,’ he said.
‘I aim to hock and awe,’ she said.
‘You’re a hock star,’ he answered and she giggled loudly.
‘Goodnight, you big ham,’ she said as she got to her door and smiled at him.
‘Goodnight, Christa, the Robin Hood of Hocking Forest.’
She stepped inside her room and closed the door, taking a deep breath. She had no idea what was happening but it was fun and silly and wouldn’t lead anywhere. She’d forgotten how much she loved to flirt and tease and play.
She lay on her bed and looked at the ceiling. Marc was great company when he stopped trying to take over the world and he listened when she spoke about her dream and didn’t dismiss it.
She could imagine Simon explaining all the ways she would mess it up and how it wasn’t viable and people should just get a job and pull themselves up out of the rut and get some control.
This from the man who had never had to want for anything; but Marc, she knew he understood. There was a look on his face when she spoke about being in soup kitchens as a child that she recognised. He’d known what it was like to be hungry once. He knew her dream mattered.
And she hadn’t asked him for money. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask him. She didn’t have a plan or any experience in undertaking such a mammoth task. But she could learn and when she knew enough she could do it, one day.
Maybe Pudding Hall wasn’t such a terrible idea after all. She could keep helping at the van and now that Marc wanted to help her, she could prepare even better food and wouldn’t have to hide it.
When she was curled up in bed, about to drift off to sleep, Christa remembered when she had dribbled in the car and groaned.
Seriously. She really wasn’t the sort of woman Marc would like anyway, so why did she think there had been a moment between them? Why on earth would he want to kiss a ham-hock-stealing, quail-poaching, dribbling cook?
Sometimes she really didn’t understand herself at all.
