Lisa nodded. ‘He cheated on her – twice.’
Mark experienced a surge of anger on Beatrice’s behalf. Beatrice was right, her exwasan arse. He said, ‘I don’t believe there’s any chance of her being hurt again. I think she’s well and truly over me by now, don’t you?’
‘Yes, you’re right, of course she is. I’m being silly.’
‘You’re looking out for her, that’s all. It’s what good friends do. You two go back a long way.’
‘We do.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I’d better go. My husband will be wondering where I’ve got to. I only came to the bar for a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. Nice seeing you again, Mark.’
‘You, too.’ He noticed that she left without buying a packet. Had she decided she didn’t want any after all? Or had the crisps merely been an excuse to speak to him?
He finished his pint and ordered another, and as he leant against the counter and sipped it, he thought about what Lisa said. If Beatrice had been in love with him and she had been hurt when he ended their relationship, it might explain her initial frostiness towards him, although she’d thawed somewhat since.
But why had Lisa felt the need to say anything now? It was ancient history.
Or was it?
Mark loved those moments of inspiration or insight when ideas sprang into his mind, whether they be for a story or an article. When he’d been a journalist, he used to be pretty good at joining the dots, at seeing connections. It was sometimes described as a lightbulb moment, and he was having one of those momentsright now.
Beatrice hadn’t just been in love with him back then – she stillwasin love with him. Or so Lisa believed. Mark wasn’t entirely convinced he’d arrived at the correct conclusion, but if anyone knew Beatrice’s heart, it would be Lisa.
She was warning him off because she didn’t want Beatrice to be hurt again. And that could only happen if Beatrice still had feelings for him.
Mark straightened up in shock. This could change everything.
The mask wasn’t the most pleasant thing to wear, and two hours was all Mark could manage in one go. Thankfully he didn’t haveto play the Grinch for longer than that, as Dulcie was taking over from him as soon as she was done decorating pinecones.
She arrived, flustered but looking happy, wearing her elf outfit and carrying another Grinch costume in a bag. ‘The one you’re wearing is too big for me,’ she explained, pulling it out and stepping into it.
Mark took his mask off with relief. ‘That’s better. I can breathe again.’ He held it aloft. ‘What do you want me to do with it?
‘Can you turn it inside out and pop it in the bag? I’ll clean it later, before the next poor sod has to wear it. I’m beginning to think I should have plumped for a regular Santa Claus costume, but the Grinch seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘He appears to be quite popular,’ Mark said. ‘The children love him.’
Dulcie beamed widely before putting on her own mask. ‘They do, don’t they? Right, time to get into character. Thanks again for helping out, and don’t forget I owe you a meal at The Wild Side.’
Mark hadn’t forgotten.
He left Dulcie to it and strolled across the yard, drawn towards “Otto’s Christmas Kitchen” as the food area was called, by the tantalising smells issuing from it and his rumbling tummy.
The doors were open and framed by thick garlands which were dotted with red ribbons and gold-painted pinecones. Inside was equally as festive, with centrepieces of twinkling lanterns surrounded by a woven ring of holly and ivy on each of the picnic benches. Mark had come to expect fairy lights, and he wasn’tdisappointed because they were everywhere, strung from the rafters and draped around hay bales, and there was yet another Christmas tree just inside the door. The red and green plaid blankets were a lovely touch.
Dulcie had thought of everything.
Mark queued for a bowl of pumpkin soup topped with roasted chorizo, and a hunk of sourdough bread, and devoured it quickly. It was so good that he briefly considered going for seconds, but that would be greedy.Licking his fingers, he scrunched up the paper napkin and popped it in the bin, then blew out his cheeks.
As he was plucking up the courage to go see Beatrice to ask if she would have dinner at The Wild Side with him, he noticed a woman staring.
She smiled and walked towards him. ‘Are you Mark Stafford? I’m Grace Daley.’ She thrust out a hand. ‘I’m a reporter with The Picklewick Paper.’
‘Gosh! Is that still going?’ He’d forgotten about that. Taking her hand, he shook it.
‘It is, although we’ve had to change with the times. May I ask you a few questions?’
‘It depends on what they are,’ he replied warily. Reporters, as he was all too aware, needed to be treated with the same degree of caution as a microphone – always assume that anything you said could potentially appear in a tabloid somewhere, or in the case of a mic, be broadcast to all and sundry.
‘Nothing controversial,’ she assured him. ‘Just about your books, where you get your inspiration, what you’re working on now… That kind of thing. Can I buy you a coffee?’
