‘I was going to say nostalgically terrible, but okay,’ Haf giggles.
‘That’s not much better.’
‘This is the best thing I’ve ever been allowed to borrow. Do you think Kit’ll mind?’
‘Nah, I cleared it.’
‘I’m honoured to wear a Calloway heirloom.’
Christopher fiddles with his hands, looking down. ‘I probably owe you an apology.’
‘What for?’
‘I just... I find it hard to talk about all of this.’
‘Being rich?’ she says, and he flicks her on the nose.
‘No, you pest. The . . . baking.’
‘The not-finance.’
‘Yes. That. Considering it’s one of the many reasons I brought you here.’
‘We don’t have to talk about it right now, anyway. But I think we should,’ she offers gently. ‘Like, come on, who is going to get it more than ol’ career-disaster McGee over here?’
‘We can be disasters together.’
‘It’s a promise.’ She proffers a pinkie, and he wraps his around hers.
‘Come on, we elves have a delivery to make.’
Chapter Twelve
@ambroseliewis making a charity gingerbread house with the girl you’re in love with but won’t tell the most wlw activity ever?
Yes: 30%
No: 12%
Other (answer in comments):58%
406 votes
The fête is in final preparation mode when Haf and Christopher arrive.
The roads around the green have been closed off, and little wooden huts like the ones in the Christmas market in York are lined up. They glow softly from all the fairy lights around them.
In the middle of it all is a very large Christmas tree, so large that she has no idea how they even got it here. People on ladders hang the final decorations and adjust the strung lights. Haf is pretty sure she can see Esther guiding them from the bottom, clipboard in hand.
As promised, there’s a pen of very sweet-looking reindeer, happily munching away on carrots, bells and ribbons tied on their antlers. Haf squeals under her breath at the sight of them. There is no way she’s missing out on stroking every single reindeer.
Just before they pull into the local car park, they pass a partially frozen duck pond, where two tiny children in full snowsuits throw peas enthusiastically for – or ratherat– the ducks.
‘Does your mum organise this every year?’ asks Haf, her arms wrapped around the cake box that houses Christopher’s stunning gingerbread house.
‘Every year that I can remember,’ says Christopher, driving his little red car into the parish church car park. It was his first car, apparently, and lives at home while he was at uni and now in London. Haf knows very little about cars, but this is way nicer than the first cars her friends at home had. It’s nice being chauffeured around, especially with the heated seats.
Christopher gets out first and runs around the side of the car to take the cake box from her. This is, admittedly, a bit of a relief, as she had no idea how she was going to get out and not launch the gingerbread house skyward.
