‘Look, now you’re making me go off on a feminist rant in a nice boutique. No one wants this.’
‘True. And fine, you’re right. I am suitably chastened and promise to do better next year,’ he says, attempting to play into the jokiness, but he’s being so sincere that it makes Haf’s heart ache a little. ‘That’s my Christmas wish sorted.’
‘Christmas wish?’
‘Yeah, like, when you make a wish on a star before Santa comes? We usually go out and pick one using the telescope, but sometimes if it’s cloudy we’ll just wish on a star on top of the tree. The wish is the important bit.’
Haf clasps her heart. ‘I’m sorry, what is this incredibly darling childhood anecdote you’re ambushing me with?’
‘Everyone does a Christmas wish, don’t they?’
Haf looks to the shop assistant, who seems to have recovered, and they shrug, clearly not familiar with Christmas wishes either.
‘I think it might just be a Calloway thing. I’m obsessed. Is this ritual time specific?’
‘We usually do it at midnight on Christmas Eve, or the equivalent of that when we were little. Laurel—’ He pauses to clear his throat. ‘Laurel and I used to do it at the party.’
‘Well, we can find a star to wish on, just for you,’ she says, reaching up to tweak him on the nose.
Christopher picks out a couple of items – plus the bath bomb Haf nosed – and passes them over to the shop assistant to pay. Haf winces as the price racks up on the till, but Christopher hands over his card without a blink.
‘It’s on me, remember? I dragged you down here. I’m not going to ask you to pay for everyone’s presents too.’
‘Thank God,’ she sighs.
The air is frigid as they step outside, the sun hanging really low in the sky, even though it’s barely three o’clock.
Haf buys them takeaway hot chocolates from a stand on the street – hers flavoured with peppermint, his topped with anenormous hillock of whipped cream – which warm them up as they continue to browse.
The rest of their shopping goes surprisingly quickly. At a tiny antique bookseller, Christopher collects a prewrapped parcel for his dad – apparently an old and moderately rare edition of his favourite book,The Hound of the Baskervilles. Haf picks out a handmade bookmark made from old maps to go with it.
For Kit, Christopher had already picked out some bath salts from the fancy boutique – good for her aching muscles, he explains – and then they go to a fancy little clothes shop that has brands Haf doesn’t recognise. For Esther, he chooses a grey cashmere scarf, and a pair of expensive but very cosy-looking slippers with firm soles for Kit.
‘I read that they’re good for stability,’ he says. ‘Hopefully, they’ll be really comfortable.’
‘Is that everyone?’ Haf asks as they step back onto the street.
‘I think so.’
‘Good. Let’s go have a drink, yeah?’
‘I’m driving?’
‘Is there not a pub near your house we can stumble to?’
‘Yes, but it’s kind of a farmers’ pub,’ he says with reluctance. ‘Definitely an old man’s kind of place. One guy nursing a Guinness for two hours and not saying a word.’
‘Perfect, those are my favourite kind, and then no one will bother us. I think we need a break from’ – she waves in the air around her – ‘all this fake-dating stuff.’
‘Me too.’
They drive home and park the car, dropping off the presents inside. No one else is home, so they wander off to the pub through the snow. There’s been another little flurry of snow this afternoon, so the trees are all freshly dusted.
The pub is exactly as described. Haf spots two dilapidated armchairs by the roaring fire and goes to investigate.
‘Not you again,’ moans a familiar voice.
It’s Quiet Carriage Man, or perhaps Raffle Man. Now Old Man Pub Man, but either way he still looks exhausted, slumped in one of the armchairs.
