Mariah’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” starts and James gives himself a shake. ‘I mean, it’s good from a commercial point of view for the lane, that’s all. I’ll never understand all this trash.’ He waves a dismissive hand towards the pile of fairy lights on the counter that we’ve taken down to make room for the shelving, and whether he likes it or not, are going back up once it’s all in place. ‘All you’re “putting up” is your electricity bill.’
‘Oh, you’re so practical.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Don’t you have a tree? Not even a little one?’
‘No. Don’t tell me that surprises you? What part of “I hate Christmas” is unclear? Do you want me to repeat it louder or on a different frequency? How about in a different language? Dwi’n casau Nadolig – there you go, Welsh. French too? Je déteste Noël.’
‘You hate Christmas so much, you’ve taken the trouble to learn it in different languages?’
He laughs, but he’s not getting out of this one as easily as he thinks he is. ‘You say all that, but you’ve never told me why you hate it. You grouch and Grinch and bluster, but you’ve voluntarily worn two Christmas jumpers this week, and you’ve been up at the nutcracker listening to wishes at every opportunity. That is very un-Grinch-like behaviour.’
‘The jumpers are comfortable. Getting dressed isn’t exactly easy at the moment and finding anything comfy is next to impossible.’ He holds up the broken arm. ‘Besides, I don’t want to disappoint you. You’re trying so hard to un-Grinch me, I don’t want you to realise I’m too much hard work and give up on me.’
It makes warmth pool in my belly and I suddenly want nothing more than to throw my arms around him, but I force myself not to. The words seem significant somehow, not like he just plucked them out of thin air, and I want to push him for an explanation, but I have to keep reminding myself that I still barely know this man. Even though it feels like I’ve known him for months, the reality is that I met him ten days ago and I don’t know him well enough to read what each line on his face means or hear hidden meanings behind his words.
He’s holding a screw between his teeth and he makes a noise that I’ve translated to mean “Can you hold this?” now we’re on our second set of the surprisingly sturdy shelving units.
Each plank of wood has been sanded until it’s silky and smooth with age, and each knot in the woodgrain is preserved with resin. The back and sides of each unit are made from long lengths of pallet planks, and the shelves are made of shorter chunks screwed onto a wooden base.
I go over and hold two wooden boards at a ninety-degree angle while he leans down to line up the hole.
He takes the screw out of his mouth and pushes it in, holding it carefully between the fingers of his left hand as the electric screwdriver in his right hand whirrs into life and he drives the screw into place. ‘It’s so much fuss for one day that always ends up being a complete let-down. I don’t like all the expectation that hinges on this one “Big Day” being perfect. You’re expected to be full of joy and cheer, and certain people’ – he side-eyes me pointedly – ‘act like there’s something wrong with you if you’re not.’
‘Oi, you asked me to help you find some Christmas spirit.’ I pick up the next set of planks, ready for another screw. ‘I was quite happy to leave you in your non-Christmas-jumper-wearing misery. And just for the record, I have never thought there was anything wrong with you.’
He looks up and meets my eyes and his mouth tips slowly into a smile, and I get so lost in his Disney prince eyes that I don’t realise I’ve reached out to touch him until the boards I was holding clatter to the floor and make us both jump.
‘It’s not about the “Big Day” itself – everyone knows that.’ My cheeks flare red as I pick the boards up and try to get them back into the same position. ‘It’s about the build-up. This is the fun part of Christmas. It’s nothing to do with the day itself. That’s always full of stress and a total let-down. It’s about this – this exact time of year when everything’s bright and twinkly and people are just a little bit kinder than usual.’
‘Kinder? People are rattier and more stressed and tired than usual.’
I ignore him. ‘Don’t you love getting boxes of decorations out and experiencing the nostalgia of going through all these gorgeous things you haven’t seen for a year? I decorated my tree last night. I have miniature wreaths that my great-grandmother made. It feels special to still have decorations from a family member I never even got to meet. Doesn’t your family have decorations passed down through the generations?’
He looks at me with one eyebrow up and one eyebrow down, like he can’t work out what I’m talking about. ‘No. I’ve never decorated a Christmas tree.’
‘Never?’ I can’t hide the shock in my voice. ‘What kind of tree did you have when you were a kid?’
‘One of those pre-lit, pre-decorated fibre-optic ones that come out of a nice neat box from the attic on Christmas Eve and goes straight back into it on Boxing Day.’
I shake my head. ‘That’s just wrong. Don’t your parents run a Christmas business?’
His eyes widen for just a second and then he looks down. ‘Exactly. It’s the busiest time of
