His fingers curl into my hip, five points of burning pressure where they touch my body. Bits of his straight hair have sprung forward around his ears and it’s like a magnet is pulling my fingers up to tuck them back, trailing down his jaw, feeling every speck of stubble with every line of my fingertips. His eyes drift closed and he lowers his head, and my heart is pounding so loud I’m sure people on a passing cruise liner in the North Sea can hear it.
I can already sense the delicious friction of his jaw against my skin, his soft lips that I felt on my cheek the other day against mine. My hand grips his shoulder as I stand on tiptoes, and I realise that I’m going to kiss him … And I jump back with such abruptness that it startles him and makes him wince in pain at my sudden movement.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. I can’t kiss him. I barely know him. Another relationship is the last thing I want. I can’t bear the thought of being cheated on again, and with him … it feels like it would matter. It didn’t matter with the previous couple of boyfriends because I held them at arm’s length so it wouldn’t hurt when they inevitably slept with someone else. James is already closer than I’ve let most of my previous relationships put together. The thought of him cheating on me is enough to make my throat close up and my nose start to burn, and we’re nowhere near dating yet. I can’t let it get that far because of how much it will hurt to lose him.
Every part of me feels wobbly, and my fingers curl into his good arm to keep myself upright because it’s like hugging him has cut off the blood flow to my brain and it takes a few seconds for awareness to come back.
‘The shelves!’ I yelp with such fervour that you’d think the future of the human race depended on us getting these shelves together.
He scratches his head awkwardly, looking like he can’t work out what just happened, and goes back over to position the next part of the frame for building up from the shelf we’ve just screwed together.
I thought it might be awkward after that … whatever that was between us, but within a couple of purrs of the electric screwdriver, it’s like nothing ever happened.
‘Why did you stop making things?’ My fingers run over the sanded wood, smooth compared to the roughness of the chalky white paint on one of the sets, an experiment in distressed-look shabby chic. These are so beautiful, and they fit in so perfectly with our rustic style. If someone had told me to go out and buy shelving, I’d have chosen these.
‘I don’t have time. I made these when I was younger, when I had nothing but time. Now I just work. Trying to make my parents’ unprofitable company profitable again. It takes more … energy than it sounds like it does.’
I get the impression he’s talking about emotional energy instead of physical energy. ‘You can’t work all the time.’
The laugh he answers with is bitter and sarcastic, and leaves me in no doubt that he doesn’t want to talk about it. ‘I’m not creative like you. It’s impressive to be able to earn a living from something you make with your own hands.’
I’ve never thought of it like that before. ‘Most days, I’m just struggling to get by. It’s hard to find the motivation sometimes, especially when you’re working a part-time job as well. But it’s also my escape. I feel tense and weird inside if I haven’t made anything for a while, and that tension releases when I get out to my shed, put some music on, and disappear into my own little world for a while.’
‘But you don’t just make Christmas stuff, right?’ He pushes screws around a handmade wooden box as he searches for the right ones to secure the side supports.
‘No, of course not. That would be a terrible business model. Stace and I both do themed crafts for every time of year; you just happen to have come along in December. We do Valentine’s Day, spring, Easter, summer, autumn, Halloween, and everything in between, and we both have non-seasonal year-round products. But Christmas is the most popular and we make a huge effort for it.’
‘And you’ve never thought about a physical shop together until Nutcracker Lane?’
‘That would be a dream come true, but it’s way too big a commitment. You hear so many horror stories of high streets failing and shops closing down. Neither of us earn enough to stay afloat without a second job. Buying our van together was a huge investment. Buying or renting actual property seems doomed to fail and neither of us have got the money anyway. Somewhere with a guaranteed customer base like Nutcracker Lane that was open all year through would be perfect, but for now, our budgets are better spent on making more products and doing more online advertising.’
‘Apart from Nutcracker Lane?’
‘That’s different. It’s a labour of love. I’ve wanted to work here my whole life.’ I’m kneeling on the floor with planks of wood laid out in front of me, trying to figure out which ones we’ll need next.
‘I’ve never thought it could mean that much to people before. It’s just another retail park designed to part people from their money.’
‘But that’s the one thing it never used to be – about money. Not until Scrooge came along, anyway. Things used to be sold cheaply, or given away to people who needed them. The shopkeepers felt valued. The whole place used to feel special, like magic was fizzing in every corner and if you caught it at just the right time, you’d see a sparkle and catch the faint jingling of
