‘Nee, it’s not that. Believe me, it’s not that. It’s—’
‘Sorry, I just wanted your opinion because you’re good at figures and retail and stuff. I forgot you’re not staying here after Friday and carrying on this fight. I’ll call a staff meeting sometime this week and see if the other shopkeepers would be on board, and we can formulate some kind of business plan and get it ready to present to Scrooge.’
I try not to show the bitter disappointment that feels like it’s bleeding out of my pores. The idea of doing this without him suddenly feels daunting rather than exciting. I force myself to push three bagpipe-playing nutcrackers together and take a photo of them. I knew he was only here for the month. I knew he was going back to his real life, his real job, and I’m one of the only people who knows about his father’s illness and his trepidation about what he’s facing. There’s just something about being with him that makes the impossible feel like it’s within touching distance.
I can feel the sense of sadness permeating from him as we carry on wandering the aisles, going in a different direction, drifting away from each other.
‘There are old ones in storage.’
‘What?’ My head pings up.
‘Not here. At the head office. They have old ones.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘The factory was founded in the 1930s. They have original ones from Germany, and some they bought from all over the world in an attempt to replicate what was already popular, and of course they have a copy of every one that’s ever been made here to keep track of how they’ve evolved over the years. That could be an interesting exhibit.’ He must notice my confused look because he adds, ‘I saw them when I was collecting stock.’
‘They have eighty-something years’ worth of nutcrackers and they’re not using them …’
He scratches the back of his neck, his eyes intently focused on the nutcracker in his hand. ‘Maybe they didn’t realise they could be important.’
‘And you said your parents might have newspaper clippings about the magical nutcracker. We could showcase his story …’
‘And wishes aren’t just for Christmas, right? They could keep being granted all year through?’
I look over the top of the shelf at him in the next aisle. ‘So you do think there’s something in this …’
He looks up and meets my eyes across a row of nutcrackers, and the look in his is intense and unwavering enough to make my breath catch. ‘If you got that excited about going ballroom dancing with hungry sharks, I’d support it.’
‘How would that work?’ I furrow my eyebrows. ‘Would the ballroom be in the water or would the sharks be in the ballroom? You might think the sharks wouldn’t be too supportive of this idea. And quite heavy to do a waltz with, I would imagine …’
‘And how would they ever get their fins into dancing shoes?’ His mouth twitches as he tries to stop himself laughing.
I force myself to turn away and pick up a purple nutcracker with a giant pinecone in his hand and a Christmas tree on his head and indicate around the shop with it. ‘I can’t believe you did this. You know how to surprise a girl.’
‘I didn’t know whether I’d be intruding. I know it was something you did with your grandmother and I didn’t want to blunder in and encroach on that tradition in case you didn’t want anyone else’s involvement.’
Once again, I’m struck by how thoughtful and empathic he is. It’s been a heck of a long time since I met a man like him. ‘Things are different this year. You’ve shown me that even though a lot of Christmas is about nostalgia and remembering the years and people who came before, it can also be about making new memories and letting new people in when you never thought you would.’
I hear him swallow and clear his throat, and he has no idea how much I want to kiss him. ‘We’re going to be here all night at this rate. You choose this year’s nutcracker for me. I don’t mind what it looks like.’
‘Me?’ He sounds like I’ve asked him to pluck the stings from stinging nettles.
‘Yeah. It’s not about the nutcrackers so much as the memories of getting them, and believe me, I am never going to forget this one.’
He’s trying to hide a proud smile as he wanders round, picking up nutcrackers, appraising them and returning them to their spaces on the shelves. ‘This is not as easy as it looks. I’m trying to find the perfect one. I’d kind of like you to remember me fondly when you get it out next year. And have a nice big one to throw darts at when you hate me.’
Remember him fondly? Hate him? He talks like he’s going away … Like I’m not going to see him after this. I know he’s got a lot to face next year, and even though Nutcracker Lane will close in January and everything is up in the air at the moment, he’s talking like he’s going to disappear. I thought we had something here. Are we not friends … or whatever … who are going to stay in touch?
He only lives half an hour away. Even if my ideas for Nutcracker Lane turn out to be nothing more than a pipe dream and Scrooge bulldozes the whole place next year and I spend all my days in a panicked haze of jobhunting, I’m going to make time to see him. If he thinks he’s going to get that cast off his arm in January without me holding his other hand, he’s got another thing coming. And he’s not dealing with his father’s illness by himself either. But he talks like we’re never going to see
