Would she be barging too forcefully into Kit's emotional territory if she took the photo and framed it for him? And was he ready for such an ever-present reminder of his loss?
Well, she'd never know unless she made the attempt. She would do it, she decided, and went straightaway to the stationery department before she could change her mind. Choosing a lovely silver frame in what she hoped was the correct size, she watched in satisfaction as the clerk wrapped it in tissue.
That left Duncan, she thought as she reached the street once more, and his gift was the most difficult of all. It must be something special, something that would symbolize this new stage of their life together- but what? She walked along the street, looking in shop window after shop window. A few items prompted her to go inside, but in the end everything seemed too ordinarily personal, too practical, or revoltingly sappy.
She'd almost given up when she saw it, in the window of a housewares and pottery boutique. A hand-painted ceramic plaque, with a border of dark green leaves in which nestled berries the same brilliant scarlet as their front door, and in its center, in bold black on a white ground, their house number. It was perfect.
When she came out of the shop minutes later, humming the Christmas song that had been playing over the loudspeaker, the 59 bus was just pulling in to the bus stop. The gods were definitely smiling.
On reaching Notting Hill again, she felt so full of seasonal cheer that she made another spur-of-the-moment decision. Getting off the bus, she went into the elegant bakery just round the corner from Elgin Crescent.
They had just the thing, Christmas cakes with thick and creamy icing and interiors dark and rich with spices. They were the sort of cakes one had when the edge had worn off Christmas dinner, to be consumed with cups of strong tea while listening to the Queen's speech.
When the bakery had boxed the cakes for her, she balanced her parcels carefully and set out for Marc Mitchell's soup kitchen on Portobello Road.
To her relief, the light was still on and the door unlocked. 'Marc?' she called out.
'Back here!'
She followed the sound of his voice to the kitchen at the rear of the eating area.
'Sorry, I couldn't leave this,' he apologized. He was stirring a large pot of something that smelled delicious on an industrial-size gas range. 'Cranberry relish, for tomorrow's dinner.'
'What's in it?' asked Gemma, sniffing. She set her parcels down in a clear spot on the table.
'Cranberries, obviously.' He wiped the steam from his brow. 'And honey, vinegar, cracked pepper, mustard seeds, and diced chili peppers. I always hated the jellied stuff from a tin, so this is my rebellion.' Nodding at a dozen freshly washed glass jars drying on a cloth, he added, 'I mean to put some up for gifts as well.'
'I've brought a couple of cakes.' Gemma indicated the box. 'They're teacakes, really, but I thought-'
'That's the one thing I was missing. You're brilliant.' Giving the pot a last stir, he turned off the flame. 'There. When the cranberries pop, it's finished. Now we wait for it to cool a bit.' Lifting the lid on the cake box, he whistled. 'They're too gorgeous to eat. I've got some tinned puddings donated by one of the supermarkets, but they're nothing compared with this.'
A little embarrassed, Gemma changed the subject. 'What else have you got on your menu? Bryony said you'd been planning for weeks.'
'Two turkeys. Brussels sprouts, of course. Potatoes. Oh, and a case of nonalcoholic champagne, donated as well. Can't serve the real stuff, even if I could afford it. And look-' he showed her a box containing several dozen cylinders wrapped in brightly colored foil. 'I've made crackers. They won't pop, but they've got paper hats in and some sweets.'
'It all sounds lovely. I suppose you've got lots of help.'
'Bryony's coming. Between us we can manage, although it might get a bit wild. She's a tremendous help.'
Seeing a chance to play the matchmaker, Gemma observed, 'She thinks you're pretty terrific, too.'
Marc gave her a look she couldn't interpret and went back to his relish, giving the pot a desultory stir. 'I know she does. It's just that it's a bit… awkward.'
'Awkward?' Gemma echoed.
Marc gestured round the room. 'You see this place? I used the last of my grandmother's savings to start this. So I have no money- I mean
'But-'
'I have nothing to offer her, and my chance of someday getting a job that would earn a fraction of what she makes is slim to nonexistent. Bryony deserves better than-'
'Marc, she doesn't care. She admires you for what you do-'
'I sleep on a cot in the upstairs room. How fast do you think admiration would turn to resentment if she had to share those circumstances?'
'But why should she? She has her own job, her own career, a flat. You could…' Gemma hesitated, certain she was getting in over her head.
'Stay in her flat? Let her buy groceries? Let her pay for her own Christmas gift?' He shook his head adamantly. 'That's not right.'
'Isn't that a little old-fashioned?'
'I suppose it is. I've spent most of my adult life looking after my grandmother- she was bedridden the last few years and had to have twenty-four-hour care- so I missed out on a good bit of the sexual revolution. But it's more than that… You see, I can't do what I do and live any other way. It's partly focus-'
'You can't afford to be distracted by a relationship? Sort of like a monk?'
He gave a snort of laughter. 'Well, I suppose you could say that, although my grandmother would turn in her grave. She was nonconformist to the core. But the main thing is, I can't spend my days with these people who have nothing, and live at a different level. Mortgages, furniture, cars, clothing- all these things we take so much for granted mean nothing to them. And if I go there, if I live on that plane, I can't connect with them.' He lifted his hands, palms up.
'I see,' said Gemma, and she did. She could think of no argument to convince him his position was unreasonable, nor, she found, did she really want to. As Bryony had said, he had a unique ability to reach out to the homeless people he served. Who was she to question the source of that gift, or its importance?
Bryony locked the surgery door and closed the blinds, then washed down the two examining rooms. She'd run later than expected, of course, because of emergencies. A holiday always seemed to bring on a rush of last- minute calls, and any holiday involving candy more so, due to people's apparent inability to restrict their pets' access to it.
Not to mention the fact that Gavin had rung during the busiest stint, incoherent with fury, shouting something about the police turning his house and his car upside down because Dawn Arrowood had told some friend he'd had a row with her the morning she died.
At least Gemma had protected her, thought Bryony, but surely the police didn't actually think Gavin had anything to do with Dawn's murder?
Had she done the right thing in telling Gemma about what she'd heard? And what about the thefts at the surgery? Gavin hadn't mentioned that, and if Gemma had questioned him about the incident, he would certainly guess that Bryony had told her.
She put up the mop bucket with a thump of irritation. This was not the day for worrying about things it was too late to change. She still had her bit of holiday shopping to do, but first she had to update her charts. Determined to concentrate, she sat down at Gavin's desk to work.
When her pen ran dry halfway through her task, she absently opened the desk drawer and rummaged for a new one. As her fingers closed round a pen, she looked down, catching a glimpse of what looked like the edge of a photograph in the very back compartment. Aware that she was snooping, Bryony started to close the drawer. Then curiosity overcame her scruples and she pulled the drawer out to its fullest extent, freeing the photograph.
