After Jill had introduced me and explained why I was there, the children insisted they didn’t want a story from any of the books on the shelf.

‘You have to make one up, Mith Ambroth,’ lisped a tiny girl with solemn eyes. ‘Thath the ruleth.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Jill, her gaze sweeping over the eager faces in front of us. ‘We freestyle sometimes. Anything goes, it doesn’t have to be Christmassy.’

‘Right,’ I said, sitting on the wooden chair that Jill had pulled from behind the desk, after sending Miss Anderson to the staffroom with an order to eat a slice of Christmas cake. ‘In that case, I have a story I think you’re going to like.’

It felt so natural to be in the slightly overheated classroom, surrounded by colourful wall charts and tables scattered with exercise books, pencils and crayons, hearing the sniffles and whispers of thirty-odd children, that I didn’t even mind that Jill was obviously testing me.

‘It’s a story about a little black cat with magical powers,’ I said, loving how their eyes grew saucer-like and they instantly stopped shuffling.

Dropping my voice to a hush, I launched into a tale about ‘Sabrina’ (a friendly, female version of Marmite), who moved from family to family, transforming their lives by bringing them good luck – as long as they deserved it – and when I’d finished, to a touching round of applause, I finally knew what my book was going to be about.

---

After rashly promising Jill that I’d let her know by the end of the following day whether I wanted to take the job, I drove back to the cottage as fast as the speed limit would allow and crashed through the door to fire up my laptop.

Without even taking my coat off, I sat on the sofa and wrote an outline for Sabrina the Magic Cat and a couple of scenarios I could flesh out later. It made total sense that I should write a children’s book, and I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t thought of it before.

I wanted to tell Craig, but realised – when I paused to stretch my fingers – that I appeared to be alone. I got up and checked each room, in case he was playing hide-and-seek, but obviously he’d got better things to do than wait for me to come back and start rambling about a witchy cat.

The book wouldn’t take long to write, even if I made it into a series. Maybe I should carry on with my adult novel as well. I sat back down listlessly and opened my previous document, then shut it again, my head too full of Sabrina. I’d need an illustrator to come up with some drawings. My artistic skills didn’t stretch beyond basic sketching, and although I pulled out my notepad and attempted some more cat doodles, they weren’t very realistic. More like whiskery rats.

Perhaps someone local could help. One of my neighbours might know somebody. I went outside, wondering whether Craig was in one of the other houses, talking to a housewife or husband, prising out their secrets...

---

I felt self-conscious standing outside the cottage, so turning up my collar I walked a little way down the hill, peering discreetly into windows as I passed. Most had Christmas trees blocking my view, but Mr Flannery was standing outside Number 2, scratching his head as he stared at his roof, where a rosy-cheeked Santa appeared to be wedged in the chimney.

I tried to back up, but Mr Flannery turned and spotted me. ‘Still think Lambert will win?’ he said, with what might have passed for a grin if his eyes had been smiling. Instead he looked slightly unhinged. ‘I’ve definitely got the edge, wouldn’t you say?’

‘W-e-e-e-ll…’ I checked out his display, which was as much of a mishmash as Barry’s. Although the house was heavily decorated there wasn’t a coherent theme – just endless, multi-coloured flashing lights attached to the roof and walls, while every available space in front of it was stuffed with festive inflatables, grinning and gurning and – in some cases – twisting their heads from side to side in a spooky, robotic fashion. The only impressive feature was a giant globe, the snowflakes inside twirling down on an alpine scene, but the effect was spoilt by a cable leading to an ugly generator humming like an angry hornet. ‘It’s… nice,’ I said carefully. Clearly Mr Flannery had no eye for design, yet he looked as proud of his lights as if he’d hand-crafted every single one himself.

‘Nice?’

‘Obviously, I have to be impartial,’ I said quickly. ‘I can’t show any favouritism.’

‘So, you do prefer mine.’ Triumph written on his face, he folded his arms across his bobbly jumper and leaned back for a panoramic view of his display. ‘When I win, I’m hoping to entice a lady away for the weekend.’

He was obviously dying to tell me who. ‘Any lady in particular?’

‘Ruby Dashwood,’ he said, a zealous light in his eyes. ‘She runs the flower stall, in the square. I’ve had my eye on her for quite a while.’

Poor Ruby. ‘Well, good luck,’ I said, leaving him to his contemplation and walking back the way I’d come, in time to see Sheelagh with her finger pressed on my doorbell.

‘Oh, there you are,’ she said, turning, and I was relieved to see her expression was friendlier than it had been at the school. ‘I’ve just finished,’ she said, glancing over at her house and back at me. ‘Could I have a quick word?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?’

‘No, no, here will be fine.’ As she moved away from the doorstep, my heart sank. I had a feeling that without Sheelagh’s endorsement, none of the neighbours would like me and I didn’t know how to get back into her good books. ‘Listen, about what Ollie said…’ I began, but she held up a hand.

‘The man hasn’t a clue what he’s talking about when it comes to Christmas lights.’ She seemed to inflate inside her mustard coat. ‘But I’d still… you know.’ She widened her eyes, meaningfully. ‘He’s still hot.’

I relaxed a little. ‘He’s very… hot,’ I agreed. ‘Are you sure you won’t come in?’ I was freezing now. Dusk was gathering and I wanted to get the fire going inside.

‘I heard you telling a story to the children,’ Sheelagh said, suddenly. ‘You were good.’

‘Thanks.’ I felt a flush of pleasure. ‘I really enjoyed it.’

‘Jill liked you.’ Well, that was something. And Sheelagh didn’t sound too surprised, so maybe she didn’t hate me after all. ‘I told her you were very interested in the post.’

‘Sheelagh!’ I shook my head. ‘Why would you say that?’

Her eyebrows rose a couple of centimetres. ‘Because you are.’

‘Look, I… have to get the dinner on,’ I said, even though there was enough leftover food to feed myself for a week, and I had no idea where Craig was, or when (if) Ollie was coming back.

‘Did you see anything while I was away?’ As the words burst out, her face crumpled like a collapsed tent.

I stiffened. ‘Such as?’ Please don’t say a woman in nightwear. ‘I saw Marmite,’ I said, before Sheelagh could reply. ‘He actually gave me my idea for the story I told the children—’

‘I know,’ she cut in. ‘It was pretty obvious it was based on him.’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s just, I think Barry might have —’

The sound of a horn cut her off and we were caught in a beam of headlights as Barry’s car swept into their drive, almost bashing Sheelagh’s Honda.

‘Listen, forget it.’ She flapped her hand as she backed away. ‘Make sure you let Ollie know that we worked very hard on our display and that he must keep an open mind,’ she said, extra loudly, so Barry could hear as he clambered out of his car.

I sensed him glaring at me, but thankfully couldn’t see him properly in the shadows. ‘Let’s get these lights switched on,’ he called, and Sheelagh sprinted home.

Within seconds, their house and garden were comet-bright, and as the competing houses lit up, as if by some secret signal, I had the feeling I’d moved to a distant planet, where the rules were different and I’d never fit in.

---

Deflated, I entered the cottage. After shrugging my coat off, I flicked on the light and went into the kitchen, where the sight of Marmite on the windowsill squeezed a scream from my lungs.

‘Are you trying to kill me?’ The cat must have slipped in when I’d opened the front door, and was now observing me calmly. ‘You have to stop doing this.’

He leapt down and, to my amazement, curled around my ankles, purring.

‘Cupboard love,’ I said, opening the fridge. ‘You just want me to feed you.’ But I was pleased all the same. I looked at the turbot I’d bought before Ollie and Craig arrived. It seemed wrong to cook it for the cat, but it didn’t take long and he sat patiently while it cooled a little. ‘See?’ I said, placing it on a plate in front of him. ‘You only had to ask nicely.’

His look said, You bore me deeply, but he ate the fish in delicate bites and I followed him into the living room, where he arched his back and started clawing the rug.

‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’

I switched on the tree lights and drew the curtains, and by the time I’d coaxed the fire into life, he’d curled up and gone to sleep.

I smiled, then wondered if it was weird to be happy that the cat appeared not to hate me any more. Maybe if I fed the neighbours some turbot, it would have the same effect.

I was in the kitchen making a risotto, using leftover fish and some peas, when Craig came in, his face pink with cold and snow melting in his hair.

‘It’s snowing again!’

‘Just started,’ he said, grinning when I punched the air. ‘You like the snow, then?’

‘Love it,’ I said. ‘If it settles, I’ll be out there building a snowman.’

He put down his camera. ‘It would be nice to see one that isn’t inflatable,’ he said. ‘Something smells good.’ He came over and peered into the pan, sniffing appreciatively. ‘I’m starving.’

‘It won’t be long,’ I said, wishing I hadn’t started a risotto that needed constant stirring. ‘You’ve time for a shower, if you want one.’

‘What are you trying to tell me?’ He sniffed his armpit, though all I could smell was fresh air and a hint of cinnamon.

‘It was just a suggestion.’

‘In that case, I’ll take you up on it.’ He smiled and a pleasant ripple went through me.

‘Have you been bothering the neighbours?’ I asked, as he hooked his jacket over the back of a chair.

‘I tried the Lamberts, but no one answered.’

I felt a jolt, remembering what Sheelagh had been about to ask me. What would I have told her if Barry hadn’t turned up? The truth? She wouldn’t have asked if she hadn’t wanted to know, but I didn’t want to be the one to confirm her worst suspicions. Maybe I should have a quiet word with Barry; tell him Sheelagh suspected something was up.

‘…lovely family at Number 9, but the parents have got their hands full with those twins,’ Craig was saying, as I tuned back in, and I realised he was talking about the Harassed Couple. ‘Bella would like to go back to work but can’t bear to leave them, even though Mark is happy to stay at home.’ He stopped. ‘You OK?’

‘I’m good.’ I resumed my stirring, deciding it wasn’t my place to tell anyone that Barry Lambert was cheating on his wife.

‘How did it go at the school?’

‘Great,’ I said, increasing my stirring to ward off any awkward questions. ‘They’re a nice bunch.’

There was a short silence, as if he was waiting for more, then he went upstairs, whistling snatches of ‘Mistletoe and Wine’.

We ate in front of the fire and I told him about my plans for Sabrina the cat and her magical adventures. He seemed genuinely interested and promised to put me in touch with a friend of his father’s, whose daughter illustrated children’s books.

‘She’s really good and especially likes drawing animals.’

Marmite, curled between us, opened his eyes and studied me coolly until I promised I would give him an acknowledgement, which earned a laugh from Craig.

We talked easily for a while, exchanging snippets from our childhoods and university stories, and discovered we had a mutual love of bluegrass music, hated horror films, and could eat a whole tub of cookie dough ice cream in one sitting. Eventually, we were yawning and it seemed natural to suggest turning in.

As I said good night – as comfortably as if we’d been doing it for years – and left him on the sofa, I realised two things: we hadn’t talked about Ollie, and I liked Craig being there.

When I opened the front door to let Marmite out, he gave me a knowing look.

‘Oh, shut up,’ I said.