Chapter Sixteen
"I can't believe you fell for that!" Jack's voice was laden with amusement.
"Neither can I," Kit said grimly. "What an idiot. The worst thing is, I knew something wasn't right. You know when you can just feel it? I'll bloody throttle Marley."
"I wonder why she did it?"
"To make me look a fool, why else?" He felt suddenly dispirited. She must have really hated him, to plan such an elaborate ruse with the sole intention of showing him up. "Well, that backfired, didn't it? I walked out, and she had to rope in her brother-in-law to take my place. Bet he was furious."
The sound of Jack laughing was like a balm to Kit's wounded soul. He could take any amount of embarrassment from Marley to hear his brother's laughter. It lifted his spirits, and to his surprise, he started laughing, too.
"Sneaky little thing, isn't she?" Jack said, eventually. "I always knew she had spirit, but this .... You are behaving yourself, aren't you? I mean, why would she want to show you up? What have you done to wind her up?"
"I haven't done anything." Kit bit his lip. Well, apart from moan about the Christmas music, refuse to pay for the staff Christmas meal out, and stop production of the LuvRocks merchandise, in spite of the factory workers' protests.
God, they must all hate him. Were they all in on it? Did they all know about the Santa fiasco? Were they sitting in a pub somewhere, right at that moment, laughing at him?
"Are you sure? Seems a bit over the top." Jack sounded suspicious.
An alarm bell rang in Kit's head. "Of course I'm sure," he said, sounding far more light-hearted than he felt. "That's Marley for you, isn't it?"
"Is it? Not the Marley I know. She may be a bit, well, forthright, but she's professional, and a good secretary."
"PA," Kit reminded him, and they both laughed again. "Thing is," Kit said, desperate to allay his brother's doubts, "Marley and I knew each other before. We were at primary school together."
"Ah." Jack sounded as if everything suddenly made sense. "Evidently, you made quite an impression on her."
"Evidently." At least Jack seemed reassured. The last thing he needed was to be worrying about the factory. "How are things?" Kit knew he should have asked earlier, but he was ashamed to admit that he dreaded these phone calls. He loved hearing from his brother, but it was never an easy conversation.
"It's going well. As well as can be expected, anyway. We're having lots of time together as a family, which I never expected." There was a brief silence, then Jack gave a short laugh. "It's a lot warmer here than it is there, I reckon. I mean, it's not hot, but it doesn't feel like December. Feels really odd. Not like Christmas, at all."
Kit caught the wistful tone in his voice. "Lucky you," he said, in an attempt to cheer Jack up, then cursed himself. Of all the crass comments to make. "Things getting back to normal over there? After the hurricane, I mean."
"They're very resilient, that's for sure. What's it like over there?"
"How do you think? Freezing cold, windy, grey. Frosty mornings most days, too." He rolled his eyes. Were they really discussing the weather?
"Next year," Jack said firmly. "It will be a proper English Christmas for us."
Kit's eyes filled with tears again. "You bet," he promised. "We'll pull out all the stops. Biggest Christmas tree in the forest, fattest turkey in the shop, every toy on the shelves for Tim ..." His voice trailed off. He didn't even know where he'd be living next Christmas. How could he make plans? How could any of them?
"Have you been in touch with Serafina, yet?"
"Yeah. She's in London at the moment, but she'll be back before Christmas, and she's going to come round and start the ball rolling."
"I'm so sorry, Kit."
"Don't be sorry. We agreed. Hey, it's worth it, so no worries, okay?"
"You're a good bloke. I don't care what Dad said about you."
Kit laughed. "Hmm. Let's not even go there, shall we? Dad wasn't exactly my biggest fan."
"Dad wasn't exactly anyone's biggest fan," Jack pointed out truthfully. "Miserable old sod."
Over the telephone, Kit heard a door shut and a woman's voice calling for his brother. "That Amanda?"
"Yeah, she's just got back. I'll have to go, Kit. I'll call you in a couple of days, okay?"
"Sure. Give my love to Amanda and Tim. Tell them—well, you know."
"I know. Speak soon, bro, and hey—" He chuckled. "Don't let Marley pull any more stunts, okay? Be firm with her."
"I will," Kit promised, thinking, be firm with her?
God, the thought of being firm with Marley put ideas in his head that had no business being there. She was still doing things to him, just as she had all those years ago. He really would have to be careful.
***
I plumped up the cushion and placed it behind Great Uncle Charles's back. "Is that any better?" I handed him his glass of whisky, pulling a face as its pungent aroma attacked my nostrils. "Don't know how you can drink that stuff," I said. "You'd be better off with cough medicine."
"Rubbish." He took a large gulp of whisky and smacked his thin lips together, the sunken result revealing that he wasn't wearing his teeth, yet again. "Who wants cough medicine, when a tot of the good stuff will put hairs on your chest?"
"It's not hairs you need," I said, trying not to be repulsed at the thought of Great Uncle Charles's naked chest. "It's vapour rub, I reckon. That cough's got worse, not better. Do you want me to call the doctor?"
He waved a hand at me dismissively. "That's the trouble with youngsters today—no backbone. Call a doctor for a bit of a cough? I'll tell you what's to blame for this namby-pamby attitude, shall I?"
"I'm sure you're going to, whether I want you to, or not," I said with a sigh. I sank onto the sofa opposite him and waited for him to impart his pearls of wisdom.
"The NHS. That's what. Back in the good old days, people had to pay to see a doctor, so we were tougher. We didn't go running to the surgery every time we sneezed. Not like today. Nowadays, people are so soft, you can't get an appointment, even if your leg's hanging off. Too many timewasters. All been handed to them on a plate, you see? If they had to cough up for treatment, they'd soon toughen up, I'll tell you."
"Talking of coughing up," I said, determined not to rise to the bait, "I'll bring you some medicine tomorrow, whatever you say, and some vapour rub for your chest. If you're not better in a couple of days, I'm ringing the doctor, and that's that."
"Oh, stop mithering, girl, and tell me how our little plan went." He leaned back against the cushion and took another sip of whisky, watching me thoughtfully. "Judging by that expression, it didn't go as it should. Right?"
I flushed. "He made me look an absolute idiot," I admitted. "All that effort and conniving, and he cleared off. Left me to it. I had to ask David to step in. He was furious, and now I owe him a favour, which, no doubt, he will call in. I can see me babysitting for weeks ahead." I shook my head. "How could Christopher do that? I mean, we were just sitting there, watching the Nativity, then he jumped up, announced he had better things to do with his time, and walked out."
"That doesn't surprise me," Great Uncle Charles said. "He's a Carroll. They're all the same. Selfish, miserable, self-centred swines, the lot of them."
I was tempted to tell him that was just the description my family reserved for him. Instead, I nodded. "Well, I don't know about that, but I saw him in a new light, I can tell you."
He looked quite pleased about that. "So, didn't you talk about anything? No memories evoked for him? No nostalgia trip to make him see the error of his ways?"
I tilted my head to one side, thinking. "He did talk a bit," I said eventually. "He admitted he'd deliberately downplayed our relationship the whole time. Can you believe that? Out of— I don't know—pride, or something."
"Bit like you were, then?"
I scowled. "And he told me that he'd been going to ask me out all the way back in primary school. Imagine that! I had no idea he even knew I existed back then."
"So, why didn't he ask you out, then?" Great Uncle Charles sounded highly sceptical.
My face burned. I could hardly tell him that he'd overheard me talking to my friend and assumed that I was a mercenary little brat, only after his family's money. I could well imagine Uncle Charles's response to that. Instead, I shrugged and said, "Nerves, or something."
He tutted. "Well, this is fascinating stuff, I must say. So, basically, you went to all that trouble to remind him of how happy he used to be, and all you did was remind him that he was a coward who daren't even ask an eleven-year-old out. Marvellous work there, Marley. That should do the trick. His Christmas spirit will come flying back now, I'm sure."
"I haven't finished yet," I protested. "That was just the start."
"Cracking start," he said, nodding sagely. "You must be very proud."
I tapped my fingers on the chair arm. "Why are you so horrible?"
"It's a gift," he said. "So, what's next on the agenda?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I have to make him see how much fun Christmas can be—what he's missing out on by being an old Scrooge. I just don't know how."
"So, time for Christmas Present, eh? Well …" He drained his whisky glass and held it out to me. "I'll drink to that."
"You're an awful person," I told him, taking the glass from him and heading into the kitchen.
"I aim to please," he called.
I unscrewed the top from the bottle of whisky and poured him another small measure. What was I going to do next? Bring the Christmas spirit to Kit Carroll, somehow, for all our sakes.
But how?
***
I could sense that Christopher was waiting for me to start an argument. I'd arrived at the office that morning, to find him already at work. He'd fixed me with a defiant stare, tilting his chin at me, those dark eyes flashing warning signals. Bloody hell, I'd only asked him if he wanted a coffee.
Guilt, I thought, spooning Nescafé into two mugs. He was feeling guilty, and well he should. All that money I'd forked out to hire a Santa suit, all the trouble Don and I had gone to, missing lunch to scour the shops in search of the last Father Christmas costume in Yorkshire, and offer Christopher's services—not to mention a stack of free sweets—to the primary school, just to have David plodding around muttering ho, ho, ho, and looking like a total plonker. Fat lot of good all the plotting had done me. Now what?
"Thanks." He took the mug from me and placed it on the coaster on his desk. He looked at the monitor, and I turned to go, thinking I'd been dismissed. "Did it—did it go okay? After I left, I mean?"
I turned back, giving him a look of contempt. "Do you care?"
He looked stricken. "Of course I care. I didn't want to let the kids down! I just—"
"You just couldn't be bothered to sit through an hour, or two, of them warbling Christmas carols and telling the story of the birth of Baby Jesus. Yeah, I get that. You made it pretty clear."
He rubbed his forehead. "It wasn't like that."
"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "So, what was it like?"
He opened his mouth, as if about to say something, but shut it again. With a shrug of his shoulders, he turned back to the computer.
I felt my hackles rising. "If you must know, it went okay. David did his best, although he felt like a right idiot, and, of course, Sam and Max recognised him straight away. Still, the kids had fun, yanking at his beard, and they all appreciated the sweets."
"Good. That's good. I'll catch up with David later. Thank him and apologise, all at the same time."
"Probably best. He wasn't very happy about being dropped in it like that."
"I know how he feels," Christopher said, staring at me with a challenge in his eyes.
I shuffled a bit. "Yes, well, blame Jack for that. Not my fault he didn't keep you informed."
"Bit difficult for him to keep me informed, considering he knew nothing about it, don't you think?"
My face scorched. Crap!
Obviously, I'd known Christopher would find out the truth eventually, but I hadn't expected it to be so soon. What was Jack bothering to ring home for, anyway? If I was sightseeing in New York near Christmas, home would be the last place I'd be thinking about.
"Why, Marley?" He was watching me, a baffled look on his face.
"Why, what?"
"Why make all that up? Why set me up to look an idiot? Do you really hate me that much?"
"I don't hate you!" God, that had come out a bit fast. I hadn't even meant to say it. And, anyway, it wasn't even true. I did hate him. I had good reason to hate him. Why was he looking at me with those bloody gorgeous eyes, anyway? Swine.
"Don't you?" He sounded surprised. Not as surprised as I was. "I thought, maybe, you were doing it to teach me a lesson. You know, for the decisions I've made about the factory."
"Do you really think I'm that petty?" I demanded.
"Well, I know you disagree with the way I'm running this place."
"I do. I've never made any secret of the fact. Even so, I wouldn't go to all those lengths just to make you feel small. God, you have a low opinion of me."
"As low as the one you have of me?" We looked at each other for a moment, neither saying a word. Then Christopher sighed. "Look, I know you don't approve of some of my actions, but you have to believe me when I say I'm acting in the best interests of the company. Do you believe that?"
"I believe you think you are," was as far as I was prepared to go.
He shook his head. "Okay, let's go with that."
I turned to leave, but his voice saying my name forced me to turn to him once again. "Yes?"
"I won't be in tomorrow. I have meetings all day. If you need me, I'll have my mobile on."
I nodded. "Fine."
He hesitated, then burst out, "Would you—I mean, do you want to have dinner with me tonight?"
I nearly keeled over. "Pardon?"
"Dinner. I presume you do still eat?" He gave me a sardonic smile, and I nodded, feeling completely out of my depth suddenly. "Great. I want to talk to you, and I don't think here is the best place to do that. How about I pick you up around half-past seven?"
"Are you serious?"
"Of course. I wouldn't say so, otherwise, would I?"
I supposed he wouldn't. But dinner with Christopher? Why? And should I risk it? Given the way he made my heart tap dance faster than Ginger Rogers ever managed, every time I saw him, I wasn't sure spending time with him outside work was something I should even contemplate.
And why had he asked me, anyway? He'd said he remembered the true depths of our relationship. How much did he remember? Did he remember the way he'd treated me? What he'd done? He had no idea.
"If you don't want to come, don't. It's up to you." That was more like it. He sounded irritable while shuffling papers on his desk.
I took a deep breath. "Yeah, okay. It's a free meal. I live—"
"Above the hairdressers on Main Street. I know. I'll be there at half seven."
He began typing, and I knew I was dismissed. It was only as I sank, rather nonplussed, into my own chair and stared at the monitor that it dawned on me what he'd said.
How the hell did he know where I lived?