It seemed the whole of Shipley had descended on Main Street, which was an eclectic jumble of shops, old and new, all prettily decorated for Christmas and buzzing with shoppers. Bob’s Bakery had a queue of customers snaking out of the door. I recognised a figure coming out, clutching a ‘special of the day’ – a gingerbread Santa. It was Biff, from the café the day before, with a woolly hat pulled low over his brow. He glanced around to check he hadn’t been spotted, before hurrying away, nibbling at Santa’s hat.

‘I didn’t think places like this actually existed,’ Ollie said, doing a slow spin with his hands outstretched, his head tilted theatrically to the sky. He looked as if he was about to twirl around a lamp post, like Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain, but instead of whipping an umbrella up, he checked his watch again.

‘Why do you keep looking at the time?’ I said, aware that we were attracting some curious stares. We must make an odd trio, with Ollie in his lilac jacket, gazing around as though he’d arrived in Oz, me limping along beside him in my parka, and Craig bringing up the rear, his camera perched on his shoulder like a parrot.

‘I’m just checking my watch is still there,’ he said, dodging to let a man with a shopping trolley manoeuvre past, while scanning the area as though looking for someone he knew. Apart from his obviously expensive attire, he had a refined air that set him apart from most of the passers-by, and as he paused to look at a grinning snowman sprayed on the chemist’s window, I noticed a middle-aged woman discreetly take a photo on her phone and show it to her companion. They kept glancing over their shoulders as they moved on, clearly trying to work out who he was but, for once, Ollie seemed oblivious.

‘Shame it’s not snowing for real,’ he said, dipping his eyes to his watch again. ‘I should organise a snow machine for when I switch on the lights. It would add a festive vibe. I could get somebody to helicopter one over.’

I felt a snap of irritation, probably due to my throbbing foot, and because I was cold, even in my scarf, with the hood of my parka pulled up over my hair. ‘How would that be authentic?’ I said. ‘People watch the weather forecast. They’d know it wasn’t real snow.’

He drew his head back. ‘You’re right,’ he said, eyes twinkling as he linked his arm through mine and gave it a little squeeze. ‘I just think snow in December is so…’ He snapped the fingers on his other hand, as though trying to summon the right word.

‘Unlikely?’ I said. ‘Winter doesn’t officially begin until the twenty-first so, statistically, it’s more likely to snow in January or February. It’s why we hardly ever have a white Christmas.’

‘Hey, have you thought of becoming a teacher?’ he said. ‘You’d be really good at it. You have a’ – he rubbed the air in front of my face – ‘vibe, about you. In a good way.’

He wasn’t joking. The ‘classroom’ part of Mum’s revelation about Max’s wife confronting me at school clearly hadn’t registered. ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ I said, pulling my arm away.

‘Not that you aren’t brilliant at what you do,’ he said quickly, as if picking something up from my expression.

‘And what is that?’

Confusion crossed his face. ‘You’re um… oh, heavens.’ His nose was red with cold but it didn’t diminish his good looks, whereas I probably resembled someone with a heavy cold. ‘I don’t think I actually asked, did I?’ He made a ‘what am I like?’ face. ‘We haven’t really had time though, to do all that “getting to know you stuff”, have we?’ He cupped his hands and blew on them, his breath puffing out in a mist. ‘Mind you,’ his tone dipped confidingly, ‘I think there are many ways to get to know someone. A kiss, for instance, can tell one a heck of a lot about a person, don’t you agree?’ His smile was disarmingly warm, but his eyes had shifted, and when I turned I saw he was looking at the clock above the post office.

‘Not really,’ I said, lurching forwards as a pair of teenage girls pushed past. ‘Only whether they’re any good at kissing.’

Why was I talking about kissing? We hadn’t even kissed; not really. I turned to check that Craig wasn’t filming our exchange, and saw an elderly man with a purplish complexion trying to attract his attention. ‘Do you want to know what I think of Brexit?’ he said.

Craig lifted one side of his headphones. ‘Not really,’ he said, turning the camera on the man. ‘Tell me what you like most about living in Shipley, and what Christmas means to you.’

His straggly eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, I’ve lived here all my life,’ he said, swiping some strands of white hair across his bald patch. ‘I s’pose I’ve got roots here, ’cos my parents and grandparents lived here, and my children and my children’s children grew up here, and probably their children will, too.’

‘But what do you like about it?’ Craig persisted, as though it wasn’t freezing cold and we weren’t all wishing we were somewhere warmer – like the bakery. In fact, the aroma of fresh baking was making my mouth water, and reminded me I needed to buy fresh bread for this afternoon. I had a feeling sandwiches were a pre-requisite of afternoon tea in Shipley. Egg and cress, probably. I’d need to buy eggs as well. Proper ones.

‘Well, I like the pace of life,’ the man began, ‘and the beach has been voted one of the best in the country. And I like that I know everyone who lives on my street and that we all look out for each other.’

‘All good reasons,’ said Craig, offering a smile of encouragement that crinkled his eyes and made him seem approachable. If he was cold it wasn’t obvious, despite his fingerless gloves. Perhaps his running gear really was insulated.

‘We like the quiz nights at our local pub,’ said a dumpy woman at the man’s side, threading her arm through his. Her hair had been dyed the colour of prunes and matched her coat and gloves. ‘We were married in the church where my mother got married and where I was christened and our great-granddaughter’s getting christened there next week and, for us, Christmas means family.’

‘Falling out with family,’ her husband said with a chesty laugh. ‘Only joking,’ he added, hastily.

‘OH MY GOD, IT’S OLLIE MATHESON FROM PLAYERS!’ The excited, high-pitched shout ripped through the air and everyone turned to stare. The source was a twenty-something female with a sheet of raven hair, wearing a black fur-trim Puffa jacket and towering heels. She grabbed her friend’s arm and they hurried over, undeterred by the uneven pavement. ‘I thought it was you!’ Her expertly made-up face was ablaze with devotion, her lashes so long and thick I was surprised she could open her eyes. ‘We adored you in Players,’ she said. Adored? That wasn’t a very Shipley thing to say. ‘The show’s so not the same without you.’

Ollie attempted a modest expression as she pouted her glistening pink lips. The French-manicured nails of one hand pressed against her high, round breasts, which looked ready to escape the tight top beneath her jacket. ‘We love him, don’t we, Jemima?’ She shared a look with her companion, who had a stylish brown fedora squashed on her ash-blonde hair, and was wearing a poncho-style coat with ripped jeans and chunky boots beneath.

‘So much.’ She rested a slender hand on Ollie’s sleeve and gave an orgasmic shudder. ‘I mean, I actually dream about you.’ She gave a girlish giggle, showing off shiny white veneers. ‘You don’t even want to know what we did in my dream.’

‘Oh, I think I can guess,’ Ollie smouldered back, before looking round at the curious faces and tipping his head back to laugh. ‘It’s hard work but someone’s got to do it,’ he said to no one in particular, placing an arm around each girl so Raven-hair could take a selfie on her diamanté-encrusted iPhone. She pulled a sprig of mistletoe out of her pocket and held it above their heads, and Ollie obliged by placing a kiss at the corner of her mouth.

‘So much for him not wanting to be recognised,’ Craig muttered, as the girls posed and pouted, pushing themselves against Ollie like cats on heat.

‘You getting this?’ Ollie turned to grin at Craig, but Craig had lowered the camera and moved aside to continue talking to the elderly couple.

By now, a crowd had gathered, and several women had recognised Ollie and were jostling for photos and autographs, while I stamped my feet and tried not to look fed up. Ollie was lapping it up, pushing his hair back and mock-protesting, then happily planting kisses on proffered cheeks, and even crouching to smile at a wise-looking toddler in a pushchair.

More shrieks erupted and a whole group of identikit females elbowed their way to Ollie and started fawning over him, snapping pictures and asking him to sign various body parts. It was a cleavage-fest of low-cut tops, despite the polar temperature, and Ollie seemed only too happy to oblige, cracking jokes about his signature being worth a fortune one day, so ‘You’d better not wash it off!’

I looked around for Craig, but couldn’t see him. He’d probably gone to get a coffee, if he had any sense, and for a second I wished he’d asked me to go with him.

On the point of making my way to the bakery, I spotted a youngish, thin-faced man with a goatee, pushing his way through the crowd, and a feeling of panic rose. Ollie’s level of fame and wealth hardly warranted a bodyguard, but there were several people who’d probably like to hurt him, especially after his conduct on Players.

Scoping the street for Craig, I finally spotted him outside a charity shop, filming a man dressed as Santa holding a collection box. He’d clearly lost interest in Ollie and was striking out on his own.

Furious now, I shoved my way to where Ollie was holding fort and tugged his sleeve. ‘It’s time to go,’ I said firmly.

He looked at me in surprise. His expression was glazed, as though he’d taken something, and I realised he was high on attention. ‘This is Lily, my lovely new… friend,’ he said to the weasel-faced man, drawing me close and resting his cheek on my hood. ‘Isn’t she adorable?’

‘What are you doing?’ I hissed.

‘Just telling this nice reporter from the…’ he looked at the man. ‘Who are you, again?’

‘Chris Weatherby, The Shipley Examiner,’ the man said, holding up the camera slung round his neck and snapping a series of pictures. ‘So, you’ll be turning on the Christmas tree lights on Friday?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Ollie. I tried to duck away, but his arm was like a vice. ‘Make sure you put it on your website so we have a good turnout.’

‘And will you be appearing in Players again in the future?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Ollie, to a chorus of disappointed boos from the crowd. He guffawed, clearly delighted. ‘Watch this space,’ he said, with an enigmatic twitch of his eyebrows.

‘Whereabouts are you staying?’ the reporter asked.

Don’t tell him.

‘With this lovely lady.’ Another squeeze. I felt trapped and badly wanted to kick him.

‘Can we please go, I’m freezing?’ I ground out.

Ollie blinked, as though he’d just woken up. ‘Of course, lovely Lily.’ Before I could look away he grazed my lips with his and the camera snapped again.

---

‘So, what was that all about?’ Craig said in the car, breaking the awkward silence that had descended on the short walk back. Ollie had decided he didn’t want a ‘chat with the baker’, while I bought some bread, or to ‘have a little go at shaping some loaves in the kitchen’, while Craig filmed him. After a cursory look at the Christmas tree in the square, and a charming tug of his forelock to the smiling flower-stall holder, he claimed he wasn’t keen on ‘freezing his balls off’ on the beach, or wandering around Corfe Castle. Even when I pointed out that there would be people there, dying to meet him.

‘It was about me connecting with the public,’ he said to Craig. ‘And I’m not keen on ruined castles,’ he added to me. ‘If it was tea with the Duke and Duchess at Alnwick Castle in Northumberland that would be a different matter. They shot bits of Harry Potter there, you know. Well, not shot him, but you know what I mean.’ He laughed, and Craig gave a despairing groan.

‘I thought this visit was all about you behaving like an ordinary person.’

‘I am, old boy.’ His voice took on a soothing note, as if keen to get Craig back on side. ‘I’d normally be at the villa in St Barts by now, but I’m here, aren’t I? Making an effort.’

‘I thought you were going to the Maldives?’ I said.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Same thing.’

As Craig released a long-suffering breath, something occurred to me. ‘Those girls who spotted you, they didn’t sound local,’ I said, swivelling round to face Ollie, who was sprawled in the back seat, his knees wide apart. His whole demeanour was different now that he’d had his fix of being recognised and adored. ‘You didn’t have them bussed in, by any chance?’

Craig gave a low whistle. ‘Please tell me you didn’t.’

Ollie made a face that said… you’ve got me.

‘Ollie, for Christ’s sake.’ Craig’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he swung the car up Maple Hill. ‘Who did you call?’

‘Ghostbusters!’ When no one laughed, Ollie stuck his bottom lip out. ‘I might have persuaded Flossie Bembridge to round up a few of her mates and send them here on a day trip and pretend to “spot” me,’ he said, in the manner of a boy confessing his naughty behaviour in the hope of getting off lightly. ‘She thought it was a hoot,’ he went on, when neither of us responded, and I wondered whether, like me, Craig was starting to wish that he and Ollie hadn’t come to Shipley.

I watched Ollie hoist his foot on his knee and polish his boot with the sleeve of his jacket, and longed to rewind to a couple of days ago when his name hadn’t entered my consciousness.

‘Who’s Flossie Bembridge?’ I managed. And do any of the women you know have names that don’t end in a vowel?

‘One of my exes,’ he said blithely, as if there were hundreds. ‘We’re on good terms,’ he added, as though that was the issue. ‘She owed me a favour and thought it would be a laugh.’

‘We’re not laughing,’ Craig said, parking behind my car. ‘We’re pissed off.’

‘Oh, you two.’ Ollie leaned forward, smiling. ‘You’re adorable.’

So, now it was Craig and me against Ollie. So much for me being his ‘gorgeous new girlfriend’. Not that I wanted to be. I was furious with myself now for even thinking about responding to his kiss.

I slammed out of the car and stormed inside, ignoring a cheery wave from Sheelagh, who was watching from her window, and vaguely aware that Barry was up a ladder, no doubt adding another layer of lights to his already overcrowded house front.

‘Let me make a brew,’ Ollie said, following me into the kitchen, watching with apparent interest as I threw off my coat and scarf and kicked my boots across the floor, wincing as my foot protested. ‘Why don’t you go and put your feet up?’

‘Because I’ve got The Christmas Lights Society coming round and I want to bake some more mince pies as you’ve eaten most of the ones I made.’

‘Only because they were delicious.’ With infuriating calm, he filled the kettle with water and flicked it on. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea.’

‘I don’t have a pot,’ I said, churlishly. ‘I suppose you’re used to drinking tea out of a tiny china cup.’

He wagged a playful finger. ‘I only take coffee in a tiny china cup. I prefer my tea from a flask.’

I didn’t want to smile, but felt my mouth twitch. ‘I don’t have a flask either.’

‘In that case, I’ll have to make do with one of your mugs.’

I gave in. ‘The teabags are in that cupboard.’ I looked round. ‘Where’s Craig?’ I said, realising he hadn’t followed us in.

‘Oh, he said he was going to do some external filming, get a few shots of the beach, that sort of thing.’

‘The sort of thing we were supposed to be doing just now?’

Ollie pulled a mournful face. ‘I’m not really outdoorsy, unless I’m on a horse,’ he said, releasing yet another mince pie from under its foil covering. ‘Not during winter anyway.’ He put the pie in his mouth, and made muffled noises of pleasure. ‘Not in this country, at least,’ he said when he’d swallowed. ‘I ski in Verbier, but that’s different.’

‘Cold is cold, wherever you are.’ I was easily able to picture him on a ski slope, or urging a stallion over a jump at the Badminton Horse Trials.

‘It’s different in nice surroundings, doing nice things.’

‘So, what we were doing out there… that wasn’t nice?’

He jerked his shoulders. ‘It was work, I suppose.’

I stared. Was I part of his job? A new cast member in Ollie Matheson’s ongoing reality show?

‘I really would like to get on,’ I said, as he poured water into our mugs from a great height while flourishing his other arm, like a magician. It was dawning on me that most things Ollie did were for effect. I wondered how he coped alone in a room without an audience.

‘I thought we could have a quick getting-to-know-each-other session.’ He passed my mug across the worktop, eyes turned up to full twinkle. ‘We could ask each other questions while you work.’

He assumed a serious expression, as though about to be interviewed on Newsnight about Syrian refugees, but before I could reply there was a burst of trumpets from his jacket pocket.

‘Hold that thought.’ He pulled out his phone, face tightening when he saw who was calling. ‘It’s Tattie,’ he said, already backing into the hall. ‘Sorry to be rude, Lily, but I’d better take it.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘What do you want, Tats?’ he said, as he took the stairs two at a time.

I strained my ears but only heard the bedroom door closing, followed by the creak of floorboards and the lancing tone of his voice. They were obviously having an argument.

Sighing, I turned my attention to the mince pies, and wished Mum was here to talk to. Or Erin. Or anybody from my old life. I thought of Max, but couldn’t locate any pangs of longing. I switched on the radio instead, and listened to Mariah Carey singing about what she wanted for Christmas, while I started making pastry.

As usual, baking took on a soothing rhythm. I soon had a stack of fresh mince pies and then rustled up a batch of scones.

As I cleared up, and checked I had enough plates and cups to go round, I wondered whether Ollie was still on the phone. I turned off the radio as Noddy Holder stretched his vocals to breaking point yelling, ‘It’s Christmaaaaaaaaaaaaas’, which suddenly made me think of Doris.

I cocked my head. Nothing. Maybe Ollie was deep in contemplation after his conversation. Hard to imagine, but possible.

I glanced through the window, wondering what Craig was up to. The car was there, so he couldn’t have gone far. Then again, the beach was only a short walk away, and he clearly wasn’t bothered about the cold. Maybe he was taking exterior shots of the houses on Maple Hill, where the daylight was fading and house lights were beginning to glitter.

I dried my hands and checked my phone. Mum had texted:

Guessing she meant ‘guests’ I replied:

she responded.

Smiling, I made some more tea and took out my notepad, a new idea for my novel popping into my head.

Leaning on the worktop, I wrote: Jennifer’s cupcakes were enormous…

Cupcakes sounded like a euphemism.

Jessica’s cupcakes were the envy of all her friends.

It still sounded like a euphemism.

You should open your own café,’ her friend Craig kept saying. He was the biggest fan of her baking and never stopped trying to encourage her to…

Craig? I scribbled it out and wrote Carl.

‘If you find a job you love, you’ll never work a day in your life,’ he was fond of saying. But Jessica already had a job she loved. She was a police officer and currently in the middle of a grisly murder investigation.

I read it through, then tore out the page, balled it up and aimed it at the bin. It missed, but I couldn’t be bothered to pick it up.

The cottage was far too quiet.

I tore upstairs and knocked on Ollie’s door. No answer.

Taking a breath, I turned the handle and peered inside, spotting his cowboy boots lined up beside his brogues and moccasins at the end of the bed.

I’d half expected to find him upset – or perhaps watching clips of Players on You Tube – but his phone was lying on the duvet beside him and he was flat on his back, fast asleep, snoring noisily.

‘Wow,’ I whispered. So that’s how Ollie Matheson coped with being on his own.

He slept through it.