She served up a dish of gloopy oats which had been soaked overnight.
‘Come on, everyone.’
‘Actually,’ said Carmen, thinking of the tray of warmed croissants the coffee shop normally had ready about now. ‘I’m going to eat on the way. But it looks great. Bye, everyone.’
Sofia, tearful and exhausted as she was, was at least finally on maternity leave. It wasn’t technically due to start for another week – two weeks before the baby was due – but she’d got stuck in a lift and everyone agreed it was for the best, being unusually cautious even by lawyer standards. She had been furious about it, but eventually capitulated. Carmen had looked up, and said in a conciliatory tone, ‘Sofe, are you going to have the baby today?’
‘I’m going to admire my gingerbread house,’ Sofia had responded.
They all regarded it. It was rather cool now it had been entirely dismantled and done again properly.
‘But if you can’t eat it WHAT IS THE POINT?’ Jack still moaned.
‘Jack,’ said Carmen in a warning tone, and he piped down immediately. Sofia looked at Carmen suspiciously. What she didn’t know was that Carmen had been back to Poundworld and bought three advent calendars with chocolates in them and the children had been stashing them under their mattresses.
‘I am going to lie down and read magazines today,’ said Sofia from the depths of the big sofa.
‘Actually, I was thinking about this really great pregnancy yoga app we should try out together?’ said Skylar.
‘I think I am too tired for school and will stay on the sofa with Mummy to keep her company,’ said Phoebe.
‘No, you won’t, Phoebe,’ said Pippa straightaway. ‘Mummy won’t want you to do that.’
‘You want me on the sofa, don’t you, Mummy?’ started up Phoebe, and Carmen had happily escaped into the still chilly air, the snow still thick on the ground, shaking her dream of trains and tunnels from her head.
Back to the present, Mrs McGeoghan was a regular, and something of a pest, and she was now dealing with Carmen’s refusal to turn the bookshop into a lending library by standing at the side of the bookshelves and reading the entire book in full view of other customers. Carmen was doing her best not to acknowledge it, but couldn’t help keeping an eye on her. If she folded over a corner, she was going to go for her. Or licked her fingers when she turned over a page.
‘Then I’m going to do her,’ she whispered to Mr McCredie.
‘Now, now,’ said Mr McCredie. ‘She doesn’t mean any harm.’
‘She absolutely does mean loads of harm! If by harm you mean taking money away from you and food out of our mouths and ruining our books and cluttering up the shop!’
‘But look,’ said Mr McCredie, as the door tinged. ‘My dearest girl, you have brought so many people in. So many.’
Carmen was incredibly gratified by this statement when he stopped talking and gripped the bench he was leaning against. A tall group of people, fair-haired, had stepped in. They were well-dressed and expensive-looking, clearly European tourists, a combination Carmen had already learned that, while not quite as excellent a prospect as American tourists, nonetheless remained a very good opportunity, so she pushed forward the lovely tartan copy of A Scottish Festivities recipe and decorating book right under their noses: many people liked to recreate Hogmanay and black bun and ceilidhs and other Scottish treats at home for themselves once they had left their holiday behind, and this was the perfect book for them to do it with.
‘Hello,’ said the women at the front of the group. She was blonde and friendly-looking; prosperous and with the look of someone who was almost certainly the backbone of any local charity committee she sat on. ‘Excuse me?’ The voice was northern European – German? Dutch? She smiled, but also looked a little anxious. ‘We were looking for the McCredie family?’