Finding Love at the Christmas Market Page 4

  I keep stepping backwards.

  ‘Where are you going?’ hisses Pearl.

  ‘Not staying here, that’s for sure,’ I say. ‘Norman’s right. He’s nothing like his picture.’

  ‘But he might be nice.’

  ‘But he’s … untrustworthy,’ I say. ‘He’s not who he said he was. All this way to have it happen again. The Heinrich I was messaging does not look like that. I’m being taken for an idiot – again! I’m not staying.’ The words catch in my throat. I back away and straight into something that sends me tumbling, arms flailing, losing my balance.

  Suddenly, there’s a right commotion along what was a silent road and alley, before my friends and I arrived.

  ‘Steady there, Connie!’ shouts one.

  ‘Watch out for the bin!’ shouts another.

  ‘I’ve got her! … Oh, no, I haven’t!’

  ‘Argh!’

  There’s a clatter as the bin I’ve fallen over hits the ground, with me quickly after it.

  ‘Do we need an ambulance?’ shouts Alice.

  ‘Who’s our first-aider?’ Ron yells.

  ‘I’m fine! I’m fine!’ I say, grovelling in scrunched-up paper bags, clearly from the bakery opposite, as I try to stand. Evidently the road sweepers haven’t made it up this alley yet. If only everyone would just move back, I might be able to get to my feet. So many arms and walking sticks are being held out to me that I haven’t the space to stand.

  Then a hand breaks through and holds itself out to me. A hand covered with white flour.

  ‘Are you okay?’ says a deep, gravelly voice, with a strong German accent.

  It’s him! My tongue twists in knots. Where do I start? Of all the audacity!

  ‘I’m fine,’ I jolt myself into replying. My embarrassment rises a couple more notches, if that were possible, making me sound much sharper than I’d intended. A space clears around me, the hand takes hold of mine and pulls me to my feet. All eyes are on me, and the man. I dust myself down, hoping to hide my embarrassment and work out exactly what to say to him, in his chef’s whites and his bandana, my catfishing date standing in front of me with amusement on his face.

  I swallow hard, and straighten. I’m roughly the same height as him. Pearl hands me my bag. I struggle for words but she decides to help me out.

  ‘This is Connie.’ She holds out a hand and grins. ‘From the UK. She’s come to see you.’

  ‘Pearl!’ I scold. I really don’t want to be here. He’s not who I thought he was and I don’t want to carry on with this pretence now. My dating disasters have just hit an all-time low – well, after the man who scammed my life savings from me. I’m never putting myself through this again.

  ‘Has she? From the UK?’ says the chef. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. ‘Well, I’m flattered. Are you sure you’re okay? That looked like quite a fall you took there.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I repeat. ‘I … just had a bit of a shock, that’s all!’ I say pointedly.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re okay now.’ He turns to walk back to his shop.

  ‘It’s just that you don’t look anything like your photograph,’ says Maeve, direct and to the point as always. I cringe, but if anyone is going to tell him what I think of him, it’s going to be me.

  ‘Oh, well, maybe it was an old photograph. I haven’t had my picture taken in a long time,’ he says, suddenly thoughtful. ‘Not since I came back …’ He tails off.

  ‘It’s not just an old photograph, it doesn’t look anything like you.’ I suddenly find my voice. ‘I’ve come all this way to meet you and well, phffff, frankly, I’m …’ What am I? Disappointed? Cross? Feeling foolish?

  ‘Look, I’m not sure what you were expecting.’ He frowns, as if I’m some sort of deranged stalker, infuriating me even more. We’ve talked. We agreed to meet here. At this time. Him holding a gingerbread heart.

  ‘Well, certainly not … not …’ I circle my hand in his direction. How do I say he’s a scruffy-haired, shorter, darker, far wider man than he told me he was? Nothing like my usual type. Nothing like a perfect match.

  ‘She’s just upset because the photograph you sent her wasn’t anything like you. But she’s here, for your date.’ Pearl gives me a nudge forward.

  He looks at me, fresh from the gutter where I’ve been rolling around with the rubbish. And I can’t help but feel I’m being sized up. The cheek of it! I didn’t send a totally false photograph. Well, okay, it might have been a few years old, but at least I still look like me. Clearly, though, he doesn’t think so.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His eyes narrow and he looks at the group of pensioners standing around me. There is silence, apart from the bell beginning to chime eight o’clock in the clock tower in the square. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not looking for a date and if I was …’

  ‘Huh!’ Norman takes a sharp intake of breath. ‘Ghosted!’ he announces. ‘Means they just ignore you and hope you’ll go away.’

  I want the ground to open up and swallow me there and then. I’m furious. My cheeks are on fire, raging red hot.

  ‘If I was looking for a date it certainly wouldn’t be …’

  I knew I shouldn’t have let Pearl persuade me into doing this again. Internet dating seems to work for everyone but me. I should have given up after the last time. I swore I would! I don’t think my perfect date is out there. He doesn’t exist. Like before … I try to blink away the tears in my eyes.

  Just then, as the bell in the clock tower chimes for the eighth time, a tall, blond man, carrying a small gingerbread heart, dips his head and steps out of the low bakery door opposite, bang on time. He looks up and down the street, then at me and … smiles.

  SIX

  ‘Heinrich!’ I recognize him straight away from his photograph. Tall, blond, neatly dressed, and holding one gingerbread heart. Tick, tick, tick! Exactly what I was expecting.

  I could kiss him, actually kiss him, there and then. The corners of my mouth twitch, then draw back into a wide smile to meet his.

  I turn back to Pearl and the shorter, dark-haired man, who glowers in Heinrich’s direction. I’m still smiling. I pull my hat straight and dust myself down.

  The bin men have arrived, sweeping the street and emptying bins behind me, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen cleaner streets. In fact, all of a sudden everything about this place seems perfect. I turn back to the man in front of me, who might have been about to tell me he wouldn’t fancy me if I was the last woman on earth. He raises a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, and straighten my hat again. ‘And, um, I’m sorry,’ I cough, ‘for the misunderstanding.’ I’m not sorry I indicated that I was as disappointed by his looks as he seems to have been by mine. ‘I have a date to go on,’ I say, lifting my chin.

  ‘With Heinrich?’ He nods towards the other man.

  ‘Yes, with Heinrich.’ I nod firmly back. Tall, smart, attractive Heinrich.

  ‘And you’re meeting here …?’ He shakes his head. ‘That makes sense.’ His smile drops. ‘Treating the place as if he owns it,’ he growls.

  What’s that supposed to mean? ‘Well, he does, doesn’t he? And you’d probably do well to remember that,’ I say, far more haughtily than I mean to, still embarrassed by having mistaken one of Heinrich’s employees for Heinrich. The man does that eyebrow-raising thing again.

  I want to challenge him but, actually, I don’t want to waste any more of my precious time here in the Old Town. I want to enjoy every bit of it. I turn back to look at Heinrich, whose smile slips when he sees me talking to this man.

  ‘Excuse me, I have to go,’ I say, taking a deep breath and turning to Heinrich, full of nerves all over again. I take a step towards him. His smile slowly returns and my nerves settle as I walk towards him.

  ‘Go on, Connie!’ I hear Norman say behind me, as I walk across the damp, shiny cobbles.

  ‘Have a good time!’ I hear Pearl call.

  ‘I will,’ I tell her, and turn back to
Heinrich.

  ‘Um … Connie?’

  It’s the deep, gravelly voice again. My nerves stand to attention, on high alert. I turn slowly back to the man in chef’s whites and the bandana.

  ‘Yes?’ This time it’s me who raises an eyebrow. I just want to speak to Heinrich, the man I’ve travelled all this way to meet. He’s making me think that all the internet dating’s been worth it, if he’s as lovely as he looks.

  The annoying chef points, his lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘You have … some …’ His forefinger circles.

  I’m irritated by this man delaying me now. I look back at Heinrich, whose smile slips again. I turn back to the man, wanting to get away quickly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some rubbish, caught.’ He steps forward and peels a greasy paper bag from last night’s street food, left behind by the street cleaners, from the back of my thigh and holds it up. ‘Sorted!’ He grins, infuriating me all the more. I blush with humiliation. If I never see this man again it will be far too soon.

  I turn back to Heinrich, take a huge breath and blow out slowly, determined not to let the chef ruin this for me, I straighten my hat for the third time and smile back at him. Little butterflies of hope do a happy dance in my stomach. I remember I have just four nights to decide if he’s the one. It certainly looks as if it’ll be worth staying to find out.

  SEVEN

  ‘Hi!’ says Heinrich. I gaze up at him, taking in all the details of his face, as if I’m reading the blurb on the back of a book, having liked the cover. Small, neat features. Neat blond hair that sometimes falls forward when he brushes it back. He’s wearing a black fleecy neck snood, an expensive ski jacket and warm gloves to match. I can’t really believe I’m standing here. I’ve dreamed of this moment for weeks, hoping it would be … well, just like this. He smells of a complex aftershave, not sweet, or too citrussy. Spicy almost. I can’t quite work out whether I like it or not. It tickles the inside of my nose. But I can tell it’s expensive and he’s not been shy with it. That’s a good sign. A sign of cleanliness, and … generosity. I make a mental note to put it on my pros list and tick both boxes.

  ‘Hi!’ I say nervously, no idea whether I should kiss him or not and, if so, once or on both cheeks. Or just shake hands?

  He bends towards me. I slowly go on tiptoe and as he hands me the gingerbread heart he’s holding, I go to kiss his cheek as he embraces me in a strong hug so I end up with a broken heart and kiss his chin.

  ‘Sorry!’

  ‘Sorry!’

  We both laugh nervously, glancing at the cobbles, then at each other again.

  ‘Nerves,’ we say together, and laugh again. I hear a ripple of agreement and remember my little audience. I glance over to the group huddled together, like a family photo, with Maeve at the front in her wheelchair. And there beside the group, as if he’s part of it, is the man in the chef’s whites, his arms folded, taking as much interest as the rest of my party. I bristle at them all. I make eye gestures to Pearl for them to go away, but she doesn’t move, just stands there smiling. She probably can’t see my subtle messages because she’s too vain to wear her glasses. I try a nod, to get them to leave, but no one is moving. Not even the chef in whites, who seems to be as entertained as if he’s watching a Christmas movie. My dating life is not a spectator sport, I want to tell them. I’m suddenly paralysed with embarrassment, like I’m a young woman again. I’d forgotten that part of being young. I remember the carefree joy, but I’d forgotten the lack of confidence.

  He clears his throat and I lift my head, remembering I’m not that sixteen-year-old girl any more. I’m forty-one and have life’s scars to prove it.

  ‘I see you know William.’ He nods to the group of pensioners.

  ‘Who?’ I’m suddenly confused. The little bubble we were standing in just seconds ago has burst, and it’s cold without it. I shiver.

  ‘William. He owns this place.’ He nods towards the shop, still lit with an orange glow from under the awning, which is festooned with tiny white lights and hanging gingerbread hearts.

  ‘He …’ I look back at the chef, his arms folded across his chest, alongside the beaming pensioners, like they’re at the finals of Strictly Come Dancing, willing their favourite to win.

  ‘Oh, no.’ I shake my head. ‘We just met when I was waiting for you.’

  ‘Waiting for me? But we said eight on the dot, didn’t we?’ He looks concerned and checks his expensive blue-faced watch.

  ‘Yes, yes, we did. I just got here early.’

  ‘Early?’ He seems surprised, then smiles. ‘That’s good.’ And for a moment I wonder if he’s making a mental list in his head, too.

  ‘So … you don’t own this place?’ I ask, realizing my mistake and feeling a little disappointed.

  ‘No, my shop is in the New Town. It’s on the outskirts of the Old Town here. Although we are officially part of this town, it grew and began to spread outside the city walls, over the bridge. We have much more space there.’ He glances around at the narrow streets and high half-timbered buildings. ‘We are really separate towns altogether. There has been a feud for many years. We believe the New Town is the real hub of the community, and here, they try to maintain that they are the heart of it. We know it isn’t true. Progress makes things better. We have a much better functioning town … and market for that matter.’

  I look back at the small bakery and the sign above the door. I’m not sure anything could be more perfect than this. ‘I can’t wait to see it,’ I say. ‘If it’s half as good as this …’

  ‘It’s much better. More efficient. Besides, he asks way too much for his gingerbread. No wonder he and the rest of the Old Town are going out of business.’ I’m a little taken aback by his bluntness. Or am I? Maybe his honesty and truthfulness are exactly what I’ve been looking for. Refreshingly honest. Wasn’t trustworthiness one of the most important qualities on my list? Aren’t they the same things? Honesty and truthfulness? I make a mental note to mark it on my pros list, double-tick those boxes, and smile.

  ‘Still, it looks like he has found some customers. Tourists are always suckers for this kind of sentimentality.’ Again, I’m taken aback. ‘They come for the look of this place, but the locals want what we have to offer.’

  I look at Pearl and the gang, and Pearl waves.

  ‘You know them?’ he asks.

  ‘Um, well, sort of … Yes.’ I don’t want to tell him they’re with me. That I’ve come on my date with a group of pensioners, one of whom thinks she’s Cilla Black reincarnated while the others are acting as my personal bodyguards.

  ‘Just some people I – met while I was waiting. Not that I was waiting long. Just …’ Phffff. I link my arm through his, desperate to move us on. ‘Let’s go somewhere for coffee, shall we?’ I say decisively, determined to make every moment count.

  ‘Sure. We’ll head back to my hometown on the other side of the bridge. I’ve finished here.’

  ‘Finished?’ I stop and look at him.

  ‘I had a meeting with William. I needed to speak with him. Not that he was in the mood for listening. It seemed a good place to meet. It was good for you?’

  ‘Lovely.’ I think of my box for meeting-place choices. It was perfect. Still is perfect, I think, even if it was more out of convenience for him.

  ‘We have plenty of places to eat and drink in our town. Not like here. I cannot wait to show you our market. It’s going to be our best yet.’ He throws a look at William, then directs me down the lane.

  ‘You can’t even bring cars into this town.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s so infuriating. Follow me. I’ll take you to mine.’ He leads me to his car at the end of the lane, under what I think is a fairly universal sign for no parking, and opens the door for me. Tick. I know it shouldn’t matter, but it makes me smile that he’s thoughtful.

  ‘Oh, wait! You have something on your shoe.’ He grabs my foot, pulls off a piece of paper.

  I climb into t
he car, leaving a dusting of sugar on the carpet. I blush. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It happens at Christmas market time. There is food and drink everywhere. It’s a big job for the towns to keep the streets clean. Really, it’s not a problem.’ But I can see he’s not keen on getting it in his car.

  He dusts off his hands, then gets into the driver’s seat and I give a brief look back at the group standing by the bakery. They’re waving me off cheerfully, and beside them an amused-looking chef is returning to hang more gingerbread hearts on hooks outside the pretty little bakery.

  We drive towards the bridge and to the town on the other side. All the way across it, we’re snatching glances at each other, like a game of Grandmother’s Footsteps, trying not to be caught out and smiling each time we are.

  EIGHT

  The market is in full swing already. In fact, it may still be going from last night. There is a big square, with big-name shops and well-known food chains, modern flats and offices all around it.

  ‘This is my town,’ says Heinrich, parking his car in front of a large, modern, glass-fronted shop on the main square. ‘And this is my business, mine and my family’s.’ He points to the shop, and what looks to be a big industrial kitchen behind.

  He smiles. His teeth are very white. And he’s here, he’s real and looks just like his picture. And he really does have his own bakery business. It’s not the pretty Dickensian-style place we’ve come from but that is definitely his family name above the door. It’s all true. I feel like I’m over the first and biggest hurdle. He’s here and he’s real and he’s very attractive. I smile back, allowing myself to relax just a little. So far, things are looking good, really good.