I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day - Milly Johnson Page 0,103

on with the job without trying to drag her into conversation. Mary would talk to her if she wanted, but it looked as though she needed some thinking time. She had some not-so-small changes to plan for.

They delivered lunch to the others who were listening to Radio Brian, who was thrilling his audience with some advice on what to do with unwanted Christmas presents.

‘I know some people around here who donate them to local charities as they’re always looking for things to raffle. My friend Malcolm saves them in his shed and gives them to other people for presents the following Christmas. He has a notebook to record who gave him what so he doesn’t end up passing the same present back.’

‘I could have guessed his friend Malcolm would be like that, I really could,’ said Bridge.

Radio Brian continued. ‘Now me, I couldn’t do that. I take mine to the Maud Haworth Home for Cats, but I can tell you that if I get stuff like jellied fruits, they go straight in the bin because no one wants to win those on a tombola, do they?’ And he chuckled at the very idea.

Mary didn’t move a muscle but out of the corner of her eye she saw Jack shift uncomfortably in his armchair.

‘So, lots of practical ideas there for your unwanted gifts,’ said Radio Brian.

‘Thank you, Brian,’ said Luke, munching on a cheese and pickle breadcake.

‘Present-buying is very simple, I’ve never understood why it’s such an ordeal for some people,’ said Charlie, shaking his head impatiently. ‘A gift carries a message and that message should always be one that shows appreciation, whether it’s for a service or love or friendship. If you don’t care enough to put some thought into it, you shouldn’t bother at all.’

Jack hadn’t blushed since he was five, but he found his cheeks heating up faster than halogen rings on a hob.

‘Bridge used to buy the best presents,’ said Luke. ‘Every year she used to give me a stocking full of things from pound shops, joke shops and car boot sales.’

‘In other words, crap,’ said Bridge, though she’d underplayed it because she’d taken a lot of time to select things that would make him laugh, hoot, smile. Things that were great to open but had no use: a fart in a bottle, a jelly spider that crawled down the wall, a stress ball that you could draw the face of your worst enemy onto.

‘I liked them,’ he replied.

‘Anyone for some mulled cider? We still have plenty left,’ Jack asked, eager to move the conversation away from unsuitable gifts.

‘Oh yes,’ said Charlie, ‘and bring some mince pies, Jack. I haven’t quite filled up on them yet.’

‘Righty-ho, Captain Charlie,’ said Jack, heading towards the kitchen.

Mary watched him walk away and a dull ache filled her heart. It would be hard not working for him any more. The prospect of change scared her slightly because it would be a big change, big changes plural, actually. She’d have to move house as well as start a new job and she wouldn’t be ten minutes’ drive away from her mum any more. But Charlie’s life hack: Ships are safe in harbours but that’s not why ships are built had struck a chord with her as well as Jack.

She suspected ‘working Bridge’ would be a little more serious than ‘stranded in an inn Bridge’ but that was fine. Mary had faith in her abilities as a competent and reliable PA and she was ready to impress a new boss, one that didn’t give her any romantic complications. But she’d really miss the world of scones. Okay, so her office desk was from last-century MFI and her window looked out onto the bin store. And the catering facilities were sadly lacking, i.e. a hatch in a wall from where drinks, prepacked sandwiches and buttered scones were dispensed by a grumpy old woman called Edna, who had been there so long that many believed the place had been built around her. But the people who worked there were fun and friendly, apart from shitty Kimberley and the slimy head of product development, who liked to take credit for ideas that weren’t his. Banter flowed in the packing area, it batted between the workers, many of whom had worked together for decades because there was something that kept people at Butterly’s. It was like a home to their hearts, as it was to hers.

While Bridge was in the shower that morning, she’d written a letter