I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day - Milly Johnson Page 0,9

bright orange jacket with the hood up. He tripped and slipped around to the boot to retrieve a large bag, then went round to the passenger side to open the door for an older, thinner gentleman wearing the same style ski jacket but white with colour splashes on it. They clung to each other as they battled their way through the snowflakes towards the inn door, blasting in gratefully, bringing the weather with them.

‘Thank God,’ exclaimed orange jacket, putting the bag down before shaking off the snow that had settled on him. He noticed Bridge then. ‘Hello,’ he said, politely, his eyes honing in on the brandy on the table in front of her. ‘Isn’t this weather awful. I bet that tastes extra nice sitting in here, looking out there.’

‘Are you the landlord?’ asked Bridge, ready to apologise for breaking in.

‘No, just weary stragglers,’ said the older man, dropping heavily onto a cushioned bench.

‘So you don’t work here then?’ asked orange jacket, flipping back his hood, unzipping his coat.

‘Nope. I’m a weary straggler too.’

‘Lucky you found it like we did, then. I dread to think what would have happened if we hadn’t.’

He approached the bar.

‘There’s no one around,’ said Bridge. ‘Seems the place is only open for pre-booked dinners. I helped myself to this, in case you’re wondering. I’ve started my own tab under the circumstances.’

‘What, the door was left open?’ asked orange jacket. His accent was unmistakably East London, his voice gentle and at odds with his big build and shaved head. Bridge had always been good at picking out where people hailed from.

‘I broke in,’ said Bridge. ‘It was either that or freeze to death in the car.’

‘Good grief,’ said the older man; by contrast his voice was refined and rich as a rum-soaked fruit cake. ‘You could have died if you hadn’t engaged in criminal activities. And so could we, no doubt. Dear lady, we are indebted to you.’

His response coaxed a smile from Bridge.

He unzipped his coat, then freed his arms from the sleeves. He had a lot of hair for an elderly gent, was Bridge’s initial thought: salt-and-pepper curls that fell softly past his shoulders, and his thin face suited the beard and moustache combo. He was wearing a dapper waistcoat and a Chanel scarf tied at his neck as a cravat. He looked not unlike the illegitimate child of Charles I and an aged Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen.

‘Looks like we will be here for quite a while, surviving on those packets of crisps until we are discovered at Easter, draped over the bar,’ said the younger of the two men, taking both jackets and hanging them up on the hooks at the side of the door.

‘Well, seeing as it appears we will be spending some hours in each other’s company, I shall make introductions; my name is Charlie,’ said the elder of the new arrivals. He made an extravagant hand gesture towards his companion. ‘And this is my husband, Robin.’

Husband, thought Bridge, glad she hadn’t had the chance to put her foot in it, because she’d presumed they were father and son.

‘I’m Bridge. Short for Bridget, but no one has ever called me that.’ No one she wanted to remember, amended an inner voice.

‘I’ll find a kettle and we’ll have a nice cup of tea, shall we?’ said Robin.

‘No, I want what she’s having,’ Charlie replied with definite protest.

‘Not a chance,’ Robin came back at him.

‘Purely for medicinal purposes,’ said Charlie, in a wheedling tone. ‘Oh go on, you miserable fart.’

‘A very very small one then,’ Robin relented with a tut.

‘I presume that’s your Porsche next to our car,’ said Charlie as Robin called out a few cautious hellos at the bar in case what Bridge was telling him wasn’t true.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Very nice, love the red colour. But I imagine it wasn’t great in the snow.’

‘Crap,’ replied Bridge, moving to sit across the table from Charlie, hoping it would be warmer away from the window. ‘I consider myself lucky that I made it this far before either crashing into a tree or being buried under a drift.’

‘So what are you doing up here then?’

‘I was meeting someone,’ said Bridge without giving details, before taking a large gulp of brandy. The mere thought of what she was here for had the tendency to drive her to drink.

‘Oh dear, I hope they found somewhere to take shelter,’ said Charlie.

‘I hope so too,’ said Bridge, but she wasn’t convinced that Luke would have. This was too important to