Ivy Lane: Winter: by Cathy Bramley Page B

distracted that I don’t think he’d even realized.
    ‘Come back inside,’ he said, beckoning us in with an impatient arm wave. ‘Hurry up!’
    ‘All right, all right, where’s the fire?’ tutted Roy, helping his wife up the steps chivalrously.
    Charlie was peering over my shoulder, his brow furrowed.
    ‘They’ve gone,’ I said, following his gaze. ‘I hope they get there without Gemma having too many more contractions. Or giving birth in the car.’ I gulped at the thought.
    ‘But we’re all waiting to do Secret Santa,’ he said.
    ‘For goodness’ sake, Charlie, you’re a grown man,’ said Christine, giving his arm a chastising tap. ‘Anyone would think you’d never had a Christmas present before.’
    Charlie grinned sheepishly. ‘I know. I’m a bit excited, that’s all. And anyway, it’s better to give than receive.’
    He winked at me as he held the door open for us all. I let Roy and Christine go in first and caught Charlie glancing around the car park again.
    ‘I hope you’re not expecting a visit from the real Santa,’ I said, cupping my hand to my mouth in a stage whisper, ‘because if so I’ve got some bad news.’
    He rolled his eyes and gave me a gentle nudge back inside.
    Just in time. The music had been lowered again and Peter’s eyes sought me out in the crowd.
    ‘After that dramatic interlude, I think we’ll do Secret Santa. Tilly, over to you.’
    Goodness, from delivering babies (well, almost – thank heavens her waters had broken when they did) to delivering presents, tonight was fast becoming one of the most eventful parties I’d ever been to, I thought as I took my place in front of a table heaped with gifts.
    ‘Hello, everyone. Well, firstly thank you all for the gifts for the children’s soup kitchen, they’re having their party tomorrow complete with a visit from Santa. And thank you for indulging me in the Ivy Lane Secret Santa. Now then . . .’ I stared at the pile of presents, unsure how to proceed. Should I just make it a free-for-all or should I hand each present out separately? And what if someone ended up without a present? Decisions, decisions.
    Shazza was standing next to me. I looked at her and pulled a help-me-out face. She beamed at me, picked up the parcel nearest to her and read the label. ‘Dougie,’ she called and threw the package in his direction.
    Within seconds parcels were flying all over the place and grown adults were ripping off paper and whooping with delight at their new gardening gloves or watering cans or kneelers or bird feeders (most of us had gone with allotment-themed gifts, it seemed) with unadulterated excitement.
    ‘Smell this,’ said Brenda, holding the back of her hand up to my nose.
    I sniffed obediently. ‘Lovely.’ Which was the truth, luckily.
    ‘Crabtree and Evelyn gardeners’ hand cream. What a treat! What have you had?’
    My hands were clasped behind my back and she tried to look over my shoulder.
    ‘Don’t know; I haven’t opened it yet. It’s still on the table.’ Which could possibly be the truth, although as far as I could tell, there was only one unopened present and I distinctly remember seeing Gemma’s name on that. I’d take it home for her and put it under my tree.
    I felt a bit conspicuous standing near the present table, present-less, so I went over to the makeshift bar and poured myself a glass of wine with a dash of lemonade and told myself I didn’t mind not having a present. Not one bit. I gulped at my drink.
    Graham was really chuffed with his little radio, so that was the main thing, and as Charlie had said, it was better to give than to receive. I sank down, resting my bottom on the edge of the table and sighed. All the same, I thought, taking another large restorative sip of alcohol, I couldn’t help but wonder why I hadn’t got a gift.
    Unless, of course, I’d forgotten to add my own name to the hat. That was bound to be it! No one would have pulled my name out of the hat