Meet Me Under the Mistletoe by Abby Clements Page A

back where he’d found it. ‘Leave that. I’ll fix us something to eat.’ Zak wandered out.
    She opened the fridge, then the bread bin – both empty. Rachel knew Laurie wasn’t big on cooking – but the cupboards, freezer – there was nothing in any of them. On the side there was just a half-empty bottle of Diet Pepsi and some wine. She looked through the metal tins on the counter and thought of the pie she’d made for Laurie’s arrival at the cottage – then opened the last tin, marked ‘Tea’. Nope, no teabags.
    ‘Kids,’ Rachel said, popping her head around Milly’s door. Zak was perched on Milly’s bed, his head buried in a copy of one of his Horrible Histories books, and Milly was lying on her front, legs in the air, looking at her phone, her belongings turfed out of her rucksack into a heap on the floor.
    ‘I’m going out to get some dinner. Do you want to come too?’
    Milly shook her head no, and Zak copied her.
    ‘OK. I’ll see you in twenty minutes. Milly, keep an eye on Zak. And please try not to trash the place.’
    Rachel stepped out into the street, wrapping her thick red scarf around her neck. A group of teenage boys with their hoods up were crowded around BMXs at the corner, talking in lowered voices, music pumping out of a stereo.
    ‘Hello,’ she called out cheerily, smiling and waving over as she passed them. The young men looked back at her blankly and said nothing. Siren wails filled the air, drifting from the direction of the high street. She tried once again. ‘Hi!’ she called, and one of the smaller boys finally gave her a little wave back, his friends sniggering and digging him in the ribs.
    This felt, well, a bit different from Skipley. Rachel pulled her duffel coat more tightly around her. She got out her phone and flicked to Laurie’s number.
    Laurie picked up almost instantly. ‘Rach,’ she said.
    ‘Hello,’ Rachel greeted her. ‘How are you? Did you get to the cottage OK?’
    ‘I’m on my way now,’ Laurie said, ‘but the train seems to have dropped me in the middle of nowhere.’
    Rachel laughed. ‘Yep, sounds like Skipley. The train station’s on the outskirts. Don’t worry, the village is a little livelier.’
    ‘Oh, good.’ Laurie sounded relieved. ‘And you, are you in the flat? Did you guys get hold of the keys OK?’
    ‘Yes, we’re here, everything’s fine. I’ve just popped out to do some shopping. How come you never mentioned what a total dish your neighbour is?’
    ‘Who, Jay?’ Laurie said.
    ‘Yes. Wow. Gorgeous.’
    ‘I guess,’ Laurie said, nonchalantly. ‘I don’t know, I can’t see it myself.’
    As Rachel reached the high street, commuters flooded out of the station, engulfing her in a greypinstriped tide.
    ‘Listen, I’d better go,’ she said, raising her voice to be heard over the noise, ‘but let me know when you get there, and if you need anything at all, just give me a shout.’
    ‘Sure, Rach. Bye!’
    Rachel put her phone away and carried on walking. Sharp-suited men and glamorous, high-heeled women pushed past in the opposite direction, knocking into her with their briefcases and handbags. The first turning she reached was Electric Avenue; reggae and hiphop competed from sound systems on each side of the street, and traders called out to market their wares. The market was full of movement – locals jostled, picking out brightly coloured ingredients and haggling with the stallholders. Up and down the street, slabs were heavy with fresh meat and seafood, fruit and vegetables in every colour, pots and pans, pirated CDs and DVDs.
    Rachel stepped towards the nearest fruit and vegetable stall and gawped at the fruits. Giant mangos, starfruit, ugli fruit … bananas hung in fat bunches above oranges and grapefruits that looked so juicy they might burst. She reached a hand out towards a pile of large dark avocados.
    ‘No squeezing!’ the middle-aged woman running the stall shouted out, making Rachel jump. ‘Ha, I