Free Bound by Ivy by S. Quinn Page B

rich husbands.
    I look around the square. Perfectly groomed women in Vogue-magazine clothes walk purposefully along, swinging their gorgeous, shiny hair and designer handbags. Instinctively, my hand goes to my unruly waves and I twiddle and tug.
    ‘It’s okay,’ says Marc, slipping an arm around my shoulder. ‘Don’t be nervous.’
    ‘Do I look nervous?’
    ‘A little.’
    ‘I guess I just feel a bit out of place.’
    ‘You’re not out of place. You’re very much in place.’
    ‘I don’t know about that. It’s … the people around here are very stylish. Beautiful. Classy. And here I am in my jeans …’
    ‘Believe me. You have more class and beauty than any of these women.’
    We walk past a huge Christmas tree, hung with ceramic gingerbread men and twinkling lights. It’s beautiful, but it’s had its roots cut off and the sawn tree stump sits in icy water.
    ‘I a lways get sad when I see real trees without their roots,’ I tell Marc. ‘In our family, we buy the whole tree and replant it in the garden or the woods when Christmas is over. Well. Except Dad didn’t have time to get a tree this year. It’s a shame. I would have liked you to see the cottage all Christmassed up. It looks cosy.’
    ‘As long as you’re in the cottage, I couldn’t care less about the decorations.’
    Marc steers me off the main square, down a narrower side road buzzing with black cabs.
    ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
    ‘A friend of mine owns a shop here. A toy shop. I thought you could help me choose something for Sammy.’
    We come to a stop by a glossy window full of beautiful, handcrafted wooden toys. The window is set into a tall, red-brick building, and a gold coloured veranda hangs from the wall with the words ‘Peter’s Toys’ printed onto it.
    I stare at the window display. There’s something truly magical about the toys here. They’re all made of solid wood, and I can tell they’ve been crafted by someone who loves what they do. There are dolls houses, push trolleys, building blocks, a wooden tricycle … even a logging truck, complete with hand-painted logs on the back. I know Sam will love pushing that around.
    ‘T his shop is just perfect for Sammy,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to go inside.’
    ‘You like it?’ Marc asks, as I gaze through the window . ‘Peter makes most of the toys himself. It’s a real labour of love.’
    ‘ And I love it,’ I say.
    ‘Good. Let’s go inside .’

24
    The bell jangles overhead as we enter the shop, and inside there’s the most gorgeous smell of apple wood and sawdust. The floor is strewn with red wood peelings, and toys are arranged on carved wooden tiers and sliced tree-trunk shelves, complete with bark. It’s like walking inside a hollowed out tree.
    A tall, thin man with white hair and round gla sses comes striding towards us, pushing up the sleeves of his striped shirt. ‘Marc. How the devil are you?’
    ‘Peter,’ Marc replies, shaking the man’s hand. ‘Great to see you.’
    Marc keeps one arm around my shoulder, which causes Peter to look at me with interest.
    ‘Well I never. Marc Blackwell out in daylight hours with a young lady. You must be someone very special.’
    ‘This is Sophia Rose,’ says Ma rc, tightening his arm around my shoulder. ‘And yes – she is very special to me. Very special indeed.’
    ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ says Peter. ‘It’s about time you found a good woman.’
    ‘There’s no better woman than Sophia.’
    ‘ Good, good. Well, let me get you both a sherry. Celebrate the season.’ Peter goes to the back of the shop and returns with a bottle of Lustau sherry and three crystal tumblers.
    Placing the tumblers by the cash register, he pours generous measures in each and hands glasses to Marc and I.
    ‘Good stuff isn’t it?’ he declares, taking a swig of his own. ‘I’ve been looking for an excuse to open that bottle since November.’
    ‘Delighted to give you the opportunity,’ says Marc, taking a sharp