Free Ivy Lane: Winter: by Cathy Bramley Page B

much neater way of doing it.’
    ‘Thanks, Vicky. I’m glad you think so. And the soup kitchen will be delighted with all the gifts for their Christmas party tomorrow too.’
    The Secret Santa idea had gone down really well. I’d put everyone’s names into a hat and we’d all pulled one out and bought our recipient a present costing no more than ten pounds. I’d had to buy a present for Graham, Helen’s husband, and had found a little solar-powered radio that I thought suited his green ethos and would be perfect to bring to the allotment with him next summer. We’d all put our Secret Santa gifts on the table, clearly labelled for the recipient. There didn’t seem to be one for me yet. Not that I’d been checking, obviously.
    At a nod from Peter, Nigel turned down the volume to gentle background level and Peter asked us all to find a seat. Nigel had done an amazing job with the music. I’d been a bit sceptical at first when he’d offered to take charge of the party tunes, assuming we’d have nothing but Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra’s Christmas medley, but I’d been way off the mark. He had set up his iPad and wireless speakers and was blasting out a mix of everything from Beyoncé to Michael Bublé.
    Peter joined Christine in front of a table, which was groaning with trophies and shields, and cleared his throat. ‘Now for the formal bit of the evening: the presentation of the Annual Show prizes. And then we’ll all open our Christmas presents.’
    ‘Keep it short, Pete,’ cried Dougie, ‘I’ve got a lot of ladies to kiss under that mistletoe.’
    ‘Ladies, if you could kindly control yourselves, we’ll be as quick as we can,’ said Peter, tongue firmly in his cheek.
    ‘But before we present the prizes, we have some exciting news,’ announced Christine, clapping her hands together.
    I looked over at Gemma anxiously, wondering if the impending birth of her next grandchild was ‘the news’. Gemma waved back. She looked a bit flushed and fidgety but otherwise fairly calm. I gave her a thumbs-up, turned back to Christine and sipped my drink.
    ‘We’ve had an email from Aidan Whitby from the
Green Fingers
show.’
    My heart thumped wildly against my ribcage as I swallowed. The spiciness and heat of the mulled wine hit the back of my throat and the liquid somehow missed its target. I choked and coughed, turned puce and then I gasped for breath.
    I hadn’t been expecting to hear his name again. And if I’d been under the impression that I was over him, I now knew unequivocally that I wasn’t.
    ‘Sorry,’ I croaked to the thirty or so pairs of eyes that stared at me full of concern.
    Christine raised her eyebrows at me warily and I gestured for her to continue. ‘Our episode of
Green Fingers
has been nominated for an award for best TV documentary!’
    Everyone clapped. So I clapped too. They all smiled and I smiled too, so hard, in fact, that my cheeks ached. That was amazing news. I was pleased for Aidan, delighted even. And he deserved it, he was brilliant at his job, the whole team was brilliant. I felt proud to have been part of it.
    But my eyes were burning and my stomach was flipping over repeatedly like a performing seal. Aidan had emailed Christine. He was still in touch with Ivy Lane, but just not with me. Had he asked Christine about me? I wondered. Did he know I’d phoned him? Why, why, why had that girl answered? And why had I left it a whole month to call him?
    Suddenly I’d had enough of this party. I didn’t feel Christmassy any more. I felt cross and sad and fed up.
    Christine was still talking. The awards evening was a big posh do in London in the spring and Aidan had sent invitations for two people to attend.
    Please don’t expect me to go to that
.
    I knew without looking that Gemma was sending me sympathetic vibes, but I didn’t meet her gaze. I stared at my toes and concentrated on not looking as miserable as I felt.
    ‘So to the prizes . . .’ Peter began the