A Winter Flame Read Free Page B

Christmas’ theme park had made all the national papers recently for being a total and utter rip-off, earning it the nickname ‘Shite Christmas’. So, in
Eve’s opinion, there was no better place to do some market research than here, especially with the aid of Phoebe May Tinker, who was a cross between Simon Cowell and Hedda Hopper in judging
children’s entertainment attempts. A half-dead pilot light inside Eve coughed into certain life when she read about Shite Christmas on the internet. She knew it was going to be awful but
never anticipated it could be quite this bad.
    Young Phoebe May Tinker was seven going on forty-five. She was an intense child with the big, wide inquisitive eyes of an old wise owl and nothing got past her. She was a mini-me of her
ridiculously intelligent father, Rupert, whom Alison had met at Oxford University when she was studying classics and Rupert was studying something scientificky and genius-sounding like
‘advanced nuclear physics and chemical extra science’. Alison was now expecting a boy and Eve had no doubt that he would emerge into the world as flame-haired as his parents and
correcting Einstein’s theories.
    But Phoebe, funny little dot that she was, was also a darling of the highest order, and she was one of the very few people that always managed to make Eve smile. Eve loved the feel of her little
hand seeking out her larger one and finding security there. She had always wanted children one day. Phoebe, along with Alison’s unborn son, were going to be the closest she ever got to that
ambition being fulfilled.
    Not many of the parents were smiling much, having paid out forty pounds per head for the ‘Lapland Experience’. Well, if this was anything like Lapland, no wonder Santa disappeared
for 364 days of the year; he was probably in therapy. Eve was now panicking that she might have scarred Phoebe for life with this day out.
    The ticket man at the front door couldn’t have smiled less if he’d tried. His ‘Welcome to White Christmas’ was delivered with as much cheer as a funeral director
commiserating with relatives of the deceased. He would have been superb had this been ‘Halloween World’ with his gaunt, pale, Hammer Horror face.
    The ‘snow-covered paths’ were grey-white painted concrete. A very noisy snow machine was spitting out snowflakes from behind the tallest tree in a copse of plastic fir trees. At
least they were supposed to be snowflakes – but in actual fact were a 50/50 split between ice shrapnel and splashes of water. An engineer in a bright orange suit could clearly be seen trying
to adjust it, and had been heard issuing profanities until one of the elves – a six-foot youth whose green trouser hems had long divorced from his ankles – disappeared behind the tree
and was heard telling old Tango-suit to watch his fucking language.
    ‘Rudolf’s pen’ housed a reindeer with a red flashing nose who was turning his head mechanically from side to side as if in disbelief. Even he was embarrassed to be there and
was going to have serious talks with his agent – and he was plastic.
    Eve and Phoebe pootled off for an early lunch. The ‘Elf Café’ made the refectory from Oliver Twist look like The Ivy. The look aimed for was ‘rustic’, the look
achieved was ‘workhouse’. The menu was ‘alternative-delicious’, Eve thought with a delighted smirk: chicken nuggets, chips, hotdogs, cheap-quality beef burgers with or
without cheese . . . Rubbish. There wasn’t a bit of thought or imagination which had been put into it – and yet it was heaving at the gills – even after the slating it had
received in the nationals. Eve’s palms started itching with the anticipation of heavy amounts of profit touching them.
    Phoebe bit down on a chicken nugget and chewed it delicately.
    ‘What do you think?’ asked Eve, giving her a nudge.
    ‘Do elves really eat chicken nuggets?’ asked Phoebe, her forehead creased with thought. ‘I’d