My Christmas Darling

by Vivien Mayfair

  “Then you’ll ask him for money for your mom?”

  “Then I’ll be his wife with access to his bank accounts. My mom will be his mother-in-law, and he won’t want to look like a dirtbag by turning down the chance to help her. Besides, I have a plan.”

  “What kind of plan?”

  “Something resembling Santa or the Tooth Fairy or Cupid having my back.”

  “In other words, you’re in a deep hole.”

  “Yep!”

  “So, just ask him to borrow the money.”

  Holding her breath, she pumped hair spray over bouncy red curls. “Then he’ll know I want something, and he’ll hold the power. If I make him desire me like crazy, I’ll get anything I need.”

  “So, play him like a harpsichord. Got it!”

  The plan made her soul feel like a carved holiday turkey. It was the lesser of the two evils when it came to a solution for rectifying her mistake and helping her mom. She had her hoaxing fun – but no more.

  Bye bye book.

  Heather slurped something. “You worked so hard on your novel.”

  Lucy stood up, went to the bed, and slid on the dress. “I’ll wait a few years and publish it as myself. By then, I’ll be able to quit my job at Big Apple Books and will be taken care of by Mark.”

  “And, where does your happiness play in?”

  “I don’t have the luxury of happiness,” she snapped, pulling on black tights. “It wouldn’t be right for all of my dreams to come true while my mom lost everything because of me.”

  “Oh, not that again.”

  The doorbell rang out sharply across the apartment. “He’s here.”

  Of course, what would make her happy beyond publishing her book was to be able to do Christmas things like bake cookies and see the Rockettes and go ice skating and watch holiday carolers.

  “I’ll be over in a few.”

  Lucy hung up the phone, slipped on high heels, and pushed in dangling hoop earrings. She grabbed her purse and put the phone inside. Already, Mark chatted vibrantly with her mom in the living room.

  Lucy emerged.

  Noted how dapper he looked in a black leather rockstar jacket. Something new.

  “Lucy did the whole tree by herself,” her mom said.

  Mark barely looked over the white lights before noticing her. “Hey, babe,” he drawled, headed her way. “Look at you, lovely as usual.”

  “I try.”

  His eyes raked over her legs, landing on her feet. “Humph.” he uttered under his breath.

  She looked down. “What?”

  “Nothing, it just seems those sexy knee-high black boots I bought you would look better.”

  “I wear them with leggings.”

  “Or, with short black dresses that show off your legs.”

  Gripping the arm of a rocking chair, her mom felt her way into it. “It would keep your legs warmer.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Lucy said, begrudgingly.

  How helpful, Mom, thanks. He’s just trying to control me.

  Remembering her goal, she faked a smile. “I’ll be right back.” She kicked off her heels once in her room and went for the boots, knowing the only reason he said that was to show her off. “Jerk!”

  Whatever worked.

  Back in the living room, Mark gave a thumbs up. “Nice!” Then helped her into a black coat.

  “Mom, Heather will be right over.”

  “No worries, dear. You two have a lovely time.”

  Mark ushered her down a flight. “We’ll walk, just three blocks.”

  As their feet hit snow on the sidewalk, Lucy battled a deep sadness. She had tasted success and already it flittered down like the snowflake on her nose, so she smacked it off and kept silent. She lost many things in her life; her father, a Power Puff Girls pen, her high school boyfriend, her mom’s eyesight.

  This was worse.

  Something she wanted with all her heart remained out of reach. At least she discovered that she was good enough. She could have been somebody. It would have to be enough for now.

  “What’s this?”

  She shivered in front of a corner building with tinted windows. Once a dime store, it now seemed to be a popular spot, considering several couples shuffled inside ahead of them shivering like popsicles.

  “Thought we’d get drinks first,” he said, opening the door.

  “What about the Greek place?”

  “After.”

  Just like that.

  Whatever Mark Roland commanded is what would occur. The man was about as flexible as a wood post. A zippy jazz tune greeted her ears as they worked their way into Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge’s newest hot spot.

  A club.

  Despite the dark, she could see well enough to weave around tables thanks to multi-colored lights making her brain want to explode. They stopped at a corner booth with a round table and lovebird bench. At least they put some effort into holiday decorations by way of a red table cloth with silver snowflakes and a flickering candle on top of it.

  “This will do nicely,” said Mark.

  When she slid into the booth for a bird’s-eye view of the bar, Mark dropped his gloves and rockstar coat onto the other side. He surveyed every inch of the place while tidying up his perfect hair.

  “Who are you looking at?” she asked.

  Already his eyes landed on the luscious cleavage of a Sandra Bullock lookalike at the counter. She chatted with a less attractive girlfriend who wore yoga pants. The bartender’s raucous laugh permeated the atmosphere, obviously meant to attract attention.

  Mark smoothed down a crisp Izod sweater. “I’ll get us some drinks.”

  “They’ll come take our order.”

  “No need, I know what you like.”

  Just like that, he left her alone and worked toward a circular bar in the center of the room. She put five bucks on a self-bet that he’d be talking to the girls in less than a minute.

  Bingo.

  Thirty seconds.

  He leaned over the counter and placed an order with the bartender, then turned to the ladies and made idle chitchat. Lucy tried to read their lips, but only made out something that resembled shnitzlefritz.

  That didn’t take long.

  There was no room for jealousy over a man she didn’t love. Still, past experience with his flirtations rubbed a raw nerve over her heart. Her body balled up tighter than a drywall nail. She pulled out her phone and sent Heather a text. SpongeBob is on the hunt for SquarePants already.

  Then snapped a few pics of the bar, and them.

  Sent them.

  If only she’d placed a real bet, she’d be a zazillionaire.

  Heather texted: Then Ariel should go hunt an Eric. It was their usual way of comparing themselves to cartoon characters in code just in case the CIA or IRS or NSA or FBI tapped their phones. Nothing more embarrassing than the government knowing your romantic failures.

  Two could play the game.

  Lucy’s radar locked onto a hot college guy circling the dance floor for a date. The only way to corral Mark Roland’s flirtatious conquests was to pose a threat that would spoil his image of being a holy gift.

  Another man?

  Her future jailer would rather have a tow truck yank out his nose hairs than lose her. That would imply that there was somebody else better than him, which wouldn’t suffice at all.

  Mark was back.

  He set the drinks on the table and cozied closer to her on the booth. “Olive martini, dirty.”

  “You do know what I like.” Lucy chugged it. She’d need ten dirty martinis to survive the dirty actions of her dirty goal to convince the even dirtier Hercules to marry her that night. Of all the experiences in her life, this wasn’t one she wanted to be sober for.

  Mark flagged a waitress. “Double our order please; and the best beer in the house.”

  One more skinny blonde for him to ogle as she went back to the bar with a tray. She pointed at their table and muttered something to the bar
tender that generated a laugh. Lucy knew exactly how they felt.

  Absurd – all of it.

  She considered offering physical services for the surgery money.

  Marriage not needed.

  Likely a no-go considering he could get it for free from Sandra Bullock. Her thoughts went to William Harcourt and the few seconds he held her close when she tripped. She felt more warmth in those seconds than she felt being with Mark Roland for a year.

  “This place is really something,” Mark said.

  “Sure is.”

  “Just opened this weekend. Thought you’d like it.”

  “I’ve never been a fan of bars.”

  “But, I am.”

  The king reigns.

  “I guess that’s all that matters then,” she sneered back. “And, these boots are uncomfortable.”

  “They look hot.”

  Arguing wouldn’t help her goal. There were worse things than being a show pony. After all, somebody made a whole book and TV series out of pink and pretty and cheery My Little Ponies, and look how well they did. She reminded herself that this was a business negotiation and had nothing to do with feelings.

  Billiards. Bars. Babes.

  Mark’s eyeballs danced around the place like a kid on a trampoline; everywhere but on her.

  She put a firm hand on his leg. “It’s been a long time for us.”

  “Sure thing.”

  All she wanted was some time alone to curl up by the Christmas tree with peppermint cocoa, watch a Hallmark movie, and flip through a Lady’s Home Journal magazine. They just released their special holiday edition with over a hundred festive cookie recipes. Instead, she had to sell her soul forever to this.

  He finally looked at her. “Your mom told me she might get her eyes back?”

  “She has eyes, they just don’t work.”

  “When’s that happening, then?”

  She kept it casual so he wouldn’t detect her desperation. “Who knows?”

  “Since when are you so detached?”

  “Insurance won’t pay for it because it’s considered aesthetic.”

  “Being able to see is optional?”

  “I know, right? It’s not like plastic surgery, but they act like it is.”

  His eyes scanned the room for prey as he licked foam off the beer. “So, what will you do?”

  “Not my issue. She has a plan of some kind.”

  “Glad it’s not me.”

  Inclined to retort, she wished it was him, instinct told her to slide closer down the booth. “So, you said you’ve missed me? How much are we talking, like missing morning coffee or missing air?”

  “More like missing complete heaven.”

  She sucked in a lip and tasted blood from a bite. “I know what you mean,” was her lie.

  “You’re on my mind every time I keep myself cozy at night.”

  “Is that the only time?”

  “I miss how you look walking around my flat in the morning in my shirt.” He set down the beer, raised his hands to the air, and mocked the shape of a heart in the air. “You’d be the perfect Queen spokesperson.”

  Of course, he’d reference Fat Bottom Girls and that band.

  Too bad she was nowhere near making his rockin’ world go round.

  “Most men don’t like that,” said Lucy, tightly.

  “Whoa hoa, they don’t know what they’re missing. You have the body every man wants on the mother of his children.”

  Funny he said that when he only ogled women around the bar who would fit in a tube sock. It was just like a man like Mark to keep a plump breeding wife with a skinny mistress on the side.

  “You know…” She went in for the kill. “I regret pushing you away after the accident. I had no right to take it out on you. Truth be told, I dream about you every single night.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “And when I say dream, I mean dream awake, if you know what I mean.”

  He ran a tongue over his lower lip. “So, I still make you all toasty inside?”

  “Like a Bunsen burner. Really, you’re so amazing.”

  “Glad you think so. Truth is, you really missed out.”

  “I’m such a ninny, too. I miss you so much.”

  “Have you thought about giving up your writing?”

  In that moment he reminded her of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. Pompous and pretty.

  “I’m done with that,” sadly, she admitted. “I’d rather be a wife.”

  “You realize you can’t do both.”

  Tempted to squelch him with a speech about how the I Love Lucy and Leave it to Beaver days were long over, she pushed her mouth to his lips for a kiss that tasted like a colostomy bag.

  “I know,” she rasped. “But I have potential.”

  “It’s just a little holiday story.”

  “Well, it is the holidays, Mark. And it’s four-hundred pages, not little.”

  “There’s no market for it since the world has Mary Macomber.”

  “Um, her name is Debbie. And, certainly nobody could ever be her. She’s an icon.”

  Her mouth drooled from his cigarette taste. Yuck.

  “Speaking of holidays,” he extracted a small, wrapped package from his coat. “Thought you’d like this.”

  “It’s not Christmas yet.”

  “I’ll have something better for you then.”

  Ripping off the crisp gold paper, she envisioned a ring, but knew the package was too big. She discovered a silver tennis bracelet lined with emeralds along the sides. “It’s gorgeous!”

  “Green matches your eyes.”

  Her thoughts went to how much she could get selling it. “How thoughtful.”

  “Okay, babe, look…” He hooked an arm around her shoulders. “I need you to market me to the public.”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “If you’re my wife, you’ll need to host all of my parties. We’d have to entertain the biggest authors and publishers in the business. And, of course, I want you in charge of my fan club.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Once we have our kids, they’ll go to boarding school. I can’t have distractions to my writing.”

  “Of course, I agree.”

  “I need you to keep looking pretty and plump. Can you do that?”

  If he felt attracted to jiggly women, he wouldn’t be gawking at a size-two Asian with sleek black hair that covered a hint of rump bumps. Lucy knew the only reason he wanted her was to set a wholesome image of himself that would further ignite his career in the eyes of the public.

  “I’ll eat bonbons all day if you want.”

  “I said plump,” he growled, not pleased. “Not fat as a cow.”

  The group of girls headed to their table. Mark dropped his arm from her shoulders and slid from the booth to greet them. “Ladies, how can I help?”

  Four girls no older than twenty circled him. “Aren’t you the author of Breathen Heat? We so totally saw you on Ellen a few weeks ago.” The Asian kept quiet while her lady posse pushed napkins and notebooks and anything worth autographing, his way.

  “That’s me!” he beamed.

  One girl rubbed up to his side. “Steph, take a pic.”

  “Wowee guys, you totally have to Instagram this,” her friend squealed.

  Mark took his time signing autographs like he really was somebody worth a hoot. The only reason anybody recognized him was because he paid half his salary to a publicity agent to get him on every Manhattan TV show, radio station, and magazine in existence.

  He lapped up the attention; Lucy long forgotten.

  When the last autograph came with a long personal message and phone number, the Asian looked at Lucy. “Are you famous?” she asked, as if anybody with Mark Roland must be as important.

  “Actually, I’m writing…”

  Mark cut her off, blocking their view of Lucy. “She’s nobody.”

  The girls went on jabbering.

  Nobody.
r />   Wow.

  He made sure Lucy knew it. Nobody, just like that. One minute he was proposing and the next squashing her like a red ant that burned a trail over his icy skin. Tears welled in her eyes at the disregarding wound.

  This nobody one year from now could be worth more than five million dollars. This nobody would have her own book town, a movie, and a series. This nobody would be living in a Fifth Avenue apartment with a full staff to take care of her mom.

  Nobody.

  Mark Roland was the nobody. What had she been thinking? Lucy grabbed her jacket and purse. She clamored from the booth and pushed right past Bay Ridge’s trollop troupe without a single word. She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t notice.

  Book cafes.

  Theme park rides.

  Movie premieres.

  Oprah and Ellen.

  When Lucy’s face made contact with air colder and foggier than the Ice Age, she imagined life if she went forth with the great literary hoax of the twenty-first century. Mark Roland would be left behind eating dust. This nobody was about to risk it all and become somebody.

  Clomping through snow, she dodged lamp posts and checked the time on her phone.

  “Oh no!”

  Then ran.

  She made a final leap over a sewer grate into her complex and charged up the stairs like a rich woman at a Gucci sale. She’d rather rot on a medieval stretching rack than marry Mark Roland. Even if it meant risking her job, her name, and her increasing fondness for William Harcourt.

  Nobody.

  Who was he kidding?

  I’ll show him he’s the nobody. Going into her apartment just yet wasn’t on the menu. Her mom would be awake, listening to movies. She dialed Heather, hopping up and down to keep warm.

  “Done already?” Heather answered.

  “Come to your apartment, now! No time to explain.”

  Then hung up.

  Moments later, Heather emerged down the breezeway dressed like a lemon snow bunny. “What is it?”

  “Open up!”

  Once inside her friend’s apartment, Lucy pawed through kitchen drawers for something to write on. If this was going to happen, Heather would need coaching, since celestial intervention was unlikely.

  “What happened with dinner?”

  “He’s a pompous untrained ape,” expelled Lucy.

  “It hasn’t even been an hour. And, what are you doing?”

  “I need something to write on.”