He smiles with relief and takes a deep breath.
‘Well – I don’t know where to start. It seems to me that this guy – Clive – is royally fucking you over. It’s heart-breaking. You’re funny, bubbly, beautiful and sexy. But, for whatever reason or reasons, you’ve got this boyfriend, fiancé whose bloody career or money or whatever it is, is far, far more important to him than you are. He’s probably convinced you that he’s doing it for you in some way, or for the both of you, but I think he’s only doing it for him. He doesn’t have to work or live six thousand miles away from you, but he does. He’s made that choice, knowing that it would be damn impossible for you to join him and you’re waiting here like some…fucking…piece of furniture that he’s bought and put into storage until he’s ready to…use it again, sit on it, keep his clothes in it or whatever sort of piece of furniture it is. I don’t even know him and I want to punch him. He’s not a man, he’s a worm. I’m sorry. That was all off the top of my head. It got a bit sticky with the furniture metaphor there. Could have been wittier, I suppose…’
‘It was OK. It was quite funny. Not brilliantly funny, but…’
‘You’re not just saying that?’
‘Under other circumstances I’d have laughed slightly.’
‘It’s good that you didn’t. I wouldn’t want the clients outside to hear laughter coming from in here. I might get a bad name.’
We both say ‘listen’ at the same time.
‘You go first’ I say.
‘Hm. What are you going to do now? For Christmas, I mean. Have you got family you can go to?’
I mention my sister, but I suppose my lack of enthusiasm must have been shining through. Both of my parents are visiting my dad’s brother and his family in Carlisle, so that’s not really an option. James is pursing his lips together, thinking about something and I think I know what it is, or should I say what I hope it is.
‘Listen. If you don’t want to impose yourself on any friends or relatives – and I guess you don’t want to keep explaining yourself as to why your boyfriend, fiancé thing isn’t with you or what’s been going on with him – and you don’t fancy staying with his family, and I can’t blame you under the circumstances, well, if you’ve got absolutely nothing else you can do and you don’t fancy being alone…’
He scratches his head and looks serious.
‘Sorry. Forget that. I’m temporarily inarticulate. You don’t know me, but I’m not a psychopath or anything, or at least not diagnosed as one yet. If you’d like to stay with me over Christmas, you’re quite welcome. No strings attached. I’ll be out with the camera most of the time, anyway. I’ve got a spare room with a futon bed in it. I don’t really ‘do’ Christmas very much, so if you’re interested, you can avoid the whole thing. Just an idea. You can take it or leave it. I won’t be offended if you say no.’
I think of my alternatives. Trekking up to Carlisle and being bored out of my skull, the Christmas from hell with Clive’s parents, my sister’s continuous concerned and sympathetic glances or sitting in my flat, watching films on TV that I’ve already seen a million times and eating ready meals and After Eights. Actually, that last bit sounds quite good!
‘It’s very nice of you, but I don’t want you to do this ‘cause you feel sorry for me in some way or other. I could get that at my sister’s.’
‘It’s nothing to do with that. Really. This is just really weird for me. I’ve never done anything like this before. It’s just – I just feel that it’s the right thing to do. Everything about it is right. D’you know what I mean? But it’s nothing to do with feeling sorry for you. It’s miles away from that.’
We look at each other for a few seconds. It seems like an hour. He gently places a finger under my chin, tilts my head up and kisses me once, very softly, on the lips.
‘Then what is it to do with?’ My voice is quiet. Am I shaking slightly? Surely not. He stares past me, a serious expression on his face, like he’s attempting to put something really profound and important into words.
‘It’s because it wouldn’t really be Christmas without Holly.’
I punch him on the chest. We both laugh. In my head, I’m already working out my next text to Clive and, more importantly, the best time to send it. Does three a.m. (his time) on Christmas Day sound OK to you?
If you enjoyed this, you might also enjoy White Christmas by Emma Lee Potter, also published by Endeavour Press.
ONE
As the strains of Silent Night drifted across the piazza at Covent Garden, Lizzie Foster blinked back the tears.
She had to face it. Christmas was just three weeks away and she was dreading it.
She usually loved the lead-up to the big day. Decorating the tree, buying presents, planning her outfit for the office party – she couldn’t get enough of it all.
But this year she hadn’t done a single thing. In fact today was the first day she’d felt up to making a start on her Christmas shopping. Not that she had much to buy. Just presents for her parents, her brother and sister-in-law, the guys at work and… well, it sounded pathetic, but that was it really. On the plus side though, at least she didn’t have to bother looking for obscure bits of hi-fi kit and garish cycling gear for Rob this year. After cheating on her – and lying through his teeth about it – he was out of her life for good.
It was six o’clock on a Tuesday evening and Covent Garden was packed. Despite the news bulletins about the dire state of the economy, Christmas shoppers were out in force. Lizzie had waited in line for twenty minutes to buy Nigella’s latest cookery book for her sister-in-law. In the end she’d given up and decided to order the book from Amazon instead.
After an hour’s shopping, Lizzie had only bought two presents - a panettone for her mum, which would no doubt sit in the kitchen cupboard for a year and then get chucked away, and a fake tattoo sleeve for her brother, who was inclined to take himself a touch too seriously.
Covent Garden was only ten minutes walk from Lizzie’s office and the whole area had thrown itself into the Christmas spirit with a vengeance. A massive Christmas tree, decked with stylish red baubles, glittered at one end of the piazza while scores of giant mirror balls and candy canes dangled from the ceiling of the market hall.
A stall selling mulled wine and roast chestnuts was doing brisk business in the chill night air and Lizzie joined the back of the queue. Mindful that she was on the early shift the next day, she steered clear of the mulled wine and ordered a skinny latte in a festive red and white cup. She found a table outside, dumped her bags at her feet and tried to put all her worries about work and Rob and what the hell she was going to do about Christmas out of her mind.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the noisy arrival of a group of angelic looking children in scarlet school uniforms. A smiley, middle-aged teacher assembled the chattering boys and girls into a neat cluster, handed out a stack of music and unfolded a battered music stand.
As the children threw themselves into a jolly rendition of The Holly and the Ivy, Lizzie bit the insides of her cheeks and willed herself not to cry. She didn’t know why, but even in happier times the sound of children’s singing always reduced her to tears.
Lizzie managed pretty well until the choir started their next carol, but the moment she heard the opening bars of Silent Night she couldn’t contain her sadness. The floodgates opened and tears streamed down her cheeks. She brushed them away angrily with the back of her hand.
‘Are you all right?’
Embarrassed that someone had spotted her tears, Lizzie glanced up. A little girl of about seven or eight was sitting on her own at the next table. She was wrapped up warmly in a navy blue duffle coat and a jaunty cerise beret with a big bow on the front. She had a comic in front of her and a small pink teddy bear on her lap.
‘I’m fine,’ said Lizzie, making an effort to smile through her tears. ‘Really I am. I know this probably sounds silly, but I always cry when I hear carols.’
A puzzled look appeared o
n the girl’s face.
‘Why do you do that?’ she asked. ‘Carols are about Christmas. They’re not sad songs. I don’t think they are, anyway.’
‘No, they’re not,’ agreed Lizzie. ‘Well, most of them aren’t. So I should stop crying at them, shouldn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl happily. ‘You should.’
The child’s toothy beam was so infectious that Lizzie suddenly felt a million times better. Her mood was dashed the next second, however, when a tall man in his mid thirties banged a tray laden with two mugs of steaming hot chocolate and a plate of cookies down on the little girl’s table and frowned. He was tall, with dark curly hair and icy blue eyes, and dressed in a well-cut business suit.
‘Are you OK, darling?’ he asked the little girl. ‘Who’s this you’re talking to?’
‘I was asking the lady why she was crying, Daddy,’ said the girl. ‘She seemed sad.’
‘I wasn’t,’ muttered Lizzie. She edged her chair back and made a concerted effort not to catch the little girl’s eye. ‘We weren’t really talking about anything, were we? Just about the carols.’
All of a sudden the man’s shoulders relaxed and he sat down next to his daughter.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, staring hard at Lizzie. ‘It’s been a long day. I didn’t mean to quiz you…’
‘It’s fine,’ murmured Lizzie. ‘I’d probably do the same in your position.’
The man’s eyes met her own, then widened in surprise.
‘Don’t I know you?’
Lizzie’s heart sank. What a ridiculous question. And how the bloody hell was she supposed to answer it? Yes, I’m a weather forecaster. You’ve probably seen me on TV. And yes, I know I look a tiny bit like Jessie J, only not half so pretty. It was the sort of thing people said all the time - and she never knew how to react.
‘Er, I don’t think so.’
‘You look incredibly familiar. I’m sure we must have met somewhere.’
‘She says you haven’t, Daddy,’ piped up the little girl.
The man still appeared puzzled, but he patted his daughter’s hand absent-mindedly. ‘Come on, India. Drink up your hot chocolate, darling. We’ve got to get you back to Mummy in half an hour.’
Feeling awkward, Lizzie stood up and grabbed hold of her shopping. At least the interlude had taken her mind off the carols. And Christmas too, for that matter.
‘Look, it’s time I was going,’ she said. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
As he watched her go, the man stared thoughtfully after her. He’d definitely seen her before. The question was – where?
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