She dashed to the loo, fluffed up her hair and applied some more lipstick, then returned to the table.
‘I don’t fancy a pudding,’ Freddie told her as she slipped back into her seat, ‘but you feel free to have one, if you want.’
Dessert was the last thing on her mind in terms of actually eating it; she would only be interested in another course if there was a diamond ring hidden in it. And if he wasn’t pushing her to have one, then clearly this wasn’t the way he intended to produce the ring.
‘I’m okay,’ she said, ‘though a coffee would be nice.’
Freddie called the waiter over. The man seemed rather hesitant and had a frown on his face, but it cleared when Freddie ordered two coffees.
‘I’ve got something I want to ask you,’ he said, when the waiter left.
Here it comes. Daisy was so nervous she felt sick. She tried to keep her expression neutral, aiming for a slightly quizzical look, holding in the big grin which struggled to get out. Get on with it, she thought, before I give the game away.
‘We’ve been seeing each other for about a year now,’ he said.
‘Yes, yes we have.’ She nodded enthusiastically.
‘And I thought it was about time we took our relationship to a new level,’ he continued, reaching across the table to grasp her hand once more. Twice in a night! Lucky her!
It’s about time. It so definitely is, Daisy thought.
‘…so I thought, I wondered,’ Freddie cleared his throat, then looked past her shoulder and nodded.
This was it. This was her moment. He was going to do it!
‘Could we have the bill, please?’ he asked, as the waiter approached their table.
Was that a code word, she wondered, wishing he’d just hurry up.
‘I wondered if you would…,’ he hesitated, ‘…move in with me?’ he finished in a rush.
‘What?’
‘Move in, cohabit, live together. That is, if you want to, if you’re ready. No worries, if you’re not.’
‘Move in.’ Daisy’s voice was flatter than a pond on a windless day.
‘Yes. There’s plenty of room for two, and I wouldn’t expect you to pay half of everything. What do you say?’
Daisy forced a smile onto her face and some enthusiasm into her voice, disappointment washing over her.
‘Lovely,’ she said and clapped her hands.
Chapter 2
Three Years Later
‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-laa,
Go to Tesco, grab a trolley
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-laa.’
Yeah, that would work, Daisy thought, then sang the verse again, substituting Sainsbury for Tesco, then Waitrose, and finally Asda. Any of those supermarkets would do, though maybe not Morrisons because there were one too many syllables to fit.
She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, admiring her newly painted Christmas nails (red with white snowflakes), and wished the traffic would get a move on. What was the holdup, anyway? If she wasn’t home soon, Freddie would beat her to it, and she’d have no chance of smuggling her purchases into the house, and even less chance of hiding them.
She started singing again, the words popping into her head almost at random, though the method seemed to work for her.
‘Fill it full of lots of goodies
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-laa,
Tinsel, turkey, and some puddies
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-laaah!’
Was puddies an actual word? Did it matter? The jingle was catchy enough, and if they showed a Christmas pudding at the same time the puddie word was sung, then—
Oh, who was she kidding? The big supermarkets had their own marketing departments, full of people who were paid a lot more money than little old Daisy Jones. And even if they didn’t, they could afford to hire the big guns, like Saatchi and Saatchi (her heart gave a lurch at the idea of working for such a prestigious company) and wouldn’t look twice at her pathetic offering. Not that any of the supermarkets would ever get to hear it. This one was for her ears only.
She sang the jingle again, happy with it, thinking it was “their loss” and “I’m wasted at Caring Cards”, and her heart did another little lurch, but this time it had more to do with unease than anything else. She’d heard the rumours (who hadn’t?) that the company was being squeezed more than usual by their competitors, and since the arrival of ecards on the internet (designing one’s own cards online was a “growth strand”, apparently), the company was well and truly struggling.
The traffic moved, finally, and Daisy ground the car into gear and bunny-hopped for a few feet until she got into her stride. Freddie hated the way she drove and told her so frequently. She was so glad he wasn’t sitting in the passenger seat right now and giving her The Look.
Her mind turned to work again. Maybe it was about time she considered looking for another job, but she wasn’t sure what else she could do, and perhaps she shouldn’t have skipped out of work early, but what the hell, she could think up silly verses just as easily at home as she could in the office. She’d proved that very thing just now, thinking one up in the car, though she was pretty certain Caring Cards wouldn’t be using her Deck the Halls jingle anytime soon.
As she sped along the short dual carriageway leading out of the city centre, she tried to push Christmas songs out of her head (an incredibly hard task, considering every shop and radio station had been blaring them out for at least the last two months), and concentrated on her new task.
Caring Cards was thinking about branching out into musical greetings cards and they’d decided Daisy was the best person to make it happen. Hence the reason for Daisy hijacking the Deck the Halls carol. She didn’t have a musical bone in her body and she had no idea where to start. Did they expect her to make up her own tunes, or just supply the words to someone else’s music?
She pulled off the dual carriageway and negotiated the twists and turns leading into their estate. The place was like a rabbit warren, with crescents, drives, closes and greens in abundance, and all of them were named after animals. Their cul-de-sac was rather charmingly called Red Deer Close, and as she drove into it her head was bursting with random songs and ideas.
Should she, could she, use existing tunes, or were they subject to copyright? And how long did said copyright last? Would Caring Cards have to pay royalties if they used someone’s music, even if they changed the words?
Daisy foresaw a whole host of problems. You’d think the company would have looked into all this before asking her to come up with jingles, wouldn’t you, she mused, but oh no, they had these bright ideas and expected them to magically happen. Besides, who were they going to get to sing the stupid things anyway? Not her – had any of them heard her sing? Actually, they had, last Friday at the company’s Christmas knees-up, and it hadn’t been pretty.
Daisy drove up to her little house and gave a sigh of relief. Freddie’s car wasn’t there, though a blue Ford was pulled up alongside the house, almost blocking the entrance to their drive. Freddie would be furious if he couldn’t get his car in the drive when he got home, and he was annoyed enough that the station was too far to walk, so if someone had the temerity to park awkwardly, Freddie’s strop would be astronomical. You’d have thought the builders would have allowed for the fact that every house had at least two cars. Bloody hell, she was starting to sound like her mother, all moany and grumbly about domestic crap!
She clambered out of the driver’s seat, then pulled it forward to reach the parcels on the back seat. There were quite a few of them. Had she really bought this much? At least they weren’t all for her – she’d managed to purchase all of Freddie’s presents and most of her family’s. The only person she was stuck on who to buy a present for was Zoe. Just what did you get the woman who had everything? Especially when whatever her sister-in-law bought was exclusive, expensive, and far too nice for words.
Bags hanging off each arm, her handbag on he
r shoulder, and her keys in her teeth, Daisy staggered up their very short drive, taking only five lumbering steps from the car to their front door, and she still managed to drop something.
Muttering curses, she freed up one hand and found her house key, stabbing it in the lock, then fell in through the front door, scattering bags everywhere.
‘Damn!’
She scrambled to her feet, rubbing her bruised knees, and reached for the nearest bag, then paused.
‘Hello?’ she called, positive the faint noise she’d just heard had come from upstairs.
Silence.
She must have imagined it. That was the problem with these new houses – walls as thin as paper – and being semi-detached meant that she and Freddie could often hear the couple next door arguing. Then making up. Noisily. Freddie usually resorted to turning the volume on the TV up to full and waiting half an hour, claiming that burst eardrums were better than grossed out ones.
Daisy gathered up the various bags and their spilt contents, and carried them into the kitchen, glancing at the clock. Nearly four. Freddie would be at least another hour, possibly two, if there were leaves on the line, or there was the wrong type of rain, or one of the other silly excuses for the train to be late. She had time for a quick drink before she tackled the clothes-hiding and the present-wrapping.
Hot chocolate with a splash of Bailey’s Irish Whisky would get her back into the Christmas spirit. She’d had plenty of it before she’d hit the shops, but it had soon been swiftly drained out of her by the forced cheerfulness of the decorations, and the glum and harried expressions on her fellow shoppers’ faces.
While she waited for the kettle to boil, she wandered into the living room to stare critically at the tree. She’d bought a natural one this year, much to Freddie’s disgust (he hated the mess the fallen needles caused) and the smell of pine filled the room, competing subtly with the aroma of berries and spice from the plug-in air freshener. She breathed deeply. Lovely.
Without even looking at the tree, the scent alone would make her think Christmassy thoughts. Add the glitter and sparkle of the decorations on the tree, and the lights which Daisy insisted be left on all the time, and the scene was satisfyingly festive. Not too overdone, but enough to show visitors that Christmas had well and truly arrived at 10 Red Deer Close.
Before she returned to the kitchen, Daisy couldn’t help walking over to the tree and kneeling down. Freddie, Mr Organised, had already placed several immaculately wrapped parcels under the drooping lower branches (she made a note to remember to water the poor tree), and it took all of Daisy’s willpower not to give each one a good shake and a sniff. He’d even put ribbon around them, topped off with matching bows.
What was that? Daisy stopped feeling the presents and cocked her head. It sounded like a creak, from directly overhead, but Freddie definitely wasn’t home yet, so it must have come from Mandy next door. Sometimes, when their neighbour’s door banged, it sounded like their own front door.
The kettle clicked off and Daisy walked back into the kitchen, trying to make her mind up between the laced hot chocolate she’d promised herself, and the half-full bottle of Prosecco which she’d just remembered was chilling nicely in the fridge.
The wine won. She’d have a glass and get changed into her slouchy clothes, and hide her “me” purchases from Freddie, before she tackled the present wrapping. Freddie’s would have to be wrapped first, because she didn’t want to risk him walking through the door and seeing the beautiful watch she’d bought him, or the new lamb’s wool jacket in a soft tan colour.
The wine bottle was less full than she remembered it being, but she shrugged and poured a large glass, emptying the bottle, then took a hefty swig. The cool bubbles hit the back of her throat and she sighed in bliss, the sigh deepening as she kicked off her shoes to release her aching toes.
I wish every day could be like this, she thought, taking another sip. Mornings in work, and afternoons spent shopping. She’d even treated herself to lunch out: a coffee and a sandwich. She could get used to this. Half days suited her, especially when Freddie was in work, and he had no idea what she’d bought. ‘This old thing? I’ve had it ages,’ didn’t work on Freddie. He knew what was in her wardrobe better than she did, so she had to resort to saying she’d found that dress/jacket/handbag/pair of boots in one of the numerous charity shops in town, or telling him the item cost a fraction of what she had actually paid.
They were supposed to be saving up for a place of their own (owned jointly that is, and not just by Freddie as was the case at the moment), something a little more substantial and not in the middle of hundreds of similar houses. So Freddie kept a close eye on expenditure, though he happily treated himself to the occasional Ralph Lauren sweater, and Daisy never uttered a word. She didn’t feel she could, not when he earned more than double the wage she brought home.
Taking her glass of wine with her, she grabbed the “me” bags and trundled up the stairs, with the intention of stashing her ill-gotten booty in the never-used spare room, and drip-feeding them into the wardrobe, one sneaky item at a time.
But first, she wanted to change into something a little more elasticated. The waistband of her work trousers was digging uncomfortably into her stomach – the result of too many pre-Christmas parties (plus the daily mince pies Joyce brought into work and insisted on everyone eating).
She dropped her parcels on the landing by the door to the spare room, which was always kept firmly closed because there was nothing spare about that room – it was full to bursting with assorted junk, more like the “dump-it-in-and-shut-the-door-quick” room, and went into their bedroom. The state of the bed gave her a brief flash of annoyance and dismay. She’d left earlier than usual this morning, wanting to get as much done as possible before absconding for the rest of the day, leaving Freddie with the duvet pulled up to his chin and his eyes tightly shut. He hadn’t even bothered to straighten the duvet when he’d gotten out of it. And he’d left a couple of glasses on the bedside table, and—
Hang on…
Daisy picked up one of the glasses, kicking a scatter cushion out of the way, and sniffed at the contents of the glass.
Wine?
Before breakfast?
Was her boyfriend a secret lush?
And what was that smell? The unfamiliar aftershave (if that’s what it was, and not some new cleaning product – Freddie had a habit of buying the latest item on TV guaranteed to make your home smell fresh; he was responsible for the berry and spice plug-in in the living room) mingled with an almost animal aroma. It reminded her of the way their bedroom smelled after a good session in bed. Not that they’d had a good session, or even a not-so-good session, lately. They hadn’t “done it” for a long time, if she was honest. A quick jump in the sack now and again, often over far too quickly, was all she and Freddie had managed in months.
Daisy opened the window to air the room out, then picked up the duvet from the floor and flung it on the bed.
She froze.
Those were not Freddie’s shoes. They were far, far too big, for one thing…
Daisy picked up a scatter cushion and aimed it at the bed, then she froze again.
The shirt which had been hiding under it wasn’t his, either. Neither were the scruffy jeans.
Another noise. This time the creak of a floorboard and a kind of rustle.
It came from the spare room.
Freddie was home, after all, but what was he doing in there with the door closed? Maybe he was wrapping another present for her, but… something nagged at her, something wasn’t quite right, and although she knew he’d be cross if she walked in on him mid-wrap, she put her hand on the handle and-
‘Fucking hell!’
The spare room was full of junk, and some of that junk was sported by two naked men. One of them was Freddie.
Chapter 3
The stranger had his hands clasped over his manhood, but his hands weren’t doing a terribly good job. Freddie would have
been equally as naked if he hadn’t made a grab for one of her summer dresses as soon as Daisy opened the door.
‘It isn’t what you think,’ her boyfriend said. He looked mortified, embarrassed and as guilty as sin.
‘What am I supposed to think it is?’ she asked.
She was calm, surprisingly so, considering. There was a part of her which even now hoped she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Maybe this was a colleague from work, and they were… what? What could they possibly be doing together which meant they had to be naked…?
‘Er… um…,’ Freddie said. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Then tell me.’
Freddie hung his head.
Daisy wished he had his own clothes on, and not her lovely Laura Ashley flower-print tea-dress wrapped around his nether regions. She liked that dress, but she’d never wear it again, not after what it was currently rubbing up against.
‘Fucking, dahling,’ the stranger drawled. ‘Freddie and I were doing it. In your bed.’
‘Carl, there’s no need to be so…’ Freddie swallowed. He reminded her of a small boy who’d been caught cheating in class and was about to be sent to the headmaster.
‘Honest?’ Carl finished for him.
Daisy’s mouth was wide open. In her bed? Screwing in the bed she shared with Freddie? The one she snuggled into every night, feeling safe and loved? That bed?
Ew.
‘Freddie, is it true?’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Freddie said nothing.
Daisy wondered, rather hysterically, if Caring Cards had a card for this occasion. Maybe that should be her first attempt – the sorry-you-came-home-and-caught-your-man-bumping-uglies-with-another-bloke jingle. She wondered how well it would sell.
A Very Lucky Christmas Page 2
