by Alison May
Holly’s Christmas Kiss
Alison May
Copyright © 2013 Alison May
Published 2013 by Choc Lit Limited
Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK
www.choc-lit.com
The right of Alison May to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE
ISBN-978-1-78189-156-8
For Kate, who loves a Christmas romance.
Chapter One
Christmas Eve, 1991
Holly Michelle Jolly
I pretend to be asleep while he fills the pillowcase at the end of my bed. I know it’s supposed to be a stocking but Daddy says you don’t get enough presents in a stocking, so a pillowcase is better.
I peek out of one eye at him. He’s wearing his red suit and he’s got a big white beard just like in pictures. He sees me looking. He smiles. ‘Ho, ho, ho, Holly,’ he says.
I smile back. It’s not the really real Santa. I know it’s Daddy, but in a way that makes it nicer, because I know the secret. I saw him putting his beard in his briefcase and made him tell me, but he swore me to keep it absolutely top secret so I did. At school Jessica Honeybourne went on and on about how she was going to the big department store to see the real Santa, and I didn’t say anything.
He finishes stuffing the presents into the pillowcase.
‘Time to sleep now, Holly.’
I nod, and pull the covers up over my head until he’s gone. I do definitely try to go to sleep. I screw my eyes up as tight as they’ll go and I wait and wait for ages but I’m still awake. It’s too exciting. The nearly-Christmasness is building up in my tummy, and it’s too much to keep in. It’s nearly here. My presents are already here. They’re right there at the end of the bed.
I pull the top present out of the pillowcase, just to give it a little shake and a squeeze, but I shake it too hard and it falls on the floor. I climb off the bed to pick it up, scrunching the carpet between my toes as they touch the floor. I can see a little tear in the paper at one end of the parcel. I put it on the bed and stare hard at the tear, trying to open it up with my eyes. It does not work.
I must not open my presents.
I must not open my presents.
I have to wait to open my presents in the morning. I have to wait until it’s time to climb into Mummy and Daddy’s bed. I look at the clock on my dressing table. It has hands that light up so I can see the time even when it is dark. It is not time yet. It is not even nearly time. I stare at the present again; then I hook my little finger under the tear in the paper and give it a tiny pull. It tears a bit more. I stop.
I must not open my presents.
I give it another little tug. Now the hole is big enough to peek through.
‘What are you doing, Holly?’ I look round and see my dad standing in the doorway behind me. He’s in his pyjamas and dressing gown now, but he still looks like Santa in his eyes.
‘Sorry.’
He comes into the room, picks the present up and puts it back in the pillowcase.
‘Father Christmas came then?’
I nod, playing along with the game.
‘Do you think, maybe we should put this out of reach until morning?’
‘Ok.’
He grins. ‘Or what if we just took a little peek at this one? It is nearly open.’
I can’t believe it. ‘Mummy will be cross.’
He winks at me. ‘Well I won’t tell if you don’t.’
I pull the paper off, and find a doll inside. It’s a sewed together ragdoll. She’s beautiful. I decide she will be my favourite, favourite present, whatever else there is in my pillowcase. Daddy holds her up and then pushes her face against my nose like she’s giving me a kiss.
‘A dolly for Holly,’ he says. Dolly, I think, will be her name forever.
Chapter Two
Three days before Christmas, 2013
Holly Michelle Jolly smoothed down her bridesmaid dress and surveyed the room. Fairy lights–check. Christmas tree–check. Thick green garland around the bar– check. She shuddered. A wedding reception the week before Christmas. Michelle couldn’t remember precisely which circle of hell that was included in, but it was definitely up there on her list of personal horrors; the tinselled gaudiness of Christmas combined with the ridiculous expense of the wedding, and a London wedding at that. Michelle’s inner Yorkshire girl flinched when she remembered the price of the miniaturised fish and chip canapés.
Nonetheless, it was, she knew, Jess’s dream wedding. They’d spent many an evening over a glass of wine, in their tiny shared flat, planning this event. Even before Jess had met Patrick, her fantasy Christmas wedding had been clear in her mind. And that was the point, after all. It was Michelle’s job to make sure everything went perfectly. She swept her gaze across the room again. People seemed to be enjoying themselves. The mulled wine was proving a hit, and the guests were looking increasingly pink and full of cheer. Michelle shook her head, and looked around for her friend. Jess was ensconced with her new groom, both talking to the best man. Michelle’s lips pursed, as her gaze settled for a second.
Sean Munro was a friend of Patrick’s from years ago when they’d both lived in Edinburgh. Michelle had met him for the first time the day before the wedding, and was not impressed. He was all floppy hair and stupid grins. She’d tried to get him to sit down and go through the schedule for the day, and he’d tried to get her to put a whole mince pie in her mouth in one go. Michelle had had to explain, quite firmly, that they were here to make sure everything ran smoothly for the happy couple. They were not here to have fun. He hadn’t taken her seriously. She had found her carefully typed and bullet pointed list of things he needed to attend to ‘On The Day’ dropped by his chair after he left.
Michelle glanced at her watch. It was nearly eight. Evening canapés were supposed to be delivered punctually at 7.45p.m., but there wasn’t a white-shirted tray-bearer to be seen. Michelle sighed and set off to find someone to scold before Jess noticed the problem.
‘So am I supposed to dance with a bridesmaid or something? That’s a best man thing? Right?’
Sean Munro was leaning on the bar, booted and kilted, watching the guests shake, shimmy and sway as the band played Santa Baby for about the eighteenth time. He took a sip from his mulled wine and grinned at the bride. She shook her head.
‘Michelle’s not really the dancing sort.’
He looked around, finding himself hoping that he’d spot Jess’s bossy bridesmaid.
‘Where is she anyway? I’ve not had chance to talk to her.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Jess turned her head, expensively sculpted bridal hairstyle and all, to scan the room for her friend’s distinctive red hair. ‘Probably fixing something on my behalf.’
Sean smiled. ‘Well, I didn’t get these knees out for nothing. If I can’t dance with a bridesmaid, I’m dancing with the bride!’
He dragged her onto the dance floor, and spun her round and round. Innocent bydancers were scattered from their path, as Sean twirled his partner with more enthusiasm and gusto than expertise, until the groom decid
ed it was time to rescue his new wife.
‘You’re gonna do someone a damage mate.’ Patrick detached Jess from his friend’s exertions. ‘Find your own girl to fling about the place.’
Jess took a second to regain her breath before joining in. ‘Quite right. I’m sure we can find you a nice girl somewhere amongst my friends.’
Patrick laughed. ‘This time next year. Back in your kilt. Doing one of your weird Scottish dances with your new bride?’
Sean felt his face tense but he didn’t reply beyond a small shake of his head. He could feel Patrick looking at him with customary concern. They’d been friends since what Sean still thought of as his ‘Lost Months’, living in Edinburgh straight after ‘The Breakup’, and Patrick remained on the lookout for a return to those moods, no matter how many times Sean pointed out that the best part of a decade had passed. The silence sat in the middle of the group for slightly longer than was comfortable.
Patrick turned to his bride. ‘So, how about a dance with me? A slower dance?’
Jess nodded, and the pair stepped back onto the floor. Sean watched them. He was actually enjoying the wedding. It was several orders of bridal magazine magnitude removed from his own tiny registry office affair. On the dance floor, the happy couple turned and swayed, wrapped in each other’s arms. There was something exclusive about their togetherness. You could see, right in that moment, that they only needed one another. Sean turned away.
Across the room something else caught his eye, and lifted his spirits. He walked over to the huge Christmas tree and appraised it. Not dropping much, but you’d expect that with a Nordmann fir. Nice shape. Tall. He wondered how much the hotel had paid for it. The decorations were corporate-classy. Not the right approach, in Sean’s opinion. Tree decorations should be personal and have stories attached to them. This was a bit too tidy for his liking. He glanced upwards and realised he was standing beneath a large sprig of mistletoe. His habitual good humour cooled a little. Such a waste.
He turned to walk back towards the dance floor.
And it happened.
A body crashed into his, as he turned without looking. He put out his hands to support the elusive non-dancing bridesmaid who was momentarily pressed against him. His fingers brushed against satin covering soft flesh. His nostrils were filled with the scent of the shampoo from her thick red hair. He blinked. Michelle rested against his body for a second and then staggered backwards, pushing her hand onto his chest for balance.
‘I’m sorry.’ She stood up straight. ‘Sorry.’
‘Are you Ok?’
‘I’m fine.’ She gestured vaguely towards the bar. ‘I have things to see to.’
He paused, but only for a second, before he jumped in. ‘But you owe me a kiss.’
Sean surprised himself. He looked at the woman in front of him again. Long wavy red hair, pale white skin, bright blue eyes. Something unfamiliar started to stir in the back of his mind. He flicked his eyes upwards towards the beam, which supported the large sprig of mistletoe directly above them.
‘Who put that there?’ she said.
‘What?’
She was frowning. ‘There was only supposed to be mistletoe over Jess and Patrick’s seats at the top table.’
She glared at the offending decoration, as if the mistletoe had placed itself on the beam with the express purpose of annoying her.
‘What does it matter who put it there? It’s Christmas.’
‘It’s not Christmas for another three days.’
‘It’s near enough. We’re under the mistletoe. It’s probably bad luck or something not to kiss.’ He grinned at her, a soft playful grin that felt strange to him, like something from a different age.
‘Bad luck?’ He watched Michelle’s expression switch from irritation to incredulity. ‘What about all the horrid diseases you can catch from kissing?’
Bit harsh, Sean thought. ‘I don’t have any horrible diseases.’
She shook her head. ‘Well I might have. You barely know me.’
Sean grinned again. ‘I’ll take my chances. I don’t have a choice. We’re standing under mistletoe. We’d be breaking an important law of Christmas.’
‘There’s no such thing as a law of Christmas.’
‘Of course there is. There’s loads of things you have to do at Christmas.’ Sean sensed he wasn’t winning the argument. ‘Well maybe it’s not an actual law. Strong convention. We’d be breaking a strong convention of Christmas.’
‘Go on! Kiss him!’ Jess’s voice carried over the music from the edge of the dance floor. Michelle glared at her friend, and sighed.
‘Fine.’ She lifted her face and puckered her lips.
Sean bent his head to meet her. Without thinking he moved his hand towards her cheek as their lips edged closer. The scent of her skin, the sound of her breath, the warmth of her body, started to play on his senses. He leaned forward, just a fraction more. He was a moment away from her lips. Just one moment.
Crash.
She jumped away from him at the sound. At the far side of the dance floor a waiter slipped and dropped a perfectly balanced tray of canapés to the floor. Michelle pointed in the direction of the unfortunate waiter. ‘I’d better go and …’
Sean watched her stride away. She was all the way across the room before he noticed that he was holding his breath. Slowly, he exhaled.
Chapter Three
Two days before Christmas, 2013
Michelle’s taxi drew up to the drop-off point at Heathrow Airport. Snow was starting to fall as she paid the driver and stepped out onto the pavement. Michelle shivered. She’d always hated winter. Right from the point, usually sometime in the middle of October, when the first person gestured towards the darkening sky and told her it was starting to look Christmassy, she could happily avoid the whole season. Given the option, Michelle thought, she’d probably prefer to hibernate until spring. The thought that this time tomorrow she’d be sipping a cocktail on the beach in the Cayman Islands was the only thing keeping her from jumping straight back into the cab and demanding a ride to the nearest place with central heating.
Her case seemed to have got heavier since she left the hotel. By the time she’d navigated her way to the right check-in area she was sweating despite the cold. Waiting in the queue, she unwrapped her scarf from around her neck and started to undo her heavy duffle coat. At least once she was on the plane she wouldn’t have to put those back on for another two weeks.
The doubt she’d been fighting, ever since she’d clicked ‘Book’ on the online travel site, popped back into her head. It was so much money. Could she really justify it when she spent her working life telling her clients not to overspend? She swallowed. It was what her mother had wanted. A small inheritance, not much once the funeral was paid for, but enough to allow Michelle to take the holiday of a lifetime. That was what her mother, quite uncharacteristically, had instructed her to do, and it was up to Michelle to ensure that is was worth every penny.
With her coat balanced on top of her suitcase she took a moment to look around. The queue for check-in was nearly all adults. The Caribbean at Christmas must be a preference of those without young families. She glanced around again. The queue was also exclusively couples, apart from Michelle. She stood up straight. There was no shame in going on holiday alone. In fact, she’d probably have a better time than all these women with boyfriends or husbands in tow. She wouldn’t be worrying about making someone else happy.
Michelle spent the whole year sorting out other people’s problems: planning Jess’s wedding; helping Jess move; running around after her boss; running around after her clients. She remembered her mother’s instructions: ‘Put yourself first, Michelle.’ That was the plan.
The couple in front of her embarked on a sloppy and prolonged kiss. Michelle looked away, decidedly ignoring the memory rushing into her mind of a moment that got away. She was definitely better off on her own.
The queue inched forward, until Michelle was called in
front of a smiling check-in assistant with tinsel pinned to her uniform and reindeer antlers on her head.
‘Merry Christmas!’
Michelle didn’t reply. It might be nearly Christmas. That didn’t mean she had to pander to the fact. She lifted her bag onto the conveyer and held her ticket and passport out to the assistant.
‘Thank you, Miss ...’ the woman glanced down at the passport, ‘… Jolly! Oooh, how festive!’
Yeah. Nothing beat being called Jolly at Christmastime. She caught the check-in woman looking at her full name. Holly Michelle Jolly. She could see that another set of jokes she’d heard a thousand times before were already forming in the woman’s mind.
‘I use Michelle.’
The woman suppressed a smirk. ‘Did you pack this bag yourself Miss Jolly?’
‘Yes.’
‘And has anyone asked you to take any items on the flight with you?’ The girl asked the question by rote, in the sing-song voice of someone so used to saying the words that they’d forgotten the meaning a long time ago.
Michelle shook her head.
‘Excellent. Window or aisle?’
Michelle paused. She did prefer a window seat. She remembered the one time she’d been on an aeroplane with her dad, and how he’d let her take the window seat. She’d been transfixed by the sight of the clouds drifting below them. Knowing her luck though, she’d get sat next to someone who’d stink to high heaven, regale her with stories of what they’d got up to at their office Christmas party, and then fall fast asleep for the next seven hours, leaving her pinned in her seat. Aisle would mean she could get up and stretch her legs. She didn’t want to risk a deep vein thrombosis.
‘Aisle, please.’
The assistant tapped a few keys, before another thought struck Michelle. She remembered a documentary she’d watched about plane crashes, and how to survive them.
‘And within seven rows of an exit.’
The woman raised an eyebrow, and tapped the keys some more. Eventually the boarding pass printed out.
