An Offer You Can't Refuse

by Jill Mansell

  Another pause. He took a step closer and leaned forward, causing her to suck in her breath…

  ‘It was almost the most important thing in the world to you.’ Doug whispered the words in her ear. ‘Remember? It came in second, behind money.’

  Which put a bit of a dampener on a potentially promising moment. Doug turned and headed back to the living room and Lola paid her visit to the bathroom, which was white and modern and thankfully devoid of girly toiletries. Careful not to clink the bottle against the glass shelf, she unscrewed the top of Doug’s aftershave and inhaled. It never failed to astound her that smells could be so evocative. Christmas trees, her mum’s chocolate cake, fireworks, Ambre Solaire… so many smells, each triggering a different memory, and now she had Doug’s distinctive aftershave added to the list, one more unique scent with the ability to transport her back to the night she’d met him again, the power to make her knees go weak with longing.

  And it would still be happening when she was ninety.

  OK, better put the bottle back on the shelf before she dropped it into the sink; that would be a giveaway. Time to say her goodbyes and leave. Gazing at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, Lola pinched her cheeks and jooshed up her hair. With a bit of luck, what with everyone being jolly and wishing each other Happy Christmas, she might get the chance to give Doug a festive hug and a fleeting kiss on the cheek.

  Not much to pin your hopes on, maybe. But every little helped.

  ***

  ‘Oh, come here, don’t you look gorgeous, where did you get that scarf?’ Blythe flung open the front door and enveloped her daughter in her arms. As the car pulled away and disappeared up the road she said, ‘Did somebody give you a lift? Why didn’t you invite them in for a drink?’

  Lola closed her eyes and reveled in being in her mother’s arms; at least it wasn’t going to be a completely hug-free evening. And yes, she was looking gorgeous, not that it had had the desired effect.

  ‘I would have,’ she fibbed, ‘but they were in a hurry. It was Doug.’

  ‘Doug? You mean Dougie Tennant?’ Blythe exclaimed. ‘Oh, he was always such a dear boy—I’d love to have seen him again. You should have forced him to come in!’

  Oh yes, and wouldn’t that have been relaxing? Earlier, as they’d all been preparing to leave Dougie’s flat, Lola had briefly cornered him and murmured, ‘By the way, my mum doesn’t know about the money thing, OK? I’d rather she didn’t find out.’

  Doug had given her one of his withering looks, the kind that made her insides curdle with shame. ‘I’ll bet you don’t.’

  It was horrible but there was nothing she could do. And she hadn’t been able to risk not warning him, because there was always the chance that Blythe could have come rushing out of the house, blurting out anything. As far as she was aware, Lola had known that Dougie’s mother disapproved of their relationship but that was all. The decision to finish with Dougie and move to Majorca had been Lola’s alone, typically impetuous and possibly foolhardy, and based on Lola’s decision that a long-term, long-distance relationship with Dougie could never work out.

  ‘But if he gave you a lift over here, that’s a good sign, isn’t it?’ Now, studying her daughter’s face, Blythe said hopefully, ‘Do you think he might be starting to forgive you yet?’

  ‘Mum, stop it, don’t get carried away.’ Phew, just as well Doug had driven off at the speed of light; Lola envisaged her mother telling him that there were worse things in life than a bit of wounded pride. Hurriedly she nipped her mother’s fantasies in the bud—it was bad enough being disappointed by her own. ‘He’s with his girlfriend. I went over to his flat with Sally. He only gave me a lift because she forced him to.’ Maybe she was being extra-suspicious but Lola also wondered if Doug had done it in order to avoid the festive goodbye hug-and-a-kiss. When she’d clambered out of the back of the Mercedes with her bags of presents, he’d pretty much made reaching him a physical impossibility by remaining in the driver’s seat with Isabel next to him.

  Had that been deliberate?

  ‘Oh well, never mind. Men and their silly egos.’ Blythe was nothing if not supportive. ‘Come on inside, it’s freezing out here. We’re going to have such a lovely time,’ she went on proudly. ‘I’ve got smoked salmon and Madagascan king prawns from Marks and Spencer. Your favorites.’

  ***

  It was the not knowing how her mother might react that was causing Lola to hesitate. On the one hand she wanted, more than anything, to talk about her father.

  Not her stepfather, Alex. The biological one, Nick.

  On the other hand, it was Christmas morning and the very last thing she wanted to do was upset Blythe. Their family Christmases had always been extra-special, but since Alex’s death five years ago, she and her mother had made even more of an effort, drawing closer still, both of them treasuring this time together and cherishing all the shared happy memories that meant so much.

  Which was why, despite longing to raise the subject of Nick James, every time she geared herself up to do it Lola felt her stomach clench and the words stick in her throat. She had the number of his mobile keyed into her phone. Was he wondering why she hadn’t contacted him yet? It was Christmas Day and the schmaltzy, happy-ever-after side of her—the kind that wept buckets over the festive films shown on Hallmark—had dared to fantasize about blurting everything out to her mother, followed by Blythe getting all emotional and admitting that she’d made a terrible mistake all those years ago, and that she’d never stopped loving Nick. Cut to Nick, sitting alone in his flat on Christmas Day, gazing blankly out of the window at small children having a boisterous snowball fight outside in the street—because in Hallmark films it always snows on Christmas Day. A look of regret crosses his face; he made a mistake and has spent the last twenty-seven years paying for it. Blythe is still the only woman he’s ever loved, but it’s all too late now, she’s—

  The phone rings, brrrrrr brrrrrr. Nick hesitates then answers it. His eyes widen in wonder as he whispers, ‘Blythe?’

  Cut to: a sunny, snowy hill overlooking an insanely picturesque London. Lola, wearing her beautiful sparkly white scarf, sends Blythe up the hill ahead of her and sits down on a bench to wait. At the top of the hill, Nick paces nervously to and fro through the snow. Then he sees Blythe and everything goes into warm and fuzzy slow motion until somehow they’re in each other’s arms, spinning round and round in that way that can make you feel dizzy just watching them…

  Well, it could happen, couldn’t it?

  ‘Okey dokey, that’s the parsnips done.’ Wiping her hands on her blue striped apron, Blythe counted the saucepans and consulted her list. ‘Stuffing, check. Bread sauce, check. Chipolatas, bacon, baked onions, check check check. How are those carrots coming along?’

  ‘Finished.’ It was a ridiculous amount of work for one meal but that was tradition for you. They both enjoyed the whole cooking ritual. In fact, Lola discovered, while she’d been lost in her happy Hallmark reverie, she’d managed to peel and chop enough carrots to feed the entire street.

  ‘Ready for a top-up?’ Blythe took the bottle of sparkling Freixenet from the fridge and gaily refilled their glasses. ‘That skirt’s wonderful on you. And the belt’s perfect with it. Oh, sweetie pie, I love you so much, give me a hug.’

  Mum, guess whose number I’ve got stored on my phone…?

  Mum, remember when I was born…?

  Mum, you know how sometimes you bump into someone you haven’t seen for years…?

  Still the words wouldn’t come. As Blythe wrapped her in a Fracas-scented embrace, Lola decided to wait until lunch was over. Maybe this afternoon, when they were relaxing together in front of the fire eating Thornton’s truffles, she could casually slide the conversation round to the opposite sex in general, then old boyfriends in particular and how they might have changed since they’d last seen them— />
  ‘Ooh, I’ll get that.’ Blythe darted across the kitchen as the phone began to ring. ‘It’s probably Malcolm, calling from his sister’s in Cardiff.’

  It was Malcolm. Lola popped a chunk of carrot into her mouth, tipped the rest into a pan of sugared and salted water, and went upstairs to the bathroom. By the time she came back down, her mother was off the phone.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Lola.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Blythe’s freckles always seemed to become more prominent when she was feeling guilty. ‘That was Malcolm.’

  ‘I know. He’s staying with his sister’s family in Cardiff.’ Malcolm was a divorcee whose son was serving overseas in the army.

  Blythe leaned against the dishwasher. ‘He was. But now he’s back. His sister’s mother-in-law had a heart attack yesterday afternoon and they all had to rush up to the hospital in Glasgow. She’s in intensive care, poor thing, and it’s touch and go. But poor Malcolm too,’ Blythe went on pleadingly. ‘He had to drive back from Cardiff last night and now he’s all on his own at home.’

  Lola experienced a sinking sensation in her stomach, like water spiraling down a plughole.

  ‘Can you imagine?’ Blythe’s eyes widened. ‘On Christmas Day.’

  It was so obvious what was coming next. Lola wanted to wail ‘Noooo’ and hated herself for it. She wished she was less selfish, more generous, one of those genuinely kind people who wouldn’t hesitate for a second to suggest what she knew perfectly well Blythe was about to suggest.

  ‘On his own,’ Blythe prompted.

  The frustrated ten-year-old inside Lola was now stamping her foot and yelling, But it’s not fair, this is our Christmas and now it’s all going to be spoiled.

  The grown-up, rational twenty-seven-year-old Lola fiddled with a teaspoon and said, ‘Doesn’t he have any other friends he could spend the day with?’

  ‘I don’t suppose he wants to be a burden.’ Her mother tilted her head to one side, the diamanté clip Lola had bought her from Butler and Wilson glittering in her coppery hair. ‘Everyone has their own families.’

  So he has to pick on ours, bawled the bratty ten-year-old Lola. No, Mummy, make the nasty man go away, I don’t want him here!

  God, she was horrible. How could she even think that? Awash with shame and self-loathing, Lola forced herself to say brightly, ‘So he’s coming over?’

  ‘Is that all right, love? You don’t mind, do you?’ Which meant the invitation had already been extended and accepted. ‘Dear Malcolm, if it was the other way round he’d be inviting us to stay. He’s an absolute sweetheart. If ever anyone needs any help he’s there like a shot.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ Disappointment hit Lola like a brick. Bang went the opportunity to raise the subject of her real father.

  ‘Thanks, love.’ Beaming with relief, Blythe slotted a new compilation CD into the hi-fi. ‘You’re an angel. We’ll have a lovely day together.’ Then she clapped her hands as, in his familiar raspy voice, Bruce Springsteen began to sing ‘Merry Christmas, Baby.’ ‘Oh, my favorite! Did I ever tell you I used to lust after Bruce Springsteen? Those skintight jeans, that sexy red bandanna, those beautiful dark eyes…’

  Yeek, and now she was dancing around the kitchen in a scarily early eighties way. This was her mother; once upon a time she had lusted after snake-hipped gypsy-eyed Bruce Springsteen and now she was involved with Malcolm Parker who sported patterned sweaters, hideous sandals and the world’s bushiest beard.

  This was what getting older did to you, Lola realized. Your priorities shifted and you truly began to believe that things like hairy-hobbity toes weren’t so bad after all.

  Please, God, don’t ever let that happen to me.

  Chapter 25

  ‘Ho ho ho! Happy Christmas one and all!’ In celebration of the day, Malcolm was wearing a bright red, Santa-sized sweater over his plaid shirt and bottle-green corduroys. As he made his way into the house he grazed Blythe’s cheek with a kiss and beamed at Lola. ‘Well, this is a treat! How kind of you both to invite me. I hope it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t.’ Lola felt ashamed of herself; he was a sweet man, if not what you’d call a heart-throb. And at least he wasn’t wearing sandals today, so the hairy toes weren’t on show.

  ‘The more the merrier,’ Blythe gaily insisted. ‘Come on through to the living room. We’re going to have a lovely day!’

  Lola watched Malcolm sit down and realized that for the rest of the day, instead of sharing the comfortable squashy sofa with her mother, she was relegated to the slightly less comfortable armchair with its less good view of the TV.

  ‘I didn’t know if you had a Monopoly set, so I brought my own.’ Triumphantly Malcolm produced it from his khaki haversack. ‘Nothing like a few games of Monopoly to get Christmas going with a swing! Those people who just sit around like puddings watching rubbish on TV… what are they like, eh? They don’t know what they’re missing!’

  Lola, who couldn’t bear Monopoly and had been banking on sitting like a pudding watching TV, said brightly, ‘What can I get you to drink, Malcolm?’

  And it wasn’t rubbish.

  Evidently detecting the bat-squeak of panic in her voice, he looked anxious. ‘Unless you don’t like playing Monopoly?’

  ‘Of course we do, Malcolm.’ Blythe rushed to reassure him. ‘We love it!’

  ***

  The day was long. Verrrrrry lonnnnnng. Being relentlessly nice and having to pretend you were having so much fun had been exhausting. By ten o’clock, with Malcolm still showing no sign of leaving, Lola conceded defeat. Faking a few enormous yawns, she made her excuses and kissed Blythe goodnight.

  ‘Sure I can’t tempt you to one last game of Monopoly?’ Malcolm’s tone was jovial, his eyes bright with hope.

  ‘Thanks, Malcolm, but I just can’t stay awake.’ Poor chap, it wasn’t his fault he was boring. ‘I’m off up to bed.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not because I’m dull company, ha ha ha!’ Crumbs from the slice of fruit cake he’d been eating quivered in his beard as he beamed at Blythe. ‘You’d tell me if I was, wouldn’t you?’

  The thing was, people said that, but they didn’t actually mean it; if you told them how staggeringly dull they were, they’d be shocked and hurt.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Malcolm.’ Cheerily Blythe said, ‘How about a nice drop of Scotch to go with that fruit cake?’

  Upstairs in her old bedroom Lola sat up in bed with a book and tried hard to feel more like Mother Teresa, less like a selfish spoilt brat. Malcolm’s last words to her had been, ‘Thanks for being so welcoming, pet. I tell you, this has been one of the best Christmases of my life.’

  Which had brought a bit of a lump to her throat. Because Malcolm was a sweet, genuinely good man who had given up his Sundays for years to do volunteer dog-walking, and who would never say anything unkind about anyone. He would never hurt Blythe.

  But he was no Bruce Springsteen either. He wasn’t even Bruce Springsteen’s older, grizzled, weather-beaten uncle. Lola really, really hoped he wasn’t going to spend the night here… oh God, how did other people with parents-who-were-dating-again cope when their parents chose partners who just weren’t… well, right?

  The book wasn’t holding her attention. After a couple of chapters Lola gave up and listened to the murmuring voices of Malcolm and her mother downstairs in the living room. She couldn’t make out what they were saying but at least the fact that they were saying something meant they weren’t… urrghh, snogging on the sofa.

  Reaching for her mobile, Lola scrolled through the address book until she found Nick James’s number.

  As it began to ring at the other end she felt her chest fill with butterflies and, panicking, pressed Cancel.

  OK, this was ridiculous. He was her father. It was allowed.

>   Taking deep breaths she rang again. Had he spent the last five days waiting for this moment, getting all jumpy every time his phone burst into life, then being disappointed each time it wasn’t her?

  Or, or, what if she’d been a disappointment to him and he’d decided he didn’t need a daughter like her in his life after all? What if he’d hastily changed his number? Oh God, what if it had been a fake one all along?

  Five rings. Six rings. Any moment now it was going to click onto answerphone and she’d have to decide whether to leave a—

  ‘Hello?’

  Whoosh, in a split second all Lola’s nerves vanished. His voice was as warm and friendly as she remembered.

  ‘Nick?’ She couldn’t call him Dad, that would feel too weird. ‘Hi, it’s… um, Lola.’

  ‘Lola.’ She heard him exhale. Then, sounding as if he was smiling, he said, ‘Thank God. You don’t know how glad I am to hear from you. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t.’

  She waggled her toes with relief. ‘And I was just wondering if you’d given me a made-up number.’

  ‘You seriously thought I’d do that?’

  ‘Well, I was dressed as a rabbit. It could put some people off.’

  ‘I’m made of sterner stuff than that. Hey, Merry Christmas.’

  Lola grinned, because her actual biological father was wishing her a Merry Christmas. How cool was that? ‘You too. Where are you?’

  ‘Just got home. Spent the day with friends in Hampstead. How about you?’

  Thank goodness he hadn’t been on his own; that would have been just awful.

  ‘I’m at Mum’s house.’

  He sounded pleased. ‘You mean you’ve told her?’

  ‘Um, no.’ Realizing that he thought Blythe was in the room with her now, Lola said, ‘I wanted to, I was going to, then this friend of hers turned up and I couldn’t. They’re downstairs. I’m up here in bed. Too much Monopoly takes it out of you.’