Cold Feet at Christmas

by Debbie Johnson

  He wanted her to come to Chicago, he’d said, and now he seemed to be laying down his ground rules. It was all a bit confusing, if she was honest; and not helped by the sight of his backside right at eye level in snug fitting white jersey boxers. What was a woman to do? She was supposed to be discussing life plans and all she could think about was sinking her teeth into those spectacularly sculpted cheeks.

  It would probably help if she paid more attention to what he was actually saying and not what he – or his bottom - was doing. Listen up, Miss Harvey, she told herself – you may be tested afterwards.

  “Okay, that’s fine.” she replied, on auto-pilot, looking up to his face. Now she was distracted by the way his golden skin contrasted with the brilliant white cotton of his shirt. Nightmare. She gave herself a mental slap.

  “Sorry, Rob. I wasn’t really listening. What did you say again? Once more for the dunce in the corner?”

  He shook his head, looked a bit exasperated, and said: “I was explaining that if you decide to come, it won’t be as my lover.”

  “Okay. What would I be then?”

  “You’d be my… Hell, I don’t know! But I do know you need a fresh start. A new life – you said it yourself. What better way to do that than in a different country? A different time zone? A different world?”

  “But what will I do there? I’ve never been out of Europe. I was supposed to go to the Caribbean for my honeymoon, but, well, I got waylaid.”

  “You can cook, like you do here. I know you’re talented, and I can tell you’d miss it if you gave it up. You’re lucky to have a passion, and you should pursue it. I have a big business. I always need catering. I have meetings, parties, functions, dinners. Anything from two people to five hundred. You can start off with that, until you find your feet and get work of your own. I’ll help you get started. But as a friend – no sex involved. We both move on.”

  “Move on.” she echoed, quietly. Move on from this man. From his body. From his touch. From his warmth; his sense of humour, his kindness. His deeply buried pain that she’d never be able to heal. From her own past. The death of her parents. The marriage that never was. Move on from all of that – but also with him, to Chicago?

  Was she capable of such a thing? She wasn’t sure she was that good with change. There’d been too much change when she was younger, and clinging to Doug had been her way of avoiding it since.

  Now she’d moved on to Rob Cavelli, the man who’d given her more orgasms in the last couple of days than anyone else in the rest of her life. The man who made her smile and laugh and feel good about herself.

  The man who had been brutally honest about the fact he could never, ever love her. The no entry sign remained firmly in place – despite the enforced closeness of the last few days, their conversations had never left the realm of superficial and flirty. He’d never mentioned his wife, and they’d avoided any topic likely to make one of them upset.

  They’d been together – but not.

  And now, he was offering her this amazing chance to recreate herself exactly at the time she needed it most, while at the same time telling her it was time to move on? What were his motives, she wondered? If he didn’t want any more sex, was it out of friendship? Concern? Gratitude for a good lay? God only knew, and he wasn’t telling.

  She hadn’t asked for any of this, but she needed to think about it. About herself, about her motivations – about the way she’d half lived her life up until now. She knew now, with the brutal surge of truth that hindsight brought, that she’d been piggy backing onto Doug’s life for a long time. He offered her the security she needed, a ready-made existence she could move into that she’d thought of as safe. This man – this move to Chicago – would be far from safe, she knew. But the security of her previous life had all turned out to be a myth anyway.

  She had to acknowledge to herself that she had, to some extent at least, used Doug. Not that it excused what he did on their wedding day, but, perhaps he’d sensed it without ever voicing it. She’d used him for security. For the chance to share her nights with someone who understood when the nightmares about her parents came.

  He was older, he had a business, a home, a fully fledged existence for her to move straight in to. She’d never really tried to make it on her own. Becoming Doug’s girlfriend had meant she never had to. She’d flailed around after her parents died, lost and lonely, and grasped at the chance to move in with him when they’d only been together for a few weeks. She’d never really learned to stand on her own two feet.

  Maybe it was time to begin. Or at the very least to try. And Rob – Mr Not As A Lover – was offering her a head start.

  She stood up decisively, grabbed the nearest towel, and tied it around his waist. She needed a clear mind. He raised his eyebrows at her in the mirror, but stayed quiet.

  “Not as a lover. Okay, I get that. That would be important for both of us, the no bonking thing,” she said, thinking it over. It was easier to concentrate now all that tanned, muscular flesh was covered up.

  He was right. Of course he was right. She was never going to be independent if she was in Rob’s bed every night, was she? She’d become a sex addict and have to go to support groups in church halls, for goodness’ sake. And of course she could cook. Americans had to eat as well. It could be the best thing that ever happened to her, if she could pull it off. Her Christmas fantasy with Rob was over, but the rest of her life – with herself – could just be starting. It was an adventure. It was an opportunity. It was the freshest of fresh starts she could have imagined.

  “Yes. You’re definitely right. And if you can stick to it, so can I. I’ll come with you, yes. I’ll try and make it on my own, with a bit of help at the start. But before we do that moving on thing, Rob, before we give up the bedroom stuff, I have to say, for the record, that this has been the best bloody sex I’ve ever had. If you ever need, you know, a reference or anything, I’m your girl. Honestly, I’ve come so much in the last 24 hours I think I might have used up a year’s supply.”

  “Ouch,” he said, as his usually steady hand slipped with the razor. “Please don’t talk like that while I have a sharp piece of metal held to my throat.”

  “Sorry! But while I have you as a captive audience, maybe I should make my big speech. This place has been magic, Rob. I know we can only ever be friends, and I’m okay with that. I don’t need a relationship right now, with anyone other than me. I need to learn how to be independent again, how to enjoy my own company. How to be strong again, alone, for the first time since my parents died.

  “But this has been special. No, don’t talk, or nod – wouldn’t want you to bleed out. You’ve said your piece, this is mine. The last few days have been amazing. I’ve enjoyed all of it. Especially the naked parts. I’ve done things I’ve never even imagined. Things I didn’t know were physically possible. Things that are probably illegal in some states of America.

  “Now I know what’s possible between a man and a woman, what sensational things my body is capable of feeling, well, I’ll be looking for more of it. I mean, you can’t be the only man in the world who makes me feel like that, can you? Maybe I’ve just been unlucky so far. I’ll have to work my way through a few more ’til I hit gold again, probably kiss a few frogs before I find a prince, but I feel like for the first time, I understand why women obsess about sex as much as they do! So thank you. Not just for this offer, but for everything.”

  Rob was silent as she drew to the end of her ramble. Silent, he noticed, and covered in nicks from his shaving hand slipping again and again and again. Jesus, he thought, reaching for the towel. He was lucky he hadn’t decapitated himself, listening to that speech. Sex. Orgasms. Nudity. And, other men? Kissing frogs? Kissing anyone?

  He was fine with that he told himself, as he washed blood from his face. Absolutely fine. It was only natural she’d want to meet other men, and wasn’t he the one who’d just been urging her to move on? And wasn’t he apparently the one who’d unleashed her sense
of lust? He’d stoked the fires, and now it was ready to rage through the unwitting male population of Chicago – how incredibly clever of him. Well, the male population would be very grateful. They’d probably erect a plaque, or build a statue in Grant Park.

  But that was okay. He wouldn’t have to watch. He doubted he’d be around in her life for long anyway – she’d spread her wings and fly within weeks. She had real talent; she had that great plummy accent going for her; that contagiously fun personality. Not to mention looking like a sex goddess you could pick up and carry round in your pocket. She’d find a new boyfriend without any problems, and…he was fine with it. Absolutely fine.

  He started to feel a headache coming on.

  Chapter 7

  The snow had cleared the very next day, enough for them to hike to the end of the path, where the magical two bars appeared on Rob’s mobile. His driver arrived a few hours later, to whisk them both to the airport. If he wondered who the mystery girl was, he was too well-trained to ask. It was, Rob knew, ridiculously sudden – but somehow it also felt ridiculously right.

  Leah just smiled at him nervously, feeling slightly slutty, and kept a tight grip of her handbag. Contents: make-up, phone (no charger), passport (thank God) and now, no condoms at all. The ultimate walk of shame.

  Just days ago she should have been marrying Doug, and instead she was on her way to another country with a man she barely knew. Well, whatever happened when she got there, she knew one thing for sure – there was nothing left for her in London. Not Doug, definitely. Even if she didn’t hate him quite as much as circumstances suggested she should, it was definitely over between them. She didn’t have many close friends. Her parents were dead. There was no reason at all to stay – not when she’d had this weird and wonderful offer.

  She’d realised, though, as soon as the car pulled up at the end of the path, that Mr Cavelli’s world was very different from the world of ‘her’ Rob. Her Rob didn’t shave for days on end, and slummed around in Levis and sweatshirts. Her Rob smiled and laughed and did very rude things to her. This Rob – the real Rob she supposed – was a different creature.

  He was polite to the driver, but distant. He didn’t even look twice at the fact that he was in a shiny black Porsche Cayenne. He didn’t even notice when they did a drive-through check-in to the first-class departures lounge. He was too busy talking on his phone, using a language she didn’t understand – Dow Jones and mergers and a type of footsie she was sure you couldn’t play under the table.

  There was a laptop, with a screen that seemed to cast some kind of magic spell – once the lid was lifted, Rob got sucked into an alternate universe. One that barely allowed him time to breathe, never mind eat, drink, converse or flirt.

  Didn’t stop him looking gorgeous, though, she noticed, flicking a glance at the man next to her, perfectly tailored shirt doing nothing to hide the bulk of his shoulders, long legs stretched a mile out in front of him. He sure wouldn’t survive a nine-hour flight in economy.

  Luckily, ‘economy’ didn’t seem to be a word that applied in his world. The man she’d found hiding away in a remote stone cottage with its own dodgy generator was obviously rich. So much for living on cheese on toast and eking out a living as an artist. He may have issues – but money wasn’t one of them.

  At his insistence, at the airport she acquired a whole new suitcase of clothes. In a whole new suitcase. When she’d protested that she didn’t have her cashcards with her and would make do with what she had, he just looked at her like she was insane.

  “Right,” he said. “That’ll work. Which outfit are you planning to go for? The muddy wedding dress or the porn star T-shirt? Don’t be crazy. I can afford it. There’s a lot of money to be made in the reindeer business. And if you really want to, once you’re settled, you can pay me back. Cook me dinner. Whatever.”

  It sounded sensible at the time, but as she surveyed the shamefully thick bundle of receipts shoved into her bag, she wasn’t so sure. They could prop up a wonky table leg, there were so many. The airport shops were in a strange post-Christmas, pre-New Year frenzy, decorations looking frayed around the edges and ‘sale’ signs starting to emerge. And by the time she’d finished, they were all severely depleted of stock. There were slinky new jeans; boots made of butter-soft leather; a cashmere coat that buttoned all the way up to her chin. Toiletries and underwear and a brand new phone. She felt like a footballer’s wife, and was amazed at how much she enjoyed it. It seemed she was much more shallow than she’d ever realised. So much for independence.

  Makeover aside, by the time they boarded, she was still feeling dazed to be sitting on a plane to Chicago. It felt surreal. Like it was happening to somebody else.

  It had been a rollercoaster of a week. Her whole life had been turned upside down, and to her surprise, she was enjoying the topsy turvy view a lot more than the old one. She was starting to wonder if she had some kind of personality disorder. It was like a switch had been flicked inside her; all the pain and turmoil had been blocked out, replaced by a sense of hope and excitement and pleasant confusion. She’d gone from ruined bride to bright-eyed émigré in just a few days. Entirely possibly, she knew, she was heading for a giant fall. She’d been running full-pelt on adrenaline and sex this week, and that was the kind of fuel that never got you very far.

  There was still so much she needed to do, she thought, as she settled down for the journey. Talk to Doug mainly; and be a grown-up about it. Face up to the conversation she was dreading having. Get her stuff shipped over. Talk to her bank. Boring, necessary things; things she didn’t want to even think about right now.

  This was the start of a whole new phase in her life. A phase where she could recreate herself. Be the strong, independent woman she wanted to be. Get her own flat. Her own job. Learn about a new culinary tradition – Chicago urban. Gourmet deep pan and posh hot dogs and the blend of cultures and tastes that all brewed up in US cooking.

  She’d make new friends. Explore new places. Take up yoga. Grow her own herbs. Learn to play the violin. And, she added to the list, buy a bloody big vibrator – because the fragrant man-God next to her had opened floodgates she never wanted to close.

  He looked so stern, so serious; his dark head bent to the laptop, his fingers tapping a tense rhythm on the arm rest. If ever a body was created to carry a suit, it was his. Everything fitted so perfectly. Shirt open a couple of buttons at the top, silky black hair just peeking out. Midnight shadow already starting to spread across the hard line of his jaw. Lush.

  The only problem with flying first class, Leah decided, was the leg room. There was just too damn much of it. No excuses to bump hips; touch thighs, or accidentally fall asleep on the firm ridge of a shoulder.

  “You’re staring at me,” he said, not moving his eyes from the screen. “Are you thinking bad things?”

  “Of course not,” she replied. “We’re just friends these days, Rob. No hanky panky allowed. I look at you and I see nothing. I feel nothing. And I certainly do not, under any circumstances, imagine asking for a blanket, throwing it over your lap, putting my hand down your pants and giving you some in-flight entertainment.”

  He sighed, loudly. Paused. Slammed the lid of the computer shut.

  “Jesus, Leah,” he said. “What are you trying to do to me?”

  Her gaze flickered down to his groin. Sure enough, the material of his trousers was starting to tent in a very satisfying way. She felt an answering throb beating somewhere in her La Senza knickers, and realised no sex toy was ever going to come up to these standards.

  “Hmmm. That’s a good question. Do you fancy visiting the loo with me? Then we can figure out exactly what it is I’m trying to do to you? The way I see it, we’re not in Chicago yet. The just friends thing shouldn’t really start until then…I mean, we’re still in international air space. There’s probably some kind of diplomatic treaty that says it’s okay for us to have one last tumble.”

  He met her look. As usual, he felt any
resolve he thought he had soften in direct correlation to other parts of him becoming hard. Maybe she was right. One more for the road? Not classy, that’s true; but something about the idea of a quickie in close quarters had a certain appeal. He smiled, and his hand reached out to hers. What the hell…

  She climbed over him, clambering into the aisle and casting him a saucy look as she went. How long should he give it, he wondered, before he followed?

  He was halfway out of his seat when the familiar ding of the announcement bell sounded.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” came the slow, rehearsed drone of the pilot’s voice, “we’ve made excellent time on our flight today, and I’m pleased to tell you we’ll be touching down in Chicago forty minutes ahead of schedule. Please return to your seats and put on your seatbelts in preparation for our descent and landing. Cabin crew will be round shortly.”

  Oh, thought Leah, locked away in the first class bathroom, top already halfway over her head. Bummer.

  Chapter 8

  “It looks like Oz. I should be wearing ruby red shoes…” she murmured, gazing out of the window of the limousine.

  They’d been picked up by Rob’s chauffeur at O’Hare International, and for the first twenty minutes or so, the drive had been disappointingly bland. For an exciting start to a new life, it had all looked amazingly dull – flat landscape, the usual advertising hoardings, little in the way of greenery. She could have been in any suburb, anywhere. It looked like Heathrow, with more snow.

  Then, as they neared the centre of Chicago proper, it appeared in front of them, all at once: a shimmering city of skyscrapers, man-made towers of steel and brick reaching up to touch the dusky-grey December heavens; concrete fingers stretching high to poke the sodden clouds.

  It was breath-taking.

  The car navigated its way through a mass of streets; jumbled, older neighbourhoods on the outskirts, into the massive, authoritarian thoroughfares of the Loop business district. More towers; a row of moving steel bridges over the Chicago River; offices and stores and coffee shops and apartment buildings and tiny pocket parks tucked away in hidden corners. Snow on the pavements, ice on the trees, frost on the cars. And the people. Scurrying around in the last of the light, dashing from one place to another, like busy worker ants sheltering under their umbrellas, collars turned up against the cold. Christmas lights draped from trees, coated in snow, glowing festive through the murky grey glimmer of late afternoon.