by Jill Mansell
Tasha was ignoring the texts; it wasn’t as if her friends weren’t used to her by now. They seemed far more bothered by her single status than she was and were endlessly attempting to set her up with men she wasn’t remotely interested in being set up with. Last night had been more of the same, a smart drinks party in Hampstead full of couples, apart from one unsuspecting person who’d been lured there on her behalf.
Poor chap.
God, it had been a nightmare. And he’d seemed so nice, that was the thing. His name had been Tom, he was decent looking and he worked as an accountant, which would come in incredibly handy. He’d been polite, interested in her, good company and well dressed.
She could almost – almost – have contemplated going out on a date with him, if not for one thing.
‘His what?’ hissed Jeannie in the kitchen. ‘His ears? What’s wrong with his ears?’
‘They’re hairy.’ Tasha hated saying the words; she knew just how she sounded.
Jeannie gave a so-what gesture. ‘He’s a man. These things happen.’
‘Yes, but it’s a bit yuck. I don’t like looking at them.’
‘So don’t look at them!’
‘But I’d still know they were there.’
‘And that’s the only thing wrong with him?’
Tasha shrugged helplessly; it probably wasn’t, but it was all she could concentrate on right now. ‘I can’t help the way I feel.’
‘Once you get to know him, though, you could make him shave them,’ Jeannie suggested. ‘You could treat him to a lovely pampering session and do it yourself with Veet!’
‘Do you have any idea how revolting that sounds?’ Just the thought of it made Tasha squirm.
‘I used to feel the same way about Barry’s toenails, and they don’t even bother me now!’
Worse and worse. Tasha said, ‘I need an early night anyway. I’m just going to sneak off.’
‘You’re way too fussy, that’s your problem. We find you all these lovely men and you don’t even give them a chance. There’s always something wrong with them.’
‘I’m not too fussy. They just have to be . . . right.’
‘You mean perfect.’ Jeannie was blunt. ‘And that’s your problem right there. You’re not perfect. No one is. If you’re holding out for a man with nothing at all wrong with him . . . well, you may as well give up now, because he doesn’t exist.’
Which was undoubtedly true, but Tasha still couldn’t help the way she felt.
Also, hairy ears. Yeurgh.
By midday, she was almost done; all but a couple of items had been crossed off her list. Leaving Marks & Spencer loaded up like a donkey, Tasha almost got her armfuls of bags squashed in the revolving door. She was overheated and feeling pretty claustrophobic in her big pink coat. As for her arms, well, two simply weren’t enough. Holding this much stuff was making them ache, and now she was such a cumbersome wide load, the bags and packages were inadvertently bashing into other people . . .
Right, this needed to be sorted out. Three of the items, ordered online and picked up in store, were far smaller than the boxes they’d been delivered in. Making an executive decision, Tasha put down the mountain of shopping, removed all the excess packaging and rearranged everything into a smaller number of bags. There, that was much better. Delighted with her organisational skills, she crammed the discarded cardboard into a nearby litter bin and shovelled the empty carriers in after them. Then, after flexing her aching shoulders, she gathered up the remaining full bags. OK, still heavy, but far easier to carry and less likely to knock small children to the ground.
And . . . back in control. All that remained to be picked up now was a box of Christmas crackers and the silver scarf for her mum and she was all done.
Pleased with herself, Tasha turned left and headed for the last shop. As she pushed open the door, her favourite Christmas song was playing and a blast of cool, deliciously scented air filled her lungs. She overheard a small girl say, ‘Mummy, look at that lady in the pink coat, she’s pretty,’ and quite suddenly all was right with the world. A wave of joy enveloped her. This afternoon she was flying off to see her mum in the South of France and they would spend Christmas together . . . what could be more perfect than that?
Twenty minutes later, all was no longer right with the world and icy fingers appeared to be closing around her heart, whilst her own fingers scrabbled desperately for the third time through her handbag and pockets.
‘It’s here somewhere. It has to be here, I had it in the last shop . . .’
The queue behind her had already begun to tut with irritation at the delay.
‘Better see if you left it there, then,’ said the singularly unsympathetic girl manning the payment desk.
‘But I know I didn’t leave it behind, I had it in my hand . . .’ It was impossible to mentally retrace your steps when Slade were bellowing MERRY CHRIIIIIIIISSSTMAAAAAS out of the tannoy and you were gripped with panic.
The man behind her in the queue said loudly, ‘Excuse me, my parking meter’s about to run out, can I pay for my stuff?’
‘Yes.’ The girl behind the till pushed Tasha’s items to one side and reached for the next customer’s basket.
Oh God, where was her credit card? What had she done with it? Feeling sick, Tasha searched through her pockets again. Three days ago, her debit card had snapped in half when she’d stupidly used it to clear ice from the car windscreen, and the replacement hadn’t arrived yet.
And now her credit card had vanished. Nightmare, nightmare.
‘If it’s been stolen, you need to cancel it,’ a woman in the queue reminded her.
Stolen . . .
Images of the card falling to the ground and being stealthily pocketed filled Tasha’s brain. They could rack up so much money on it, even in just twenty minutes. She nodded and said, ‘I don’t know the number to ring to report it stolen.’
‘Nor me,’ said the woman, adding helpfully, ‘But I know it’s printed on the back of your card.’
Gathering up her bags, Tasha turned and hurried out of the shop. When she’d been struggling to carry everything in M&S, she’d given up trying to fit the card back into her overstuffed purse. It was all coming back to her now; she’d slid it into one of the plastic carriers instead. Her heart galloped into optimistic overdrive at the realisation that the carrier bag was one of those she’d discarded during her Tetris-style reorganisation.
Which meant, fingers crossed . . . it should still be in the litter bin.
Out of breath and panting, Tasha stood and stared at the bin, relieved that it hadn’t been emptied but slightly put off by the amount of junk that had been crammed in since she’d left it, not least the upended polystyrene container now dripping the remains of an unwanted doner kebab over the items beneath it.
Life would be easier, too, if it could have been one of those topless bins that were open to the elements. But no, this was the rectangular kind with an enclosed roof and letter-box openings around the side. Although luckily a bit wider than an actual letter box.
Oh well, better get on with it. Tasha put her many bags down on the pavement, removed her pink woollen coat and rolled up the sleeves of her black dress . . .
Eurgh, this was truly gross. Within seconds her hand was gluey with chilli sauce, there were bits of shredded lettuce stuck to her bare arm and an upside-down McDonald’s cup was spilling melted ice cream over her too. There were cigarette butts in there, vinegar-soaked chips, and something repulsively slimy and unidentifiable.
‘Hungry, are we? If you’re that desperate, I’ll buy you a burger!’
Fabulous, just what she needed. A gaggle of teenage boys with skateboards and micro-scooters had gathered round to watch.
‘I saw an old drunk bloke puking up in that bin earlier,’ one of the boys called out.
‘He had a piss in it too.’ His friend, joining in, caused the rest of them to crack up.
OK, that wasn’t true, they were just saying it to wind her
up. Pointedly ignoring them, Tasha knelt down and leaned against the icy cast-iron bin, pushing her arm further into its grim depths. The boys were still sniggering, other shoppers were stopping to stare and she was floundering helplessly in the dark, trying to feel for a lone credit card inside a scrunched-up plastic bag . . .
‘Could you get your hand out of there?’ barked a hatchet-faced woman holding a coffee cup.
‘I’m just looking for something.’
‘Well I need to throw this in the bin and I’m in a hurry.’
‘Sorry, but—’
Too late: the woman had already lobbed the cardboard cup into the bin, leaving Tasha with an arm drenched in lukewarm cappuccino.
Under her breath she muttered, ‘And a very merry Christmas to you too.’
‘I bet there’s dog crap in there an’ all.’ The boys were by this time helpless with laughter, competing to come up with more and more stomach-churning ideas. One of them had started skateboarding in circles around the bin, and the sound of the wheels whizzing menacingly round her feet, missing her by inches, was making it all that much harder to bear.
‘Right, you lot, that’s enough. Off you go now.’
It was an in-control voice, belonging to someone not remotely fazed by a bunch of hoody-wearing teenagers and effortlessly taking command of the situation. Since it was coming from directly behind her, Tasha couldn’t see the owner of the voice, but she was certainly glad he’d turned up.
Chapter 3
‘So,’ said the male voice when the teens had reluctantly skated off, ‘do you want to tell me what’s going on here?’
‘I missed breakfast, was just looking for some chips.’ Pulling out her arm and twisting round to get a look at him, Tasha discovered that the authoritative voice didn’t belong to a police constable. Well, not one in uniform, at least. Her rescuer was around her own age, mid to late twenties, and he was actually pretty good-looking in a dressed-down, sporty kind of way.
He was also grinning at her flippant remark.
‘You’re in luck, found one.’ He pointed helpfully to her arm. ‘There’s a French fry stuck to your elbow.’
Oh, perfect. Tasha held her contaminated arm out in front of her and shook the chip off.
His grin broadened. ‘You know what you look like?’
‘Like a vet about to stick my hand up a cow’s bottom, probably.’
‘That’s exactly what I was going to say. We’ve been watching you from the café across the road, by the way. Taking bets on what you’re trying to do.’
‘And laughing at me.’
He looked wounded. ‘Nooo. Well, maybe a bit. That was mainly the others, though. Not me.’
‘Well I’m so glad I managed to keep you entertained. It’s like all my wildest Christmas dreams come true.’
‘Hey, I came out to see if you needed any help.’
Tasha gazed up at him. ‘If you’re offering to rummage round and see if you can find my credit card, that would be fantastic.’ Now that she was paying proper attention, it struck her that he had amazing eyes; they were a clear, light shade of green, with darker rings around the iris. He also had incredibly thick dark lashes, like a girl.
‘Note that I didn’t actually offer to lend you a hand.’ His mouth twitched as he pulled a folded black bin bag from his jacket pocket and shook it out. ‘But I’m happy to hold this open so you can empty everything into it. Otherwise you could be just feeling your way around in there indefinitely.’
This made sense. It was a good idea. They got to work. Tasha said, ‘Do you carry a bin bag around with you wherever you go, in case of emergencies?’
‘Always.’ He caught her eye. ‘OK, I asked the waitress in the café if I could have one.’
‘And then you came swooping to the rescue like Superman.’
‘Something like that. Thanks,’ he added drily as she pulled the polystyrene kebab box out through the gap, splattering his wrist with chilli sauce.
‘Sorry.’ She wasn’t that sorry.
‘Is your credit card definitely in here, by the way?’
‘I really hope so.’ The back of Tasha’s neck was prickling with perspiration. She dragged out a handful of wet rubbish and managed to splash more sauce over the front of her dress.
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to cancel the card and order a new one?’
‘It would, but I need it. I’m driving straight from here to Luton airport.’
Superman raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re flying on Christmas Eve? Off on holiday?’
‘I’m spending the week with my mum in Saint-Tropez. And I managed to break the only other card I have. It all happens when you don’t want it to.’
‘Definitely going to need a credit card in Saint-Tropez.’ He nodded at her, because she’d suddenly gone still. ‘Don’t stop. Keep looking.’
But Tasha was concentrating on what her fingers had just brushed past. She moved them back and touched the crinkling plastic of a bag with something straight-edged inside . . . Oh please please let it be her card . . .
Hardly daring to breathe, she explored the edges, closed her hand around the small rectangle and hauled it up through the detritus inside the bin.
‘Yes!’ With a whoop of triumph, she dragged the bag out through the opening, pulled out her credit card and . . . well, no, she couldn’t quite bring herself to kiss it, but almost.
‘Brilliant.’ Superman grinned as she exhaled with relief and clutched the card to her chest like an Olympic medal. He closed the bag he’d been holding open for her, flattened it out as much as possible and crammed it with some difficulty back into the litter bin.
‘Thank God.’ Fishing a tissue out of her pocket, Tasha did her best to wipe the worst of the gunk from her right hand.
‘That’s great.’ He hesitated. ‘Now, can I ask you a question?’
Ooh, was he about to ask for her phone number?
Like someone who definitely wasn’t wondering this, she looked mystified and said, ‘Of course you can! What is it?’
He pointed behind her. ‘The people in the café, who’ve been watching all this going on? Could you give them a quick wave?’
‘Oh!’ Twisting round, Tasha saw that she did indeed have an audience. To cover up for the disappointment of not having been asked for her phone number, she beamed and waved the credit card in the air to show them it had been found. Rather sweetly, the customers applauded and waved back.
‘Do you know those people?’ She marvelled at their enthusiasm.
‘No, never been in there before. I think they’re just feeling the festive spirit.’ He shrugged. ‘Either that, or they’re a bit drunk.’
Tasha slotted her card into her purse, securely fastened her shoulder bag, rolled down her sleeve and put on her coat.
‘If you want to go and wash your hands, I can look after your bags for you.’
She checked her watch, conscious now of the time. Also, he didn’t look the type who’d run off with someone else’s last-minute Christmas shopping, but could you ever really know for sure? Untrustworthy men had a habit of appearing trustworthy.
‘It’s OK, I’ve got a pack of wipes in my case. And I really need to get going.’
He nodded. ‘Don’t want to miss your flight. If you like, I could help you carry your stuff back to your car.’
Tasha brightened. ‘Oh, well that—’ His phone rang before she could say more, and he answered it.
‘Hi. Yes, no problem, I’ll pick you up. Twenty minutes OK?’
It wasn’t eavesdropping; she couldn’t help hearing the female voice raised in protest at the other end of the line.
‘Right, five minutes. Just wait outside the shop and I’ll be there.’
So much for getting her hopes up.
‘I’m fine. You’d better go.’ Tasha started to gather together her motley collection of bags as he ended the call. ‘Thanks for coming to my rescue, anyway. You’ve done your good deed for the day, Superman.’
Then their eyes
locked, and for a split second the look on his face made her think something magical might be about to happen after all. There was electricity sparking in the air between them. She held her breath. The next moment a snowflake landed on her nose, startling her and completely breaking the spell.
‘It’s starting to snow.’ Glancing up, Tasha saw the flakes tumbling out of a pale-grey sky. ‘Anyway, thanks again. I really do have to go now.’ Nodding at the phone in his hand, she said, ‘And so do you.’
‘I suppose I do. Have a great time in Saint-Tropez.’
‘Thanks, I will.’ She picked up the last of her packages, still flustered by what had almost just happened. ‘Well, bye. Merry Christmas, Superman!’
He hesitated, fat feathery flakes of snow landing in his dark hair, the expression in his green eyes unreadable. Then, as his phone began to ring impatiently again, he raised his hand in a gesture of farewell. ‘Yes. Bye. You too.’
On the flight to Nice, Tasha found herself squashed between an overweight middle-aged Frenchman who appeared to have been gargling with garlic, and an underweight younger one who reeked of stale cigarettes, fell asleep on her shoulder and snored like a backfiring moped.
As far as fantasy Frenchmen sandwiches went, this one was singularly lacking in glamour.
OK, reasons to stop thinking about the man from the café.
For a start, she hadn’t even found out his name. Mad as it now seemed, she’d kind of hoped he’d volunteer this information so she wouldn’t need to ask him. But he hadn’t, so that was that.
He hadn’t asked her name either.
He had a nagging, high-maintenance girlfriend. Well, not absolutely definitely, but from the gist of what she’d overheard on the phone, it was certainly on the cards that she was.
For heaven’s sake, how could she be obsessing over someone she’d only known for ten minutes? She knew nothing whatsoever about him. He could have a million irritating habits she hadn’t had time to experience during their brief encounter.
Tasha exhaled. She was never going to see him again anyway, which was kind of the main overriding reason. She didn’t know who he was, and in return he knew nothing about her.
