One Christmas Kiss in Notting Hill

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘No, Pumpkin, we’re not in trouble,’ the American guy answered the younger girl who was slipping into a seat at the table. He then looked back to her. ‘We’re not, are we?’

  Her cheeks were giving off more heat now than the Guy Fawkes bonfire she and Hannah had almost melted at last month. Why had her first thought been pervert and not father? She shook her head at him. ‘No … I’m sorry … I thought …’ What did she say next? That she’d pitched him into the Jimmy Savile bracket without so much as a second thought? It was also likely he wouldn’t even know who Jimmy Savile was. That was a blessing.

  ‘I got it all on video,’ the older-looking girl announced. ‘“Cray-cray woman in London” might just go viral on YouTube.’

  ‘Brooke,’ the man said. ‘You will delete that right now.’

  ‘It’s gonna cost ya,’ Brooke answered. ‘Or maybe … cost her.’

  God, she was now about to be fleeced by a girl she had thought she was trying to protect from a molester.

  ‘She won’t be posting anything,’ the man said sincerely. ‘And, I guess, if you were thinking along the lines of what I’m now realising you were thinking … I should be thanking you for looking out for my daughter.’

  She shook her head again, willing her cheeks to stop heating up like they could broil the Christmas turkey. ‘No, I should apologise. For accusing you like that and for assuming the worst.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m very sorry.’ She cleared her throat. ‘What must you think of the British?’ She tested out an attempt at humour and hoped he might think her charming enough to never remember the moment again.

  ‘I think the British are cool,’ he told her. ‘Confident and ultimately never afraid to say they’re sorry.’

  Wow. That was a great answer. And she had to tell Hannah, up close, he had the deepest chestnut-coloured eyes.

  She smiled. ‘We’re also very good at making tea and know one hundred and one different ways to use an umbrella.’

  The girl he’d called Maddie giggled. ‘We had lots of English tea at lunch.’ She smiled. ‘And pie.’

  ‘Then you’re basically almost British yourselves,’ Isla replied. ‘Listen, I’m very sorry for the misunderstanding—’

  ‘Forget about it,’ the man answered. ‘Like I said. You were just looking out for my girl and I appreciate that.’ He smiled. ‘And I’m also very happy I didn’t get to see any of those umbrella uses … because that might have scared me a little.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘Chase Bryan, nice to meet you.’

  And now Isla’s face lit up like it could power all the Christmas lights on Oxford Street. She had to leave. Right now. Rude or not.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ she answered, shaking his hand and internally wincing.

  What was she doing? She had just accused the head of Breekers International of being a letch and tomorrow morning he was going to find out exactly who she was. His stupid Go-To Girl. As she backed away, making more apologies, she began to wonder if Karen Kinsey could swing her a job at Waterloo.

  Eleven

  Beaumont Square, Notting Hill

  ‘Slow down, Isla! I know I suggested trying out for the Paralympics one year but I was only kidding.’ Hannah blew out a breath as she worked the wheels of Ronnie Kray along the road into their square. ‘And after a Christmas muffin, my core is a bit lax.’

  Why had this had to happen? Why had the figurehead of the company, the guy she was going to be right-hand woman to, been in Sugar High? It wasn’t fair! Why was this December turning into a curse? She slowed a little, letting her sister catch her up.

  ‘I know what it is,’ Hannah said with deep authority, her breath hot mist in the chilly evening air. ‘You liked him too, didn’t you?’

  ‘What?’ She shook her head. Then added, ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy you accused of being a paedophile. You know, the really hot one, who looks like a cross between Ryan Philippe and Charlie Hunnam … wow, can you actually imagine that hybrid?’

  ‘Why don’t we go and knock on the door of number eleven and see if they want to share some lasagne?’ Isla changed the subject. Her sister didn’t need to know the full extent of how much more embarrassing this situation actually was.

  ‘Well, just you remember,’ Hannah started, expertly rolling the wheelchair off the kerb. ‘I saw him first … and I work nearer to Sugar High than you. I might start popping in there for a Christmas muffin every day. You know … casually stalk him.’

  ‘He has two children,’ Isla reminded her.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So … number eleven,’ Isla said, pushing open the black wrought-iron gate that opened into the sections of grass and bark-chipped borders in the middle of the square. It housed two benches, one at either end, both dedicated to former residents who ‘loved this place’, plus the late Mr Edwards’ rose bush, and was the focal point of local activities – weekly choir, camp-o-thon in the summer and the other Beaumont Square seasonal activities like the Christmas wine-and-cheese evening. Their corner of London was far removed from the high-pace of city living you might expect from the English capital. In fact, it was far more Gilmore Girls’ Stars Hollow than anything else. And Isla loved it that way. She might not join in with group activities as much as Hannah did, but living here had always been predominantly about Hannah. It was what Hannah had always known, what they had both always known, and when you had lost your parents, clinging on to a tight-knit and comfortable familiarity had meant everything.

  ‘And I saw him first,’ Hannah continued as they made their way through the park to the other side of the square. ‘I’ve got dibs.’

  She almost wanted to suggest Hannah thought more seriously about Raj than have her mooning over Chase Bryan. She settled for not commenting on either one and took a breath as they stopped on the pavement outside the steps to number eleven. ‘What are they called?’

  ‘He said his name was Chase, didn’t he?’ Hannah breathed in, closing her eyes. ‘Chase is a very sexy name, isn’t it? Makes you think of … fast moves and heavy breathing …’

  ‘I meant the couple at number eleven,’ Isla interrupted.

  ‘Oh. Oh, I’ve no idea,’ Hannah replied. ‘You’ll have to do the knocking.’

  Hannah was referring to the ten steps that led up to the front door, the same with all the houses on the square, except theirs. One of the first modifications they had had done after Hannah’s accident was to do away with the steps and create a ramp.

  Isla climbed the steps, moving towards the light shining through the frosted glass in the front door. Hopefully it signified that someone was home. A red-berried Christmas garland hung over the door knocker and Isla took hold of the brass and rapped lightly. Then she looked back to Hannah, waiting on the pavement, blowing on to her fingers. It was cold tonight and snow was forecast to fall, just as the short flurry from last week was starting to clear up. She loved snow but, right now, everything she usually welcomed with open arms about December, seemed to feel a little off. All her routines were as up in the air as Santa’s sleigh.

  The door opened a crack, stopping on a chain, and one eye and a section of blonde hair appeared in the few inches of gap.

  ‘Hello,’ Isla greeted. ‘I’m Isla and … down there, is my sister, Hannah and—’

  There was a rough and frustrated sigh. ‘Which charity is it?’

  ‘Oh … oh no, we’re not—’ Isla began.

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ the woman replied sharply. ‘That’s what they all say at first. Then you’ll be wanting me to sign up to a standing order for some lucky draw every month.’

  ‘No, honestly, we live here, in the square and—’ Isla tried again.

  ‘Playing the local angle now?’ the woman laughed, face still half-hidden by the blue doorframe. ‘Well, that won’t work. We’ve only just moved in and we’re only going to be here a few more weeks at most.’

  ‘Oh, well, that doesn’t matter, we can still—’

  ‘So, local doesn’t matter now?’ T
he woman laughed. ‘As long as you have my bank details, right?’

  Isla had had enough of this. ‘I don’t want your bank details,’ she yelled. ‘We live across the square and we had wondered if you and your husband wanted to come over for dinner.’ She sighed. ‘But, to be honest, I’m not sure I want to extend the invitation any more.’ She looked back down the steps to Hannah who was watching every moment. This was for her. She always wanted to extend the hand of friendship, make people feel welcome in Beaumont Square.

  She heard the chain on the door come away and then the woman revealed herself, looking a little contrite.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she began. ‘I just … where we lived before I was forever having people cold-calling on the doorstep.’ She smiled, stepping out into the porch. ‘Everything from the air ambulance to the Jehovahs Witnesses and, well, you can’t give to everyone.’

  ‘I understand,’ Isla answered a little stiffly. ‘I’m Isla.’

  ‘Verity,’ she replied, extending a hand.

  ‘And I’m Hannah!’ Hannah had put her hands either side of her mouth to make her voice carry.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you both,’ Verity said. ‘And I’m sorry I was a bit … shall we say offish? That sounds so much better than rude.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Isla replied. ‘So, do you and … what’s your husband called?’

  ‘John.’

  ‘Do you like lasagne? It’s just we always make too much and then we try and eat it all and—’

  ‘It goes to Isla’s hips!’ Hannah called again. ‘Help us eat it, please!’

  ‘I would love to,’ Verity answered. ‘But John and I are going out tonight … in about half an hour, actually.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ Isla said. ‘Another time then? Maybe next week?’ She pointed over the road. ‘We’re just there, number sixteen.’

  ‘I’ll check my diary and we’ll fix something up. Definitely,’ she replied, nodding.

  ‘Okay,’ Isla said. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too.’

  Isla turned, then made her way back down the steps towards Hannah. She looked back to wave to Verity but the woman was already back inside and closing the door.

  ‘So, what was she like?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Isla admitted.

  ‘Do you think they’ll come over for dinner next week?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Isla said, sighing. ‘Some people just prefer to keep themselves to themselves, Han.’

  ‘Not in Beaumont Square.’

  ‘Come on,’ Isla said, putting her hands to Hannah’s chair. ‘Let’s make this lasagne and try and eat it all. I think my hips can handle one last blow-out before I squeeze myself into my Christmas party dress.’

  Twelve

  The Royale, Hyde Park

  The bourbon in Chase’s hand almost slipped from his grasp as his eyes closed. Jerking himself awake, he steadied the glass, putting it down on the table he was sitting at in the master bedroom of his suite. The chairs were so uncomfortable he was unsure how he had managed to even drop off for a second. Although perhaps jetlag was kicking in early, like it had with Maddie. His youngest daughter had eaten spaghetti and meatballs from room service and drunk a glass of milk before her eyes had started to droop and he’d taken her to bed. Brooke had called her sister ‘lame’ and declared she was staying up all night. Before his eyelids had betrayed him, Brooke had still been on the sofa in the lounge area, earbuds in, connected to the entire world and no one, all at once.

  Chase was taking advantage of Brooke’s preoccupation and going over the plans before he went to the office in the morning. He wanted to make sure he had everything perfectly clear in his head when he met with the London team. He needed to be able to head off any questions with immediate answers and solutions. That’s why he had been given this project … simply because it had the potential to produce almighty conflict. And that’s what he did. That’s what he had retrained to do. He was managing his own conflicts by sorting out other people’s. And that’s why Breekers had hired him. He helped businesses step out of their comfort zones, take risks. He helped guide them through the business-world minefield with no compass. It was all about allowing yourself to be pulled into a different direction businesswise by gaining the confidence to choose an unnatural, sometimes uncomfortable path.

  He smoothed his hands out over the maps and schematics and blinked, trying to force a little moisture over the surface of his eyes. He could have suggested the easy choice, the large, almost pool-table-flat parcel of land to the north of the city, or even the choice to the south that would limit their size but would be easier to implement. Instead, he was going for maximum impact. If you were going to create something of this magnitude, something that was going to turn the industry on its head, then you needed to be all in. Breekers was changing tack. It had its sights set on something more than construction and there was going to be no compromising if this was going to globally succeed.

  In his mind, for this to really make the ultimate splash, location was key. And that’s why he was going to turn up the charm and pull out all the stops to see this work in his favour. And, after he had laid this vision on the line at the UK company headquarters, he was going to continue to grease the wheels and meet with the Head of Planning and Building Control in Kensington and Chelsea who he’d been courting on social media for weeks now. Rod Striker loved a single malt almost as much as he loved golf. His wife was called Shirley and he had two sons (Benjamin and Jeremy) who already looked like they could advertise for the perils of fast-food living. Like with most men he had encountered in business, Rod’s motivation was money and power. Money was an easy fix, power would come with strings attached: he hadn’t worked through the finer details yet. But he would get there. Failure just wasn’t an option.

  His cell phone lit up and shifting his eyes to look at the screen, he saw it was Leanna’s mother. He swallowed, caught between snatching it up and letting it go to voicemail. Why would Fay be calling him? She was supposed to be resting after her operation. Unless something had happened to Ralph … or Leanna.

  Now worried, he picked up the phone and pressed to accept the call.

  ‘Chase Bryan,’ he greeted on instinct.

  There was an expiration of air from the other end of the line and then … ‘So, you knew it was Mom’s phone number and you answered like that.’

  Leanna. He’d been duped and so damn easily. It pinched at his ego. So much for being the big man of business he had just mentally pitched himself as.

  Another breath left his ex-wife and crossed the pond via cell. ‘What’s wrong with you, Chase?’

  He suddenly became aware he hadn’t actually said anything yet, apart from his name, and somehow that had intensely annoyed her.

  ‘It’s late here,’ he said. ‘So, if you’re calling to talk to the girls I’m afraid they’re in bed.’

  He hadn’t meant to sound quite so short. Where was the ‘being adult’ they had promised?

  ‘Really?’ Leanna asked curtly.

  ‘Really, what?’ he responded.

  ‘The girls are in bed.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he answered, a slight lack of conviction creeping in to his tone. ‘It’s past eleven.’

  ‘And Brooke posted on Instagram three minutes ago,’ Leanna informed. ‘A video where she eats an entire sachet of salt.’

  Now he was listening. ‘What?’ He was moving quickly, through his room, out through the double doors to the lounge area, eyes searching for his eldest daughter who was now not on the sofa where she had seemed content to scowl and pout and pose. He had neglected her and now she had done something really, really dumb, close to dangerously dumb, on his watch … because he had neglected her.

  ‘You know how bad salt is, Chase, right? You know you can actually die from something like that?’

  He couldn’t really hear his ex-wife now, every ounce of spare energy he had left was focussed on finding Brooke in this ob
viously too-damn-big suite. He rushed out of the lounge area to the twin room his daughters were sharing. He saw Maddie first, mouth open, one hand making a fist around the bedspread then there was Brooke, fully clothed, not unconscious, eyes on the ceiling, earphones in.

  ‘She’s good,’ Chase hissed into the phone. ‘I’m ending the call now to inform her of the dangers of salt.’

  ‘Wait! Don’t you end the call! I’m not done!’ Leanna shrieked. ‘We need a conversation!’

  He tossed his cell on to the dressing table by the door then stalked towards his elder daughter’s bed. He waved a hand in front of her face and then, when that had no effect, he tugged at the sleeve of her long-sleeved top.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Brooke shrieked, ripping her buds from her ears then shooting her stretched legs back in, folding her arms around her knees as if trying to make herself small.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ Chase snapped out a reply. ‘Give me your cell.’

  ‘What?’ Brooke exclaimed. ‘No way.’

  ‘Give it to me, Brooke.’

  ‘I won’t. It’s an invasion. You can’t take what’s mine.’

  ‘As I bought it, and I pay the charge on it, I think that legally makes it mine.’

  ‘No way!’ Brooke repeated her mantra and tried to surreptitiously hide the cell phone behind her back.

  This tactic wasn’t working. She was stubborn and hormonal – not that he pretended to know all there was to know about that – but he needed to think of it like business. Just say the right things to get what he needed. He started with a change in stance. He dropped his body down, lowering to sit on the edge of her bed.

  ‘Truce?’ he suggested in softer tones.

  ‘Seriously?’ Brooke queried, darkly pencilled eyebrows raising. ‘You can’t have a truce at the start of an argument.’

  ‘Were we having an argument?’ he queried, blinking his grainy, sleep-deprived eyes.