A Winter's Wish

by Alice Ross

  ‘I’m sure it’s a lovely school,’ she eventually batted back. ‘It’s just … not what I want for my daughter.’

  Stan flinched. ‘Er, I think you mean our daughter. And it would be lovely for her to go to the local school. She’d have her little mates around her. Have them over for tea. All that sort of stuff. If she goes to St Hild’s we’ll never be out of the car ferrying her backwards and forwards, and—’

  Bea set down her knife and fork with a great sense of purpose. ‘Well, if you’d rather not put yourself out for the sake of our daughter’s future, then I’ll do all the ferrying.’

  Stan sighed inwardly. As soon as the words had left his mouth, he’d realised he shouldn’t have added that bit about the ferrying. But the fact that St Hild’s would mean a forty-mile round trip every day wasn’t the main reason he didn’t want Maddy to go there. He honestly did think it would be lovely for her to feel part of Buttersley. And it wasn’t as if the village school was full of glue-sniffing, drug-snorting reprobates. Perfectly nice children went there, from respectable families. Surely that would suffice until Maddy was eleven at least. But before he could bolster his case, Bea had rocketed off on a super-charged tangent.

  ‘And what about horse riding? Or tennis?’

  Stan shook his head in an attempt to clear it. ‘What are you talking about now?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Our daughter, of course. I think it’s important we decide what extra-curricular activities we’d like her to be involved in.’

  Stan set down his fork and scratched his head. ‘But she can’t even walk yet. How on earth do you expect her to hold a tennis racket?’

  Bea gave an exasperated tut. ‘Honestly. Sometimes I think you’re not remotely interested in Maddy’s future.’

  Stan gawped. ‘Of course I am. But don’t you think it’s a bit early to be talking about all that stuff? You’ll be booking the church for her wedding next.’

  In one swift move, Bea scraped back her chair and thrust to her feet. ‘Now you’re being facetious. And the way I’ve been feeling lately, that’s the last thing I’ll be doing,’ she huffed, before strutting out of the room.

  Stan pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, surveying the remains of the barely touched meal. Thirty quid down the drain. Precisely the direction in which his marriage appeared to be heading.

  He knocked back the remains of his wine, and poured another glass before starting to clear away the detritus. He heard Bea stomping up the stairs, a couple of loud sniffs informing him she was crying. He could follow her up and apologise – although what he’d be apologising for, he had no idea. But he couldn’t face another showdown. It didn’t matter what he said lately, it was wrong. The whole thing was wearing him down, sapping his energy, making him miserable. And miserable was the one thing he never, in a million years, would’ve thought Bea would ever make him …

  Stan had met Bea in Thailand. She’d been on a gap year after university, exploring the Orient with three girlfriends. Stan had been there on a fortnight’s holiday with the lads. He’d bypassed uni, failing to see the point of three years messing about, only to emerge with the same meaningless bit of paper as thousands of other kids, plus a mountain of debt. He’d known exactly what he wanted to do – be an accountant – and so he’d gone for it. Following impressive A-level results, he’d accepted a position as an accounts clerk at a small, local company.

  He’d used the opportunity as a springboard, taking advantage of the excellent training package. He worked hard and studied hard, sailing through the mountain of exams with flying colours. In fact, so focused had he been on his career, that girls hadn’t really featured in his life. Oh, he went out with the lads at the weekend and had the occasional – very occasional – one-night stand. And he and the lads went on holiday every summer – a booze-ridden couple of weeks in Marbella, Magaluf or Marmaris, or anywhere else beginning with M with cheap booze and plenty of totty. But, other than that, he didn’t really have much to do with the opposite sex. A couple of his mates were going out with girls they’d paired up with at school, already, at the tender age of twenty-two, talking about mortgages and babies. Stan hadn’t been interested in any of that. Until he met Bea.

  It had been on the beach, under the heat of the midday Thai sun. Stan and one of his mates had been messing about with a Frisbee, which accidentally hurtled straight into Bea’s neck as she came out of the sea.

  ‘Ow,’ she yelled, holding the Frisbee in one hand and rubbing her neck with the other. ‘That bloody hurt.’

  Stan opened his mouth to apologise, but no words came out. He’d been completely bowled over by the vision before him – the lean, toned body with skin the colour of golden honey; the scraps of red bikini, concealing bits he couldn’t even bring himself to think about; the cascade of dripping wet raven hair; the flashing huge green eyes—

  ‘Watch what you’re doing,’ she huffed, flinging the Frisbee back at him. And off she’d strutted up the beach. Leaving a speechless Stan gawping after her.

  ‘Phwoar, mate. You missed a chance there,’ sniggered his mate. ‘She’s drop-dead gorgeous.’

  She was drop-dead gorgeous but Stan had the distinct feeling she was also way out of his league. ‘Seemed a bit of a snotty cow to me,’ he replied.

  ‘I’d be snotty as well if someone had almost sliced my head off,’ his mate went on. ‘You should go after her. Buy her a drink.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Stan. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to the others and crack open a couple of cans. I’m parched.’

  And that, he’d thought, had been the end of it. Until, two nights later, they were in the local nightclub.

  He first spotted her as she made her way to the bar. Wearing a tiny pair of white shorts and a pink camisole. With her jet-black hair in two long plaits, she’d looked about twelve. But, remembering the luscious body in the bikini, was obviously a fully grown woman. Stan pretended he hadn’t seen her, until his mate piped up, ‘Hey, isn’t that Frisbee girl over there? The one from the beach?’

  Stan cast a cursory look in the direction of the bar. ‘Dunno. I can’t remember what she looked like.’

  ‘Well, I can. That’s definitely her. And she’s clocked you. She’s looking right over here.’

  Stan’s heart skipped a beat as he turned his head once again and met her emerald-green gaze. But the brief moment was broken as a crowd of rowdy German guys barged to the bar.

  Stan did his best not to think about her after that. Larking about with the lads, he knocked back more than his fair share of lager and was on his way back from the loo when he spotted Frisbee girl hemmed in a corner, one of the rowdy Germans leering over her. As inebriated as he was, Stan could tell it was not a place she wanted to be.

  Without even thinking of the consequences, he weaved his way over to them.

  ‘You ready to go?’ he asked her, hoping he sounded more assertive than he felt.

  Her eyes grew large. ‘Er, yes. Yes, I am,’ she replied with a shaky smile.

  ‘She vill be leaving with me,’ the German informed him.

  ‘I don’t think so, mate,’ retorted Stan, wondering how he hadn’t noticed the guy was a good foot taller than him and twice as broad, before he’d had this sudden attack of gallantness. The German sucked in a breath and straightened his back, adding several more inches to his already impressive form.

  ‘Maybe we should ask her who she wants to leave with,’ Stan piped up, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking half as much as his legs.

  They both turned to the girl. Looking completely terrified, she grabbed hold of Stan’s hand.

  ‘I’d like to go now, please,’ she said.

  Stan gave her a reassuring wink and, before the German could grow even taller, they scuttled out of the nightclub.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, once outside. ‘I couldn’t get rid of him.’

  Stan shrugged as he tried desperately not to notice the shape of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her top. ‘It was the le
ast I could do after almost slicing your head off the other day.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re right. That hurt. But you’ve redeemed yourself tonight.’

  Stan smiled, breathing in the light, flowery scent of her perfume. ‘I don’t think we should go back in,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go for a drink or something?’

  She screwed up her nose. ‘Not really. I’m a bit knackered. I’d rather go back to the hotel.’

  ‘I’ll walk you.’

  She smiled her thanks. ‘I’m Bea, by the way. Short for Beatrice.’

  ‘Stan,’ said Stan. ‘Short for Robert.’

  That feeble joke which, to his delight, she’d found highly amusing, combined with his heroic antics, evidently wiped the previously Frisbee-marked slate clean. They were inseparable for the remainder of Stan’s holiday. But, as much as he was having the time of his life, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was temporary. Just a holiday romance. And when he returned home, he wouldn’t hear another word from her.

  Yet, despite Bea continuing her travels for the next few months, and him being back behind his accountancy desk, via the wonders of modern technology they did maintain contact. And when they both ended up working in London less than a year later – Stan for an international accountancy company; Bea for an advertising agency – their relationship went from strength to strength, resulting in them eventually buying a flat together. They worked hard and played hard, building a great network of friends and a fantastic social life. But all that seemed a million light years away now – in LBM.

  As Stan slammed shut the dishwasher door and pressed the ‘On’ button, he realised he wanted that life back. Every single bit of it. But it had gone. For ever.

  That thought making him even more depressed, he grabbed his jacket and headed to the pub.

  Chapter Three

  From behind the bar of the Duck Inn, Phil McNally folded his arms over his chest and observed the hustle and bustle of a Sunday night in Buttersley. There was nothing unusual in this activity. There hadn’t been many Sunday nights during his seven-year ownership of the pub that Phil hadn’t folded his arms over his chest and observed the village’s residents relaxing in the plush surroundings. And all the regulars were there tonight: Joe, the window cleaner with his girlfriend, Candi; Jenny Rutter, who now ran guided tours up at the manor house, and her man, Peter; Derek Carter, the vicar, who never said no to so much as a wine gum; and Mrs Gates from the grocery store, wearing a wig that looked like it might have been one of Marie Antoinette’s cast-offs. Added to the colourful mix of local characters were those who had travelled from the surrounding area specially to savour all the Duck had to offer – the comfortable interior, the beautifully decorated conservatory, the carefully selected range of culinary delights.

  Phil had been brought up in the trade. His parents had run a variety of pubs over the years, from those on council estates, where only the most audacious ventured out after dark, to eventually buying their own small hotel on the outskirts of Harrogate. Phil had learned everything he could from them, helping out as soon as he was old enough. And along with all the requisite business skills, they’d also instilled in him the ethic that hard work pays off: an adage to which they were testament. They’d worked hard and saved hard – saved enough, in fact, to help Phil buy the Duck.

  ‘That should cover the deposit,’ his dad had said, shoving a cheque into Phil’s hand.

  ‘I can’t take that,’ he’d gasped, wide-eyed at the number of noughts.

  ‘Oh yes you can. That pub’s too good an opportunity to miss.’

  Phil had bit his lip. The Duck was a good opportunity. An excellent opportunity. One that rarely came up. At twenty-five he’d been biding his time, waiting for the perfect place to come on the market, working and living with his parents, saving every penny. But even so, he didn’t have enough to cover the deposit.

  ‘I’ll pay you back when it takes off,’ he’d vowed.

  And he had. The pub’s balance sheet had been healthy enough before he’d taken over. The only pub in the village, in an idyllic setting on the duck-ponded green, guaranteed its local trade. But, after carrying out meticulous research, Phil spotted a couple of new trends in the market: affluent young families were moving to the area bringing with them lots of disposable cash and regular epicurean visitors. And, culinary tastes were becoming much more discerning.

  So he set out to exploit both these developments, adding a fabulous new conservatory to the back of the building, and offering a tempting selection of grub to suit all tastes – from the traditional to the exotic. Instilling a sense of pride in his staff, he’d built up a good, loyal team, most of whom had been with him for years. And his marketing outlay – huge initially – was now non-existent. Word of mouth, always the best recommendation, proved much more effective.

  Saturdays being far too hectic to even draw breath, Phil allowed himself such moments of reflection every Sunday evening. And normally, amidst all the genial conviviality – not to mention the constant hum of the till – he experienced a warm glow of satisfaction.

  This evening, though, he just felt sick. Sick to his very core. Like he could throw up at any moment.

  ‘Evening, Phil.’

  His navel-gazing was cut short by Jake O’Donnell, who fitted Phil’s well-heeled client profile perfectly. Jake had moved to the village a couple of years ago when he’d married Annie. Phil liked Jake. He was a good, down-to-earth bloke, who wrote a lot of books by all accounts. Not that Phil had read any of them. His reading matter stretched only as far as Top Gear and Private Eye.

  Plastering a smile onto his face, Phil pulled himself together and returned the pleasantry. ‘Hi, Jake. We don’t normally see you on a Sunday night. To what do we owe the pleasure?’

  Jake grimaced. ‘Annie’s ever-so-slightly-scary sister. She’s staying with us for a while.’

  He indicated a table to the right where Annie and another attractive young woman sat perusing the menu. They both had the same honey-blonde hair, but there any discernible similarity ended. Annie was the quintessential girl next door, with her freckled face and messy ponytail. Her sister, with her sleek bob and magenta lipstick, looked like she had a poker somewhere uncomfortable.

  ‘Why so scary?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s an actuary. Scary by default. Smiling is prohibited in the world of risk assessment. Plus, Amelia used to run the whole department. Which makes her—’

  ‘Uber-scary,’ they snorted in unison.

  ‘How long is she staying?’

  Jake shrugged. ‘No idea. She’s been made redundant, which has hit her pretty badly. If I was her, I’d have been delighted to get out – and with a big fat cheque. But her pride’s taken a battering. Annie felt really sorry for her and invited her up never expecting her to accept. But, to our amazement, she did. Quite what she’s going to do with herself, I have no idea. In fact, Annie and I are on complete tenterhooks wondering how it’s going to go, and the poor kids seem completely terrified of her. But that’s enough about us. How are things with you? Not long to the big move now. Everything sorted?’

  As Phil turned to add a dash of gin to a glass, a surge of bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it down before whisking back round. ‘Er, just about. A few loose ends to tie up, then I’ll be off.’

  ‘You’ll be a big miss. This place won’t be the same without you.’

  And I won’t be the same without this place, Phil almost added. But he didn’t. It would sound pathetic. After all, how many people would love the chance to experience a new life in Brisbane? Would kill to have the Great Barrier Reef on their doorstep? Endless sunshine, golden beaches, and barbecues where you didn’t have to huddle in the garage because the heavens had opened?

  Millions of people, he’d wager. It was just a shame he wasn’t one of them.

  When Rachel had first mentioned emigrating, Phil had thought it nothing but a pipe dream. Didn’t everyone at some point fantasise about packing it all in and jetti
ng off on an exotic adventure? But he should’ve known better. Rachel was a doer not a dreamer, and when she set her mind to something, that was it. After five years together, no one knew that better than Phil. He’d even featured on her list of goals at one stage. Years later, she admitted that the first time she’d seen him, whilst in the pub with a group of nursing friends, she’d decided she had to have him. Completely unbeknown to Phil, subtle enquiries as to his marital status had been made, followed by a dramatic increase in her visits to the pub, despite her residing in Harrogate at the time. One particular Saturday night, just after Phil had waved off the last customer and locked up, he’d been stacking glasses in the dishwasher when there’d been a rattle on the door.

  ‘I’m really sorry but I think I’ve left my sheepskin gloves here,’ Rachel purred, gazing up at him through dark, lowered, impossibly long lashes.

  Phil furrowed his forehead. ‘Sheepskin gloves? But it’s the middle of July.’

  Her bright red lips stretched into a mischievous smile. And that, of course, had been it. Lashes, lips, lustrous dark curls and a killer bod barely covered in a tiny mini-skirt and plunging top meant he hadn’t stood a chance. He’d taken her upstairs to his flat. Three hours and two bottles of Prosecco later, she’d been in his bed. And rarely out of it for the next few months.

  Not that Phil made a habit of bedding all the attractive women who flirted with him. If he did, he’d rarely be out of bed. He could never quite fathom what it was about him that women found so attractive. He was of average height, average build – although regular runs ensured he kept in shape – and his features, although pleasant, were anything but startling.

  ‘It’s that twinkle in those cornflower-blue eyes,’ Rachel insisted, after observing Lydia Pemberton, one of the village’s randy middle-aged women, flirting with him. ‘And your gorgeous hair.’

  Phil had to admit that if he’d been forced to name his best feature, he would’ve said his hair. Not that he spent much time on it. He couldn’t be bothered with all that gel, and mousse, and spiking and highlighting palaver. Thankfully, he didn’t have to. His shaggy mane of blond curls fell defiantly into the “surfer dude” category – a completely fortuitous coincidence, which appeared to sit well with the opposite sex.