A Winter's Wish

by Alice Ross

  But then Jake O’Donnell had strode into her world – a man not a boy – and sent every one of her senses reeling. Just looking at him gave her butterflies, his voice made her insides squelch, and the scent of him – a heady mixture of sandalwood and total maleness – sent her mind into overdrive. Just thinking about being in his arms, his lips on hers, made her almost groan with desire.

  Jake was often away when Ella babysat. But just being in his home was a pleasure. The moment the children fell asleep, she’d drift about the house, imagining what it would be like to live there with him – to walk into a room and find him sitting on the sofa or at the table. What it would be like to share her life with a man like that. In the bathroom, she swathed herself in his towelling robe; in the hall she drank in the scent from his scarves. And she spent most of the evening in his chair, stroking the wood of the desk where his hands spent so much time. The same hands she dreamed about having on her body.

  Not that she wanted to break up Jake’s marriage. She really didn’t. Annie was lovely and funny and kind, and had done a lot for her, taking her on at the tearoom when she hadn’t a scrap of experience, paying her a decent wage and letting her keep all her tips.

  No, Ella had no intention of hurting anyone. She had no idea what her intentions were. All she knew was that there was something about Jake O’Donnell that made her heart skip a beat and her head swim.

  She flopped back on the bed, pressing the photo to her chest. And wondered what it would be like to have the man himself in that position.

  *

  ‘Got those figures for me yet, Stan?’

  In his cramped stuffy office on Monday morning, Stan shut his eyes and slowly counted to five, before replying to his boss. A ritual he’d established soon after joining PastryPuff almost two years ago. It was a toss-up between that or punching the man in his jowly face. The former action, he’d concluded, might mean he’d keep his job a bit longer.

  In an ideal world, though, Stan would not only land Bernie McCorkindale a big blow right between his piggy little eyes, but he’d stick the V’s up at the man and tell him – using words of many syllables – exactly what he could do with his crappy job.

  Occupying the office adjoining Stan’s, Bernie preferred sitting on his fat backside and shouting through the partition wall to any form of civilised communication.

  Puffing out a weary sigh, Stan elevated himself from his significantly more toned bottom and strode through to Bernie’s office.

  ‘The figures will be ready by the end of the day,’ he informed his boss, forcing a “delighted to help” smile onto his face. No easy task given how much his head throbbed. He really shouldn’t have given in to Phil at the pub and had one for the road last night. After the heated discussion with Bea over the Chinese takeaway, though, the need for alcohol had been all-consuming. With a sinking heart he noticed that, even with the addition of said smile, his answer did not appear to be the one Bernie desired. From behind his desk, strewn with teetering piles of paper, bumper bags of crisps, dirty coffee cups and two empty Coke cans, he narrowed his porcine eyes. ‘Need them for two o’clock. Strategy meeting.’

  Hovering in the doorway, Stan fisted a hand and dug his nails into the palm, wondering what it would feel like to bury the same hand in Bernie’s florid face.

  ‘I thought the meeting was tomorrow,’ he said, striving to keep a neutral tone, rather than release the threatening scream.

  ‘Been brought forward,’ Bernie batted back, without a hint of apology.

  Stan resisted the urge to spout forth all the obscenities queuing in his throat. Instead he said, ‘Well, I wish you’d told me that first thing this morning.’

  Bernie twisted his mouth into something resembling a grin, showcasing two rows of yellowing teeth in the process. Leaning back in his chair, he then hooked his hands behind his neck, awarding Stan a bird’s eye view of the dark patches under the armpits of his blue shirt. ‘Only just found out myself,’ he replied.

  Stan caught his bottom lip between his teeth. That he doubted very much. Ever since he’d started at PastryPuff, he’d harboured the sneaking suspicion that Bernie deliberately tried to trip him up. Well, he’d rather spend the night spreadeagled on Buttersley’s frozen duck pond, than let the sleazeball know he’d caught him out.

  ‘No worries,’ he breezed. ‘They’ll be ready.’

  Returning to his own office, anger oozing from every one of his pores, Stan swiped up his scissors and began stabbing them furiously into the huge lump of Blu-Tack perfectly positioned on a thick A4 pad for that very purpose. Instantly he felt better. He’d picked up the top tip from a colleague in London. Not that he’d ever had need of the tactic in London. He’d loved his job there, working for a huge multinational. It had been stressful – you didn’t earn the kind of money they’d paid without expecting stress – but his colleagues had been great. They’d had a laugh, taken the mick out of each other, engaged in a bit of craic and some playful banter. All of which seemed sadly missing at PastryPuff. Not surprising with the fragrant Bernie at the helm. All the staff detested him, but Stan suspected it was his previously higher-ranking status that made him the particular target of Bernie’s sly, scheming antipathy. In London Stan had been an account director. In Leeds he was a lowly assistant manager.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s a backward step,’ Bea had assured him, once they’d decided to make the move north. ‘The cost of living is so much cheaper up there; we won’t need such high salaries. And just think … you won’t have all the responsibility. It’ll be a much better work-life balance.’

  Ha! Tossing down the scissors, Stan couldn’t resist an ironic smirk as he recalled that conversation. Better work-life balance? He’d never felt more unbalanced in all his thirty-three years. He flipped his attention back to his laptop. He’d have to work through lunch to have the figures ready, but ready they would be. Because there was no way on this planet he’d give Bernie Bloody McCorkindale the satisfaction of bollocking him if they weren’t.

  ‘Sandwich?’

  Two hours later Stan jerked up his head to find a pair of startling blue eyes gazing at him. They belonged to a petite female – wispy white-blonde curls escaping her topknot, wearing a figure-hugging pale pink dress. And what a figure it hugged! The dress displayed a pair of perfectly rounded boobs and a waist Stan could easily fit his hands around. Imagining his hands on that waist, and indeed other places, all thoughts of spreadsheets, meetings and Bernie’s sweaty armpits were swept aside, replaced with what it would be like to remove that dress and—

  ‘Chicken Caesar or Roast Pork and Stuffing?’ she asked, holding up a sesame roll in each hand.

  Stan opened his mouth to reply but her vocalising the word “stuffing” appeared to have rendered him incapable of anything other than gawping.

  ‘I’m Molly,’ she informed him, tottering into the room on ridiculously high heels. ‘I’m covering for Polly while she’s on holiday. And please don’t say anything about our two names. If I hear yet another witty remark, I may have to scream.’

  A strange buzzing sound began in Stan’s head as he imagined her screaming for quite another reason.

  ‘Betty thought you might like a sandwich,’ she said, so close to the desk now he could smell her flowery perfume. ‘She said you were on a tight deadline.’

  Betty, bless her sensible suede loafers, was the long-suffering, unfortunate saint who masqueraded as Bernie’s PA. On more than one occasion Stan had considered nominating her for an OBE for services to accountancy.

  ‘So which is it to be?’

  Stan continued to gawp, the buzzing in his head increasing.

  She proffered the sandwiches again.

  Oh. Right. Of course.

  He mumbled something incoherent which she seemed to decipher as Caesar Chicken.

  ‘There you go then.’ She set down the sandwich on the desk. Then, flashing him a dazzling smile, spun around and sashayed out of the room displaying a very pert bottom
in the process.

  Suddenly short of breath, Stan leaned back in his chair and ran a finger round the edge of his collar, his head awash with all kinds of erotic images.

  But what did this mean? Never once, in the eleven years he’d been with Bea, had he thought about bedding another woman. Well, apart from that time they’d been on holiday in Majorca and a Swedish model had flaunted her assets round the pool every day. And let’s face it, if that hadn’t got his ardour going, he’d have booked himself into the nearest medical facility for investigation. But that had been pure fantasy. This feeling, in the real world, didn’t sit easy with him. Did it mean the end of his marriage was nigh? Or that he no longer loved his wife?

  Nausea pulsed through him, swiftly chased away by panic. Of course he loved his wife. He really did.

  Without wasting another second, he snatched up his mobile and called her.

  ‘I think we should go out tonight,’ he announced, before she’d had a chance to utter a word.

  ‘Tonight? Why?’

  He’d caught her on the back foot. She sounded baffled. And no wonder. Firstly, they hadn’t had a night out together in the nine months since Maddy’s arrival. And secondly, they hadn’t spoken since their “discussion” over the Chinese takeaway. Bea had been asleep – or done a good job of pretending, he suspected – when he, slightly worse for wear, had tumbled into bed the previous night. And, despite being up once during the night with Maddy, she was still in bed feigning sleep when he’d left for work.

  ‘Because I’d like to take my wife out for a nice meal.’

  A minute’s silence ensued, during which Stan picked up the Chicken Caesar sandwich and dropped it into the bin.

  ‘Okay,’ she eventually conceded. ‘I’ll see if I can find a babysitter.’

  ‘Great,’ said Stan, relief whooshing through him. ‘You choose where to go. Anywhere you like.’ He smiled as he hung up. It was going to be okay. He and Bea simply needed a good chat; to be honest with one another; to talk things through like the two rational adults they were.

  Molly tottered past his office window. Ignoring her shapely derriere, Stan went back to his spreadsheet.

  *

  Amelia had never taken a dog for a walk before. Consequently, she hadn’t appreciated quite how much piddling and sniffing occurred during such recreational pursuits. But waiting for Pip to carry out these activities had also allowed her to have a discreet sniff. So tearful had she been in the pub with Annie and Jake the previous evening, she hadn’t really noticed anyone else. Today, though, she couldn’t help but notice. And it didn’t take her long to realise that she needn’t have worried about sticking out like a sore thumb in designer jeans. Designer anything, she concluded, as yet another perfectly groomed female strutted past, adorned in a purple coat Amelia was sure she’d seen in Dolce & Gabbana, appeared to be par for the course in Buttersley – a bazillion miles away from the green gilets and wellies she’d imagined everyone would be wearing.

  But this sartorial study was merely a forced distraction from Doug. He’d been in Antigua for ten days with Imogen, her family – and a crap mobile signal, so he claimed.

  ‘I’m really sorry but given the circs, I can’t get out of it,’ he’d bleated.

  Amelia had battled the urge to scream. The week Doug had intended making his “announcement” about their relationship, Imogen had made one of her own. Her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Which meant, of course, that Doug couldn’t possibly add to her stress by breaking up with her. And Amelia agreed; as much as she disliked the girl, Imogen must be going through hell right now. Which left Amelia just where she’d always been. Alone.

  ‘God. I’m so sorry, baby,’ he crackled down the phone, when he eventually returned her tearful voicemail passing on the redundancy news. ‘I wish I could be there for you.’

  So did Amelia.

  But he wasn’t.

  Chapter Six

  ‘What about theme nights?’

  ‘Theme nights?’ In the Duck Inn’s sumptuous conservatory, Phil scratched his head as he gawped at Eddie Dunn, soon-to-be new manager of the Duck – a balding, middle-aged specimen who resembled someone in their third trimester of pregnancy.

  ‘Steak nights, curry nights, that kind of thing. Bet you’ve never thought of that before,’ puffed Eddie, leaning back in his seat and beaming triumphantly.

  ‘Er, no. No, I hadn’t,’ replied Phil. Because it’s so bloody crass, the residents of Buttersley would run a mile. ‘Only I don’t really know if—’

  ‘We’ll liven things up around here,’ Eddie ploughed on, flush with either excitement or too many lagers. ‘And the missus has some great ideas as well. The Queen of Karaoke, she’s been called in her day.’

  ‘Right.’ Phil suspected that, were they not surrounded by people, he may well burst into tears. ‘Um, where did you say your last pub was again?’

  ‘Manchester. Estate pub. Bit run down when we took it on but we soon pulled it round. Theme nights sorted it out.’

  ‘Did they?’ muttered Phil, nausea roiling through him just imagining this man and his “missus” livening things up in Buttersley. Everything he’d worked so hard for over the last seven years, plus the pub’s glittering reputation, would be in tatters in weeks.

  ‘When you off then?’ pressed Eddie. ‘The brewery hasn’t given us a definite date yet.’

  ‘A, er, couple of weeks,’ mumbled Phil.

  Eddie clapped his hands together. ‘Perfect. We’ll give the place a quick freshen-up during the quiet months. It’s a bit boring in here with all these cream walls. The missus is thinking about coral pink.’

  Recalling the hours spent poring over Farrow & Ball paint charts, selecting just the right pallet of classic muted tones for the pub, Phil resisted the urge to throw himself on the floor and howl like a banshee.

  ‘And then there’s the furniture …’ Eddie rattled on.

  Phil’s heart sank a degree further. No doubt “the missus” planned to replace it with something neon involving tassels. But whatever their plans, he really didn’t want to hear them.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve just remembered I’ve an appointment,’ he said, thrusting to his feet.

  Evidently on a roll, Eddie’s face dropped. ‘Oh. I wanted to tell you about—’

  ‘Dentist. Filling,’ lied Phil, before haring through the pub and up the stairs to his flat.

  Once inside, he slammed the door shut and leaned against it, breathing heavily. What on earth was the brewery thinking putting a numpty like Eddie in the Duck? The place wouldn’t last two minutes once he’d turned it into a themed-night, tasselled, Barbie palace.

  Still, he reasoned, why should he care? He’d be thousands of miles away on a beach in Brisbane with a wodge of cash burning a hole in his shorts’ pocket.

  The problem was, though, he mused, as he wandered into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, he did care. Yes, the cash would be nice, but the pub meant more than that to him. It was part of him, in his blood. To let it go would be tantamount to cutting off his arm.

  And then there was the pizzeria Rachel was raving about. As promised, she’d emailed the photos. And, as expected, he’d hated every one of them. The place was a clinical, soulless box, without one redeeming feature. Why on earth she imagined he might be excited by such a bland proposition, he really couldn’t fathom. But then again, that was Rachel. She’d landed her dream job, so sod everybody else.

  He glanced at the noticeboard on the wall peppered with photos of the two of them on holiday in Oz. They’d been three times before Rachel had made the emigrating decision. Each time had been better than the last. But that was holidays. This was real life. And, generally, very little similarity existed between the two. God, his brain ached just thinking about it all. He didn’t need tea. He needed to go for a run – a very long run – to clear his head. Switching off the kettle, he headed straight to the bedroom to change.

  *

  Amelia got as far as Buttersley’s
gurgling river, when her mobile buzzed in her pocket. She tugged it out. Doug’s name winked at her on the screen, causing her stomach to flip. Just as it did every time he called.

  ‘God I’ve missed you,’ he gushed, the moment she answered. ‘That’s been the longest ten days of my life.’

  ‘ Mine too,’ she muttered.

  ‘And I’m so sorry about the job. I can’t believe they’ve done that to you. And just before Christmas as well.’

  Amelia heaved a weary sigh. Spotting a bench facing the water, she headed towards it.

  ‘I’ll come round tonight. I can be away from the office by six. I’ll bring a takeaway and a bottle of—’

  ‘I’m not at home.’ Reaching the bench, she sank down on it. Pip immediately launched into another round of sniffing.

  ‘Not at home? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m staying with my sister. In Yorkshire.’

  ‘Yorkshire?’ A short pause followed. ‘Where in Yorkshire?’

  ‘A little village called Buttersley.’

  From the other end of the phone, there came an almighty clatter. Followed by a very loud, ‘Shit!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I, er, just dropped my stapler.’ He cleared his throat. ‘How long are you, um, staying?’

  Amelia gazed at a couple of ducks floating serenely on the water. ‘I have no idea.’ And she really didn’t. The combination of the dazzlingly blue sky and heavy frost gave the village an ethereal, magical aura. So much so that, at that moment, she couldn’t think of another place she’d rather be.

  ‘Oh,’ came back the despondent reply.

  Amelia furrowed her brow. Something wasn’t right. She could sense it. ‘Is everything okay?’

  A brief silence ensued, before Doug mumbled, ‘Er, yes. Yes. It’s fine. I just want to see you. But with Immy’s mother and … Well, it’s all so bloody complicated. Look, I have to go. I’ll call you later.’

  And with that, he hung up, at the exact same moment a young couple sauntered past, one long woollen scarf entwined around both their necks, hatted heads close together, lost in their intimate little world.