A Fairy Tale for Christmas

by Chrissie Manby

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Kirsty!’ Jane sighed.

  ‘If he was interested, I would know by now, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Did he know you’d split up with Jon before today?’

  Then the door-bell rang. It wasn’t late but Kirsty wasn’t expecting anybody. She asked Jane to stay on the line while she went to the door and checked that her caller wasn’t bringing bad news. Jane agreed. Since Greg died, they both had a dread horror of unexpected callers after dark. Even if it was still relatively early. Jane promised she would not come off the line until she knew all was well.

  ‘I’m ready to drive over if you need me,’ she said as Kirsty walked to the door with the phone still at her ear.

  ‘It’s probably for one of the neighbours,’ said Kirsty. ‘People forget which flat their friends live in so they ring my bell instead because it’s number one.’

  Kirsty picked up the intercom. She could see no one on the grainy screen.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  A male figure stepped into view. She couldn’t see his face.

  ‘Not today, thanks,’ she said.

  Then the man moved so that she could see him more clearly.

  ‘I’ll call you back,’ she told Jane.

  ‘What! Wait! Don’t you dare go without telling me what’s going on. What’s happening?’

  ‘You’re never going to believe this.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s Ben.’

  Kirsty buzzed him in.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Ben looked nervous when he finally got to Kirsty’s front door.

  ‘It’s already dark,’ he said. ‘If it’s too late and you’re doing something or you just don’t want any visitors, I can turn around and go right away.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything than can’t be interrupted,’ she said. ‘Come on in. It’s cold outside. Baby,’ she added, reminding Ben of their singsong at the Bella Vista.

  Ben stepped into the flat. Kirsty was reminded of how shyly he had waited on the doorstep when bringing India home in the early hours of New Year’s Day. She saw him make a surreptitious inventory of the hallway. She wondered if he was checking for any sign of Jon. There was none, Kirsty knew that. Jon was thousands of miles away. Both physically and psychologically for Kirsty now.

  ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Kirsty asked.

  ‘I …’ Ben had something behind his back. Kirsty felt her cheeks growing warmer as she wondered what he was hiding. Had he bought her flowers? Kirsty cocked her head. Her smile softened. If he had bought her flowers, if this visit was for the reason she hoped, then she wanted Ben to know that it was OK. He could say what he wanted to say. She was happy to see him. She was ready to say ‘yes’ to whatever he wanted to ask. There was a long moment of silence before Ben said, ‘I’ve come in search of the woman to whom this beautiful slipper belongs.’

  ‘What?’

  And he suddenly flourished Kirsty’s missing wellington boot.

  ‘You found it!’ She laughed.

  It was clean and shining. Kirsty hadn’t seen the boot look so good since the day she first saw it in the shoe department at Chillings.

  ‘Did you really go back to the beach and pull it out of the mud?’

  Ben nodded. ‘It was easy,’ he lied.

  ‘And then you cleaned it?’

  Ben nodded again.

  ‘I can’t believe you’d do that. But I’m very glad you did. Thank you.’

  Kirsty reached for the boot but Ben suddenly fell to one knee, still holding the wellie as though it were every bit as precious as Cinders’ missing slipper.

  ‘Madam,’ he continued, paraphrasing the Cinderella script. ‘Are you the fair maiden with whom I danced on the beach in the moonlight? With whom I stood beneath the pier, listening to the sound of my racing heart drowning out the crashing waves? Are you the beautiful woman in the yellow mackintosh I should have kissed when I had the chance?’

  Kirsty grinned from ear to ear.

  ‘That I am, dear prince,’ she said. ‘That I am.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to prove it by putting this wellington boot on.’

  It was a struggle. Getting wellies on was always a struggle for Kirsty. But she did it. And when she did it, Ben lifted her to her feet, so that her face was level with his.

  Eye to eye.

  Nose to nose.

  Mouth to mouth.

  ‘You are my real princess,’ said Ben.

  And then he kissed her.

  The fortune-teller had been right all along. Kirsty was where love is.

  And they both lived happily ever after.

  Acknowledgements:

  Being a writer is a wonderful job for many reasons but possibly the best is that it gives you an excuse to peek behind the curtains at other people’s lives. Or should I say ‘peek behind the tabs’, Ben Tisdall?

  When I asked Ben to tell me a little about his experiences in the amateur dramatic world, I had no idea how generously he and his fellow ‘toads’ would respond to my request. The TOADS Theatre Company, who perform at The Little Theatre in Torquay, are a fantastically talented bunch. In particular, I would like to thank Roger Heath, who very kindly gave me a tour of the theatre itself. Meanwhile, Lydia Dockray, Jessica Hunter, Jon Manley, Craig Northway, Anna Reynolds and Jolyon Tuck had me in stitches for hours with their stories from behind the scenes. Thank you all. Names have been changed. Except for Jon’s.

  In London, I was lucky enough to be able to pick the brain of actor Stephen Carlile, who played Scar in the European musical adaption of Disney’s The Lion King. Thank you, Stephen, for being so kind in answering all my questions.

  I met Stephen through Bernie Strachan, fellow novelist and dear friend. I am fortunate to have a great bunch of literary girlfriends. Bernie, Victoria Routledge, Michele Gorman, Alex Potter, Fiona Walker and Lauren Henderson – brilliant writers all – I don’t know what I would do without you. Thank you too, dear Bia Nasr, for your friendship. I am working on that Tuscan guest suite!

  A Fairy Tale For Christmas is my twenty-first Chris/Chrissie Manby novel for Hodder. As I reach this literary coming of age (getting older but, I suspect, not maturing), I am grateful for being in the care of a wonderful editor. Emily Kitchin, for your wise insights and your gentle notes, I salute you. Thank you also to Eleni Lawrence, Lucy Upton, Louise Swannell and Richard Peters for getting my books into readers’ hands. Thank you, Nicky Lovick, for your expert copy-editing. The beautiful cover is the work of Joy Laforme.

  My agent Laetitia Rutherford at Watson, Little has been another valuable early reader. Thank you, Laetitia, for your kindness and patience and careful suggestions too.

  As ever, I’d like to thank my family: Mum, Dad and my sister Kate, who have always been there for me. Also my nephews, Harrison and Lukas, who never fail to make me laugh. Even if it is by asking Siri ‘Is Auntie Chris a rubbish writer?’

  Don’t answer that, Siri.

  Finally, thank you, Mark, for everything. But especially for the tea.