I'll Be Home for Christmas: A heartwarming feel good romantic comedy

by Karen Clarke

  I bashed the cushions on the sofa into shape, trying not to think about the activity that had taken place there less than twenty-four hours ago, but my brain was already pulsing with the remembered feel of Ryan’s lips, the pressure of his hands in the small of my back, the feel of his body against mine – the smell and taste of him, and his intense expression as I talked, absorbing my words as though they mattered to him. It was part of his job as a writer to be a good listener, I reminded myself. Even as we’d kissed, he was probably storing up the experience to put in his novel. Remembering Noah Dailey and his penchant for nightwear, I hardened my heart and stalked into the kitchen, where I pulled my washing from the washer dryer and wolfed down the leftover chasseur and half a baguette with unnecessary force.

  Back downstairs, the launch was in full swing, a queue of customers waiting to have their book signed by Margot, who looked to be in her element, writing messages with a flourish of an old-fashioned fountain pen, while her son watched, looking rather like a politician’s bodyguard in his dark suit.

  The classical music switched to Dolly’s Christmas CD, Slade belting out ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’ reminding me the big day was looming and I was going to be eating the turkey-with-all-the trimmings dinner that Dolly had planned, as if I’d never left England.

  I’d assumed she no longer followed the old traditions, and the day would involve a soup-kitchen vibe, attending to regulars who had no family of their own (Mum had mentioned it being Dolly’s new thing) and that we’d take a walk on the beach, where I would sit on a sand dune and look at the sea while remembering Gran, before returning to the café to drink one – or two – of Charlie’s cocktails.

  ‘I like your pantaloons,’ said Stefan, offering me a glass of bubbly liquid from his tray, and I glanced down at the gold, velour jumpsuit of Dolly’s I’d wriggled into after taking a shower that had made me think of Charlie, collapsing before he could get into the bath – and had also made me wonder why he’d bothered to open the window (perhaps the delirium) and why he’d removed his socks in the main bathroom (maybe he’d fancied a bath instead of a shower).

  ‘Thanks,’ I said with a self-conscious smile, wishing half a dozen people hadn’t overheard and were looking me up and down, nodding their approval. At least, I thought it was approval and not pity. My curves weren’t quite as generous as Dolly’s, so I’d had to cinch in the waist with a cowgirl-style belt, and put on some lipstick because apparently, gold made me look like a vampire had drained my blood.

  ‘Ah, c’est magnifique!’ For a second, I thought the symphony writer (composer?) with the mad-professor hair was referring to my breasts – his eyes had been firmly fixed in that area since I’d appeared – but as more appreciative cries went up and the small crowd parted, I saw Mathilde carrying through Margot’s cake in the style of a contestant on The Great British Bake Off. She was listing to one side so that Frank had to do a goalkeeper-leap to stop it sliding to the floor, his face paling when her eyes shot sparks of fury – I was glad it wasn’t just me she despised – and as she shuffled closer to Margot, I felt my partly charged phone start to buzz in my jumpsuit pocket.

  Moving back to the kitchen, I pressed it to my ear: ‘Dolly?’

  ‘He hasn’t broken his ankle, love.’ Her voice was hearty with relief. ‘It’s just a bad sprain, but he’s got mild concussion, a nasty throat infection and he’s dehydrated, so they’ve got him on a drip and are pumping him with antibiotics.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ I sagged against the worktop, which was littered with Mathilde’s silver stars and an inch-thick layer of icing sugar. ‘I mean, thank goodness it’s not much worse,’ I said, a wave of relief tearing through me.

  ‘I thought you’d want to know.’ Dolly’s voice quivered with emotion. ‘I can’t thank you enough, Nina. If he’d been lying there much longer—’

  ‘His hair would have been nice and clean,’ I said to lighten the mood, then had to explain about the shower gel (not mentioning I’d mistaken it for blood until Marie put the light on). ‘And it was Frank who pointed me in the right direction. I had no idea he was there,’ I added pointedly. ‘It’s a good job I called round to see how Frank was, after his terrible virus.’

  Still not taking the cue, she said, ‘We haven’t even got a bed for Charlie at the cottage, isn’t that awful?’

  ‘Dolly—’

  ‘He had to go to Natalie’s house to get a good night’s sleep and could have died.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Sod my walk-in wardrobe,’ she sobbed. ‘I should have got Frank to make him a bed.’

  ‘Dolly, this is not your fault.’

  ‘I should have known when Elle called this afternoon to ask how Charlie was because his phone was going to voicemail that something wasn’t right, but I told her he likes to sleep when he’s ill – not that he’s ill very often. He hates being ill.’

  ‘You couldn’t have known,’ I said firmly, but from the tear-filled sigh at the end of the phone, it was obvious she felt she’d failed him in some fundamental way. ‘He probably didn’t know himself how unwell he was and he’s going to be just fine.’

  ‘Oh, it’s awful,’ she fretted. ‘I feel terrible.’

  ‘Does he know Ryan’s not here?’

  For once, Dolly didn’t jump on my comment. ‘He’s still sleeping,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been able to talk to him yet, but Ryan told me before he left for the airport that he’d talk to Charlie soon, and to say goodbye if I saw him.’

  Say goodbye if you see him.

  It sounded so casual, after Charlie and Dolly had welcomed him into their home and given him space to write his book and recover from his break-up with Nicole. Charlie had even given up his bed, without a word of complaint. Say goodbye if you see him. I tried to picture Ryan saying it, his lips forming the words, his suitcase in one hand, Nicole holding the other, and hardened my heart a bit more.

  ‘…stay here for a bit in case he wakes up,’ Dolly was saying as I tuned back in, aware of my fingers clenched around my phone. ‘How’s it going over there?’ she added, as if she’d forgotten the café, which had to be a first.

  ‘Everything’s fine.’ As I said it, a volley of excited barking broke out, followed by a bloodcurdling yowl. Gérard and Madame Bisset had obviously arrived with their respective pets, which meant… I hurried out to see Delphine squirming in her mistress’s arms as Hamish danced on his hind legs. It was hard to tell whether he was trying to impress or bite her.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said. ‘After all that, she managed to find her way home.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Delphine was in Natalie’s house,’ I explained. ‘She was standing outside the door where Charlie had fallen.’

  ‘That cat’s got a sixth sense.’

  It was such a Dolly thing to say, I couldn’t help smiling as I rolled my eyes. Then again, Delphine had alerted me to the open door where Charlie was, so maybe there was something in it. I’d looked for her after Marie went back inside, but it had been so cold, and I’d felt too shaken to search for long. ‘Anyway, Frank’s being a great host,’ I said, watching him distract Hamish with a macaron.

  ‘He always is,’ said Dolly fondly, and I promised her I’d tell him that Charlie was going to be OK, and that she would call him later, and agreed that, yes, Frank was an absolute rock and she’d been right to ‘put a ring on it’.

  ‘You know, your life is only as good as the man or woman you marry – if you marry,’ she said, becoming sentimental. ‘And my life couldn’t be any better right now, love. At least, it will be, once Charlie’s out of hospital.’

  I smiled, her words reverberating in my head. How good would my life have been if I’d married Scott Mackenzie? Filled with anxiety, regret and self-loathing, probably. And what about Ryan’s life if he’d married Nicole? No doubt he’d find out soon. And what about if Augustine had married William?

  Twisting my mind away, I decided to give Dolly another chance to come clean. ‘Do you think Charlie caugh
t his throat infection from Frank?’

  ‘I doubt it, love. Frank’s was a virus while Charlie’s is bacterial.’

  She was really good. I thought about telling her Frank had confessed, right before I helped him hang the door on her walk-in wardrobe, but suspected she’d simply gloss over it. And anyway, the wardrobe door would be a nice surprise for her when she got home.

  ‘I’d better go,’ I said, watching Margot positioning herself behind her sponge-and-icing spaceship, ready for a photo, a Christmas party hat parked at a jaunty angle on top of her piled-up hair. ‘Mathilde’s taken Margot’s cake out. It’s pretty spectacular.’

  ‘Just don’t let her cut it,’ warned Dolly, sounding more like her usual self. ‘She can’t be trusted with a knife.’

  Twenty-Seven

  By the time I crawled into bed just after eleven, after helping to clear up and seeing everyone off the premises – reassuring Frank I’d be fine on my own – I felt as if I’d lived through several lifetimes. I could barely summon the energy to send more than a clapping emoji when Ben messaged to say it had been snowing over there.

  How’s things? he persisted, clearly in a chatty mood. I replied with the emoji of a monkey covering its eyes.

  That bad?

  Yawning, I sat up and switched on the bedside light, immediately spotting the letters I’d forgotten to return yet again. I put them back in the drawer and tucked the duvet around me. The heating had gone off and it was cold.

  Charlie in hospital, throat infection, badly sprained ankle.

  Ouch.

  Found him collapsed, thought he was dead.

  Shit!! Are you OK? Is Charlie OK? Is everyone OK??

  All fine, just shattered. Helped host a book launch at the café.

  Sounds fancy.

  There was a spaceship cake and champagne and mulled wine and I learnt a French song called Petit Papa Noël.

  Tell me you didn’t sing.

  I hadn’t, despite an overwhelming urge to, invoked by a couple of glasses of mulled wine and the relief of knowing Charlie was being looked after and would soon be home.

  It was a shame he and Dolly hadn’t been there to listen to Margot give a reading from Tempêtes de Pluto – I hadn’t understood it all, but gathered there was a galactic power struggle and a sinister conspiracy, and Brigitte, the main character, was a mercenary in love with her (Zac Efron lookalike) pilot – or to see Gérard and Madame Bisset exchanging smiles when they thought no one was watching. (Jacqueline was and didn’t seem to mind.) At least I’d managed to record Mathilde cutting the spaceship cake for Margot, under Frank’s guiding hand, and sent the clip to Dolly.

  I mouthed the words

  I replied to Ben. He sent a string of laughing emojis.

  Mum’s Christmas play was a disaster, by the way.

  NO! What happened?

  One of the donkeys pooed on the stage, Mrs Danvers forgot her lines and started quoting Shakespeare and there was a power cut halfway through.

  He attached a photo of a chaotic stage scene, partially lit by torchlight, a donkey’s tail just visible in the corner. I was laughing so hard, I didn’t have time to reply before another bubble of text appeared.

  I’m not supposed to say anything but I know you don’t like surprises, and you went there to escape all the madness, but Mum and Dad are on their way to you for Christmas.

  I was so shocked, I dialled his number. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘I know,’ he said, and I was surprised at how nice it was to hear his familiar Somerset twang. ‘Mum said it wouldn’t be right to have Christmas without you or Gran.’

  In my tired, emotional state, I felt the approach of tears. ‘I thought she was preparing for the Bailey Christmas feast, and they were going to do toasts to Gran and play her favourite games.’ The idea had been unbearable a few weeks ago, but now didn’t seem so bad. ‘Mum bought a new Pictionary game, and what about all the cousins?’

  ‘She’s sacked everyone off,’ said Ben. ‘Reckons she deserves a break and so does Dad, and she wants to see Aunt Dolly.’

  ‘What about the farm?’

  ‘I’ll be here, and Uncle Hank has said he’ll help out.’

  ‘I thought you were having Christmas dinner with Lena’s family this year?’

  ‘They’re coming here instead,’ he said. ‘It’ll be fun playing Farmer Bailey.’

  ‘You are Farmer Bailey, get used to it.’

  ‘I’ll sit in Dad’s place and raise a slice of goose.’

  ‘I can’t believe they’re flying out.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d want to know, so you can find somewhere else to stay if you want to avoid all the… you know, the Christmas stuff.’

  But now the initial surprise had worn off, I realised I didn’t mind. In fact, I was looking forward to seeing my parents, even though I’d been away for less than a week. It would be fun to see what Dad was like without his farm props and routine – lost, probably.

  ‘I suppose Dolly knows?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ said Ben. ‘They want it to be a surprise.’

  I smiled, imagining Dolly’s face when her sister rocked up. I might not like surprises, but Dolly did.

  I slept as though sedated, only stirring when the alarm beeped me awake at six thirty. I dressed quickly and crept downstairs, not sure why I was being quiet when there was no one there but me, to find Dolly coming in through the back door, bringing a cold draught and a flurry of snowflakes with her.

  ‘I thought you’d be at the hospital,’ I said, returning her fierce hug and helping her out of her coat. ‘How’s Chuckleberry Finn?’

  ‘His temperature’s down, his sats are good, blood pressure’s normal.’ She sounded like an ER doctor. ‘He’s sleeping like the dead.’ She pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘I shouldn’t say that,’ she said, ‘it’s tempting fate.’

  ‘It sounds like he’s out of the woods.’ My whole face was a grin of relief. ‘When’s he coming home?’

  ‘Hopefully, later today.’

  ‘You didn’t have to come in,’ I said. ‘I was going to open the café, and Frank said he’ll be here at seven.’

  ‘When Charlie woke up, he told me to come home, so I thought I’d have a shower and a nap and a change of clothes and pop by to see how my baby’s doing.’

  ‘Aw, that’s nice,’ I said. ‘I slept really well, actually.’

  ‘I was talking about the café.’

  I smiled. ‘I know you were.’

  She was already speeding around the kitchen, firing up the oven and ferreting in the freezer for supplies. ‘Frank’s finished my wardrobe,’ she said. ‘He’s done a wonderful job.’

  ‘Really? What an amazing surprise for you to come home to, especially as he was still recovering from his virus.’

  She looked at me from under her fringe. ‘Put the kettle on, love, I’m parched.’

  By eight the café was fully staffed and in full swing. Dolly was showing no signs of leaving, even though Frank had turned up as promised and was cleaning tables efficiently.

  ‘Have you talked to Ryan?’ Dolly asked as I nibbled an almond croissant by the fridge, trying not to get in anyone’s way.

  ‘No.’ I wondered why she thought I would. ‘You?’

  She nodded. ‘He called to say he couldn’t get hold of Charlie, so I explained what had happened. He was pretty upset,’ she said. ‘He’s going to try and get hold of him this morning.’

  If he can be bothered. ‘I’d like to go and see Charlie. Is he allowed visitors?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ Dolly’s smile was bright enough to power the village. ‘Any time from ten.’

  ‘Will Elle be there?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Her smile wound down. ‘There’s been heavy snowfall since yesterday evening so all flights from Gatwick were cancelled. We’re waiting for an update.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy to keep him company until she arrives.’

  ‘He’ll be so pleased to see you, lov
e.’

  Frank offered to drive me to the hospital, but I could tell he really wanted to stay and help Dolly, so I said I’d get a taxi.

  Driving over the bridge away from the island felt strange – as if I was leaving before I was ready to face the big wide world. I hadn’t realised how much I liked being in my little Chamillon bubble and already wanted to return.

  The snow had stopped temporarily, and the roads had been cleared, but around us the rooftops and streets were carpeted white. Beyond some halting exchanges about the weather (‘It’s the same in England apparently,’ was the best I could do), the driver wasn’t talkative, which suited me, and I tipped him generously when he dropped me off outside the Hôpital Saint Louis, a sweeping building with lots of tiny windows that could have been an office block if it wasn’t for the ambulances, and the patient with a cast on his leg in a wheelchair outside the entrance.

  Hospitals made me think of Gran, but I reminded myself that this was a happy visit that would end with Charlie being released today (I hoped).

  I was directed to the ward by an English-speaking nurse in a pale-blue uniform that accentuated her shiny dark hair, which swirled in a thick ponytail down her back. ‘He is very much better this morning,’ she said, pointing me to a bed by the window with a view of snow-coated tree branches against a goose-grey sky. He was sitting up, reading a magazine, a blanket covering his lower half, and looked like his normal self – apart from the hospital gown.