Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper

by Debbie Johnson

  And now, with perfect timing, just as he was at his least impressive – feeling like a girl and getting hand-washed by an octogenarian – there she was. Standing in the doorframe, hair all over the place, in her usual jeans and T-shirt. There were dark circles under her eyes, which gave him the impression she’d slept about as well as he had, and she had a slightly stupefied expression on her face. She was probably blinded by Nanny McPhee’s warts.

  “Oh,” she said, her eyes travelling over his bare chest and shoulders, then looking abruptly away. “I thought you’d finished. I’m sorry, I’ll go and…do something else…”

  “Almost done,” said Doris, standing upright and grabbing a towel. She started to rub at Marco, drying him off with brisk and humiliating efficiency, whipping the towel across his thighs and stomach as though he wasn’t even alive. Just then, he thought, as he closed his eyes and tried to think himself into a happy place, he kind of wished that he wasn’t. He battled the urge to share a few choice words with Doris – that would be rude, she was just doing her job, and Maggie would hate it – and consoled himself by gripping the sheets of the bed so hard his knuckles turned white.

  When she finally finished, and strolled over to get out a clean T-shirt, Marco opened his eyes again, hoping that Maggie would have disappeared in a puff of smoke. No such luck. She was still standing there, staring. And…laughing? Was she laughing at him? She had her hand held over her mouth to try and hide it, but her eyes gave her away. They were sparkling and wet and…yup, definitely laughing. Heck. At least he was good for something, he told himself.

  Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, Ellen pushed past her and right into the room. Far less restrained than her mother, she let out a mighty wolf whistle at the sight of the nearly naked man sitting there, which earned her stern glances from Nanny McPhee. Great, thought Marco – maybe they could invite the rest of the street in as well? Have a little party? Maybe film it all and put it on YouTube?

  He managed to keep his mouth shut until Doris approached with the shirt, taking hold of his arms and holding them up in the air, as though he were a helpless kid who couldn’t even dress himself.

  “No! Thank you, I’m fine!” he said through gritted teeth, swiping the T-shirt from her hands mid-air and bunching it up on his lap. It was one humiliation too far. “All good now, Doris – thanks so much, see you soon!”

  The nurse looked momentarily peeved, but started to clear up her paraphernalia and prepared to leave. Ellen was lounging around on the recliner, laughing out loud. At least Maggie had had the decency to try and hide it, though a few giggles were escaping by now.

  “Marco,” said Ellen, pointing one finger at him, “don’t you know there are impressionable women living in this house? I mean, you’re not my type – there’s just too much of you and you’re old enough to be my dad – but you’re playing with fire here. Mother might explode with lust, and poor Doris probably hasn’t seen the like of it for years…”

  “Hush your mouth,” said Doris, zipping up her bag and standing up straight, “I might have a sexy toy boy waiting for me at home for all you know, duckie. Right. See you tomorrow.”

  Having shut them all up with that zinger, the nurse nodded her farewells and made a brisk exit – out into a still snowy but slightly less frigid Oxford. Maggie thought the snow would hold off today, maybe even start to clear. And picturesque as it was, getting around was a whole lot easier without it.

  “Coffee?” she said to Marco, who was – thankfully – now covering himself up with a navy blue T-shirt. Ellen was a cheeky minx, but she’d unintentionally hit a sore nerve – the sight of all that bare flesh, on top of last night’s unexpected intimacy, had led Maggie to believe that it would indeed be physically possible for her to explode with lust. Which would be messy.

  Marco’s head popped out of his top, hair scuffed in all directions, and he let out a desperate ‘yes, please!’.

  When she returned with two steaming mugs, Ellen was already grilling him.

  “So, Marco, when are you leaving us?” she asked, giving her mum the evil eye for not bringing her a coffee as well.

  “If all goes to plan, December 23. It’s a long journey, but I’m feeling stronger every day. If the weather doesn’t get any worse, Rob’ll send a driver for me. If the roads are bad, I guess I’ll have to fly to Aberdeen and take it from there.”

  “You say all this very casually, hiring drivers and catching flights. Are you lot loaded or something?” she asked, with the complete lack of inhibition that both made Maggie cringe and proud at the same time. Ellen, it had to be said, did not suffer from any crises of confidence.

  “Yep,” replied Marco, taking a tentative sip of coffee and remaining unperturbed by the interrogation. “Totally.”

  “Hmmm…that must be nice. And what are you doing here – some kind of lecture?”

  “Yes again. The Law Institute holds a series of them during the vacation, invites an international audience, writes it up for journals, that kind of thing. I thought I’d spend a bit of time exploring the UK while I was here, but so far, I’ve mainly seen Oxford, and most of that either in the company of a two-year-old, or in the company of your mother and a broken leg. Not that I’m complaining.”

  Ellen took it all in, filing away the information, and then turned her piercing gaze to Maggie.

  “And what about you, mum? What have you got on for the next few weeks, apart from tending to your hunky invalid, that is?”

  “Gaynor, Lucy and Isabel are all getting married. You already know that.”

  “Hah,” said Ellen, “three weddings and a lecture. Sounds like an especially boring chick flick. Well I’m hoping to head off to London on the 20th, if that’s okay with you – there’s a flight the next day that we can all get together for our Paris trip. Is that okay with you? I’ve not really seen you much since I mentioned it.”

  Maggie concentrated on the patterns the steam rising from her mug was making, and carefully avoided meeting Marco’s eyes.

  “Yes, of course it’s okay – as long as you can arrange for me to speak to Jacob’s parents beforehand. And yeah, I know, you’re an adult – but that’s a deal breaker.”

  “Are you worried in case they sell me into slavery?”

  “No, I want to warn them what they’re letting themselves in for. Look, I did have something planned for your present, but…well, Father Christmas kind of stuffed up the delivery on that one, so I’ll get some cash together instead. You can change it into Euros and spend it all on croissants and fake moustaches. But I warn you now, if you want clothes washing, they need to be removed from the jumble sale you’re holding on your bedroom floor and deposited in the basket. Otherwise I’ll leave them to grow mould.”

  “Fair enough. Sounds like a deal. Thanks Mum – this is very cool of you, and I’ll get you Jacob’s mum’s number. Right, I’ll leave you to it, kids – I’m sure you have exciting plans for the day, and I’m off round to Rebecca’s. I might stay over – I’ll text you if I do. Laters!”

  With a breezy wave, she left the room, abandoning Marco and Maggie to the first even vaguely awkward silence they’d had since he’d arrived.

  She glanced at him through the coffee mug haze. He was wearing a half smile, and his eyebrows were raised.

  “I know! Okay, I know! And I will tell them both, eventually, as soon as I’ve planned my solo trip to Bali, or whatever…”

  “Hey,” replied Marco, holding his hands up in the air, “don’t shoot the messenger. It’s your life, it’s your kid. You play it however it feels right. I can’t even shower myself – I’m in no position to tell you what to do.”

  “Your situation is a temporary setback,” said Maggie, smiling sadly, “mine might be permanent. Anyway – thanks for being so…kind. Last night. You’re supposed to be here recuperating, not consoling me.”

  “No problem,” replied Marco. “I’m a multi-purpose pain in the ass. Now, what are your plans for today? I have the lecture
in a few days, and need to get some work done on it. Can I stay here? Are you going in to the shop?”

  “No, I don’t need to. I have a few errands to run. I need to go and sell my body on Cornmarket, see if I can raise a few quid for Ellen’s trip – but the rest of the day I can be here if you need me. I have some designs to work on.”

  “What was it, by the way?” he asked. “The present you’d got her? Was it anything to do with that book you were scooping up from the floor on the day we, ah, crashed into each other’s lives?”

  “I thought you were passed out for that bit…but yes. It is, well it was, a first edition of Alice in Wonderland, the one with the illustrations by Mabel Lucie Attwell. Now, it’s a rather crumpled pile of old paper in my bedroom. But not to worry – she’ll probably prefer cash anyway. The pages have dried out, I might be able to frame some of the pictures and put them up in the hallway. In all honesty, I think I was buying it as much for myself as I was for her. It’s a book my mother read to me, and I read to her…but she’s not at an age where terminal sentimentality has set in yet, lucky thing. Anyway. That’s gloomy. Tell me about your lecture. What’s it on?”

  “You really want to know?” he asked, sensing that she was keener to change the subject than to hear about his work.

  “Of course. You had to learn all about hemming and darts yesterday. I’m sure law is just as much fun as that.”

  “Okay,” he said, grinning at her. “You asked for it. The lecture is called – and hold onto your sides, now, lady – ‘Co-operation in international business law: the trans-Atlantic litigation hub’.”

  He paused, looked at her reaction, and laughed out loud.

  “Hey, Maggie – what’s wrong with your eyes? They’ve gone all glazed…”

  “No, honestly!” she chirped back, putting as much fake enthusiasm into it as she could. “It sounds great – you had me at ‘litigation hub’!”

  “I know. It’s irresistible, right? It’s pretty much written. I just need to go over some notes, check the presentation, that kind of thing. I can set myself up here, do it while you’re in town prostituting yourself outside the bureau de change. What about these weddings you need to attend? When are they?”

  “The first is this weekend. Gaynor – the lady with the huge dress, you met her when you came into the shop that time? Then Lucy the day after. Then next is Isabel and Michael, on Christmas Eve…I’m looking forward to that one so much; they really deserve a special day after everything they’ve been through.”

  “They sure do,” said Marco nodding. “And do you always go to the weddings?”

  “Not always – but I often get invited. It just happens that these three are all dresses I’ve made from scratch – not alterations, or dresses they’ve picked from stock. Ones I’ve made just for them. It takes a long time, a lot of contact, and by the end of it, we’ve often become close. Plus maybe from their perspective it’s handy to have me on standby, in case of some terrible wardrobe malfunction.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the only reason, Maggie. I saw the way you were with Isabel…it’s like you’ve been on a journey with them. Become part of their lives. It’s lovely that you get to go along.”

  Maggie smiled in agreement, though inside she wasn’t so sure. She’d been doing this for years – starting off working with an older woman when she was just 19, learning her trade, building up enough experience and courage to eventually open her own place. She’d been to countless weddings, and every single one of them had reduced her to rubble.

  She was always happy for the couple, and thrilled when everything went to plan. Professionally proud of the dresses. But…she always arrived alone, and always went home alone. Spending your whole life wrapped up in other people’s romance was a sure-fire way to highlight the starkness of life as a single parent. And in more recent years, being surrounded by young children had started to have equal bite – much as she loved kids, they were also a bittersweet reminder of everything she’d lost.

  But, it occurred to her, perhaps, at least for the next few events, she could do something to change that – and actually use the ‘plus one’ she usually declined. Not be the wallflower, and actually have someone to talk to – if not dance with.

  “Maybe,” said Maggie, hiding her nerves behind another gulp of coffee, “you’d like to come with me? I completely understand if you want to stay here instead, and I’ll only be gone a couple of hours, but, well, if you wanted to…”

  “Will there be cake?” he asked.

  “Traditionally so, yes.”

  “And beer?”

  “Pretty much always, Marco.”

  “And do you wear a fancy dress and gussy yourself up?”

  “Ha! I do my best with what nature and the woman at the make-up counter in Boots gave me.”

  “Well in that case,” he said, shooting her one of those slow, easy smiles that always made her feel weak at the knees and pretty much everywhere above, “count me in.”

  Chapter 15

  “I feel like a homeless person,” said Marco, gesturing down at the new black jogging pants he was wearing.

  “Well you don’t look like one, or luckily smell like one,” replied Maggie, taking in the smart white shirt and navy tie. They’d tried suit trousers, but it was just too hard – they couldn’t accommodate the cast. “Everyone will understand – they’ll take one look at your leg and get it. The rest of you looks…fine.”

  He quirked his eyebrows up at her, and she turned away, pretending to check her handbag instead. He looked more than fine. He looked edible. She was secretly glad he hadn’t been able to pull off the full suited and booted look – he would have been too much to cope with. James Bond if he’d eaten all his spinach and gained a sense of humour.

  She pulled down the driver seat mirror and checked her face. Yes, she thought, it’s still there. I still have a face, and predictably enough it’s still blushing. And it’s still as made-up as it was ever going to get with your limited skill set.

  She was wearing her standard Guest At A Wedding frock – the most expensive single item of clothing she owned. A simple dark green thing, fitted, with a tasteful V-neckline. She was never much for dressing up anyway, and always believed that at other people’s weddings, the focus was always quite rightly on the bride. Nobody cared much what she looked like. Normally, she wasn’t that bothered either – but for some mysterious reason she couldn’t quite fathom, had made an extra effort for this one.

  She’d straightened her hair, which flowed down her back as far as her waist once all the curls and tangles were removed, and put in the dangling jade ear-rings her mum had bought her so many years ago. She’d accessorized with black heels, a black clutch, and a beefy American stud. It was a whole new look.

  “Don’t worry,” said Marco, laying one hand on her knee in a way that was probably supposed to be reassuring, but simply made her pulse spike, “you’re gorgeous. Your hair is…amazing.”

  “Yeah,” replied Maggie, snapping the mirror back up into place and smiling. “I really thought that when I was 15 and my nickname was Duracell. Anyway. I’m ready if you are. And I’m bringing the chair, no matter what you say. Unless you fancy wrestling me to the ground to stop me, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Tyrant,” he said, taking a deep breath as he prepared to clamber out of the passenger seat.

  Gaynor’s wedding was at a hotel about four miles out of the city centre. Although it was near the motorway turn-off, it was set in its own grounds, complete with a large lake, a colony of swans, and various picturesque outdoor areas designed specifically with wedding photos in mind. Maggie had been to several weddings here, and they’d all been raucous – pretty much everyone attending stayed over in the hotel, which led to all sorts of interesting behaviour. She’d never checked, but had a private theory that there was often a spike in business at the maternity ward nine months after one of these affairs.

  The snow had, as she’d suspected, stopped falling
afresh, and the roads had cleared into grey slush. The hotel, though, seemed to have sustained the illusion of a picture-perfect whiteout – the lawns were coated and dazzlingly white, and all of the trees lining the driveway were shining with glittering strings of Christmas lights.

  The ceremony had taken place in late afternoon, and as they arrived for the evening party, the sky had faded from sunlight to a slinky silver moon. Glancing inside the building, Maggie could see the revelry in full swing, a dancefloor bustling with bodies. Gaynor herself was taking up most of the space in her huge dress, one of the younger bridesmaids holding her hands. She had, at least, settled for smaller frocks for the children – a blessing as far as Maggie was concerned. She couldn’t help but smile as she looked at them – and to wonder how that trick with the toy gun had gone.

  “Wait here while I get the stuff,” said Maggie, opening the car door and getting carefully out. She wasn’t used to heels, and the floor was still frosty.

  “Aye aye captain,” replied Marco, watching as she tottered around to the back. She really did look fantastic, he thought. Like one of those pre-Raphaelite paintings come to life – all shining auburn hair and luscious curves. And the shoes…shiny and black and pointy. Enough to give a man a fetish. It was yet another Maggie O’Donnell for him to marvel at – she looked like some kind of glamorous earth goddess, and didn’t seem to know it at all.

  He’d been haggling with the earth goddess all day about that ages-old conflict, Crutches vs Wheelchair. Marco was insisting that he was ditching the chair completely from now on, that he’d never get his strength back if he kept ‘sitting his fat ass in it all the time’. Maggie had responded that his ass was far from fat, and went on to use that annoying thing called logic to point out that later in the evening, possibly after a drink or two, he might be glad of it.

  She’d forced him into a compromise where they took both, and he was going along with it. He was an attorney – and he knew when logic had defeated him. He’d taken pain pills before he left, sent a photo of his down-and-out-does-wedding look to Rob and Leah to give them a giggle, and was ready to party. Or at least spend the night surreptitiously sneaking glances at his partner for the evening. Back home, weddings were usually prime hunting sites for fun and foxy female companionship, but this woman had his brain so scrambled, he probably wouldn’t notice if naked supermodels were serving up the champagne.