“I saw you once before, you know,” she said quietly, her lips brushing against his cheek as she spoke. “And I never told you about it.”
“Yeah?” he replied, reaching down to drag her coat across both their legs. “How come?”
“Because I was embarrassed. It was in the park. I was there with Ellen. We’d been for a run, and were taking a break afterwards, sitting on a bench like this one. You were on the playground, with Luca. I was…well, let’s just say that Ellen didn’t stop mocking me for hours. You just looked so…full of life. Of energy. You were so good with Luca. I assumed he was your son, until a few days later, when you called into the shop. And that time I could barely speak, I was so surprised to see you. I’d been secretly calling you the Hot Papa from the Park. In my mind, that’s what you were – and…and part of me thinks that’s what you should still get to be, Marco. So you’re right – I am scared. But I also think that kids should be part of your life, that you’ll lose something so vital if they’re not.”
“Ah, Maggie – you need to let go of that. You need to see yourself the way I see you. Kids are great, sure – but if they’re not in our future, they’re not in our future. The one we can have together still shines, so bright…brighter than that fancy college over there,” he said, gesturing at the majestic glow of Christ Church in the distance.
“We could look at adopting. We could set up a timeshare with Luca and Rob Jnr. We can just…be. Together. The two of us. You remember when we were talking about this? I said the most important thing was finding the right woman. And now, I know, I’ve found her. I’ll be damned if I let you get away now, after what feels like a whole lifetime of searching – without even knowing it, I’ve been searching, and everyone else came up short.
“It’s you, Maggie. It’s you I want. Not some perfect, mythical future with another woman – a real future, with you. One that starts now. With this, our first Christmas together.”
He kissed her gently on the top of her head, and extracted his arm from around his shoulders. He picked up the package on his lap, and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” she said, pulling out a gift-wrapped parcel, frowning in confusion, missing the warmth of his embrace.
“What does it look like, Sherlock?”
“It looks like a present…but, how? You’ve been with me pretty much all the time. How did you find time to do this?”
“I used a magical new invention called the internet, Maggie. Had it delivered to Leah and Rob in Scotland – I always knew you’d eventually give in and come with me. I’m irresistible like that. Go on, open it. If you still have use of your fingers.”
Maggie gazed up at him for a moment, taking in the bruises, the cuts, the stubble. The hazel eyes that were sparkling in anticipation. The way the moonlight seemed to create a halo around his face; the snowflakes that were gathering in the thick dark waves of his hair. Irresistible, she thought, fumbling with the wrapping paper.
She finally managed to tear off the sheets, and pull the gift free.
It was Alice in Wonderland. A first edition, with illustrations by Lucy Mabel Attwell. Exactly the same as the one he’d wrecked when he cycled head-first into her life all that time ago. He’d listened, and he’d remembered, and the feel of this precious item resting on her knees filled her with wonder. She’d never find another man like this, she knew – and yet here she was, blithely telling him to move on, to find someone new. To leave her behind – when that would be as impossible for him as it would be for her.
He was silent for a moment, looking at her intently, trying to gauge her reaction.
“Do you like it? If not, I can get you something else; I can –”
“It’s perfect,” she said quickly, interrupting him, then stopping the flow of words with a kiss. A cold, frozen kiss; one that moved more on instinct than sensation; a kiss that finally made those unshed tears flow.
When they pulled away from each other, faces still just inches apart, she said: “I didn’t get you anything. I feel terrible now.”
“Don’t feel terrible. Just say you’ll give this a chance. We’ve both been living for other people for too long – you with Ellen and your dad, me with Rob during the dark days. It’s become a habit – and now we have the chance to break it.
“Tell me that you’ll take the risk, Maggie. We can move slow, we can move fast. We can live here, we can live in Chicago. Heck, we can even get married – just don’t expect me to try and get down on one knee right now. Whatever you want, Maggie. Whatever way you want to play this. I can’t promise you perfection – but I can promise to love you. Exactly the way you are. Just say yes.”
She carefully wrapped the book back up, protecting it from the snow. Listened to distant church bells chiming midnight. Felt her heart swell with hope and pride as she looked at the big, battered man sitting beside her, half broken and still so much stronger than her.
And she said one word.
“Yes.”
Epilogue
Christmas Eve, one year later
Maggie was exhausted. She’d been to so many weddings, seen so many brides, and never quite appreciated how tiring it was, being the centre of attention for a whole day.
She was collapsed in the dressing room of the countryside manor house where the ceremony had taken place, lying horizontally on an over-stuffed sofa, staring with fatigued eyes at the tastefully decorated Christmas tree in the corner. Leah had laid a couple of wrapped gifts beneath it, and from the squishy feel of them, Maggie suspected she was about to be initiated into the Hideous Christmas Jumper Club.
Outside, a tiered terrace was draped with silver fairy lights, and beyond it snow-covered gardens stretched as far as the eye could see.
It was so pretty, she thought. Like a fairy tale. A weird fairy tale where she had somehow been cast as the unlikely princess, complete with her dress for the ball.
The dress. Even glancing down at it made her smile. For the first time, she’d designed one for herself – for her marriage to Marco.
It still seemed unreal, the whole thing. The look of total wonder on his face as she walked down the aisle. Her dad’s beaming smile as he gave her away. The fact that Ellen managed to complete all of her maid of honour duties without even swearing once, at least out loud.
Unreal, and over so quickly.
She sat up, straightening the palest green taffeta, and took a few sips from the champagne glass on the table by her side. She instinctively moved to tuck loose hair behind her ears, before remembering that, for once in her life, there was no loose hair – it was all swept up into the most intricate of buns, woven into the elaborate band that was decorated with vintage pearls and crystals. She’d probably have to scalp herself to get it off, but it had been worth it.
It had all been worth it, she knew now. Every last moment of panic, every hour lying awake at night, every surge of anxiety. The last year, as Marco had predicted, had not been easy. Her cold feet were positively arctic at stages, and at least twice she’d come close to calling it off. To letting the fear and uncertainty overwhelm her.
But he hadn’t let that happen. He’d stood firm, solid, and convinced – he simply wasn’t going to let her go, no matter how much of a chicken she turned into. There were still things to be worked out – he’d reduced his work at Cavelli Inc, and was spending part of the year lecturing here in Oxford. She’d planned her workload so she could take the whole of summer to get to know his home in Chicago. It wasn’t simple – but they were getting there.
In fact, she thought, slipping her tired feet back into her satin heels, they’d already arrived – they were married. It was official – she was now Mrs Cavelli; for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.
The latter had been the source of some wonderful gag material for Rob during his best man’s speech – sharing the story of how they met; of the ensuing broken bones and hospital visits and exasperated agency nurses getting stuck in the middle of their growing love affair.
Nanny McPhee – here with her husband, who wasn’t a toy boy after all – smiled at that one. Somehow it had seemed right to invite her – she’d played an important part in those early days, sponge bath and all.
There were guests there from Chicago, from Rob’s family, from his work. Leah was smiling and harassed, Roberto Jnr – who would turn one the day after – sitting up and waving pudgy hands in his pram; Luca buzzing around the room like a hornet on speed. Definitely a day, Maggie knew, when she’d agree to that timeshare in a snap. And definitely a day, Maggie also knew, that Leah had been wishing for since she first saw her and Marco together. Leah had always had a plan – and now it had come together.
Maggie’s friend Sian had come, with all three of her children, and Ellen had brought her new boyfriend, Ollie. Jacob hadn’t lasted, despite taking her to Paris for Christmas. Ollie, though, he mocked her relentlessly, and never let Ellen get the last word – so Maggie thought he might be a keeper.
And right in the centre of the room, sitting together around the white-clothed tables and sparkling wine glasses, had been the Brides. The beautiful brides who had also been with them on their path to this day, who had shared their own weddings with her and Marco, and were now radiant with happiness on their behalf .
Gaynor was there, vastly pregnant and dressed in a gaudy hot pink kaftan, alongside Tony. Lucy, elegant and lovely as always, was hand in hand with Josh, looking utterly content.
And Isabel and Michael were, at least in Maggie’s eyes, the absolute guests of honour. He still looked too thin – in fact they both did – but they were here. They’d got their Christmas miracle, and Michael was back in remission. Back at home. Back with his beautiful wife, and treasuring every day they spent together. It lifted Maggie’s spirits almost as much as the simple gold ring on her finger.
There was a knock on the door, and before she could reply, it opened. Marco walked in, and the sight of him in his wedding clothes still made her suck in a hurried breath. He was so handsome, so happy. So completely hers – this amazing man who had worked his own miracle. The man who had convinced her, finally, that she was whole. That she was enough, just as she was.
His face creased into a grin as he saw her, sitting there alone, champagne glass in her fingers, with a slightly guilty expression at being caught in hiding.
“Tiddly again, Mrs Cavelli?” he asked, holding out a hand and helping her to her feet.
“I can’t help it. My husband’s a beast – it’s the only solace I have,” she replied, falling purposely into his arms.
“Yeah,” he replied, holding her close. “I’ve heard that about him. And right now, he needs his wife, tiddly or not, to come and dance with him. There’s a whole crowd of people out there waiting to see if we do the robot.”
He felt Maggie’s face grimace into his chest, and laughed at her. He knew she’d been dreading this all day. Even standing in front of their guests for the ceremony had been excruciating enough – but dancing in front of them was definitely Maggie’s idea of torture.
“Come on,” he said, leading her from her hiding place and out into the reception room. “It won’t be that bad. And at least I have two working legs this time.”
The crowd applauded as they emerged into their midst. The DJ was set up in the corner, and a disco ball was shimmering over the dimmed room. Maggie glanced around, seeing Ellen and Ollie doing tequila shots at the bar; her dad chatting up Marco’s stylish mum, Isabel and Michael smiling at them in encouragement. Leah pushing the buggy with one hand, giving her a huge ‘thumbs-up’ sign with the other. Rob looking on with Luca perched on his shoulders.
A room full of joy, full of happiness.
Marco took her into his arms, holding her tightly, whispering into her ear as he started to sway.
“I told you this would be our song,” he said, kissing her gently.
She smiled up at him, finally relaxing into arms she knew would never let her fall, as the music began.
The Power of Love.
Bonus Material
Turn the page for an exclusive sneak peek at Debbie’s hilarious new rom com, available January 28th 2016…
The Birthday That Changed Everything
PART ONE
Oxford – 39 and counting…
Chapter 1
I was online, buying myself a 40th birthday present from my husband, when I discovered he was leaving me for a Latvian lap-dancer less than half my age.
Now, I like to think I’m an open-minded woman, but that definitely wasn’t on my wish list.
One minute I was sipping coffee, listening to the radio and trying to choose between a new Dyson and a course of Botox, and the next it all came apart at the seams. The rug was tugged from beneath my feet, and I was left lying on my almost middle-aged backside, wondering where I’d gone wrong. All while I was listening to a band called The Afterbirth, in an attempt to understand my Goth daughter’s tortured psyche.
The Internet wasn’t helping my mood either. I knew the Dyson was the sensible choice, but the Botox ad kept springing into evil cyber-life whenever my cursor brushed against it. Maybe it was God’s way of telling me I was an ugly old hag who desperately needed surgical intervention.
The fact that I was having to do it at all was depressing enough. As he’d left for work that morning, Simon had casually suggested I ‘just stick something on the credit card’. He might as well have added ‘because I really can’t be arsed … ’
He may be my husband of seventeen years, but he is a truly lazy git sometimes. We’re not just talking the usual male traits – like putting empty milk cartons back in the fridge, or squashing seven metric tons of household waste into the kitchen bin to avoid emptying it – but real, hurtful laziness. Like, anniversary-forgetting, birthday-avoiding levels of hurtful.
Of course, it hadn’t always been like that. Once, it had been wonderful – flawed, but wonderful. Over the last few years, though, we’d been sliding more and more out of the wonderful column, and so far into flawed that it almost qualified as ‘fucked-up’.
It had happened so slowly, I’d barely noticed – a gradual widening of the cracks in the plasterwork of our marriage: different interests, different priorities. A failure on both our parts, perhaps, to see the fact that the other was changing.
With hindsight, he’d been especially switched off in recent months: spending more time at work, missing our son’s sports day, and not blowing even half a gasket when Lucy dyed her blonde hair a deathly shade of black. I’d put it down to the male menopause and moved on. I was far too busy pairing lost socks to give his moods too much attention anyway. Tragic but true – I’d taken things for granted as much as he had.
As I flicked between Curry’s and Botox clinics, an e-mail landed. It was Simon – probably, I thought as I opened it, reminding me to iron five fresh work shirts for him. I don’t know why he bothers – it’s part of my raison d’être. If he opened that wardrobe on a Monday morning and five fresh work shirts weren’t hanging there, perfectly ironed, I think we’d both spontaneously combust.
‘Dear Sally,’ it started, ‘this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but I need to take a break. I have some issues I need to sort out and I can’t do that at home. I won’t be coming back this weekend, but I’ll contact you soon so we can talk. Please don’t hate me – try to understand it’s not about you or anything you’ve done wrong, it’s about me making the time to find myself. I’d really appreciate it if you could pack me a bag – you know what I’ll need. And if you could explain to the children for me it would probably be for the best – you’re so much better at that kind of thing. With love, Simon. PS – please don’t forget to pack my work shirts.’
And at the bottom of the e-mail, rolling across the page in all its before-and-after glory, was an advert. For bloody Botox. I stared at it and gave some serious consideration to smashing the laptop to pieces with a sledgehammer.
Instead, I remained calm and in control of my senses.
At least calm enough to not wreck the computer.
The only problem was what to do next. When you get news like that, especially in the deeply personal format of an e-mail, it renders you too stupefied to feel much at all. I think my brain shut down to protect itself from overload, and I did the logical thing – started making lunch. Lucy would be back from a trip to Oxford city centre soon with her friends Lucifer and Beelzebub. Well, that was my name for them. I think it was actually Tasha and Sophie, but they’d changed a lot since Reception, and I wasn’t sure if they were even human any more.
They’d left earlier that morning on some sort of adventure to mark the end of the school term. They were probably sticking it to the Man by shoplifting black nail varnish from Superdrug.
My son Ollie was out at Warhammer club at the local library, where he took a frightening amount of pleasure in painting small figures of trolls and demons various shades of silver. He still looked like a normal 14-year-old, at least – apart from the iPod devices that had now permanently replaced his ears. I’d got used to raising my voice slightly when talking to him, a bit like you do with an elderly aunt at a family do, and playing ad hoc games of charades to let him know dinner was ready or it was time for school.
They’d both be coming home soon, even if Simon wasn’t, and they’d be hungry, thirsty, possibly lazy, grumpy, and a variety of other dwarves as well.
On autopilot, I opened the fridge door and pulled out some ham, mayonnaise and half a leftover chocolate log, starting to assemble a sumptuous feast. Well, maybe not that sumptuous, but pretty good for a woman who’d just been cyber-dumped.
Simon was leaving me, I thought as I chopped and spread. Leaving us. My handsome husband: orthopaedic surgeon to the stars. Or at least a few C-listers who’d knackered their knees skiing, and one overweight comedian who snapped his wrist in a celebrity break-dancing contest.
Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper Page 17
