Читать книгу: «The Perfect Christmas»
Georgie Carter
The Perfect Christmas
Copyright
AVON
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THE PERFECT CHRISTMAS. Copyright © Working Partners Two 2011.
Working Partners Two asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9781847562937
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 9781847562944
Version: 2018-07-25
Dedication
To all my wonderful family and friends
who have supported me every step of the way
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Ten Top Tips On How To Create the Perfect Christmas
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Christmas Day
Is it possible? Have I managed to sort my life out, after all?
Curling my fingers around a warm mug brimming with mulled wine, I gaze thoughtfully at the small cylindrical present in my lap. I can’t quite bring myself to open it yet.
Instead, I take my time and stare into the peaceful garden. Although it’s still early afternoon the sun is already fading from the sky and shadows are pooling across the neat gravel, intersected by the yellowy glow that spills from the French windows. Multi coloured fairy lights strung between the old peach tree and the trellis throw trembling jewelled beams into the twilight. A plump and very seasonal robin investigates the bird table hoping for scraps before vanishing into the scarlet-speckled holly bush. It’s the perfect Christmassy setting for what is – unexpectedly – turning out to be a perfect Christmas.
The occasional car passes in the street, driving to see relatives and loved ones, but not the steady hum of traffic this is so typical of London suburbs. Quiet. Peaceful. As Christmas should be.
‘I don’t like Brussels sprouts!’
I can hear Faye in the kitchen. She’s laughing.
‘Nobody likes Brussels sprouts!’ replies Simon. ‘But you have to eat them, by law. It’s not Christmas otherwise.’
My dearest friends Faye and Simon are cleaning up after Christmas dinner. Carols are playing in the background, the soothing time-honoured words interrupted only by the occasional pop of another champagne cork or the rattle of utensils.
What a contrast to last Christmas! I shake my head in disbelief at how totally and utterly twelve short months can alter your world. Last year I stood in this exact same spot but rather than my stomach turning in delicious cartwheels of anticipation, it was knotted with misery, and my throat was clotted with sadness. While my lovely friends did their best to cheer me, nothing could soothe the ache of loss or take away the bitter sting of regret.
Pat broke my heart. Could it be that it’s finally mended?
As I sip my drink, the riot of cinnamon, citrus and cloves dances across my taste buds and whizzes me back in time to last December with such speed I feel giddy. Same place, same friends, same drink – but a very different me … and one extra place setting at the table. Back then I had dabbed my eyes and blinked back the sadness before forcing myself to stitch on a smile and join in the festivities. This year excitement is fizzing through me like champagne bubbles and I feel like a child again as I can’t wait to open this present.
Last Christmas I’d made myself a stern promise that this year I would sort out my life. I’d make a list; no aspect was to be spared! I was taking a broom to every dusty cobwebby corner. My finances, my career and my love life were all going to be given a thorough makeover and made to shine. I’d be like Gok Wan – only without the control pants – and by this Christmas, I’d promised myself my life would be sorted. There would be light at the end of my tunnel – and this time it wouldn’t be a train!
And today, although I hardly dare believe it, it seems as though my Christmas promise is coming true …
‘Happy Christmas, Robyn,’ says Faye, joining me at the French doors and clinking her mug against mine.
‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ I say. ‘It’s a very happy Christmas.’
‘Any special reason why it’s such a happy Christmas?’ she asks with a raised eyebrow. ‘Anything you want to share with your best friend?’
I laugh. Faye is about as subtle as Wile E. Coyote tipping an Acme anvil onto the Road Runner.
‘Come on, Robs! Are you thinking about you know who in there?’
‘I was just thinking what a crazy year it’s been,’ I say, sidestepping the you know who comment.
‘I’ll say,’ Faye agrees.
Her blue eyes meet mine in the reflection of the glass door. I lean my head against her shoulder, soft in the palest cream cashmere.
‘You’re a dark horse keeping him to yourself. He’s gorgeous! How long have you two been an item?’
I laugh. ‘No comment.’
‘There’s so much chemistry I practically get an A-level just watching you both.’
My cheeks are possibly the same colour as my mulled wine. Faye’s right; the man who’s accompanied me to this Christmas party is great. In fact, he’s better than great. He’s funny, kind, thoughtful and every time I catch his eye my knees turn to melted butter. Lob into the mix a fit muscular body, merry dancing eyes and a sexy curly mouth and there he is – the perfect package.
Speaking of packages … I look down at the package in my hand. The paper is red with white reindeers and glittery stars, and the wrapping is … bad, like a two-year-old put it together. But it’s the thought that counts.
As if reading my mind, Faye motions to the gift. ‘Are you going to open that?’
‘What? Now?’ I say, with a cheeky grin.
‘It’s traditional to open gifts on Christmas Day, isn’t it?’
I hesitate, and I’m not sure why. Then I tear into the wrapping to reveal … a can of bug spray.
Instantly, I burst out laughing.
‘What kind of present is that?!’ yelps Faye, a horrified look on her face. ‘Where’s the romance?’
I smile to myself. ‘I think it’s pretty perfect, actually.’
‘Robyn?’ Faye asks. ‘Be honest. You like him a lot, don’t you?’
I swallow. In the steam on the window I trace a heart with my forefinger before wiping the pattern away. When I sense his gaze on me all the nerve endings in my body fizz as though they’ve been dipped in Alka Seltzer. I almost combusted when he accidentally touched my elbow on the way into Faye’s lime green front door. It’s nothing short of a miracle all that’s left of me isn’t a pair of smoking L.K. Bennetts.
‘Yes,’ I say softly, admitting it to myself as much as her. ‘I like him. I really like him.’
‘Then take a chance,’ Faye advises. ‘Tell him how you feel.’
Should I take Faye’s advice and go for it?
‘I’ve got some mistletoe, if that would help,’ she adds.
One by one I’ve been crossing off all the items on my list … here is something I haven’t crossed off yet.
Am I brave enough to take a chance and see if this really could be the perfect Christmas?
CHAPTER ONE
April (Eight Months Earlier)
I have always loved weddings. As a kid I used to spend ages wrapping my Barbie up in loo roll and conducting long, intricate ceremonies in which poor Barbie was joined in holy matrimony to the cross-eyed Action Man I’d picked up at a jumble sale. Barbie always looked distinctly unimpressed with her groom, whom, I seem to recall, didn’t have a willy. No wonder Barbie was fed up. These days, in my book, lacking that particular body part makes Action Man a strong contender for the title of Ideal Husband. My ex-fiancé, Patrick, would have been a lot less trouble without that particular part of his anatomy.
That’s why I made the promise to myself last Christmas. My Christmas wish list which covers all aspects of my life – career, finances and love – all perfect by next Christmas. I gave myself twelve months to turn it all around. Including, most importantly, forgetting about Patrick McNicolas.
Unfortunately, that’s not possible today. He is one of the ushers at Adam and Samantha’s wedding.
It’s because of him that I’m in hiding. OK, not hiding exactly, actively avoiding describes it better, but the end result is hopefully the same.
Maybe behind a potted bay tree at the reception isn’t the best hiding place. I breathe in and turn sideways. Hmm. I’m not convinced this helps. The plant is a gigantic specimen but my fuchsia pink dress doesn’t blend in. I couldn’t stick out more if I jumped out naked and started to dance the can-can.
Why didn’t I wear my emerald outfit? At least I’d have been camouflaged. There’s so much greenery in this room that I could have taken my pick of plants and avoided Patrick all evening. I could even stroll out onto the terrace and blend into the shrubbery if I really had the urge.
Looking around, the answer is obvious. As wedding planner, I’m officially responsible for the pinkest wedding reception in the history of the colour pink. From the balloons to the flowers to the bridesmaids’ dresses, everything is pink. I’ve even included myself in the colour scheme, great for matching the table decorations but not quite so great for going unnoticed.
I will talk to Patrick later, I tell myself, ducking my head when he turns around. I’ll paste on a smile and talk about trivia. But it won’t be easy: he’s seen my wobbly bits for heaven’s sake! Not to mention that he’s the man I nearly took to be my lawful wedded husband – until he decided to play away, that is. I’m not sure if I’m up to discussing the weather with him just yet.
Not that Pat will want to discuss the weather. He probably can’t wait to gloat about – I mean, introduce me to – the slim redhead who is the ‘plus one’ on his invitation.
Getting over Pat by Christmas is going to be hard. Maybe I should push it back to the next millennium.
I’m really not in the mood for his games. Not when I’ve got a missing DJ and a confetti-eating flower girl to contend with. Besides, I don’t know if I’m ready to meet the latest member of the Patrick McNicolas fan club. I cancelled my subscription long ago.
Pat’s a stand-up comedian, which I used to find romantic, especially when he proposed to me on stage. His combination of intelligence verging on geekiness, and lilting Irish accent was seriously appealing, and I found myself accepting, much to the delight of the audience. I suspect Patrick was thrilled as much by the laughter and applause as he was by my saying yes.
Here we are, one cancelled wedding and one broken heart later, and I’m doing better. Yes, I’m hiding behind a tree, but I’m not ripping off his gonads and stuffing them down his throat.
This is progress.
It’s a constant relief to me that I still adore weddings, despite having my own special day wrecked in spectacular fashion. Becoming a cynic would have been career suicide. But right now I’m not here to discuss my personal life. I’m here to work and I want everything kept on a professional footing.
I peek through the foliage and feel a glow of pride at the perfect scene. I’ve pulled it off. Even if I do say so myself, this wedding reception is looking pretty damn professional. Well done me.
The elegant drawing room of Taply Manor is festooned with pink and white fairy lights. The tables are draped with crisp white cloths, freckled with pink confetti and set off with deep pink damask napkins. The centrepiece of each table is a vase crammed with waxy white lilies, fat pink roses and bright pink teddy bears with ‘Adam and Samantha’ embroidered across their tummies. The bride insisted upon this particular detail even though I wasn’t convinced. But, as my best friend Faye pointed out, it is their wedding. And Sam was right, the bears actually suit the whole fluffy pink theme. Phew!
The (pink) salmon has been demolished and the scraping of cutlery against china suggests that every mouthful has been savoured. Patrick is busy entertaining his companions, which means the coast is clear for me to give the caterers the go-ahead to serve the dessert.
I whiz around for a good ten minutes giving instructions to the waitresses. Then I check that the wedding cake is ready to be wheeled out and that the champagne is chilled for the toast. One of the bridesmaids has a headache so I fetch some headache tablets from my emergency wedding kit. (You name it and I bet I have it: from spare tights and safety pins, to spare wedding rings – because, yes, it has been known to happen!) And when the DJ calls in a panic because he’s still lost, I become a human sat nav system and guide him to the reception venue. Once all this is done and everyone’s tucking into their puddings, I treat myself to a glass of Moët and retreat back behind the trusty bay tree for a few minutes.
Deciding to take advantage of the peace, I put down the emergency wedding kit to take out my phone from my smaller clutch bag and call my friend Simon. Si’s been one of my closest friends for so long that dinosaurs were roaming Ladbroke Grove when we first met. OK, that’s a slight exaggeration but you get the gist. We actually met at uni as terrified freshers while we were settling into our rooms in a truly gruesome 1960s tower block.
‘This is shit!’ Si had groaned, as with arms full of the obligatory pot plants, biscuit tins and posters, we squeezed into the creaky lift and pressed the button for floor eleven. ‘Still, at least if the course is dire, suicide will be easy!’ And he’d thrown back his head and laughed. Two packets of biscuits, a bucket of coffee and discussion of our A-Level grades later, and we were well on our way to being firm friends.
West Granite House was indeed shit. Built in the early sixties, it dominated the skyline like the proverbial sore thumb, only this thumb wasn’t so much sore as gangrenous and in desperate need of amputation. The lifts conked out on a regular basis, the rooms were little more than glorified cupboards, and as for the toilets … well, I’d rather forget about those.
Lots of people assumed Si and I were a couple but this couldn’t have been further from the truth. I love Si, but I don’t fancy him. At all. He’s just my big rugby-playing, beer-swilling comfort blanket of a mate. I don’t care about all the When Harry Met Sally hype: men and women can be just friends. When Si met Faye, the stunning blonde he later married, I couldn’t have been happier for him. And although Faye was a little cool at first, it didn’t take long before she realised I really wasn’t a threat.
It’s strange but in many ways I’m probably closer to Faye now than I am to Si. Si has a really high-powered job as a barrister and works all the hours that God sends, plus a few more. Lately he’s more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel which means I’ve seen far more of Faye. But no matter how hard Simon works, it’s tradition that I call him from my weddings with an update. It’s payback for all the rugby matches I’ve had to watch over the years.
‘Robyn!’ Si answers promptly. ‘One minute.’ I hear the hiss of a ring-pull followed by the silencing of the rugby. ‘How’s it going? Did Samantha dye her poor sod of a fiancé pink as well?’
‘Not yet,’ I giggle.
This is my sixth wedding (not bad for someone who’s not yet halfway through her thirties) – and sixth running commentary. In spite of all my father’s misgivings about my starting up a business slap bang in the middle of a recession, last summer was full of weddings and I hardly had a minute to myself. Looking back, this was probably a good thing because not only did it get Perfect Day off to a flying start but it also kept me far too busy to brood about Pat, and therefore rescued my nearest and dearest from months of suicide watch. The winter’s been slower, of course, but I’m on track to have it all sorted by Christmas. Six weddings is a great start and, just like the song says, things can only get better …
OK. So the six weddings aren’t technically mine but when I think back to my own almost wedding, I’m pretty sure that I prefer arranging my clients’ special days. Other people’s weddings are a lot less heartache.
‘Paint me the picture,’ he says.
‘Right,’ I say. By now I’m very familiar with the procedure for this update phone call. ‘Imagine the scene: the top table’s laughter is floating up and popping like the Moët bubbles fizzing in the champagne flutes. The bride and groom are feeding each other great spoonfuls of raspberry crème brûlée.’
Simon sucks in a mock gasp because he knows me so well.
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I’m holding my breath in case a big splat of garish pink syrup lands on the delicate silk wedding dress.’
I’ll want to strangle myself with the streamers if anything happens to that dress. The bride and I had to trawl practically every wedding emporium and design studio in London for it, howling in desperation when each dress turned out to be just slightly wrong. Some dresses were too white, some were not quite white enough, some were too plain and some were too fussy. It was the wedding dress equivalent of Goldilocks’ porridge-tasting. I’d almost lost the will to live when Samantha finally declared that the final dress was just right.
‘I will not let her wreck that dress before their first dance.’
‘Get on the case, Wedding Planner Woman!’ Simon orders.
I’m just on the brink of snapping shut my mobile and snatching the dangerous dessert away when the groom leans forward and gently wipes a smudge of brûlée from the corner of his new wife’s mouth. The tenderness and pride in his eyes when he smiles at her stop me in my tracks. I feel my eyes begin to moisten.
‘What?’ Si asks when I go quiet.
‘It’s so romantic,’ I gulp. ‘Adam’s spoonfeeding Samantha.’
Simon makes vomiting sounds. ‘Is this the same Samantha you said was so self-absorbed that if she was cut in half the word “me” would run through her like seaside rock?’
Did I say that? It must have been after the marathon wedding dress hunt. Looking at Samantha now, all smiles and Swarovski crystals, I know every stressful minute has been worthwhile.
‘She looks beautiful,’ I whisper, watching the happy couple share a lingering kiss. ‘I love weddings, Si, I really do.’
‘That’s because you’re a hopeless romantic,’ Simon says indulgently. ‘One in three marriages end in divorce, remember?’
‘Says you, the most happily married man I know.’
Now Simon’s end of the line goes quiet. I wonder if he’s got distracted by the rugby in the background, but then he adds soberly, ‘It’s not all moonlight and roses, Robs. Marriage is bloody hard work. It’s about who’s bought the milk and who’s picking up the dirty socks. But, yes, I am lucky.’
‘Faye deserves a medal for picking up your socks.’ I shudder. ‘I still have nightmares about that pair that grew mould.’
‘OK,’ grumbles Si, ‘dig up the past, why don’t you?’
‘I had to dig up your socks from the carpet!’
‘You exaggerate about that,’ Simon laughs. ‘But the point is that marriage is about mundane stuff most of the time.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I agree. ‘I should know how hard marriage really is. My parents have hardly set the best example.’
My parents’ marriage survived for about six years and I can’t remember the last time they had a civil word to say to each other. I try not to focus on this, concentrating instead on creating perfect wedding days for other people. At least I can get that right. The happily-ever-after bit I leave to my clients. I can’t believe that I still well up like this at the idea of true love because I’ve experienced all kinds of emotions since Pat and I split up, seesawing wildly from total disillusionment to a fervent optimism that true love can still overcome all.
So long as there are no comedy circuit groupies around, obviously.
Blast. Sometimes disillusionment wins.
‘Introspection over,’ I inform Si, who expresses his relief. ‘My pragmatic head is now firmly back in place and … oh God,’ I add, my heart sinking when I see who is coming my way. ‘Not a minute too soon either. I’ll call you back, Si.’
So much for my cunning hiding place.
It’s Patrick. And he’s making a beeline for me.
Here we go.
