The Perfect Christmas. Georgie Carter

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      Bradley’s cheeks are as pink as my Cath Kidston mobile. ‘Yep. She’s right here. In this pub.’

      ‘She is?’ I stall for time. Is my Christmas wish list about to get one item shorter?

      Bradley nods. ‘Over there.’ And rather than peering deeply into my eyes and dropping a bombshell, he points towards the blonde Australian barmaid who’d joked with me earlier. ‘Her name’s Julia.’

      Oh.

      ‘I’ve known Jules for years,’ Bradley says, as he pulls a tray of glasses from the dishwasher. ‘She was dating a mate of mine so I never dreamed we could be anything else. But when I went home she was single and,’ he looks bashful, ‘we kind of got it together, you know?’

      I’ve got it together with Bradley a few times myself so, yes, I know.

      ‘But Jules was about to go travelling,’ he continues, ‘and I couldn’t bear to lose her so she persuaded me to go traveling with her.’

      Julia looks over and smiles at him, a smile of such joy that it lights up the room.

      ‘Isn’t she great?’

      ‘She’s beautiful,’ I say honestly.

      He reaches across the bar. ‘You and me have been really good friends, Robyn, chatting over crappy love lives, so I thought you’d like to know: before we flew here I asked Jules to marry me. And guess what? She said yes!’

      ‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Congratulations!’

      ‘Thanks. You really do know when you meet the right one. Everything just falls into place.’

      ‘I’m really pleased for you,’ I lean across the bar and kiss his cheek, a very different kiss from the last one we shared. ‘You deserve to be really happy.’

      Bradley brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. ‘And so do you, Robyn,’ His jerks his head in the direction of the television where Patrick is flirting with a stunning actress. ‘Especially after your narrow escape from that idiot.’

      It’s really late by the time I finally leave the pub after buying champagne and listening to Bradley and Julia’s excited plans. She’s lovely, laid-back and funny and we really click. Brad’s obviously told her exactly what our relationship once was because Jules is careful to reassure me that she doesn’t have a problem with any aspect of her fiancé’s past.

      ‘After all, I was with Shane,’ she says, flicking her blond mane behind her smooth tanned shoulders. ‘It’s not as though Brad and I were together then. The past is past, yeah?’

      I gulp. In spite of the fact that they weren’t even together the last time that Brad and I hung out, I still have a horrible sense of guilt. Thanks a lot for sending me to a convent school, mum! How can I show Brad and Jules that I really am genuinely delighted for them? Then I have a brilliant idea.

      ‘How about I help you plan your wedding?’ I say slowly. ‘Perfect Day at your service. And I’ll do it for free.’

      Jules’s eyes widen. ‘Really? You’d do that for us?’

      But Brad looks worried, probably thinking that having his ex arrange his wedding is far from normal.

      ‘You don’t have to do that, Robyn,’ he says.

      ‘I know I don’t have to,’ I reply. ‘But you were a good friend to me when I had a tough time and I’d like to do something for you both. Seeing a couple as loved up as you guys gives me hope for the future!’

      A frown crinkles Bradley’s brow. ‘Are you really sure?’

      I nod. ‘Totally. Besides, budget weddings are my speciality. Just ask Hester Dunaway!’

      Opening my purse I pluck out a card, which I give to Jules. ‘Give me a call when I’m slightly more sober! Then we can start making plans.’

      Jules is grinning from ear to ear. ‘Cool! Thanks, Robyn. You’re a dahl! If only all Brad’s exes were like you.’

      ‘All?’ I catch Brad’s eye and a blush creeps up his neck. He looks so awkward that I can’t help but start to laugh.

      When I leave the bar and head for home the laughter slips away and is replaced by a creeping sense of desolation.

      I’ve offered Perfect Day’s services for free as a wedding present and I’m over the moon for them, I really am. The tears that slide silently down my cheeks aren’t because I want Bradley for myself, or wish that I were in Julia’s Uggs. No way. I’m just so sad at always being the one left behind. Everybody is moving on but I’m always left alone, standing on the shore and watching them sail over the horizon to new and exciting lands. I realise I’m not jealous of Bradley and Julia but I am jealous of what they have.

      I’m tired of being on my own. Part of me worries that I’ll never meet the right man to settle down and have children with. And another part of me wonders if that’s my fault.

      I’m just pushing open the gate to Gideon’s garden, and peering carefully at the path just in case Poppy’s been out for a late night loo visit, when my phone beeps from deep within my bag. I root around and fish it out, trying not to scatter sweet wrappers and fluffy Tampax onto the grass.

      That’s strange, I don’t recognise the number.

      I open the message and scan it. When the words sink into my wine-sodden brain I’m taken aback because the text is from Jonathan Broadhead. He’s signed me up for the swing dancing course just like he promised.

      A thoughtful man who keeps his word too? No wonder he’s married. Who wouldn’t want to keep hold of a man like that?

      I unlock the front door and switch on the light. I re-read the message and in spite of myself, I find that I’m smiling.

      I may be an old spinster of the parish, gathering dust on her shelf, but things are looking up.

      Robyn Hood is going swing dancing!

       CHAPTER NINE

      It’s Friday. D-day.

      The closer the tube gets to Covent Garden the more nervous I feel.

      And being nervous is never good, especially when pitching against Hester Dunnaway, a woman so cool that she makes cucumbers appear hot and bothered.

      Sighing, I check my reflection in the carriage window. When I planned my outfit I’d plumped for a look with just the right amount of edge, hoping this would sum up the ethos of Perfect Day. I’d imagined sipping coffee while Saffron flicked through my portfolio in a relaxed and friendly fashion in her Chelsea flat. So when her PA changed the location to her Scorching!’s London HQ, I was a bit shaken. I’m not sure what magazine editors wear but I’ve seen The Devil Wears Prada and I’m beginning to worry that I may have got it wrong.

      I’m wearing a black vintage flared skirt with a full net underskirt and red roses СКАЧАТЬ