The Perfect Christmas. Georgie Carter

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ