Mills & Boon Christmas Delights Collection. Rebecca Winters

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       Chapter Twenty-Three

      Bolting the door behind me, I hoiked up the wet hem of my dress, kicked off my shoes and squelched through to the bathroom. Whacking the shower on full, I stripped off and stepped under the water. Tipping my face to the stream of water, I let it pour down, enabling me to convince myself that it wasn’t tears flowing down my face, just the shower water. Admittedly this charade became harder to keep up when I stepped out, wrapping myself in an oversized fluffy towel, and found that watery tracks continued to trickle down my cheeks. I sat down heavily on the side of the bath.

      There was no denying it. After so many years of holding back, of seeing what sort of destruction loving the wrong person could wreak, promising that I would never be a part of anything like that again, never be part of such pain, here I was. My throat hurt, my chest hurt, my head hurt and in amongst it all, there was more pain in my heart than I’d thought possible to feel. I thought I’d protected myself against all this. And I had when I’d been paying attention. But falling for Michael had been gradual. Unplanned. Unexpected. And now unbearable.

      I wiped my face with the back of my hand and padded into the bedroom. It was freezing. The outdated storage heater was having another of its moments. I stuffed my foot into a trainer, gave the thing a kick and made a mental note to give the landlord a call in the morning. Although, this close to Christmas I had a feeling it might not be the most successful call I’d ever make.

      Shivering, I pulled out my fleeciest jammies and then shoved my arms into my cosy dressing gown, wrapping it around me tightly, making myself into a human fleece burrito. Pulling back the covers, I hopped in and quickly yanked them back up over me, leaving just my eyes peeking out. Closing them, I tried to push away all the thoughts of what might have been tonight. It wasn’t like me to be fanciful and imagine what could be. I’d learned from my mother that that sort of thinking only brought heartbreak and disappointment.

      Michael was someone else’s. Maybe he always had been. And if he had a chance at making his marriage work again I should be happy for him, shouldn’t I? But inside there was a voice that questioned this new turn of events. It was clear from his behaviour and the way he’d run his life since Angeline had left that he’d been totally in love with her, and that her infidelity, her leaving, had devastated him. But in the past six weeks he’d changed. He’d begun to get back to who he really was beneath all the hurt and anger that he’d been holding onto. Even Janey had said she couldn’t believe the difference in him and that he seemed happier than she’d seen him in years.

      I could understand why he would want to let Angeline back into his life – you only had to take one look at her for the most obvious reason. But beyond that, he’d loved her with everything he’d had. And now she clearly wanted another chance. Her request for a dance for ‘old time’s sake’ hadn’t fooled me. The way she looked at him? That request wasn’t anything to do with the past, it was all about the future. And I wanted to wish him well. But I couldn’t help it. Something grabbed at me and just kept screaming that she was the one who broke his heart. She was the one who’d sent him spiralling down until he’d lost all sense of who he really was, and all that he could be, distancing him from the family he adored. And yet, I couldn’t deny him happiness, if that was where he thought it lay. I cared about him too much for that. I loved him. And that was the real problem here. I loved him. And he loved her.

      When I woke the next day I blearily realised that the room wasn’t quite in the realms of ice hotel temperatures any more. Apparently the emotional impetus behind my trainer clad kick last night had had some impact. Unfortunately, the bathroom mirror confirmed that same emotional impetus had also had another effect and this one wasn’t anywhere near as successful or welcome: My eyes were puffy and although the shower had got rid of some make-up, I hadn’t bothered to finish my cleansing routine yesterday as I usually did. I imagined my pillow was going to need a bit of a soak in some Vanish if the state of my face was anything to go by. Cleaning my teeth, I made a point of not looking in the mirror again. Once done with that, I set about removing all traces of last night’s make-up and starting again. In more ways than one.

      ***

      I checked my watch as I waited for the train to appear through the tunnel, pushing the warm air out in front of it, thawing shivering tourists and commuters alike. The heavy rain of yesterday evening had, at some point during the night, turned to snow and I’d stepped out of the flats this morning to find my neighbourhood draped and muffled beneath a powdery white covering, inches thick. Instead of my heels, I wore a pair of fur-lined riding-style boots that served well as my stylish-but-still-practical option when the weather necessitated.

      Two minutes: The display board indicated the arrival time of the next train as more people entered the platform. I shuffled further up and took my phone out of my bag as I waited. I’d switched it on earlier when I was getting ready but hadn’t yet had a chance to check my messages. Again, not like me. Normally I was far more organised and efficient than this in the morning, even after two bottles of wine with Janey (pre-baby-bump, obviously). All I needed now was to have received a message from the client I was rushing out first thing to see to say that they’d changed their mind. But there wasn’t one from my client. At least not that particular client.

      There were now, in total, eight missed calls from Michael, as well as voicemail notifications. Of course, that wasn’t necessarily him. But the fact that one of the six texts he’d sent said that he’d now left three voicemails and would I please call him gave me the idea that it probably was.

      I closed the phone as the train pulled in, engine slowing, squeaky brakes protesting as it came to a full stop. Hearing his voice, that hint of gravel that made him sound slightly sleep roughened, even when he wasn’t, all wrapped up in that soft Irish accent was exactly what I wanted. And exactly why I couldn’t listen to them. His texts didn’t say a lot, but they told me enough. Michael might have played the lothario in the СКАЧАТЬ