Fairytale Christmas. Liz Fielding

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      ‘I wonder what happened to the real elf?’ she said after a moment. ‘The one from Garlands.’

      ‘Maybe, given time to think about it, she didn’t want to spend December in a windowless basement,’ he said, sipping at his own tea and deciding there were more interesting ways of heating up his, her lips. How close had they been to a kiss on the stairs? An inch, two?

      ‘Maybe. Or maybe, when it started to snow, she decided she’d rather go home and make a snowman.’

      ‘Is that what you’d have done, Lucy?’

      ‘Me? Fat chance. Every minute of every day is fully booked. Or it was. This afternoon I had a meeting with a wedding designer to explore ideas for my fantasy wedding.’

      ‘It may still happen,’ he said, glancing down at her, the words like ashes in his mouth.

      ‘Nope. The word “fantasy” is the clue. It means illusory. A supposition resting on no solid ground.’

      He wanted to tell her that he was sorry. But it would be a lie and actually she didn’t look that upset. The brightness in her green eyes was not a tear but a flash of anger.

      ‘So what should you be doing this evening? If you weren’t here, tearing my life’s work to shreds.’

      ‘Now?’ She pulled a face. ‘I should be gussied up in full princess mode for a gala dinner at the Ritz, to celebrate the unveiling today of Lucy B.’

      ‘With you as the star? Well, obviously, that would have been no fun,’ he teased.

      ‘Not nearly as much as you’d think. Speeches, smug PR men and endless photographs,’ she said. ‘Being an elf beats it into a cocked hat.’

      ‘So you’re saying that your day hasn’t been a total write-off?’

      ‘No,’ she said, looking right at him. ‘Hand on my heart, I’d have to say that my day hasn’t been a total write-off.’

      Any other woman and he’d have said she was putting a brave face on it, but something in her expression suggested that she was in earnest.

      ‘Shame about the snowman, though,’ she said, turning away as if afraid she’d revealed more of herself than she’d intended. She abandoned her mug. ‘It doesn’t often snow in London, not like this. I hope the missing elf did seize the day and go out to play.’

      ‘It’s not too late.’

      ‘Too late for what?’

      ‘To go out to play.’ And where the hell had that come from? ‘Build a snowman of your own.’

      ‘Nathaniel!’ she protested, but she was laughing and her eyes, which he’d seen filled with fear, mistrust, uncertainty, were now looking out at the falling snow with a childlike yearning and, crazy as it was, he knew he’d said the right thing. And, as if to prove it, she put a hand behind her head, a hand on her hip, arched a brow and, with a wiggle that did his blood pressure no good, said, ‘Great idea, honey, but I haven’t got a thing to wear.’

      ‘Honey,’ he replied, arching right back at her. ‘You seem to be forgetting that I’m your fairy godmother.’

      Before he could think about what he was going to do, he caught her hand and raced up the stairs with her.

      The emptiness hit him as he opened the door, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Lucy was right. This wasn’t a bedroom, it was a mausoleum. And that hideous rose…

      ‘Nathaniel…’ Her voice was soft behind him, filling the room with life, banishing the shadows. Her warm fingers tightened on his as if she understood. ‘It doesn’t matter. Leave it.’

      ‘No. Seize the day,’ he said, flinging open the door to the dressing room with its huge walk-in wardrobe filled with plastic-covered ghosts. The colours muted. No scent. Nothing.

      He pulled off covers, seeking out warm clothes. Trousers. He pulled half a dozen pairs from hangers. A thick padded jacket. Opened drawers, hunting out shirts, socks. Sweaters. Something thick, warm…

      As his hand came down on thistledown wool, it seemed to release a scent that had once been as familiar as the air he breathed and, for a moment, he froze.

       Carpe diem.

      The words mocked him.

      When had he ever seized the day? Just gone for it without a thought for the consequences; been irresponsible? Selfish? Maybe when he’d been eighteen and told his father that he wasn’t interested in running a department store, that he was going to be an architect?

      Had it taken all the courage, all the strength he possessed to defy, disappoint the man he loved, that he had never been able to summon up the courage to do it again?

      ‘Nathaniel, this is madness,’ Lucy called from the bedroom. ‘I can’t go outside. I don’t have any shoes.’

      He picked up the sweater, gathered everything else she was likely to need, including a pair of snow boots that he dropped at her feet, doing his best to ignore her wiggling toes with their candy nails.

      ‘They’ll be too big,’ she protested.

      ‘Wear a couple of pairs of socks.’ Then, ‘What are you waiting for? It’ll all have disappeared by morning.’

      ‘Madness,’ she said, but she leapt to her feet and gave him an impulsive hug that took his breath away. She didn’t notice, was already grinning as she began to tug the tunic over her head, offering him another glimpse of those full, creamy breasts, this time encased in gossamer-fine black lace.

      Breathless? He’d thought he was breathless?

      ‘Downstairs in two minutes,’ he said, beating a hasty retreat.

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