Second Chances at the Log Fire Cabin: A Christmas holiday romance for 2018 from the ebook bestseller. Catherine Ferguson

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СКАЧАТЬ he leans towards the microphone and murmurs:

      ‘Er, no?’

       Chapter 3

      It’s amazing how quickly you sober up after your proposal of marriage is flatly turned down.

      It’s also amazing how fast you can locate an exit and flee the studio – even with double vision and two left feet.

      Blundering down the front steps of the building, I’m praying for some form of transport to arrive and get me out of here. The last thing I want is to hang around here, waiting for a bus or a taxi, and risk Jackson catching up with me.

      If he followed me out, that is.

       Did he follow me out?

      I glance back, not sure if I desperately want to see him or desperately don’t.

      I might get over the shame of it all – in about twenty years – if Jackson hotfooted it after me and told me he froze when I asked him to marry me and said the first thing that came into his head. And that really, now he’d had a chance to think about it, the marriage thing wasn’t such a bad idea.

      But there’s no sign at all of Jackson, which hurts almost as much as the original rejection.

      A bus lurches to a stop in front of me, so I jump on and sink into the nearest seat – before realising it’s going in entirely the wrong direction. Stumbling off at the next stop, I vaguely recognise an important landmark – our local kebab shop – at which point I realise I’d been on the right bus after all. The bus that is now disappearing into the distance.

      I wrench off my heels and start to scurry along the pavement, dodging groups of people in their Christmas finery coming towards me. All I want to do is get home and pour out the whole ridiculous story to Flo – and ask her not to rent my room out to someone else because I’m not moving in with Jackson after all!

      But of course when I finally arrive home and burst through the door, she and Fergus are snuggled together on the sofa. By the looks of things, Fergus is manfully sitting through Flo’s favourite rom-com for about the two hundred and twenty-fifth time. (Fergus is lovely like that.)

      Flo looks up questioningly to see me back so early.

      ‘Bit of a hiccup. Don’t ask!’ I paste on a grin, implying a ladder in my tights or something equally harmless. Then I escape up the stairs to my room.

      Sitting upright on my bed, hugging my knees, I stare at my feet and the tights that are blackened and full of holes from my desperate dash home. I dropped one of my gorgeous new shoes on the way but ran on like someone possessed, not caring. I wish I’d stopped now. There’s a small smear of blood mixed with the dirt from where my foot pounded onto something sharp.

      I reach down to touch the wound, and the sting intensifies a hundredfold.

      Tears well up as the full horror of what I’ve done hits me with the force of a sledgehammer. I’ve just made the biggest tit of myself in the history of TV bloopers. I’ll probably be on every episode of When Proposals Go Wrong for the next ten years, and that’s only if I get lucky.

      The nightmare scenario of the most cringe-making, toe-curlingly gruesome hour of my life seems to be playing on repeat in my head – presumably in case I might somehow, without the constant helpful reminders, forget it happened.

       Like I’m ever going to forget tonight!

      I flump face down on the bed. What on earth possessed me? You do not propose to someone unless you are one hundred per cent certain of the answer. Especially if you’re doing it on live TV!

      Flo knocks softly on the door.

      ‘I’m asleep,’ I call.

      There’s a pause. Then, ‘Okay, but come and get me when you want to talk about it.’

      ‘Okay,’ I mumble into the pillow, feeling quite nauseous. The alcohol is making my head spin round and round.

      Those bloody champagne cocktails! They should come with a warning: Danger. Drink at your peril. You might be forced to emigrate to escape the shameful consequences of your actions.

      I scramble under the covers fully clothed, just wanting to disappear from earth, never mind the UK – perhaps taking a year’s sabbatical on Mars – so that no human being will ever again clap eyes on the tragic soul who proposed to her boyfriend in front of six million people.

      And received the answer: Er, no?

      I lie there for an hour or so, trying not to think about the most mortifying experience of my life, but without a great deal of success. (It’s like someone telling you not to think about a purple elephant. After that, it’s all you bloody can think about.)

      Then my mobile rings and it’s Jackson.

      Since I’ve been expecting him to ring ever since I fled the studio, I don’t immediately pounce on it. Let him wait! In fact, I might not answer it at all. He could at least have phoned to make sure I was okay.

      But then my emotions get the better of me. Perhaps … perhaps he’s going to say he’s sorry and that it was all a big mistake and of course he wants to marry me.

      So I pick up. My voice when I answer sounds thick with tears.

      And then blow me if he doesn’t just sound like his usual cheery self – no apologetic note in his voice at all – as if I didn’t just lay my emotions on the line with practically the whole of the UK watching!

      This just plunges me into even deeper gloom.

      ‘You didn’t miss much,’ he’s saying. ‘The programme was rubbish. Not a patch on the old Blind Date.’ As if that’s supposed to make me feel better – knowing that, instead of rushing out after me, he actually sat through the entire rest of the show and even paid attention to it!

      When I remain silent, he says gently, ‘Roxy, why did you do it? In front of all those people? I don’t mean to sound harsh but did you really think the answer would be yes?’

      My throat closes up. I want to end the call right then, but I suppose he deserves an answer. ‘I don’t know … maybe … you asked me to move in so I naturally thought you really cared.’

      He laughs. Yes, actually laughs. ‘Of course I care, Roxy. But I only suggested you move into my place as a practical measure because you couldn’t pay the rent on Flo’s flat.’

      A practical measure?

      ‘You’re still welcome to move in – until you get yourself another job.’

      I can’t speak. My head is spinning and not in a good way.

      ‘Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re great, Roxy,’ he adds, piling on more humiliation. ‘But I thought we were just, you know, having a good time?’

      I СКАЧАТЬ