Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper. Debbie Johnson

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       Chapter 8

      And so it had come to pass, against all her better judgment, that Marco Cavelli was to be her unexpected houseguest for the next few weeks.

      Maggie had half hoped that Ellen would object, and give her the perfect excuse to say no – but once her daughter had stopped laughing, she was all in favour of the idea.

      “It’ll give you something to do,” she’d said, “other than drink gin and watch Christmas cooking shows. Last year’s obsession with goose fat still haunts me. Now you can drink gin and watch him instead. Invite Sian round, and those women from the park. It’ll be like a Chippendales’ party. I’m fine with it as long as he stays out of my stuff.”

      Her dad, Paddy, had been just as annoyingly supportive.

      “It’s the Christian thing to do, love,” he’d said, “a stranger in need and all that. Especially at this time of year. Beside, it’ll keep you busy, won’t it?”

      Both responses had highlighted one very unpleasant fact to Maggie: that her nearest and dearest obviously saw her as a sad, lonely being floating through life with nothing to occupy her other than work and them. The even more unpleasant fact was that they might just be right.

      She’d always been secretly proud of how she’d coped with the challenges life had thrown at her. Losing her mum when she was 14. Getting pregnant not that long after. Abandoning her hope to go to University when she chose to keep the baby. The trauma of the birth and the surgery that followed it. The long, sometimes difficult years that had come after.

      She’d raised her child – who had, despite her acid tongue, turned out beautifully – and had managed to make a living from what had always been a hobby. She’d kept them fed and housed and happy – mostly all on her own. She’d learned to be independent and smart and strong, looking after her dad when he needed it and making sure Ellen had everything a girl could wish for.

      But now the landscape of her life was changing. Paddy was well out of his dark days, the days when he viewed life through the bottom of a glass, and Ellen…well, Ellen was starting to create the landscape of her own life. Which was good – it was the way it was supposed to be; you raise a child well enough, confident enough, capable enough, and you get rewarded by seeing them fly the nest. It was the natural rhythm of life – but one that perhaps, Maggie had to acknowledge, she hadn’t been quite prepared for.

      Caring for Marco might be ever so slightly terrifying – but it would indeed keep her busy.

      Leah had finally left, having hustled and bustled her way through the house making sure everything was ‘just perfect’ – which mainly seemed to involve adding Christmas decorations, riding up and down on the recliner chair while making small excited noises, and stocking the fridge with Marco’s favourite beer. She’d headed back up to Scotland with Rob and Luca, full of promises to stay in touch, giving Maggie a massive hug on the doorstep before she disappeared off into the snow.

      The snow that was still falling – coating the front garden like icing on a very large cake, where it remained, pure and untouched. Not so long ago Ellen would have been out there making snowballs and ambushing passing postmen. Now, she was out at the pub, saying a fond farewell to her super-posh boyfriend Jacob and drinking cider.

      Maggie looked out of the window. Looked at her watch. Almost 6pm. He was due any minute, and she had no idea what she was going to do with him. The main living room was now kitted out for him to use, and a nurse was going to come every morning to help him with his ‘personal care’. Even the words made her blush, so she hadn’t pondered that one too closely. There was a TV, she had DVDs, and there was a downstairs loo – which he’d definitely need if he drank all that beer Leah had bought. The second living room – usually draped with fabric samples, patterns and bridal magazine cuttings – had been tidied and cleared so that Maggie had her own space to retreat to.