Holly's Christmas Kiss (5 page)

‘I could go to Jess’s, but they only just got married. I don’t want to intrude.’

Michelle turned away, apparently watching the snow falling outside the window, before turning back with a smile fixed in place. ‘Besides I was always planning on spending Christmas on my own. It’ll just be in Leeds rather than in the Caribbean.’

Sean grinned and matched her light tone. ‘I’m sure you’ll barely notice the difference.’

‘Quite.’ Michelle turned back to the window.

Sean let a silence fall between them. She’d asked to be taken to King’s Cross to look for a train or hotel, so why hadn’t he passed that request on
to the driver? They were heading towards the apartment on the South Bank. As soon as he’d seen Michelle crying in the snow he’d abandoned the idea of catching the sleeper train to Scotland and decided to stay in London another night. But why? Because it was Christmas, and he felt bad about her being alone? That’s what he was telling himself, but she patently didn’t want his assistance. He thought about how she might react to arriving at the apartment. No matter how he played the scene out in his mind he couldn’t see her taking it well. In the worst case scenario, he realised, it could be seen as a wee bit kidnappy.

‘Michelle?’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s getting late.’

She nodded.

He took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’ve been staying at a …’ He paused. ‘… at a friend’s flat. She’s away. We could both crash there without paying for a hotel and then get a train in the morning?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, really. It’s very kind, but …’

‘But nothing. Why pay for a hotel when I’m offering you a spare room?’

‘A spare room?’ The hint of suspicion in her voice brought the grin back to Sean’s lips.

He nodded. ‘What did you think I was suggesting?’

She reddened. ‘Nothing. I don’t want to impose. A hotel will be fine.’

‘What if I insist?’ He could see the indecision in her eyes, the wish to be independent, to not be reliant on anyone, competing with her tiredness and need to curl up and feel safe.

She sighed. ‘You’re sure it’s no trouble?’

‘None at all. In fact, it’ll save me money, if the cab goes straight there.’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll pay for the cab, as a thank you.’

Sean wasn’t really an insisting on paying sort of guy. He’d never felt emasculated by splitting a bill, and he could see that by paying for the cab, Michelle was able to tell herself that she wasn’t relying on him. It made it a fair businesslike exchange rather than an act of charity.

‘Ok.’

‘Ok.’

She looked away from him again. Sean wasn’t taking her acquiescence to imply that the drawbridge had been lowered for him to ride through. Why was he so interested in this woman? The almost kiss? That was certainly part of it, but that wasn’t the beginning. He kept thinking of their first meeting before the wedding. She’d had spreadsheets and lists galore detailing every possible bridal need on the wedding day. It was obsessive. It was insane. It was a level of care for other people that touched something in Sean, something he’d started to believe might have been beyond repair.

‘ … the driver?’

He realised she was talking. ‘Sorry?’

‘What about the driver? You didn’t tell him we’ve changed where we’re going.’

Sean grinned in what he hoped was an innocent absent-minded sort of a way, and leaned forward. ‘Straight to Ostler’s Wharf, mate. On the South Bank.’

The driver shot a glance at Sean in the mirror but didn’t comment. Sean rested back in his seat and raised an eyebrow at Michelle.

The journey continued, off the motorway and into the city. Michelle focused her attention out of the window. The city was still bustling with shoppers, tourists and commuters rushing through the snow, hurrying to pick up last minute presents, or to get to the bar for Christmas drinks with friends. Everyone was moving like they had somewhere to be. Michelle realised that she had nowhere. She had a charitable offer of a place to stay from a virtual stranger, but nobody would be checking the clock and wondering when she’d be joining them.

The cab made it onto Westminster Bridge. The view down the river was stunning. The lights of the London Eye shone against the cloud-covered darkness, and the snow continued to fall around the wheel. You only needed the outline of a sleigh against the moon to make the perfect Christmas card. Michelle turned away.

A few minutes later she stood in the doorway of the flat and gasped. Firstly this wasn’t a flat. Michelle lived in a flat. It had a bare patch in the carpet in front of the gas fire, and the spare room doubled as an airing cupboard. This place wasn’t
a flat; it wasn’t even an apartment. This was a penthouse. The open plan kitchen-lounge-diner was bigger than her entire place in Leeds, but that wasn’t what made her gasp. Sat right at the top of the building, the room was surrounded on three sides by glass, with views across the river to St Paul’s Cathedral and the whole of the city beyond. Without thinking, she walked towards the window and stood for a moment, still and transfixed by the lights of the city spread out before her.

She heard Sean behind her carrying her bag into another room and then strolling back into the lounge.

‘You like?’

‘It’s amazing.’

‘I know. Shame it’s not mine.’

‘It must have cost the earth!’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Michelle apologised. ‘Sorry. I just meant … your friend must be doing
Ok.’

‘Yeah.’ Sean paused. ‘Yeah. I guess she is.’

Michelle registered the ‘she’ without comment. Obviously, he could have female friends. That didn’t mean that he was regularly and athletically bending them over the polished glass table. The thought caught Michelle by surprise. She must be tired, she decided. She clearly wasn’t herself. She turned around to avoid Sean’s eye and took a proper look at the rest of the apartment. It was elegantly furnished, but something seemed missing. ‘Does she live here all the time?’

Sean nodded.

Michelle looked around again. There was a glass dining table surrounded by eight leather backed black chairs, a large L-shaped settee, a flat screen television and sound system mounted against one wall, and a gleaming gloss-black kitchen. ‘Where’s all her stuff?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well books, ornaments, DVDs, magazines. There’s nothing here.’

Sean shrugged as if he’d never thought about it before. ‘I don’t know.’

She was being rude, commenting on his friend’s home furnishing, which was not nice behaviour when he was letting her stay with him.

‘There’s a Christmas tree.’ She gestured towards the modest tree in the corner of the room. It was the only personal touch she could see.

‘I got that.’

Michelle was surprised. ‘You’re not even going to be here for Christmas!’

‘You’ve got to have a Christmas tree.’

Michelle shook her head at the extravagance. She ought to be making herself useful. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten.

‘Are you hungry?’

Sean nodded. ‘I didn’t get any dinner.’

‘Well, that’s not on. You’ve got to take care of yourself.’

The grin she was getting accustomed to spread across his face. ‘I appreciate the concern for my well being.’

She met his eye. No obvious sarcasm. He was apparently sincere. Michelle looked away. ‘It’s silly not to eat.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘That’s not the point.’

Sean
’s grin widened. ‘So let’s eat.’

Michelle walked around the counter into the kitchen area and opened the massive American style fridge. ‘There is nothing in here.’

‘That’s not true.’ Sean walked up behind her and surveyed the fridge. ‘There’s eggs.’

He picked them up and peered at the box. ‘And they’re in date.’

Michelle turned and considered the options in the back of the fridge door. A small, slightly hard piece of cheese, an unopened bottle of wine and half a pint of milk.

‘Right. Is there any bread?’

Sean shook his head.

‘Well what else have you got?’

Sean looked around at the cupboards before flinging one open. It was full of plates. He furrowed his brow and tried the next cupboard along.

‘How long have you been staying here?’

‘Couple of weeks.’ He shrugged. ‘I eat out a lot.’

‘Clearly.’

The picture in Michelle’s mind was of Sean all suited up pouring wine in an elegant restaurant for an even more elegant woman. It wasn’t great but it was an improvement on imagining what he might have got up to with the owner of this apartment. At least she could look him in the eye while she thought about him going out on dinner dates.

Sean’s intrepid exploration of the cupboards revealed a sugar bowl, and half a bag of dried spaghetti. ‘Pasta?’

‘Is that all there is? Seriously?’

‘Like I said, I eat out a lot.’

‘Ok.’ She took the bag of pasta and popped it down on the counter along with the cheese, milk and eggs. ‘Cheesy pasta then.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Sounds like the only option.’

Michelle busied herself in the kitchen, finding that she seemed better able to work out where his mysterious lady friend stored the cooking essentials than he was.

Twenty minutes later she was spooning pasta into bowls and Sean was pouring wine into glasses. They sat opposite each other at one end of the dining table. Sean swirled a big mouthful of spaghetti onto his fork and tucked in. ‘It’s good. Cheesy.’

Michelle took a gulp of wine and allowed herself a smile. ‘Considering the raw ingredients, it’s practically miraculous.’

‘You’ve worked wonders. Do you cook a lot?’

She nodded. ‘It’s a useful skill.’

‘To make cheesy pasta?’

‘To make something out of not very much. Clever cooking is a great way to save cash.’

She took another sip of wine and Sean topped up her glass. She glanced at the goblet. She was drinking more quickly than she was used to.

‘My mum taught me to cook.’

Why was she telling him that? The wine. It must be the wine.

‘You’re close to your mum?’

‘I was. It was actually her idea that I take this trip of a lifetime holiday.’

Sean raised an eyebrow in question.

Michelle swallowed. ‘It’s what she wanted me to spend my inheritance on. She died. At the end of last year. Cancer.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It was very quick. She wasn’t even ill really.’ That still rocked Michelle. She’d had people close to her pass away before. Mum’s sister, Auntie Barb, for one, but there’d been a progression: treatment; improvement; then more treatment; and a long interminable decline. There had been tasks Michelle could do; things that needed organising.

With her mum it had been different. A routine visit to her GP on Monday. Admitted to hospital on Tuesday. Officially dying by Wednesday. There had been conversations about hospices and specialist nurses, but there hadn’t been enough time for any of those things. Tanya Jolly had been told
by an official looking man in an official looking white coat that she didn’t have much longer and her body had taken him at his word.

They fell silent. Normally Michelle would do anything to avoid talking about her mother, but tonight something felt different.

‘People say I look like her.’ She blurted the words out, pointing at her long red hair. ‘I get this from her.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘Hardly. I sort of hate being ginger.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

Michelle wasn’t sure how to respond. It was flattering, but she’d already let him get her back to this apartment and then drunk too much of his wine. Compliments were easy.

‘What about your dad?’

Michelle shook her head. ‘I don’t really see him any more.’

Sean leaned towards her across the table and rested his hand on top of hers. ‘I’m sorry …’

‘I’m fine. They split up years ago.’ She pulled her hand quickly away. ‘I should clear these things away.’

‘I can do it.’

‘Right.’ Michelle stopped half standing, half leaning over the table. ‘I might go and er … could I take a shower?’

‘Sure. Through the bedroom at the end of the hall.’ He pointed to an archway beyond the lounge area.
             

Michelle strode down the hallway and found her case already sitting on the bed in the spare room. What was she doing, telling a virtual stranger about her personal life? This Christmas, she reminded herself, was about her independence.

The shower was excellent, not like the spluttery electric thing in her own flat. The water rushed over her body and numbed her sight and hearing, forcing her further into her own thoughts. She found herself back at her Auntie Barb’s house, ensconced in the kitchen, as she and her mother generally were in the weeks after Dad’s affair had been revealed. She remembered sitting on a high stool, with Dolly gripped tightly in her hand, watching her mother and her aunt making fairy cakes and biscuits, stews and pies, quich
e–
which Barbara insisted on calling fla
n–
and sauces. She had seen how nothing was wasted. Tonight’s leftovers were tomorrow’s lunchtime soup.