Humbugs and Heartstrings: A gorgeous festive read full of the joys of Christmas!. Catherine Ferguson
impulse from a second hand shop. I took it home in a taxi then heaved it up the two flights of stairs all by myself.
If I lose my job, I can wave goodbye to this flat. And to the notion of ever being able to pay for Tim to go private.
I pour some wine and drink it far too fast, thinking of The Boss and how ratty she’s been lately. It’s no wonder. But why didn’t she tell us what was happening? Maybe we could have helped. Tried to work out why the business was going downhill so spectacularly.
I’d bet the money in the Tim Fund she hasn’t told her father about this.
Once upon a time she would have come to me for help and advice.
But not any more.
It’s Monday morning and I’m fighting with the gears in Carol’s nasty Merc, which I privately refer to as ‘The Beast’.
God knows what sort of a mood she’ll be in when I meet her off the flight, after her dreaded weekend en famille.
I’ve been picturing them all at dinner; Carol’s brother Max nipping out between courses to return urgent phone calls and talking law all evening, and sister Adrienne, cosmetic dentist to the stars, newly flown in from New York, complaining that business class just wasn’t what it used to be and bragging about the latest celebrity clients she’s added to her list.
And Carol.
Putting on a show and trying to say great things about a business that will probably be defunct by Christmas.
I felt for her. I really did, and that’s why I was surprised when she texted me yesterday morning to say she wasn’t returning on the Sunday lunchtime flight as planned but had decided to stay another night.
I arrive at the airport with time to spare only to find the plane has touched down ahead of schedule. Not sure what to do, I stand somewhere between the Arrivals gate and the main exit, hoping Carol will spot me.
An airport is my all-time favourite place for people-watching so I settle myself against a post to watch the world go by.
After a minute or two, it occurs to me I’m not the only people-watcher in the area. A tall, broad-shouldered guy with dark hair is leaning against the wall by the newsagent’s, next to a large blue suitcase. He’s wearing washed out jeans and a checked shirt, and there’s a gym bag slung casually over his shoulder. Every time I glance in his direction, he seems to be looking over at me.
Do I know him?
I peer over but he catches me looking so I turn away, delving into my bag for a mint. I can’t find the packet so I hold the bag up and tip it slightly to see the contents. A giant (and very economical) box of tampons slips out and skids across the floor.
Flustered, I rescue it and shove it back. Then I shoot him a look. A slight twist of the lips reveals he has indeed witnessed my very embarrassing moment.
Heat prickles my scalp.
This guy isn’t a people-watcher at all. He’s a creepy person-watcher.
Where the Hell has Carol got to?
At that second, I spot her walking out of the chemist’s shop opposite. No doubt she’ll be furious I wasn’t here earlier.
She sees me and hurries over, waving a carrier bag. ‘They’re having an end of line sale. Look!’ Pink with excitement, she opens the bag and displays what looks like a jumble of around thirty bottles of deodorant, all the same flavour.
‘Wow.’ I grin. ‘You won’t smell bad this year, then.’
Smugly, she pats the bag.
‘Where’s your case?’ I glance around. ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘I did.’ She sounds upbeat.
I glance at her in surprise. ‘That’s great. Straight to the office, then?’
‘Yes, in a minute.’ She smiles and scans the concourse.
There’s a sort of lightness about her that I can’t quite fathom. It’s making me nervous.
What are we waiting for?
‘Did I choose a good hotel?’ I ask.
‘Great. Couldn’t have been better, actually.’
Another smile.
Now I’m worried.
Did the real Carol get off the plane? Maybe this is a doppelganger and the genuine Carol is tied up somewhere waiting for her father to cough up the ransom money.
In fact, now that I think about it, she actually looks like a different person. Even her clothes seem less stressed somehow. She’s wearing a gold jumpsuit in a velvety fabric with a chain belt around her tiny waist. Very Seventies. But in a good way.
Over her shoulder, I suddenly glimpse Mr Person-Watcher strolling over.
‘Letch at forty-five degrees,’ I murmur. ‘Can we go?’
She scrabbles suddenly in her bag and looks in her purse. ‘Damn! I don’t think I picked up my change. Back in a sec.’
I stare after her.
She forgot her change? Has she been drinking?
This is becoming more bizarre by the second.
Mr Person-Watcher is walking towards me, pulling his blue case that has a vaguely familiar ribbon tied round the handle.
Oh God, what does he want? The loan of a tampon?
‘Miss Blatchett?’
The voice is oddly familiar. Deep and rich and smooth as velvet.
I stare up at him in bemusement as my brain whirs and clanks and does its best to get the relevant bits to connect.
‘It is you, isn’t it?’ His eyes, an intense blue, rake questioningly over my face.
What the …?
Suddenly I feel hot and rather flustered.
It can’t be.
Can it?
‘Ronald McDonald?’ It comes out with a sort of disbelieving squeak at the end.
He smiles broadly and runs a hand through his hair. ‘It’s funny, you know, I’d pictured you as a redhead. All flaming locks and snapping eyes and attitude.’
‘Really?’ I stare up at him, puzzled. Then the penny drops. ‘Oh God, you mean because of my outburst on the phone that first time?’
‘Scary.’ He gives me a lopsided grin and I can’t help smiling back.
‘Sorry.’
‘Hey, it’s fine. You brightened up my day, I can tell you.’
His eyes are warm and crinkled at the corners. And they’re making me blush from the top of my head right down to my size four-and-a-halves.
‘That’s nice to know.’ I’m finding it strangely hard to hold eye contact. ‘I – um – enjoyed our emailing.’
‘Me too.’ He hefts the gym bag onto his other shoulder. ‘How’s the hamster?’
‘Still dead,’ I say happily, as my heart lifts off and whirls around in my chest.
‘Good, good.’ He sounds slightly distracted. Then he grins. ‘I had a tortoise when I was young. Bit boring. Couldn’t take it for walks.’
‘Dead now?’ I murmur solemnly, carrying on the theme.
‘Interestingly, no. Still going strong. Lives in my mum’s airing