Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Sweater. Debbie Johnson
started to feel entirely different. Maggie tried to pull her hand away, but he held on, and winked at her as she struggled. His eyes were clouded with pain and drugs, but they still managed to have enough sparkle to make her tummy contract. She remembered those eyes so well from his visit to the shop. The way they looked at her for just a little bit too long; the way they’d made her feel exposed and cornered and just a little bit gooey inside.
It wasn’t just the eyes, of course. The face was pretty gorgeous as well. The wide smiling mouth; the cheekbones. The ridiculously impressive arms bulking out of the green gown. It was very inappropriate to notice such things at the side of a hospital bed – but she wasn’t blind. Or dead. Just very, very…jittery. Yes. That would be the word. Not horny at all – that would be sick, under the circumstances, and she wasn’t sure she’d recognise it even if it was true. She was just…jittery. In some very strange places.
“Maybe you could be my nurse,” said Marco, grinning at her, a flash of brilliance on a pain-wracked face.
“She’s not ugly enough,” interjected Leah, looking up from charts she couldn’t even understand.
Hmm, Leah thought. Medical charts, I don’t understand. But the way Marco’s looking at Maggie, and the way Maggie’s trying so hard not to look back at him? That, I do understand. Leah switched her narrow-eyed gaze over to Rob, and saw from the one quizzically raised eyebrow that he’d noticed too. For anyone who knew Marco, it was hard to miss.
Leah snapped the file shut, and leaned back in the chair. She loved it when a plan came together. Now she just had to convince everyone else she was Hannibal Smith, and get started on that imaginary cigar.
Maggie’s living room had been transformed into a scene from Casualty. Normally spacious, with high ceilings and a huge bay window that flooded it with light, the whole space was now dominated by a recliner chair and a hospital-type bed.
A hospital-type bed that Leah was busy decorating with tinsel, looping the strands around the rails and making small coo-ing noises as she stood back and took in the overall effect.
“What do you think?” she said, glancing up at Maggie, and gesturing at the bed in a ‘ta-da!’ gesture.
I think, said Maggie to herself – completely silently – that I’ve made some kind of terrible mistake. I think I want my house back. I think I’m just not a nice enough person to do this.
“I think,” she said out loud, “that I feel a very large gin and tonic coming on.”
“Ha! I am so jealous…just wait til I’ve popped this one out, and I’ll be back to visit – me and you will go and paint the town red, Maggie!”
Maggie couldn’t help but smile at the idea. There was something about Leah – something infectiously happy – that was hard to resist. In fact, it was all because of that infectious quality that her beautiful Victorian cottage living room had been hi-jacked at all. That and – just possibly, she had to concede – the fact that she did give at least a teeny tiny Christmas fig about what happened to Marco Cavelli. The Hot Papa from the Park. The Man with the Tux. The idiot who’d crashed his way into her life – and now, apparently, taken it over.
It was five days since the accident, and two days since Leah had turned up at Ellen’s Empire bearing a huge bouquet of white roses, and an equally huge box of very posh chocolates. Rob had come in first, opening the door with its customary jingle, and they’d found Maggie sweeping up. As usual. Specifically she was trying to get at a card of hooks and eyes she’d dropped behind the sewing machine.
There was a tape measure draped around her neck, and her hair was swept up into a wild bun. Tiny strands of ivory cotton were stuck like linty limpets to the front of her black T-shirt, and she’d tied a ribbon made of discarded satin around her wrist to remind her to buy milk on the way home. It was her version of writing a note on the back of her hand.
“Wow,” said Leah, smiling at her, “you look like Cinderella.”
“And you’re my fairy godmother?” replied Maggie, propping the brush up against the wall and walking forward to take the gifts. She instinctively sniffed at the flowers, and was rewarded with a deep, decadent whoosh of rosy gorgeousness going up her nose. One of her favourite smells ever.
“Depends on your point of view,” added Rob, looking around the ultra-feminine shop with the air of a sea creature stranded in the Sahara Desert. “If you listen to her long enough, the wicked stepmother starts coming more to mind…”
Leah made a fake-outraged harrumph and poked him in the stomach, just as the door to the fitting room opened. Out of it walked Lucy Allsop, wearing one of the most beautiful dresses Maggie had ever worked on.
Lucy was tall and slender with deep brown hair and sunkissed skin, and her dress fitted her like…well, like it had been made just for her. Which it had, with a great deal of care. The A-line shape skimmed over her slim waist, a v-neck hinted at curves but stayed within the boundaries of classy, and the whole gown was covered in lace applique. The arms and the back were made of sheer lace that gave it all a vintage feel, and Lucy’s colouring made her one of those rare brides who could pull off pure white without a hint of anaemia.
She looked absolutely stunning – and also a little stunned, as she emerged into a room to be confronted by a heavily pregnant woman who’d need the world’s biggest frock, and her devastatingly attractive husband.
“Oh my gosh!” said Leah, breaking the ice and scurrying over towards her, “you look completely gorgeous – like a foxy Kate Middleton!”
“Umm…thank you?” replied Lucy, running her hands nervously over the lace. “You don’t think it’s a bit…tight?”
Maggie’s heart sank at the words. She’d heard variations on them many times before. Always from jittery brides who secretly wanted nothing more in the world than a six pack of Wagon Wheels, terrified that they’d made some terrible couture cock-up, freaking out about the whole thing. It was rarely about the dress itself –more about the impending life-changing event. She might be a dressmaker, but she also sidelined as life coach, best friend and anxiety management expert.
Lucy, in particular, was under pressure – from her own parents, from in-laws, from the huge wedding that had grown from a family gathering into a huge, sprawling mass of a thing. She’d completely lost control of it all, and several of the recent fittings had been accompanied by tears, and on one occasion a bottle of emergency Prosecco.
“No, no, no! It’s perfect – you’re perfect – everything about it is perfect, and you’re going to have the most perfect day!” gushed Leah, looking at Rob for back-up. Leah’s personality was huge, but Maggie had noticed how often she involved her husband in her conversations – he seemed to be her other half in pretty much every way.
“You look wonderful,” said Rob on cue, the American accent making Lucy’s eyebrows pop up a fraction of an inch. “And whoever the lucky guy is, he’s going to be lost for words when he sees you walking down the aisle.”
Lucy stared at him for a moment, a slow blush managing to creep its way up her cheeks, and nodded.
“Good. That was the idea. Maggie, I’ll just go back in and try on some of the jewellery, okay?”
“Lovely – I’ll be in in a few minutes to help you out of it. And they’re right Lucy – you look fantastic. You and the dress are both breathtaking.”
Lucy gave her a small, sad smile, then flicked one more glance in the direction of Rob – tall, dark, glamorous and pretty hard not to look at – before retreating back into the fitting room, apparently reassured. Phew, thought Maggie. Good save.
She laid the flowers and chocolates down next to the Christmas tree – the one Luca had been so fascinated