One Week ’Til Christmas. Belinda Missen
I stumbled as my feet slipped out from under me on the icy footpath.
Everything slowed as time stretched out between us like an elastic band. Sound drowned out to an underwater mumble and the world rushed past me. I felt the pressure of fingers curling around my upper arm in a desperate attempt to stay upright. I pulled one way, he pulled the other, and shop fronts tilted as asphalt approached. I landed with a thud and a puff, and then he landed in my arms to the sound of a bus braking and hissing as it pulled to a shuddering stop.
When I unclenched my eyes, it was like pulling up for a gulping breath after a deep dive. Conversations were dialled up to a dull roar, and car horns sounded in the distance. But it was okay. The sound, the heaving chest, the desert dry mouth, all of it meant I was alive. That was good. I’d take that.
I tipped my head back to the enormous red cliff-face of the bus. When confronted with something of that scale upside down, you realise how truly impressive they are. I was close enough that I could notice the stone chips in the registration plate and see the brake cables that had just saved my life.
I should have been angry. I should have been gnashing my teeth and lecturing the Shouty Man on safety near roadways. But, right now, I could only think of two things. Firstly, that my backpack was so laden I probably looked like a turtle ready to be picked off by a predator. If someone didn’t help me up, there was every possibility I’d rock myself to sleep trying to get myself up off the ground.
The second thought was that I hadn’t paid him enough mind when he’d burst from the supermarket. In fact, I was more irritated at having to navigate him like a roundabout. Up close? Though wide and bewildered, his eyes were a beautiful cosmic cerulean blue.
Oh, and he was between my legs. He had the dubious honour of being the first man to boldly go there in the better part of twelve months. No, wait … eighteen. Hell, it was that long that even my maths was getting sketchy. Either way, it had been an age.
My heart danced a tango against my ribcage as I continued staring at him. How could I not? His nutmeg hair was pushed back from his face in short curls, he had lips that were screaming to be kissed, and don’t even get me started on the stubble that barely concealed a slowly forming dimple in his left cheek. He was the most handsome man who ever did handsome. Maybe I was dead after all.
Wow.
‘Well, then,’ he blurted, shifting uncomfortably on his hands.
His knee knocked the back of my thigh and, despite the initial fright, laughter – jittery and so very glad to be alive – bubbled up and out of me.
‘Well, then,’ I echoed.
My backpack! My laptop! The last thing I needed was my work equipment full of water. Have you ever tried to write anything lengthy on a phone? I’d be blind by forty. And where was my suitcase? Lazing about in the gutter like an overfed cat. I lurched forward underneath him and, while I was held down by the contents of my bag, it brought him to life.
Leaping to his feet, he held out a hand. ‘Oh my God, I am so sorry. Here, let me get you up.’
Gingerly, I let him pull me up from the ground. His hands were cold and shaky but, beneath that, an unmistakable surge of energy shot up my arm and wound its way around my heart. I slung my bag around my front and alternated between watching him and checking the contents. If something was broken, better to find out now than after he did a runner.
Eggnog clung to my pants like a dropped tin of paint, the cold chill of the gutter seeped into the seat of my pants, and I winced at a sharp bite in the palms of my hands.
‘Are you okay? I haven’t damaged you, have I? Let me just … I’ll fix your hair—’ His hands bounced around nervously before his finger traced the outside of my ear, and my stomach took a bow. There might have been hair involved, but I … phew. ‘—there, where it was.’
‘Where it was?’ I asked, studying him as his eyes darted about my face.
‘As you passed M&S,’ he mumbled, his hand suspended in the air near my head. ‘You had it just so.’
‘Oh.’ My lungs squeezed. Right now, I might’ve forgiven him just about anything.
The bus sounded its fiery angry horn. I looked around him, to the driver tapping at her wrist.
‘Are you … are you okay?’ he asked, brows knitted in concern. ‘I feel like a complete arse.’
‘I … I have to go,’ I sputtered.
‘Go? Sorry?’ he asked. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Yes. The bus.’ He extended his hand again, and I shook it, warm and tight, much more than it had been moments earlier when he’d helped me off the ground. ‘Again, I’m ever so sorry. Have a good day.’
‘I do.’ Oh, shit. ‘I will … I mean, I will. You, too.’
‘Thank you.’
The doors of the bus opened again with a pneumatic hiss and I was greeted by a driver wearing a Santa hat. I was still brushing my pants off as I boarded. She smiled knowingly as I tapped my Oyster card and grabbed for the handrail.
‘There are worse ways to land on your arse.’ She winked.
Heat bloomed in my cheeks as I looked around to find an entire busload of people watching, waiting. For me. I shied away as the bus pulled out into the street, my mystery assailant watching on from the kerb. Even if I now had a backside that hadn’t been this wet since I was a baby, it truly was the most wonderful time of the year.
If only I’d caught his name. Or, you know, his number.
Idiot.
* * *
Estelle’s home sat at the end of a narrow cobblestone mews with honey-brown brick buildings on either side, glossy white window frames, and bulbous shrubs. I’d never been happier to see her front door than I was today. I dropped what was left of my takeaway cup into a galvanised rubbish bin, wiped a sticky hand down my front and grabbed at the brass knocker.
‘Shiiit!’ Estelle roared with laughter as she swung the door open full tilt. ‘You know you’re not meant to swim in the Thames, right?’
‘It wasn’t me.’ I pressed past her into the hall, knocking down a photo frame in the process. ‘Some jerk in a hurry to get to his look-at-me car wasn’t looking where he was going, and I ended up in the gutter.’
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘Nothing broken?’
‘Only my ego.’ I pressed at the tacky spot on my jeans. There was no way they’d be escaping the wash tonight. ‘And I think we gave the bus driver a spot of angina.’
‘Is there an article in there about handsome men who bowl you over?’ she asked. ‘You know, for the paper?’
‘I didn’t say he was handsome,’ I grumbled.
‘No, but I’m not entirely convinced by your faux outrage, either.’ She bit the inside of her lip as she watched for my reaction.
‘All right, you got me,’ I said with a defeated laugh. ‘He was attractive. I suppose it’d make a decent story, wouldn’t it? What to do when your lady parts scream yes, but the raging torrent in your pants pats you on the shoulder and says no.’
‘And that’s just the gutter water.’ Estelle followed as I pushed my roller case into the living room. ‘Look at you, still travelling around with that tattered neon-green thing.’
‘Still,’ I said, pulling a paper bag from my backpack. ‘But, hey, I remembered the bread! It survived the gutter-pocalypse.’
‘Tell you what, you shower and clean up while I find some wine,’ she said. ‘I want to hear all about this guy.’