The Happy Endings Book Club

by Jane Tara

  Tilda was taken aback. “I haven’t felt lovely for a long time. I’ve felt … old.”

  “We say in French, si la jeunesse est la plus belle des fleurs, la vieillesse est le plus savoureux des fruits.”

  “Something about fruit?”

  “If youth is the most beautiful of flowers, old age is the tastiest fruit. You are not old, Tilda, but when you are, you will be … a mango!”

  Tilda could barely control her laughter. “I’m so glad I met you, Alain.”

  “Let me think, do I know any single straight men?” Alain pretended to put on his thinking cap.

  “That’s not necessary. While I don’t officially have a boyfriend … I did meet someone recently.”

  “I knew it. He’s handsome, no?”

  “Yes, very. His name is Patrick.”

  “Patrick. I like this name. Tell me about Patrick.” He gave Patrick’s name a French flair.

  Tilda found she wanted to talk about him. “He’s tall. Very tall. And kind of scruffy, but in a very sexy way. I don’t mean his clothes. They’re always immaculate. But he often has a three-day growth, and his hair has this messy wave in it.”

  It was only at this point that Tilda remembered Patrick was also blind. It amazed her to think that she had this image of him, and was describing it, but that the blindness wasn’t part of that. Was it possible, for her to be with him and for the blindness to not be an issue? She didn’t know, but she wanted to find out.

  “He sounds perfect.”

  “He’s amazing, but there would be challenges as well,” Tilda said.

  “There are with every relationship.”

  “Patrick is blind.”

  “In his eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “In his heart?”

  “Not at all.”

  Alain gave a shrug, like it was no problem. “Then he’ll still see you.”

  “You know, he does. He absolutely does.”

  “Does he have a dog?”

  “No, he uses a cane.”

  “Then it’s all good.” Alain smiled cheekily. “I know I’m French, but I fucking hate dogs.”

  *

  The ride back to the hotel was even nicer. It was dark, so Paris was lit up like fairyland. Alain took a detour past the Eiffel Tower and it was just magic. Tilda was way more relaxed on the bike, and certainly happy to hold Alain tight. They were friends now.

  They gave each other a huge hug outside Hotel Antoinette and he promised to come and visit her in London. And then, off he zipped into the night.

  Tilda heard her phone ringing. She shuffled around her bag, but by the time she found her phone it had stopped. Three missed calls. One from Eva, one from Paige. And one from Patrick. She quickly called him back and he answered on the first ring.

  “Tilda!”

  “Hi, Patrick—I missed your call.”

  “What a coincidence. I missed you.”

  Tilda laughed. “I missed your call … and I missed you too.”

  “You have? That’s good news. I didn’t want to be sad stalker Patrick.”

  “Never.”

  “So how’s Paris?”

  Tilda looked up at the city around her. “Glorious. I can see Notre-Dame from where I’m standing.”

  “Describe it for me.”

  So Tilda did. And she walked the streets of Paris for the next two hours, taking Patrick on a tour.

  *

  The shop had been hectic all day, with last-minute Christmas arrangements. Tilda had enjoyed every minute of it. She felt like her designs were more interesting than anything she’d done in years. Certainly her customers were pleased. The only thing that marred her day was a call from Eva in Vienna, giving her some news about Paige, but she was yet to speak to her friend, whose phone was off.

  Tilda closed for lunch and did all the deliveries that Debra would normally do. She texted Debra: Happy Christmas Eve, my love. All good here. Enjoy wherever you are. She also used the opportunity to call Selma. It was an emergency number, but Selma had assured her that she didn’t mind her using it. The phone rang and rang, but then just as Tilda was about to hang up, Selma answered, sounding out of breath.

  “Sorry to bother you, Selma. It’s Tilda—”

  More panting. “Yes, dear. Everything all right?”

  “I’m not sure if this is an emergency, but I need some advice.”

  Tilda could hear a muffled voice in the background and what sounded like a slap.

  “Is this a bad time to call, Selma?”

  “Not at all. I just finished with my personal trainer. Zumba! Nearly kills me.”

  “Oh … I can call back.”

  “Hell, no. I’m about to have a massage. Now’s good.”

  Tilda decided to be quick. “I was in Paris and my nose came back.”

  Selma didn’t sound at all surprised. “Paris will do that to you.”

  “Then I was reading your book on the Eurostar and noticed that my foot is visible again. The hand and ear are still a little fuzzy, but the rest of me is as clear as day.”

  “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”

  “Does it mean I’ll be cured?”

  “It’s up to you.” There was a strange noise, and then Selma continued. “Come and see me in the new year. We’ll keep working on it. But it sounds like you’re well on your way.”

  “Thank you, Selma. And merry Christmas.”

  “I’m Jewish. But thanks anyway, dear.”

  And with that, Selma hung up. Tilda glanced at her phone. She had the most glorious feeling of butterflies in her tummy. She had to get back to the shop, finish up the last of the Christmas orders, deliver them, and then she could close shop and meet Patrick. She’d have to explain to him that she couldn’t sing, but it was hardly a deal-breaker. Instead of feeling stressed, she felt grateful that life was so good.

  *

  “Patrick!”

  Patrick’s face lit up when he heard Tilda’s voice. She ran up to him, and without thinking, gave him a kiss.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “It’s merry now,” Patrick said. “Ready for some caroling?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Tilda said.

  They walked through the backstreets of Muswell Hill together.

  “What’s that you’re carrying?”

  “It’s my viola.”

  “Oh great, I’ll hear you play.” Then the moment of truth. “I’m not much of a singer, Patrick.”

  “I’m not much of a cook.”

  Tilda shook her head. He could be so silly, but she liked it. “Perhaps, but we’re going caroling tonight, not cooking.”

  “I was going to ask you back to my place for dinner afterward.”

  “Okay, I’d like that.”

  “As long as you don’t make fun of my cooking skills.” He reached out and squeezed her hand. “And I’ll try to not make fun of your singing.”

  “I could just hum.”

  “Or dance. Whatever makes you happy, Tilda.”

  As it turned out, the caroling group was a large group of people from the neighborhood where Patrick’s grandmother lived. There were older people, parents and their kids, a few young couples. Everyone seemed to know Patrick and enthusiastically embraced Tilda into the group. It had been a local tradition for years to carol on the doorsteps of the elderly neighbors.

  “Patrick!” a woman called across the crowd.

  Patrick turned toward the voice. “That’s my sister, Misha.”

  Misha moved through the crowd toward them. She was tall and attractive, like Patrick, and leading an elderly woman who was also blind and using a cane.

  “You didn’t tell me I’d be meeting your family,” Tilda hissed.

  “You’re not. Only Misha and my grandmother.” Then Patrick called out, “Gran, you’ve got to meet a friend of mine.”

  Misha led her grandmother right up to Patrick. “Where’s my boy?” the older woman said.

  Patrick reached out and gave
his grandmother a hug. Then he took her hand and one of Tilda’s and placed them together. “Gran, this is Tilda.”

  “The girl with the flower shop?”

  Tilda was surprised Patrick had told his grandmother about her. “Yes, and I loved your orchids.”

  “Then you’ll have to come and see where I keep them.” She gave Tilda a hug. “Call me Peg.”

  “And I’m Misha.” Patrick’s sister shook her hand enthusiastically. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  The group set up camp at the end of the quiet street. A few of the neighbors had made pots of gluhwein and everyone drank up. A number of people had brought instruments along.

  They started with “Good King Wenceslas”. Patrick had a great voice, and Tilda loved watching him play the viola. He didn’t use sheet music, but then none of the musicians did. They just seemed to know how to jam together.

  Tilda started singing softly but Patrick poked her in the ribs a few times, which got her laughing and singing louder. Next up was “The First Noel”, then “The Twelve Days of Christmas”, which Tilda just swayed to because she only knew three of the twelve days.

  She watched the crowd, everyone laughing and embracing this wonderful Christmas tradition that she hadn’t even thought about for decades. But mainly, she watched Patrick, and something inside her started to shift. Here was a man who had been dealt a hand of cards that many people would toss in. But he played that hand. He was so engaged with the people around him. He embraced life.

  Tilda wanted to know him better. She wanted to talk and never stop talking to him. She wanted to know if he saw images when he dreamed, and if he was ever afraid of the dark. She wanted to hear about his childhood and his dreams for the future. What was his favorite color? Did he remember colors well? What tea did he drink? What moved him to tears?

  She wanted to reach out and touch his face, because it was so beautiful. She wanted to know what it was like to wake up with him. And she wanted to know what it was like to lie naked with him.

  And she would. Of that she was sure. She could envision that. She saw everything clearly now.

  She moved closer to him. He placed a hand on her face and then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Then he put the viola back under his chin and belted out “Joy to the World.”

  And Tilda joined in, at the top of her lungs.

  CLEMENTINE

  Christmas Eve

  Clementine’s knees were shaking. What was she doing? Seriously! Turning up here unannounced like this was crazy.

  She entered Sam’s apartment block and walked up the three flights of stairs. Each step of the way, she looked for an excuse to run. A sign that this was the wrong thing to do. But the stairwell was quite lovely. It was neat. Some of the apartments had potted plants outside the door, and welcome mats, which made Clementine feel better.

  She reached Sam’s door and took a few deep breaths to calm herself.

  It didn’t work.

  She could hear music inside and pressed her ear to the door. Perhaps she should call first. Not that she had Sam’s phone number. Just Skype.

  Bugger it. She was here. And she looked hot, in her boots and jeans. Her fringe was swept to one side. She was wearing cute cat-eye glasses. She’d had second thoughts about her jacket. Debra had taken one look at this one and laughed.

  “You look like you work for FedEx.”

  “That’s not nice, Debra. It makes me feel like shit.”

  “Bollocks. I always tell you when you look hot.”

  That was true. She was a good friend like that.

  Clementine looked down at her coat. It was just a jacket. She’d remove it immediately anyway. Time to do it. She knocked.

  God, she was so nervous. She clutched Sam’s present in front of her.

  She heard the lock. The door swung open, and … it was a pretty blonde woman about her own age.

  “Hi, do I need to sign for that?”

  Clementine was thrown. Her eyes darted past the blonde to another woman, with dark hair and a familiar face, walking down the hall.

  “Who is it, honey?”

  “Delivery.”

  “I’ll sign for it,” she said to the blonde.

  The blonde turned and gave her a kiss. “Aren’t you sneaky, Sammy. Another present for me.”

  And with that she disappeared down the hall.

  “Clementine?”

  “Your back healed quickly.”

  “I thought you understood,” said Samantha. “I live with someone.”

  “I thought you meant a roommate.”

  Sam’s blue eyes flashed angrily. “Are you seriously that naive?”

  And with that, Clementine turned and fled from the building.

  SADIE

  Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.

  Shakespeare

  *

  Christmas Day

  Sadie ignored the throbbing in her skull that warned her not to open her eyes, ever, ever again, and did so anyway. Big mistake. He was there. He was next to her and looked nothing like the guy she’d come home with. That guy had been sexy, and charismatic, with an aristocratic air about him. This snoring beast had probably killed that guy, stowed the body and crawled into Sadie’s bed while she slept.

  Fuck vodka, fuck lime, fuck soda, and fuck why did she drink so much?

  Christmas, that’s why.

  Sadie tried to pull her arm out from under him, but it was stuck. She considered chewing it off, but didn’t want the blood to ruin her new sheets … although letting Yeti-man shag her in them had pretty much destroyed her fondness for them anyway. Amazing how you could have three (okay, twelve) drinks too many and think that you’re christening a new set of sheets, when you’re just creating cringe-worthy memories you’ll relive every time you hang them on the line.

  Why oh why oh why did she shag him? They’d had such a nice night. He was a nice guy. But he wasn’t her type. She totally wasn’t attracted to him. And she hated to think that by shagging him she’d given him the impression that she was.

  He stirred slightly, and, bless him … quietly farted. Either that or he was lying on a mouse. Sadie couldn’t remember reading about that little idiosyncrasy on his VIP profile. It had assured her that he loved exploring new places (okay, so she could vouch for that), eating out (once again …), and was a voracious reader (he sure as hell kept reading the drinks menu last night!). But in all honesty, it was the quote. Sadie was a sucker for a good quote and Yeti-man here—or BookBoy55—had quoted Eleanor Roosevelt: “Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people.”

  What chance did she have? She didn’t care if he’d got the quote from a Celestial Seasonings tea packet. As a full-time single mother she was so sick of discussing school events and who did what to whom in the playground. She desperately missed discussing ideas. The only time anything of any real meaning came out her mouth was when she was at her monthly book club. The rest of the time it was just “pick that up” and “don’t hit your sister/brother” and “eat your vegetables.” She was desperate for some adult conversation. Some adult connection. She wanted to talk to someone. So she’d agreed to go out with BookBoy55 hoping they would be able to talk.

  And they did. He was smart and funny and it was the best evening of conversation she’d ever had. The problem was his looks. He wasn’t her type. She liked pretty boys. Her friend Amanda had recently joked that she liked them young, dumb and full of cum. And she certainly had a history with that type of guy. But Sadie was the first to admit she was looking for something a little different now. She wasn’t interested in dumb … just young and cum.

  Sadie wanted young, hot and smart. Was it too much to ask? Apparently, yes. This one was smart. But he also looked like the abominable snowman. He was huge. Tall, stocky, with big hands and features. Big everything, she now knew … She lay there staring at the ceiling, holding her aching head with her free hand. Why oh why oh why did she shag him? She scoured her brain
for where things went off track. What the hell had happened last night?

  *

  Sadie walked into the restaurant and looked around. A large man in the corner was waving at the waiter, or waving away flies, but she couldn’t see her date. Damn it. She’d made sure she was late. She was nervous enough without arriving before her date. She was just about to ask to be seated when the waving giant stood and made his way toward her. She looked around. Was he coming to greet someone behind her? No. She realized with a sinking heart that this was BookBoy55. And by the time he reached her, large hand outstretched, big smile on his face, she was wondering how she was going to get out of the date.

  “Sadie, Harry. You look just like your photo.”

  “Nice to meet you.” You look nothing like yours, she thought.

  Sadie silently fumed as she followed him back to the table. The photo he’d posted on the dating site was at least twenty years out of date. He must be twenty years older than her, and looked it, with his graying hair and beard. He looked more like Hagrid from Harry Potter than her ideal man. What a complete waste of time. She’d rather be home with a book.

  He pulled her chair out for her and waited until she was seated to return to his own. He sat back and watched her for a moment. He didn’t seem nervous. In fact, he came across as a man very comfortable in his own skin. But then, thought Sadie, he’d had years to get used to it.

  He opened the drinks menus and placed it in front of her. “Do you like wine? The Journey Valley cab sav is particularly good here.”

  “I’ll have a vodka lime and soda.” She didn’t mean to snap, but did.

  He didn’t react. “Excellent. I think I’ll join you.” He called the waiter over. “Four vodka lime and sodas, thank you.”

  Sadie raised an eyebrow. “Four?”

  “Yes, I figure we can slam one back and sit on the second. Might break the ice.”

  Sadie smiled, for the first time since she’d arrived. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Order four vodkas?”

  “No, I’ve done plenty of that.”

  “Then you must mean the online dating thing.”