Driving Me to Christmas (London Loves Book 5)

by Farrell, Julie

  Sam wasn’t sure whether to be jealous, worried, or just plain insecure.

  She forced herself to relax. Surely the best plan now was to make herself a cup of tea and save her concerns for a heart-to-heart with Scott, when she met up with him later to find a dress for the Christmas Eve ball.

  Chapter Two

  This disused aircraft hangar on the outskirts of London seemed like the perfect location for a 1960s spy movie. But actually it was crammed full of classic cars of varying makes, models, and ages – as well as several hundred people of varying makes, models, and ages, shuffling around like zombies and trying to wake up. As Verlaine followed Gemma through the crowd, he realised that all demographics were represented here this morning: smartly dressed men in suits, scruffy men in overalls, casual men in jeans. But Gemma seemed to be the only woman here. And the fact that she was blonde, curvaceous, and seven months pregnant with twins, made her even more conspicuous.

  But actually, no one was taking any notice of her; all eyes were on the cars, which were lined up in categories, with their hoods open, as if they were waiting for the auto-dentist. Verlaine wanted to stop and look at the Ferraris, but Gemma was waddling towards the more sensible stock, so he followed.

  He ambled past a 1962 Ferrari GTO and shivered. It was a beautiful car, but his shiver was actually due to the artic temperature in here. The crowd’s combined body heat did nothing to warm the huge space, and Verlaine’s toes felt numb inside his boots. He flapped his arms across his chest, trying to keep warm in his padded lumberjack shirt. Sam was always telling him to buy a proper coat; why didn’t he listen to her?

  He grinned at the memory of this morning and yearned to be with his gorgeous girl. He knew she’d be sitting up in bed at the moment, working on the laptop, and enjoying a second cup of tea. It was tempting to abandon Gemma, return home, and warm himself up…

  Verlaine snapped himself out of it, and trailed behind Gemma across the shiny floor. Gemma was wearing Jack’s old parka, and Verlaine wondered whether it was because she was unconsciously missing him. Or maybe it was the only thing big enough to fit around her huge tummy now.

  Gemma shuffled through the crowd ahead of him, towards the boring-but-saleable Bentleys and Jags. Verlaine knew he should keep up with her, but he spotted a 1940 Mercury Eight Convertible, and got caught in its tractor beam, which dragged him over. He called Gemma’s name, then squeezed through the mass of men, to worship the car.

  Gemma halted at his side. “You hollered?”

  He ran his fingers over the paintwork. “Christ, Miss Jenkins, only nine-hundred of these was ever produced and most are gone forever. Look at this V8 flathead engine – it’s in awesome condition.”

  “Well, when you win the Lottery you can buy one, can’t you?”

  She started to walk away.

  “Oh, come on, Gem, at least lemme look inside?”

  She turned back, but an elegant man in a suit accidentally placed himself between the two of them.

  Gemma leaned round the man. “We’re here to buy cars, Verlaine, not to fulfil your schoolboy fantasies. A car like this, I’ll never shift it. People want post-war cars, not this 1930s junk. God, if I left you to buy the stock, you’d supply us with nothing but the filth of your teenage wet-dreams. I still can’t sell that Roadster you convinced me to buy back in March. We shouldn’t leave cars standing on the forecourt for months – it looks bad.”

  Verlaine gazed at her. She was definitely getting crankier. He knew her hormones were probably driving her crazy at the moment, but it didn’t stop him from pulling a face behind her back as she waddled off.

  “Nineteen-forty is post-war,” he muttered.

  “Don’t be cheeky,” she called back.

  He smirked. She was gonna make a great mom to those twin boys.

  He caught up with her as she was peering into the engine of a very dull-looking Audi.

  Verlaine leaned his elbow on the roof. “So, when you practically begged me yesterday to take over the business for your maternity, you actually didn’t mean it at all?”

  Gemma scrutinised the engine. “No, I did mean that. You can still take over while I’m away. But yesterday you laughed in my face and point-blank refused.”

  “That’s cuz I don’t know anything about running a business. As you say, I’d probably buy cars that don’t sell. I can’t work behind a desk, Gemma, it’ll kill me. I wanna work with cars. You know that.”

  “But we can get you an apprentice – pay them minimum wage to learn how to be a mechanic. And I’ll still be around whenever you need me.”

  “What about Sam – why don’t you ask her?”

  “She’s not interested in cars.”

  “I meant to run the business, not to become my apprentice!”

  “I know what you meant. I do know something about cars, you know.”

  “I know, sorry. Look, why don’t we worry about it after Christmas? You’ve still got six weeks to go, right? And… you never know…”

  “What?”

  Verlaine stepped around so they were both facing the engine of the Audi. He bent and inspected it. “Not this one. Look, see that brown oil stain here? The head gasket’s leaking. And the radiator hose is worn. I think you should give it a miss.”

  Gemma’s eyes burnt into the side of his face. “Verlaine, if you’ve got something to say, then I suggest you say it.”

  “Okay… I think you should get back together with Jack.”

  “Right. Well, I think you should mind your own business.”

  “It is my business.”

  “May I remind you, you’re actually my employee?”

  “When it suits you. Those twins are practically my nephews.”

  Gemma rubbed her tummy. “And when are you going to make them officially your nephews?”

  “Well, if you must know, I was planning to propose in Thailand.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “So I guess I’ll do it at the ball on Christmas Eve. I’ll take Sam to one side and get down on one knee. Hopefully she’ll say yes.”

  Gemma scoffed and shook her head.

  “Do you think she will?” he asked, suddenly paranoid.

  “Of course she will – you two are the perfect couple.”

  They turned and shared a smile. Gemma opened her mouth, possibly to say something affectionate, but a middle-aged man barged into her as he hurried past. Her low centre of gravity caused her to stumble into Verlaine’s arms with an ‘oof!”

  Anger flashed through Verlaine’s chest. “Hey, asshole! Are you blind? She’s pregnant!”

  The man turned. He looked as if he’d spent his entire life at second-hand-car auctions – his face was steely and grey, like a hubcap. “Well, why did you bring your pregnant wife to a place like this, you idiot?”

  “This is my boss, you sexist moron.”

  Gemma squeezed his arm. “Verlaine, it’s alright. To be honest, I’d like to go and sit down.”

  Verlaine put his arm protectively around her as the man rushed away. He rubbed her on the back. “You wanna get some coffee? Or a decaf for you.”

  She hauled Jack’s old winter coat around herself. “Yeah, come on.”

  ***

  Verlaine did love Gemma, even though she could be incredibly uptight. But over the years they’d had some tender conversations, and Verlaine knew she approved of his relationship with her little sis. Now that she was pregnant, though, something inside of him wanted to protect her babies from the world. Sam had told him it was probably just some tribal, instinctive thing. But it didn’t make his protectiveness any less real.

  A wave of chatter hit them as they strolled into the crowded tearoom – it was full of second-hand-car salesmen networking over a cuppa. In the olden days, this place would’ve been shrouded in a cloud of cigarette smoke, but now, thanks to the smoking ban, it was just full of hot air. The furniture was old and plastic, and the tea was served in paper-cups from an urn by a burly woman who looked a bit grubby. She
was wearing tinsel around her catering hat and her earrings were shaped like frolicking reindeers. Verlaine could just about make out the sound of Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas playing on the radio underneath the chattering voices. It didn’t fill him with festive cheer.

  They found a vacant table in the corner, so Gemma lowered herself down to sit. She looked pale and tired.

  “You want anything to eat?” he asked.

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “Alright. Be right back.”

  He paid for a couple of teas and brought them over. Gemma was typing on her phone as he sat down on the rickety plastic seat, but she quickly dropped the handset into her huge handbag and threw him a thin smile. She seemed physically and mentally uncomfortable, sitting with her legs apart; face set to a frown. It was noisy and stuffy in here, and she probably wanted to go somewhere more tranquil. Verlaine did, too.

  “You alright, Miss Jenkins?”

  “Yeah, s’pose so. How’s Sam? Is she really okay about not going to Thailand?”

  “You know Sam; she always puts other people before herself.”

  “She’s a sweet girl. But I do worry about her sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s too trusting, don’t you think?”

  “She’s smarter than you give her credit for. Don’t forget who saw through Marcus Priestley’s slimy ways.”

  Gemma rankled. “Yes, well. I just think Sam’s ‘all you need is love’ approach might end up getting her in trouble, that’s all.”

  “Did you want to talk about something other than your naive little sister?”

  “Yes I did actually.” Gemma leaned on the wobbly table and lowered her voice against the background bustle. “There’s something I need to tell you, which I haven’t told anyone else.”

  Worry seeped through Verlaine like an oil slick. “Okay.”

  “You’ve got to promise not to tell anyone, not even Sam. Especially not Sam.”

  “I can’t promise that, Gemma. It depends what it is.”

  She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply into her ample chest. Then she blurted out: “I had an affair. These babies aren’t Jack’s.”

  Her words smashed into Verlaine like a multi-car pile-up. Poor Jack – his first wife had cheated on him, too, just after they’d got married. His mind swam with questions, but all he could ask was, “Does Jack know?”

  “No. I asked him to move out because I felt so guilty.”

  “Oh, that’s why. So… who’s the father?”

  “Patrick Jones.”

  “The Rolls Royce dealer?”

  She winced. “He’s a charming man.”

  “He’s a married man.”

  “And I’m a married woman.”

  “Does Patrick know?”

  “No, I haven’t told anyone. Although Patrick’s probably guessed. But I’m assuming he won’t want anything to do with me. His wife’s worth quite a bit, you know.”

  Verlaine spoke directly into her eyes. “Gemma, Jack’s devastated you kicked him out. I’ve never known him so upset – he loves you.”

  “And I love him. You probably don’t believe me, but I really do.”

  “Well, maybe if you explain everything…” Verlaine suddenly realised it might not be quite that simple. “Obviously you’ll need to… I mean... Why did you do it?”

  “A moment of weakness, I suppose. Or rather, five moments. Patrick’s very charming. And Jack and I haven’t been… Anyway, I called it off with Patrick because I couldn’t handle the guilt – especially after everything poor Jack went through with his first wife. By the time I realised I was pregnant, it was too late to do anything about it.”

  Verlaine picked up his paper-cup and blew on his tea, making it ripple. “Er… how can you be sure they’re not Jack’s?”

  Gemma raised an eyebrow. “We don’t all go at it like rabbits every day, like you and Sam, you know.”

  Verlaine almost spat out his tea. What the hell had Sam been telling her sister! He’d never dream of divulging information about their love life to his friends and family. But apparently it was different for women.

  He composed himself. “You’ve gotta tell Jack about this, Gemma. What’ve you got to lose? Obviously it’s gonna take time and a lot of talk, but... please – will you at least think about it? He might take you back.”

  She decapitated a sugar sachet and poured the contents into her tea. “I’d do anything to get back together with my husband. If he’ll forgive me.”

  “Then you need to talk to him.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it. Now come on, we can’t sit around here all day gossiping – we’ve got cars to inspect.”

  Chapter Three

  The sign above the door read: The Dovecoat Boutique. Fine Feathers Make Fine Birds.

  Sam stood behind the heavy velvet curtain of the fitting room, dressed in only her knickers, feeling as if she was about to go onstage in a bad dream. This little cubicle was her sanctuary at the moment. It was softly lit and designed to flatter. The three mirrored walls enabled her to see herself from all angles, and no expense had been spared, because this was where ‘madam’ was alone with her body – and with their clothing. The aim was to ensure that Sam thought she looked great. But she already knew the dress Scott had picked out was going to be wrong. It looked beautiful hanging there on the padded coat-hanger like a glimmer of glamour in Sam’s ordinary life. It was soft to the touch, and the glorious red colour made Sam feel vibrantly excited. But, like all the other dresses in here, it’d been designed for a 38DD supermodel.

  She carefully stepped into it, then inspected herself in all three mirrors. A feeling of foggy frustration engulfed her. It fitted okay, but – as she’d suspected – it was too long. Or her legs were too short. And it was embarrassingly baggy in the chest area.

  She sighed.

  On the other side of the curtain – in the boutique – she could hear Scott and the sales assistant chatting about the weather over the sound of Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas. Sam peeked through a gap and saw Scott leaning against the plush counter, dressed in his skin-tight jeans, knee-length high heels, and fitted military-style coat. From here, his long blond hair and toned butt made him look quite feminine, but Sam knew that under his coat was a chest of rock-solid muscle.

  “I don’t know how much more of this cold weather I can take,” Scott was saying. “I prefer the warmer weather. I like wearing slinky summer clothes to show off my gorgeous curves!”

  The sales assistant guffawed and Sam felt envy spatter through her. She wanted to be out there laughing with Scott, not in here humiliating herself. The sales assistant was smartly dressed, with jet black hair and a smooth Eastern European accent. She was a woman who clearly who loved to shop. Sam wondered if she was the only woman in the whole world who found shopping tiresome. Especially in pretentious little boutiques like this one.

  The layout of the shop was stark and shiny, as if the owners were waiting for the stock to be delivered. But apparently it was supposed to be like this; the designer dresses were dotted sparsely around the space, like an afterthought. And the minimalist vibe contrasted bizarrely with the huge chandelier that hung from the low ceiling. Sam didn’t understand it, but apparently it was the height of artistic fashion. Scott should know; he worked in an art gallery.

  Sam groaned loudly, realising she couldn’t put this off any longer.

  Scott’s concerned voice called out, “You alright, Sam?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s have a look, then.”

  Sam braced herself, then drew back the velvet curtain and padded out in her socks, hitching up the dress with her fingers. “Why don’t we just forget about this and grab a coffee? I’m sure I’ve got a dress at home I can wear.”

  Scott clapped his hands. “Oh, Sam, you look gorgeous – Verlaine will be so proud!”

  The sale assistant nodded. “You do look lovely, madam.”

  Sam threw them both a scep
tical look. “It’s saggy at the bust and far too long. Is it supposed to make me feel glamorous? Because it makes me feel short and flat-chested.”

  Scott gestured to his own five-foot-six body. “I know how you feel – I’m blessed with short genes, too.”

  “That’s why you’re wearing four-inch heels.”

  “I know, and you can, too! You take what nature gave you and you improvise. Honestly, Sam, you’re perfect!”

  Sam recoiled as Scott suddenly grabbed the front of the dress and ruched it up in his hand. She noticed he was wearing electric-blue nail varnish, which made her smile.

  Scott scrutinised the material in his fist. “I can adjust this for you, no problem. It just needs a few stiches here… and hey presto!”

  “And several inches off the bottom,” Sam said. “It seems stupid to spend tons of money on a dress that you’re going to cut up. How much is it anyway?”

  She reached down to grab the price tag.

  “No! Me and Paul are paying.”

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “You didn’t. Seriously, Sam, you look amazing in this dress. It was made for you.”

  She raised a cynical eyebrow. “Really?”

  “A taller more busty version of you, perhaps, but you look genuinely beautiful. You must have it!”

  Scott let go of the dress and draped both arms around her bare shoulders. He rested his forehead against hers, and gazed into her soul with his huge sapphire eyes. “There are times in a girl’s life when she just needs a pretty dress, okay?”

  Sam grinned. Scott was clearly hinting that Verlaine was planning to propose at the ball. Excitement whooshed inside her like a fairground waltzer.

  She nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

  Scott broke away and inspected the dress again. “I think you need something at the front here. A brooch or something.”

  “Do people still wear brooches?”