The Christmas Party

by Karen Swan

  ‘Perhaps this has been a mistake,’ she muttered under her breath as Terry immediately rushed off to bring them some drinks.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Pip murmured back, her eyes on the lavish equine oil portraits on the walls. ‘I’m in heaven!’

  ‘Have you switched your hearing aid on? They’re playing “Danny Boy”. Actually playing it. Like, not for a joke.’

  ‘Don’t care. This place is heaving with equestrians. I may never leave. D’you think they’d adopt me?’

  ‘Pip . . .’

  Terry Mullane came back with two suspiciously pink drinks, which he placed in each of their hands. ‘Drink up. These were designed especially for tonight – Midnight Feasts,’ he grinned.

  ‘What’s in them?’ Willow asked, looking sceptical. This drink would not dare show its face in any of the bars she frequented in Dublin.

  ‘Absolutely no idea,’ he laughed. ‘But I asked for them not to be too strong. You know what cocktails are like: everyone’s slaughtered after two drinks otherwise.’

  Willow smiled. Cocktails she supposed she could do – for one night anyway. She was soon to be four million euros up and that was something to celebrate, even if it was in secret. ‘Well, congratulations,’ she said, toasting him. ‘And may your success continue for many years to come.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Pip furrowed her brow and immediately looked shifty. ‘Actually, Terry, while I’ve got you . . .’

  Willow took another sip of the pink drink – it was predictably sweet, but highly quaffable – picking up on her sister’s unusually earnest tone too.

  ‘There’s something I’d love to discuss with you in more detail: how exactly did you start out?’ Pip being polite always made Willow nervous. ‘It’s always been my dream to get into bloodstocks.’

  ‘Has it really?’ Terry asked interestedly. ‘I thought you were more involved in the . . . family experiences side of things.’

  ‘Oh no, no, no,’ Pip said quickly, her cheeks flaming at his tact. ‘I mean, yes, we are currently running a trekking business but only because it . . . you know, tied in with our location on the Wild Way. What I’d really love to do is what you’ve managed—’

  ‘Terry!’ An excitable woman in an ill-advised dress rushed over, clasping his face in two hands and kissing him on the lips. ‘We made it!’

  ‘So you did!’ he replied with a faintly horrified expression, the woman’s blazered husband bearing down on them with an even wider smile.

  Willow watched on, bemused. It was one thing to be the manager of oh-so-trendy Pyro Tink but she could only imagine what it must be like as the owner of the Grand National winner.

  Pip sidestepped around her, trying to get closer to her target again. ‘Anyway, Terry, I bought this lovely mare last summer, Shalimar. Anglo-Arab. Beautiful, she is. I had to sell my trailer and I would’ve sold a kidney too if I’d had to. But anyway, I almost bankrupted myself to get her and—’

  ‘What an absolutely terrific party, Ter darling!’ the woman said, angling her head so that Pip’s view to him was blocked. ‘Everyone’s here! Now, where can we get one of those delicious-looking drinks?’

  Terry looked at Pip with a frozen expression. ‘If it’s all right with you, Pip, can we pick this up later? I’d better get Nancy and Bob here some drinks.’

  Pip looked crestfallen. ‘Sure.’

  ‘But I’ll come and find you, okay, and we’ll pick this up? I’d love to hear more.’

  ‘Sure you will,’ Pip murmured under her breath as Terry was almost wheeled off.

  ‘Come on,’ Willow said, seeing how her sister’s face fell, jogging her elbow and beginning to move through the crowd. ‘I feel like Spock waiting to be beamed up under that thing.’

  Pip glanced up at the waterfall chandelier as they moved out of the spotlight. They found a pillar to stand by, providing a good vantage over the party. A lot of the guests seemed to have received a memo about wearing tinsel as a decorative accessory and there were one or two Christmas jumpers on the men which Willow wasn’t convinced were being worn ironically. They stood in silence for several moments, both of them feeling out of place and wishing they’d stayed at home.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Pip gasped, suddenly paling.

  Willow felt a burst of fright. ‘What?’

  ‘Over there.’

  She looked over to where her sister was staring: a magnificent gold trophy was positioned against the back wall of the hall, locked in a glass cabinet and set upon an ebonized pedestal. A painting of a black stallion hung above it.

  ‘Jeesht, you don’t think—’ Pip whispered, her eyes almost on stalks.

  ‘It can’t be,’ Willow frowned, just as she noticed the thickset men in dark suits standing either side of it, hands crossed in front of them, legs widely planted. ‘Can it?’

  ‘It’s so beautiful and . . . goldy.’

  Willow glanced at her. ‘That’s not a word.’

  ‘D’you reckon the glass is bulletproof?’ Pip asked, gulping down her drink.

  But Willow didn’t hear her. Her gaze had fastened upon something even more transfixing than the trophy. He was in jeans, a white shirt and navy velvet blazer, listening impassively to something his companion – a man in his forties – was saying.

  ‘Oh my God, I just can’t believe the Grand National cup is here. At a party. We’ve got to go and see that thing,’ she hissed urgently. If Pip had been fangirling in the car, she was quickly approaching stalker level in here.

  ‘No,’ Willow said quickly, shooting out a hand to stop her sister from bolting off.

  Pip’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Huh? Why not?’

  Willow glanced back at the man again. Even just his profile made her heart catch.

  ‘Will? Let’s go see it,’ Pip said desperately.

  Willow looked back at her equally desperately. She couldn’t go over there. He was barely a metre from the cabinet, and he was for looking at, not talking to. ‘It’s . . . tacky to go and make a fuss about it.’

  ‘Tacky?’ Pip spat, looking outraged. ‘Why do you think they’ve put it there? They want people making a fuss about it!’

  ‘Well, you go then,’ she said stubbornly, taking a step back.

  Pip frowned, watching her with an incredulous expression before looking back at the cup – and then slightly left. ‘. . . Ohhhh.’

  ‘What do you mean “ohhhh”?’ she asked defensively.

  Pip shrugged. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Got what?’

  Pip looked back across the room straight at the stranger and gave a low whistle. ‘He is a hottie.’

  ‘Pip—’

  ‘Funny – I thought you were pretty upfront with guys. There’s enough of them on your Instathingy. You don’t come across as shy there.’

  ‘I’m not being shy,’ Willow protested, even though her sister had a point. Why didn’t she want to go over there? She usually made a beeline for the guys who caught her eye, notorious amongst her Dublin crowd for her love-them-and-leave-them approach.

  ‘What d’you think his name is?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Willow rolled her eyes, even as her mind was racing through options: James? Chris? Paul?

  ‘I wonder who he is. He looks very . . . urbane,’ Pip mused. ‘Bet he goes to museums and then on to brunch.’

  ‘Stop staring at him!’ Willow hissed, nudging her to turn away from him, quickly looking at the man herself to check he wasn’t looking. He wasn’t. Why wasn’t he looking?

  She downed her drink nervously and they both nabbed fresh ones from a passing waitress.

  ‘Has he seen you yet?’ Pip asked like a bad spy, her glass poised at her lips as though she was smelling it.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Course he has,’ Pip said confidently after a moment. ‘He definitely would’ve seen us come in from where he’s standing.’

  Willow looked back to the centre of the room and realized that point was actually true. It had felt like standing i
n a prison spotlight as Pip had yabbered on to Terry. ‘Well, if he did see us, he’s not looking bothered about it.’

  ‘He’s just playing it cool.’

  Willow frowned. ‘Since when did you become the expert on men?’

  ‘No one needs to be an expert on men, little sis; they’re simple creatures, never forget that. Dick and stomach. Sorted.’

  Willow tutted. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You know, this explains a lot about why you’re still single.’

  ‘Some of us aren’t looking for love,’ Pip shrugged.

  ‘I’m not either.’

  ‘That’s not what your Instathingy says.’

  ‘That’s not love. There’s a difference.’

  Pip’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hmm, well that’s a sea-change in your thinking for starters. You were forever playing weddings with the tablecloths when you were little.’

  ‘When I was little. Yes.’

  ‘You’ve decided true love’s not for you then, is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Not gonna get married.’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Because . . .?’

  ‘Because it’s hormones and convenience wrapped up in commercial-grade sentimentality.’

  ‘Ouch!’ Pip winced, as though she’d been burnt. ‘Savage condemnation.’

  ‘Says you. What’s your excuse for confirmed spinsterhood?’

  Pip gave a breezy sigh. ‘Haven’t met a bloke I like more than my horses.’ She sounded perfectly happy about it.

  Willow gave a groan, knowing there was no winning this particular argument, just as Pip suddenly, suspiciously, straightened up. ‘Oh, shit. Incoming,’ she murmured between stilled lips.

  ‘Huh?’ A shadow fell over her.

  ‘Hi.’

  Pip gave a tiny squeak. Actually a squeak.

  Willow turned and looked around. Up. The hot guy had crossed the room and was standing beside them. He wasn’t smiling, and yet – he’d crossed the room. ‘I’m Connor.’

  Connor. Not James or Chris or . . . whatever. Connor. Good name. Good face. All round . . . good. Excellent even. She swallowed hard. Up close, he was even more attractive – wavy dark hair worn in a side parting, full dark lips, ‘cat and mouse’ blue eyes that made it clear he was the cat. ‘Hi, I’m Willow,’ she said in a voice that amazingly did not wobble. ‘And this is my sister Pip.’

  ‘Pip and Willow. Interesting names.’

  ‘Mine’s short for Philippa,’ Pip said quickly, a signature gleam in her eye. ‘And hers is short for—’

  ‘Don’t even . . .’ Willow said quickly, one finger held up warningly.

  Connor hitched an eyebrow as Pip broke into laughter.

  ‘It’s just Willow,’ she said, turning back to him.

  ‘Well, pleased to meet you, Pip and Just Willow.’

  Pip cracked up laughing again. ‘Just Willow! I like that! I like him!’ she guffawed, before suddenly noticing her glass was empty again. ‘Oh no! Huh, would you look at that? I need a drink.’ And with a smile and not remotely subtle wink, she sauntered off.

  They watched her go.

  ‘Shy and retiring then, your sister?’

  ‘It’s a burden.’

  A smile hovered at his eyes. ‘Is she older or younger?’

  ‘Older by two years.’

  ‘Any others?’

  ‘Another sister, a year older than Pip.’

  ‘Ah, so you’re the baby?’

  Her stomach did a little flip. The most beautiful man she had ever seen had crossed the room and was actually flirting with her. ‘I’m afraid so. How about you? Any siblings to torture you throughout your life?’

  ‘Hell, yes. Also two sisters who still talk about dressing me up as their doll and practising make-up on me.’ Oh God, she could only imagine him with mascara on. Even more beautiful. His eyes were positively dancing now but still no smile curved his mouth – from a distance, it might look as though they were discussing Brexit or the going at Cheltenham – and she wondered what it took to make this man smile.

  ‘The scars must run deep,’ she teased.

  He shrugged his beautifully straight, dark eyebrows. ‘So how do you know the Mullanes?’ he asked, stepping to the side slightly as a brunette in a silver wrap-jumpsuit squeezed between them, her eyes flicking ever so slightly in his direction as she passed. He looked at her briefly, his gaze coming back to Willow again.

  She forced a smile, even though she felt her insecurity rise. He must have women hitting on him all the time. ‘Family friends.’

  ‘Oh. You live locally?’

  ‘My family do. About half an hour from here – or twenty minutes if Pip’s driving.’ She took another sip of her drink, her eyes watching the woman cut a swathe through the crowd. Almost every male head turned.

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘I’m in Dublin now.’

  ‘Ah. City girl.’ His eyes swept over her. ‘That explains the trousers.’ She felt a deep blush stain her cheeks. ‘I thought they were going to need to open the windows when you came in, the temperature went up so high.’

  Oh. Dear. God. He was saying she looked hot? She swallowed, willing herself to remain calm. ‘How about you?’ she asked, deliberately ignoring the compliment. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘London, although I’ve got a place in Dublin too.’

  Too. There was suggestion right there, in that one word. ‘And how do you know the Mullanes?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m part of the consortium that owns Midnight Feast.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Wow! How exciting.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  A horse man. She wouldn’t have guessed that. She’d have said banker or something. ‘So what’s it like winning the National?’

  He considered for a moment. ‘Bruising.’

  ‘Bruising?’ she asked quizzically.

  ‘Yes, it appears that when your horse wins a race, you must submit to the birthday bumps. I’ve never been hoisted up onto so many shoulders.’

  ‘Oh,’ she chuckled. But her smile faded as their eyes met again and she felt all the words leave her head. No more silky chit-chat. No more witty repartee. No more mercurial brunette even. He was distracting, overwhelming, the chemistry between them . . .

  ‘Your glass is empty,’ he said after a moment, tearing his gaze from her eyes to her glass. Wretched glass, distracting him. ‘Would you like another drink?’

  And just like that, the bubble popped. She knew exactly what that question signified: cue his speedy exit on the pretext of finding a waitress. She did it all the time in bars when she wanted to ditch someone. How could she have read this so wrong?

  ‘Sure,’ she shrugged, feeling her confidence, and buoyant mood, nosedive. Had she said something wrong? Been too flirty? Not flirty enough?

  She looked away, bracing for his departure. The party was already slipping from its polite bonds, the pink cocktails and blue Christmas tree beginning to sprinkle a little magic over the crowd: heads were being thrown back in laughter, mannerisms becoming more expansive, voices raising . . . At first glance, she had noticed only her parents’ friends, but now she saw the younger contingent too, skulking in the corners and shadows, coming out of side rooms. The ambient noise level was growing rapidly.

  Pip, she saw, was in the middle of a group of guys, all laughing uproariously about something, and doing shots. Willow watched – her sister may have been dressed like ‘one of the lads’ in her tattersall shirt and scruffy hair, no make-up on, but she didn’t look like them with her fine bones and bright eyes. Willow supposed Pip had no idea at all she was beautiful; she might even be mortified by the thought.

  ‘Excuse me!’ She looked up to see Connor with his hand in the air, his chin up to get someone’s attention. ‘Thanks,’ he murmured as a waiter dashed over and he took Willow’s empty glass from her hand, replacing it with a fresh one.

  Her gaze fluttered up t
o his in surprise.

  ‘What?’ he asked, sipping some champagne; no pink stuff for him.

  ‘Nothing, I . . .’

  His eyes pinned her down, sensing her evasion. ‘Say.’

  She shrugged. ‘I had assumed you were going to make a discreet exit.’

  He frowned. ‘Why would I do that?’

  Her eyes found the silver-clad brunette, still glancing their way. ‘. . . It’s nothing. Ignore me.’ She looked away again.

  There was a small pause. ‘Well, unfortunately, that seems to be just about the one thing I can’t do.’

  Her gaze snapped back to his, the flirtatious smile that had been in his eyes before, now replaced with definite heat.

  ‘Ignore the prettiest girl in this room, I mean.’

  She felt her heart tear into a gallop, the room begin to spin. Was that him – or the pink drinks? She didn’t even care that they were playing Daniel O’Donnell any more. Was this really happening? Could there be this much luck in one day? She felt overloaded with it. Drunk on it.

  ‘You look flushed.’

  ‘Do I?’ Her hand flew to her cheek.

  ‘. . . Would you like to get some air?’

  She stared back at him. She had never wanted air more desperately in her life. ‘Lead on.’

  Chapter Ten

  The French doors burst open, bodies streaming through ahead of her, past a couple getting hot and heavy on the chairs, everyone cheering as they ran out into the night. A hard frost was already forming, the garden draped in a bluish tint, trees spreading like hard corals against the inky sky, the lake down in the dip at the bottom of the lawns a foxed-glass mirror.

  They ran like warriors, arms aloft as they roared and Pip was glad the shirt she was wearing was too big – it only made it all the easier to pull over her head in one fell swoop. She raced over the grass, their leader in this, her arms pumping, eyes fixed on the end point – the pontoon floating in the middle of the lake. It wasn’t like the ramshackle pontoon her father had built and tethered off their private beach when she was little: a few old oil drums cleaned out and tied together with baling twine. This was a smart purpose-built floating deck with a pagoda above it – for romantic sunset suppers, she supposed. She couldn’t imagine ever being someone who would choose – or even think – to have her dinner in a floating glorified shed at the bottom of the garden but who was she to judge? She was the nutter who bet she could swim up to it in the middle of winter.