Unceremoniously dumped onto the next tier of the mall by the escalator, I managed to squeeze through the slow-moving shoppers to emerge breathless into a small pocket of relatively fresher air by a large, over-decorated artificial Christmas tree. Tears stung my eyes and I swallowed angrily in a vain attempt to keep them at bay. What was the matter with me? How did I get it so devastatingly wrong?
All the signs had been there, or so I thought: hugs that lingered a moment too long, snatched glances and shy smiles in the midst of nights out with our friends, moments of unspoken understanding during conversations begun in the early evening and ending as birdsong heralded a new day. Then there were his unexplained silences – times when I felt he had something more to say, where unresolved question marks sparkled magnificently in the air between us and the room held its breath – ultimately in vain. There had been more of these lately, peppering almost every occasion we spent together with an irresistible spice of intrigue. Only last Wednesday, Charlie had stopped the car in a country lay-by on our way to meet friends at our favourite bistro, specifically to give me a hug – with no words, no explanation. It was an intensely warm, lingering embrace, his cinnamon scent pervading my senses and his neck soft against my cheek, while his fingers traced slow circles across my shoulder blades. Once it ended, he started the car and we drove on as if it had never happened. If it didn’t mean what I thought it did, then what on earth was that all about?
My mobile phone rang in my bag, but I couldn’t face answering the call, so Stevie Wonder continued his tinny rendition of ‘Sir Duke’ unhindered by my usual intervention. Reaching into the crummy depths of my coat pocket, I retrieved a half-screwed up shopping list and read down the list of scribbled names: my To-Do list for the afternoon. It was the last Saturday before Christmas and my final chance to buy everyone’s presents. Christmas shopping waited for no one, it seemed – not even thoroughly embarrassed owners of newly-shattered hearts.
Mum & Dad
Auntie Clara
Wren
Jack & Soph
Freya & Niall
Elliot & Millie
Tom & Anya
Charlie
Charlie. My breath caught in the back of my throat as my eye fell on the last name. No need for that one to be there, I hissed under my breath, I think he’s had quite enough surprise gifts from me this year. I stuffed the list back into my pocket and turned as I prepared to dive back into the undulating ocean of people.
And that’s when it happened.
It was so fast that I almost didn’t realise what was going on. Even now, the details remain frustratingly sparse in my mind. But here’s what I know:
As I was about to step out, a hurrying shopper slammed into my shoulder from behind, the force of it stealing my balance and propelling me forward. I braced myself for the inevitable impact as I headed towards the polished mall floor, but instead found myself suddenly supported by strong arms, lifting me back to my feet. My eyes first met a striped scarf, then headed north to reach quite the most gorgeous face I had ever seen. His hazel eyes caught the light from white fairy lights strung overhead, whilst wavy strands of his russet-brown hair picked up the twinkling blue light from the lavishly decorated Christmas tree beside us. A slight shadow of stubble edged his jaw-line and his cheekbones were quite defined. Tiny details, really. But what I remember most – apart from what happened next, of course – was the expression on his face.
It was the kind of look you see in movies when a bridegroom turns to see his bride walking towards him for the first time; a heady, overpowering mix of shock, surprise and all-encompassing, heart-stopping love. It was the look that Charlie should have given me when I told him I loved him. But this wasn’t Charlie: and that, in itself, was part of the problem. Because – apart from not being the man to whom I had publicly expressed my undying love not fifteen minutes beforehand – this person was almost perfect: from the woody scent of his cologne and the smile making its unhurried progress across his lips, to the strong, safe arms cradling me like a precious gem.
But most of all because of what happened next . . .
He only said two words, but they were enough. Two simple, amazing words that were just about to change everything.
‘Hello beautiful,’ he said.
I was about to say something in return when his head turned and I could hear a voice calling from the melee of faceless shoppers behind him.
‘We’ve got to go . . . Now!’
His eyes returned to mine, now widening as he debated his next move. He stepped back, his hands slipping from my shoulders to my elbows, maintaining their hold on my arms. When they reached my hands, he took another look behind him, then back at me. Shaking his head, he drew both my hands towards him until we were face-to-face. I held my breath as the sudden intensity of the moment seemed to suspend time around us . . .
. . . and then, he lifted my hands up between us to meet his lips, and kissed them.
Although it was only the smallest of gestures, it was unlike anything else I’ve experienced. It was the kind of moment you only expect to see in Hollywood films – finally uniting the two leads as the credits start to roll over the delicious tones of Nat King Cole. In fact, even the soundtrack was perfect – because, at that very moment, Mr Cole himself began crooning ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ from the muffled speakers of the shopping mall, as I closed my eyes and gave in to the unexpected gift of the stranger claiming my hands.
It was almost perfect. Almost. But not quite. Because, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone: swallowed up by the heaving, unyielding mass of shoppers. So there I stood alone once more, dazed yet elated by the Christmas tree, my heart thumping wildly and my whole life altered irrevocably.
And that’s why I have to find him.
Welcome to My World
Miranda Dickinson has always had a head full of stories. From an early age she dreamed of writing a book that would make the heady heights of Kingswinford Library. Following a Performance Art degree, she began to write in earnest when a friend gave her The World’s Slowest PC. She is also a singer-songwriter. Her first novel, Fairytale of New York, was a Sunday Times top ten international bestseller. Welcome to My World is her second novel.
To find out more about Miranda visit www.miranda-dickinson.com
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Thanksgiving from Author
Wow. You mean I get to do this again? Blimey . . . First of all – and most importantly – I’d like to thank you, for picking up my book today. You’re amazing. I still can’t quite believe that people other than my family and friends want to read my stories. Thank you!
Thanks as ever to the fantastically talented Authonomy.com community and the lovely Clive, Laura and team who run the site. Here’s to many more Authonomy successes!
A massive thank you to the Avon team at HarperCollins, for believing in me and making the whole experience so fun and fulfilling. I hope this book is just reward for your faith in me. To my brilliant editor, Sammia Rafique, for not only being the very best editor any writer could wish for but also a true friend. To Caroline Ridding, Claire Bord and Kate Bradley, for supporting me so much, and Tara Hiatt and the Rights team at HarperCollins for all their hard work on my behalf. Thanks also to Yvonne Holland and Anne Rieley.
Being a bit of an armchair traveller myself, my experience of the world is somewhat limited. So I’d like to say a huge thank you to the people who shared their worlds with me: Laura Goss (New Orleans), Kim Curran and Dan Holloway (Pad Thai), Phil and Jo White (Kefalonia – in particular, the goat bells!), Victoria Connelly (Venice), my bestest chum Helen Smith (for inspiring Stella and Harri’s friendship), and Phil Henley (Thailand and the inspiration for Alex’s story). I’d also like to thank the very lovely Alison Howell from www.foot-trails.co.uk, for inspiring Emily’s story – she’s a shining example of what can happen when you take a chance on your dream.
/> For excellent Mini spares knowledge for Jack’s car (and for generally being brilliant), grateful thanks to Phil Jevons, Dan Guest and Dave Jevons. Big thanks to my dedicated posse of writerly superstars – Kim Curran, Danielle Derry and Linsey Pearson – for your honesty, enthusiasm and all-round fabulousness in reading the various edits of this book.
I’d also like to thank the fantastic people I’ve met on Twitter, especially the six superheroes who flew to my rescue when I needed colour suggestions for Harri’s wardrobe: Melissa Dixie, Rin Simpson, Sarah Siddons, Leigh Fenn, Jane Colston and Mandi Millen.
Thanks as always to my wonderful family and to my awesome friends for just being the best mates in the world and inspiring me in more ways than they realise. Also, big thanks to Siobhan Brown at Stourbridge Yoga – www.stourbridgeyoga.co.uk for much-needed relaxation and unending thanks to my family at Calvary Church, Kingswinford, for all your support and love. For everything that’s been and is to come, thanks to the Master Storyteller, who knows it all.
Finally, to my lovely Bob: knight-in-shining-armour, support team, book widower and the man of my dreams. Thank you for loving me.
It’s still a dream come true to be able to create worlds for other people to wander in. Thank you for choosing to step into mine!
By the same author
Fairytale of New York
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
A Paperback Original 2010
1
Copyright © Miranda Dickinson 2010
Miranda Dickinson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978-1-84756-166-4
EPub Edition © 2010 ISBN: 9780007352517
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