by Alice Ross
Cradling his cup of coffee at the table, Jake twisted his features into a rueful expression. ‘Well, I was. But you’re so much better at these things than I am. I thought we’d make it a surprise party. At the Stables. With an Australian theme. And Stan and I were thinking about Christmas Eve. Phil’s apparently closing the pub early, so it should work out perfectly. What do you think?’
Annie shook her head in mock despair. ‘I think we have a million other things going on at the moment without adding yet another party to the mix. However, because Phil has looked after us all so well in the pub, and because the whole village is going to miss him, I think the least we can do is give him a good send off.’
Jake snorted with laughter. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist. Stan’s coming round tomorrow morning to talk about it. That okay with you?’
‘I suppose it’ll have to be,’ said Annie, turning around and resuming her porridge stirring. ‘You can join us if you like, Amelia. Although I should warn you that it’ll be at your own risk. Anyone within a five-mile radius is likely to be allocated a task.’
Recalling how much she’d enjoyed talking to Stan in the park, Amelia experienced a flicker of excitement. ‘Sounds like fun,’ she said. And although fun wasn’t something she was overly familiar with, she meant it.
Chapter Ten
‘I’ve been thinking,’ announced Bea over breakfast.
Stan bit back a sigh. With no milk for his cereal, the morning had already involved an impromptu trip to the high street, the knock-on effect of which would mean he was late for work and would receive a bollocking from Blubbering Bernie. Not only that, but today was the Staff Christmas Party, and to say he was looking forward to it was akin to saying Hark the Herald Angels was a hip-hop classic.
‘All management are expected to attend,’ Bernie had informed him, evidently sensing Stan’s ill-concealed lack of enthusiasm. ‘Even assistant ones,’ he’d sneered, forcing Stan’s hand to once again curl into a fist as he considered punching the man right bang in the centre of his face.
But it wasn’t Bernie’s face that was causing him concern at that particular moment. It was Bea’s. And by the look on it, whatever it was she’d “been thinking”, he suspected he wasn’t going to like.
‘I think we should have another baby.’
The sensation of having a bucketful of ice cubes tipped down his shirt skittered through Stan. His spoonful of cornflakes halted midway to his mouth. ‘What?’
Across the table, Bea’s expression remained one of beatific innocence. ‘I think we should have another baby. I mean, Maddy’s almost a year now. And by the time we conceive and have it, there’ll be two years between them, which is ideal.’
For who? Stan almost blurted out. Granted, over the last couple of days, since their meal at Aubergine, a dramatic improvement in marital relations had ensued. But given how bad things had been just days before, did she honestly think now was the right time to chuck another baby into the equation?
‘I really don’t think the time’s right, Bea,’ he batted back, trying desperately to prevent any trace of the horror scuttling through him from colouring his tone.
He must’ve done a good job, because Bea ploughed on.
‘The timing’s perfect,’ she insisted. ‘It’ll be great for the two of them to be close. And we’re getting along much better now, aren’t we?’
The knowing smile she flashed him triggered a terrifying thought, causing Stan’s horror level to rocket off the scale and into orbit. Oh. My. God! That was the reason she’d suddenly revived their sex life. Because she wanted to fall pregnant again. Nothing at all to do with trying to repair their ailing marriage. Then an even more chilling thought slammed into him – one that almost made him gag on his cereal.
‘Please tell me you haven’t stopped taking the Pill,’ he demanded.
Bea’s gaze dropped to her coffee cup as a slight flush touched her cheeks. ‘Of course I haven’t,’ she tutted, fiddling with the cup.
Stan’s stomach began to churn. Bea was a rubbish liar. Even when their neighbours over the road in London had invited them to a barbecue they really didn’t want to go to, she hadn’t been able to look them in the eye when she’d mumbled some excuse about having a work function the same evening. Just as she wasn’t looking him in the eye now. But, noting the time on the wall clock, he concluded that any further discussion would have to wait.
‘I have to go,’ he said, pushing away his hardly touched bowl of cornflakes and rising to his feet. ‘We’ll talk about this later.’
‘Okay,’ she muttered, staring miserably at the table.
Stan heaved a weary sigh. Just when things had been going so well, just when he’d thought they might actually enjoy the festive break, she’d gone and spoiled it all.
‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back tonight,’ he said, picking up his bowl and walking over to the bin. ‘I have to put in an appearance at the bloody Christmas Party.’
‘Right. Have a nice time,’ she muttered.
As he tipped the bowl of soggy flakes into the bin, Stan thought that would be as likely as Rudolph making it to the Strictly Come Dancing final with a Tango routine.
After that less than propitious morning, Stan’s day careered rapidly downhill. Not only did Bernie tear a strip off him for being late, but the man forced him to attend purgatory – aka the month-end meeting – for which Stan had been as unprepared as he’d been unenthusiastic. He couldn’t concentrate on a thing, never mind analyse a bloody income statement. As much as he tried, he couldn’t shift the suspicion that Bea might already be pregnant again. And if she was, the fact that she’d launched into her plan, dragging him along as an unsuspecting accomplice, made him seethe. It also explained why she’d looked so sheepish in Aubergine when he’d mentioned her returning to work if they sent Maddy to St Hild’s. Returning to work obviously didn’t feature in her – possibly already well-established – plan.
By the time the party rolled round, Stan had lathered himself up into such a tizz that the lump of Blu-Tack on his desk had not only been stabbed to within an inch of its reusable life, but had also been rived apart and every tiny bit squashed and squished and rolled. If Bernie hollered one more command through the paper-thin wall, he really wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. Thankfully for Bernie, he didn’t. And as soon as the big hand on the clock reached twelve, and the little one five, Stan, along with every other PastryPuff white-collar worker, flicked off all electronic devices and prepared to party.
In PastryPuff’s typical classy – let’s push out the boat and show how much we value our employees – inimitable style, the jollities were being held in the staff canteen. A venue as removed from the sleek wine bars and bistros of Stan’s London Christmas knees-ups, as Santa’s Grotto was from South Grinstead. But so pissed off was he by five o’clock that he wouldn’t have cared if the bash had been in the public toilets in the centre of Harrogate. As long as there was alcohol – and plenty of it – he could at least drown his sorrows.
Blissfully unaware of just how far he’d come to a very sticky end – involving sellotape, a stapler, scissors, and a packet of fluorescent post-it notes – Bernie had moved on from torturing Stan, to leching after one of the secretaries from the legal department. His tormentor a safe distance away, Stan really couldn’t have cared who he sat with, as long as he wasn’t too far away from the arrangement of tables covered in white plastic, serving as the bar.
Bernie’s long-suffering PA, Betty, who Stan suspected had taken pity on him after the particularly hideous day he’d endured, together with a group of gaggling account clerks, adopted him. The group included Molly, the temp, in a tight sparkly dress that climbed a few millimetres higher up her smooth thighs every time she shifted in her seat. A fact Stan was attempting desperately not to notice. No easy task given she was sitting directly opposite him. A couple of hours, and several bottles of Beck’s later, though, he discovered her petite curvy form right next to him.
‘You two youngsters should go and dance,’ urged Betty, indicating the checked lino floor space, normally dotted with slightly greasy tables, that had been cleared specifically for those wishing to strut their stuff.
Stan didn’t normally “do” dancing. But tonight, feeling decidedly reckless, he thought, why the hell not?
He turned to Molly. ‘You up for it?’
She gazed back at him through slightly bleary eyes. ‘I am if you are.’
Requiring no further encouragement, Stan sprang to his feet and held out a hand to her. ‘Come on then.’
Clinging on to him as though her life depended on it, a slightly swaying Molly followed him onto the “dance floor” in dangerously high heels.
‘Oh, I love this,’ she gushed, as Fifth Harmony’s Worth It began booming out from the speakers. Releasing her hold of Stan’s hand, she turned around and began rubbing her body up against his in some seriously dirty moves.
In the absence of: a) any better ideas, and b) zero inclination to do otherwise, Stan followed suit.
Half an hour later, after what he considered some rather spectacular gyrating, Molly announced that her feet were killing her.
‘And I’m boiling,’ she added, as they made their way back to their seats, her hand once again in his. ‘We’ve worked up quite a sweat there.’
A sweat wasn’t the only thing he’d worked up, Stan refrained from pointing out. Having Molly’s luscious body so close to his, her pert breasts pressed against his chest, her firm butt rubbing against his, had sparked a reaction on a certain part of his anatomy.
‘Fancy going outside for a bit of air?’ he heard her ask.
Despite his slightly inebriated state, a low voltage warning light began flashing in his brain. Given the circs, was that really a good idea? But then again, why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t as if anything had to happen. And he was very hot – in all senses of the word. A breath of air would do him good.
‘Okay,’ he said, his warning light flashing several shades brighter at the sexy smile he received by way of reply.
‘Oh look! It’s snowing,’ exclaimed Molly, the moment they stepped outside.
It was indeed snowing. Soft white flakes silently drifting through the velvety night sky.
‘We should’ve put our coats on,’ she said, shivering. ‘But as we haven’t, we’ll just have to keep each other warm instead.’ She turned to Stan, wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his chest.
Taken aback by the sudden manoeuvre, Stan started slightly. But as Molly nuzzled into him, he savoured the warmth of her body against his, unable to resist winding his arms around her and burrowing his head into her silky hair. Despite their sweaty dancing session, she still smelt lovely – of lilies and honey, mixed with her own feminine scent. If he’d been turned on before, the dial had now switched to horny as hell.
She raised her head to him. ‘It was my last day today,’ she said, removing a hand from his waist and running it over his cheek. ‘After tonight you probably won’t see me again.’
Stan’s heart began hammering. This girl was hot stuff: sex on legs, every man’s dream. And she appeared to fancy him.
Both her arms now circled his neck as she gazed up at him through smoky eyes, her moist lips ever so slightly parted.
Stan bit back a groan. Christ! She was offering it to him on a silver platter. But he couldn’t. Or could he? No one need ever know. And she’d as much as said it would be a one-off. And anyway, why shouldn’t he have a bit of fun? Bea had her nice life, swanning about with her nursery pals all day, concocting her own future without any input from him. His life, meanwhile, was completely and utterly shit. His marriage was falling apart at the seams, his daughter couldn’t stand the sight of him, and he hated his job with a passion. Didn’t he deserve to let his hair down – as well as his trousers – for one night at least? But, as Molly pulled his head down to hers, her delectable mouth millimetres from his, a piercing bolt of realisation shot through him. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be unfaithful to Bea. As much as he didn’t particularly like her at the moment, he still loved her and they’d come too far to throw in the towel without even trying.
‘Come on. Let’s go back in,’ he said, taking a step back and wondering if the wave of disappointment that washed over her gorgeous face came anywhere close to the tsunami that had engulfed him.
*
‘I’m terribly sorry to pressure you, Mr McNally,’ pronounced the solicitor on the other end of the phone, his supercilious tone indicating he was anything but “terribly sorry”, ‘but we still require one final signature before we can transfer the pub to the brewery.’
Standing at the window in the flat’s kitchen, Phil watched the ducks waddling around Buttersley’s frozen village pond, his stomach roiling. One final signature. One flourish of a pen. One sliver of ink. And his entire universe would be handed over to Brewbest Breweries. ‘I’ll try and get in one day next week,’ he replied, somewhat non-committally.
‘We’ll be closing on Thursday of next week for the holidays. Do you think perhaps you could commit to a day and time?’
Phil caught his bottom lip between his teeth as he observed Mrs Gates, from the village shop, marching towards the pond with a bag of food for the ducks. In his next life he was coming back as a duck, he decided. At least then, all he’d have to worry about was pigging out on an animal-loving villager’s generous offerings. Much more manageable than deciding whether or not to give up everything he knew and loved for a new life on the other side of the world.
‘I have a window at eleven o’clock on—’ he tuned back in to hear the solicitor saying.
‘Next week. Definitely,’ interjected Phil, before pressing the end call button and tossing the phone onto the table. God! As if it wasn’t enough having Rachel on his case every day, pressurising and organising him. Two activities that, if yesterday morning’s “surprise” was anything to go by, appeared to have gathered pace. Phil had been setting up the bar in the morning when there’d been a hammer on the door. Wrenching it open, he found himself confronted by a load of packing cases.
‘What the—?’
‘Arranged by a Miss Bradshaw,’ the barely-visible-behind-the-pile delivery driver informed him.
‘I just thought, with it being Christmas and everything, you’d be really busy,’ Rachel explained when he’d confronted her about it via Skype later. ‘I’m just doing my bit to help, sweetie.’
Phil didn’t appreciate the help. Nor did he appreciate her request to show her the progress he’d made with the packing. In a fit of panic, he’d flicked off the laptop then sent her a text saying his internet connection had packed in. Whether she believed him or not, he didn’t know. Nor, at that particular moment, had he cared. The lethal combination of her and Skype was completely doing his head in.
But they weren’t the only things. Phil was seriously sick of himself for not having the balls to tell her how he felt – for letting her railroad him down a track he really wasn’t convinced he wanted to go down. Why didn’t he just come out and tell her the truth? That he was completely terrified. That the million “what-ifs” buzzing around his mind kept him awake every night: what if he hated it and wanted to come back? What if he came back and couldn’t find another pub? What if the pressure was too much for him and he took it out on her? What if they split up? What if some economic disaster occurred and they lost a load of cash? What if aliens descended and whipped them off to a planet where they didn’t have football? Etcetera. Etcetera.
Phil wasn’t used to all this self-doubt and uncertainty. He’d always known exactly what he wanted in the past and had gone for it. But this move – extracting him lock, stock and beer barrel from his comfort zone – was freaking him out big time. And Rachel’s unadulterated enthusiasm was not helping matters. He loved Rachel, or at least he thought he did. But was that enough? Was moving to the other side of the world with her implying a commitment he wasn’t ready to make? He
honestly didn’t know.
And if all that pressure wasn’t enough, his parents had now jumped on the Down Under bandwagon.
‘We were thinking about coming out in March,’ his mother had informed him on the phone earlier. ‘We’ll be ready for a bit of sunshine by then.’
Phil was only grateful Skype hadn’t featured in that call. On the other end of the line he’d slid off the kitchen chair onto the floor, without anyone seeing.
‘Your father thinks it might be a bit early for you both, but I told him Rachel would have everything sorted by then.’
Lying prostrate on the kitchen floor, it was a statement with which Phil had to agree. Rachel always had everything sorted.
You are sure about this? Rachel had texted him back, after his alleged loss of internet connection.
Phil hadn’t replied. Because he wasn’t sure.
*
‘Fancy going shopping?’
Across the other side of the kitchen table, tucking into a bowl of porridge, Ella blinked a couple of times. Had she heard correctly? That her sister had asked her to go shopping? Her sister, who’d never before suggested doing anything together?
‘I could really do with a new dress for Christmas Day,’ Honor went on. ‘And I haven’t even started on presents yet. Come on. It’ll be fun.’
Stirring her cereal, Ella awarded the proposal due consideration. Firstly, it was her day off and she had no other plans. Secondly, since all her girlfriends had skipped off to university in the autumn, she’d been a total Billy No Mates – a sorry state reinforced by the fact that not one of them had been in touch since they’d got back. And thirdly, doing something with someone else for a change might be rather nice. Even if Honor did make her feel like an inadequate bag of lard.
Concluding the positives far outweighed the negatives, Ella heard herself replying, ‘Okay. Why not?’
In Harrogate, Honor, accompanied by her ever-present friend, Lady Luck, happened upon the last space in the car park and squeezed her Fiat 500 into the spot. Despite their relatively early start, the streets were already buzzing with shoppers as they approached the centre. Ella loved Harrogate whatever the season, but this was by far her favourite time of year, when the town buzzed with a magical quality that, despite the temperature hovering just above freezing, made her all warm and fuzzy inside. And Honor, too, was adding to Ella’s sanguine mood. As well as looking like an international supermodel, and having the brain of Einstein, she was great fun and had a tremendous eye for style.