Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper

by Debbie Johnson

  “It’s all right. He’s safe. Now, tell me…does that leg look right to you? It sure as hell doesn’t feel right.”

  She glanced down, and tried hard to hide her involuntary shudder at what she saw.

  “It looks just fine. Nothing a few stitches won’t fix.” And possibly a few metal plates and a skin graft, thought Maggie, while trying to smile reassuringly. It was a hideous mangled mess of jeans and banged up flesh. She hadn’t stared too long in case she started to notice any bright white bone that really shouldn’t be visible at all.

  “’Kay,” he replied, strengthening his grip on her fingers. “I’ll take your word for it. You know all about stitches. Listen, keep hold of me, all right? My ID’s in my pocket. My phone’s in there too; look for numbers for Rob and Leah and get the hospital dudes to call them, will you?”

  “Don’t be daft,” she said, “you’ll be able to call them yourself soon.”

  “Nah,” he replied, his head lolling back down into the snow, listing to one side. “I think I’m gonna pass out now. And I think I’m going to enjoy it.”

  Chapter 5

  The woman who was handing Maggie a coffee was a good few inches shorter than her. Probably a good few years younger than her. And definitely a whole lot more pregnant than her.

  She was also, Maggie thought, heart-breakingly pretty. Blonde hair, tied up in a loose pony. Gorgeous skin. Huge, amber-coloured eyes. Five foot nothing and about ready to pop.

  She lowered herself slowly down into the plastic chair next to Maggie, huffing and puffing as she sat, assuming the ‘bowling ball between legs’ pose beloved of heavily pregnant women the world over.

  “I’ll be needing one of those soon,” she said to Maggie, pointing down at the inflatable cushion she was perched on. “After Luca was born I didn’t sit down for three days – just lay on my big wobbly belly, demanding caviar and champagne, while I watched reruns of America’s Next Top Model and hated all the thin girls!”

  Maggie gave her a half smile, not sure if she was joking or not.

  “Joking,” she said, clearing the matter up. “But I was pretty sore, and I still hate all the thin girls. You know how it is. Do you? Do you have kids?”

  “One daughter,” replied Maggie, transferring the scalding hot coffee into the other hand to avoid adding third degree burns to her bruised coccyx. “But she’s 18 now. And one of the thin girls.”

  The woman – Leah, she now knew, Marco Cavelli’s sister in law – did the usual surprised double take. Refreshingly, she didn’t even try and hide it. She didn’t seem the sort of person who was easily embarrassed. She was just too comfortable in her own skin to even bother.

  “Wow,” she said, sipping her own hot chocolate and grimacing at the taste, the heat, or possibly the combination of the two. “You started early. High school sweetheart or too much swigging cider in the park at the weekend?”

  Maggie laughed out loud – spilling Nescafe’s finest on her jeans as she did. She’d hit very close to the mark. Maybe she’d had a misspent youth as well.

  “A little bit of both, actually,” she replied. “Seemed like a disaster at the time, but…well, it wasn’t. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  Leah nodded, her blonde pony bobbing vigorously. “I know exactly what you mean. Luca was something of a happy accident as well, and he’s – “

  “Adorable,” finished Maggie for her.

  “Yes. I’d say I was biased, but it’s quite obviously a statement of objective fact – he is the most adorable little boy who ever walked the planet. Although he’s not exactly delighted right now – when we got your call we were about to head back up to Scotland with him. Instead, he’s stuck back in Marco’s flat, being looked after by his landlady, who he regards as one step down the moral ladder from Cruella de Vil. The landlady’s looked after him before and…well, let’s just say it took the mention of ambulances and emergency operations to persuade her to do it again!”

  Maggie had been at the hospital for the last three hours. She’d drunk approximately fifteen of these coffees, in their finger-killingly thin plastic containers. She’d had her arse X-rayed. She’d been poked and prodded by a boy of about 12 who claimed he was a doctor but had to be lying. And she’d been given two paracetamol and an inflatable cushion to sit on. Her precious first edition was crumpled and soggy and stuffed in her backpack, she’d never got to her chocolate tiffin, and all things considered, it had been the Worst Day Off Ever.

  Still, at least she was in one piece. Which was more than could be said for Marco. He’d been whisked away by the doctors once they got here, and had been too doped up to talk once the paramedics arrived. So Maggie had lingered in the family room as she waited for Doogie Howser to tell her what she already knew – she had a sore bum – and used Marco’s phone to call his family.

  Rob – his brother – was on voicemail, but Leah had picked up straight away, answering in a fake American accent with ‘what gives, stud-in-law?’.

  There’d been a fairly awkward conversation where Maggie explained what had happened, Luca squawking away in the background, and a slightly stunned pause where Leah finally connected the words ‘Marco’, ‘accident’, and ‘hospital’.

  They’d arrived an hour later, and Leah had come straight through to find Maggie, while her husband went to ‘harangue the living daylights out of the staff’, as Leah put it.

  Since then, the two women had been sitting together, sipping hot beverages, and making small talk as Maggie wriggled around on her inflatable cushion. There was a small fake Christmas tree on one table, and a few dusty drapes of tinsel over the doorframe. It was one of the least festive places she’d ever been, and she was desperate to just get home, take more pain killers, and soak her nether regions in hot water and Radox. Hopefully Ellen would be in later, and they’d have a fun old night applying ibuprofen gel, eating Chinese takeaway, and swapping war stories.

  Luca, it turned out, wasn’t Marco’s son at all. He was super uncle, not super dad. He’d been staying here with Marco – who was delivering a guest lecture at the Law Institute – while Leah and Rob had a few days together in their cottage in Scotland.

  “Though technically it’s not ours,” said Leah. “It belongs to a midget called Morag. Which I know sounds ridiculous because I look like I still need one of those plastic steps toddlers use to reach the bathroom sink, but Morag is both a midget and a thin girl. I’ve never forgiven her for making me feel fat the first time I stayed there, and tried to squeeze into her clothes. I only had a wedding dress with me at the time…”

  Maggie raised her eyebrows, about to ask the obvious question. And also to ask what kind of wedding dress, purely out of professional curiosity.

  “Long story,” said Leah, grinning. “Let’s just say it ended with loads of fabulous sex, me moving to Chicago with Rob, and eventually with Luca arriving on the scene to turn all our lives upside down. And now, with little Bella here,” she finished, rubbing her vast tummy.

  “It’s a girl?” Maggie asked, feeling the familiar combination of broodiness, regret and several shades of envy flood over her. She recognised its arrival, and tried to mentally scoop it back into the bitter little box where it belonged.

  “We don’t know for sure,” replied Leah, “but I’m insisting that the universe provides me with at least one other person who doesn’t pee on the toilet seat.”

  “Just wait until she’s a teenager and you’re sharing a bathroom cabinet with her,” said Maggie, recalling the disaster zone that was Ellen’s shelf back at home. “You might yearn for a bit of pee on the toilet seat.”

  “Ha! That may be very true…oh, look, here’s my lord and master – he’ll have news for us…”

  Leah dumped her hot chocolate cup on the table, and dragged herself to her feet as quickly and gracefully as it was possible for one human being containing another human being to do.

  The man who had entered the room walked towards her, scooping his vertically challe
nged wife into his arms and squeezing her tight enough to produce a little ‘eek!’. Leah rested her head against his chest for a moment, and Maggie could almost feel the relief flowing from her.

  She’d been so chatty, appeared so relaxed, that Maggie had been starting to wonder if she was worried about Marco at all. Now, she realised, she had been. With this man to lean on, she suddenly looked small and scared and less larger-than-life. Like she was finally able to relax.

  Leah reached up and placed her hands on either side of Rob’s face, planting a big wet kiss on his lips, before disentangling herself and leading him over to Maggie.

  “Maggie, meet Rob,” she said. “Rob, meet Maggie. No, don’t try and get up – think of your poor bottom!”

  Maggie did as she was told and stayed seated. Her poor bottom was indeed protesting. Instead, she looked up at Marco’s brother, and despite the unpleasant circumstances, couldn’t help but like what she saw. He was just as tall – maybe less brawny – and had the same dark, wavy hair. His eyes were brown, not hazel, but the resemblance was strong. Strong enough to make her blush as she recalled some of the less than chaste thoughts she’d had about his twin over the last few days.

  “Hi Maggie,” he said, squatting down in front of her so he was on eye level. “Thanks so much for everything you’ve done. He’s back in recovery – they were able to reset the bone without surgery, and the docs say he’ll be fine; it wasn’t anything too complicated. I just spoke to him for a couple of minutes. He’s pretty high, so I’m not sure what this means, but he said to tell you he surrenders – don’t shoot him, don’t shake him, and don’t scream at him.”

  “Oooh,” said Leah with a giggle, “that all sounds very interesting! I thought you two didn’t know each other? How’ve you managed to fit all that in?”

  “We don’t know each other,” replied Maggie, finishing off the coffee and urging her red cheeks to fade back down to acceptable levels. Having Rob so up close and personal wasn’t really helping on that point – he had that same tanned, fit, healthy glow that she’d noticed in his brother. It wasn’t really fair to womankind.

  “But…well, we’ve crossed paths. Until we were on the same path, that is. Then it all got a bit nasty. Is he all right?”

  “Yes, Rob,” added Leah, “will he ever play the violin again?”

  “Probably not with his left leg,” he answered, dashing his wife a white-toothed grin. “But he’ll be okay. You want to go see him? Both of you?”

  Maggie started to protest – it was, in all honesty, the last thing she wanted to do. She was throbbing in unmentionable places – and not in a good way. Her clothes were still damp. Her hair was so big she might not even make it through the door frame. She needed to get home, back to comfort and calm and safety – and away from dangerously sexy American men and their heart-wrenchingly pregnant wives.

  Leah listened to her spluttering, and fixed her with a no-nonsense amber stare.

  “Of course you want to see him, Maggie,” she said firmly. “Why ever else have you been hanging round here for the last three hours? It certainly wasn’t for the coffee.”

  Chapter 6

  “I could hire a nurse,” said Rob, frowning at his still doped brother.

  “Well, make it a hot one…” Marco mumbled in reply, his eyes slowly focusing on Maggie, who was lurking in the doorway, leaning on the frame and looking decidedly uncomfortable being there at all. His eyes were still a little fuzzy, and she looked like a giant blob of red hair stuck on top of a body.

  “No – we’re going to find the nastiest, meanest, ugliest nurse in Britain,” added Leah, who was sitting at the end of the bed looking at his medical chart. “It says right here that you need someone over 70 with facial warts.”

  “Hey – I have a generous spirit when it comes to women,” answered Marco, struggling with the remote control to his bed until he was semi-upright. “I could find that hot. I could find anything hot right now, I’m on so many drugs. Maggie – that’s your name right? Come on in. How’s your ass?”

  She walked slowly into the room, trying to ignore Leah’s little snigger at the question, and sat carefully down on the spare chair next to him. He was wearing a puke-green hospital gown that was way too small for him, and he certainly wasn’t glowing any more. He was hooked up to various beepy machines, and had a drip attached to his arm by one of those horrible spiky things that always made her cringe. She could see the outline of his plaster-cast leg beneath the sheet, which was equally cringey. The crash hadn’t been her fault – but she still felt guilty.

  “My ‘ass’ is wonderful, thank you,” she replied, placing one hand on the edge of the bed. He quickly covered it with one of his own, luckily not the one with the spiky thing in it. “How’s yours?”

  “It’s hanging out of this gown, for one thing…hey, Maggie? Thanks for sticking around. Thanks for calling these guys. And I’m so sorry about the accident. I’m glad it’s me who ended up here, not you.”

  “So am I,” she said, linking her fingers into his and giving them a quick squeeze. She’d been aiming for friendly and reassuring, but found herself in such a tight grip that it started to feel entirely different. Maggie tried to pull her hand away, but he held on, and winked at her as she struggled. His eyes were clouded with pain and drugs, but they still managed to have enough sparkle to make her tummy contract. She remembered those eyes so well from his visit to the shop. The way they looked at her for just a little bit too long; the way they’d made her feel exposed and cornered and just a little bit gooey inside.

  It wasn’t just the eyes, of course. The face was pretty gorgeous as well. The wide smiling mouth; the cheekbones. The ridiculously impressive arms bulking out of the green gown. It was very inappropriate to notice such things at the side of a hospital bed – but she wasn’t blind. Or dead. Just very, very…jittery. Yes. That would be the word. Not horny at all – that would be sick, under the circumstances, and she wasn’t sure she’d recognise it even if it was true. She was just…jittery. In some very strange places.

  “Maybe you could be my nurse,” said Marco, grinning at her, a flash of brilliance on a pain-wracked face.

  “She’s not ugly enough,” interjected Leah, looking up from charts she couldn’t even understand.

  Hmm, Leah thought. Medical charts, I don’t understand. But the way Marco’s looking at Maggie, and the way Maggie’s trying so hard not to look back at him? That, I do understand. Leah switched her narrow-eyed gaze over to Rob, and saw from the one quizzically raised eyebrow that he’d noticed too. For anyone who knew Marco, it was hard to miss.

  Leah snapped the file shut, and leaned back in the chair. She loved it when a plan came together. Now she just had to convince everyone else she was Hannibal Smith, and get started on that imaginary cigar.

  Chapter 7

  Maggie’s living room had been transformed into a scene from Casualty. Normally spacious, with high ceilings and a huge bay window that flooded it with light, the whole space was now dominated by a recliner chair and a hospital-type bed.

  A hospital-type bed that Leah was busy decorating with tinsel, looping the strands around the rails and making small coo-ing noises as she stood back and took in the overall effect.

  “What do you think?” she said, glancing up at Maggie, and gesturing at the bed in a ‘ta-da!’ gesture.

  I think, said Maggie to herself – completely silently – that I’ve made some kind of terrible mistake. I think I want my house back. I think I’m just not a nice enough person to do this.

  “I think,” she said out loud, “that I feel a very large gin and tonic coming on.”

  “Ha! I am so jealous…just wait til I’ve popped this one out, and I’ll be back to visit – me and you will go and paint the town red, Maggie!”

  Maggie couldn’t help but smile at the idea. There was something about Leah – something infectiously happy – that was hard to resist. In fact, it was all because of that infectious quality that her beautiful Victor
ian cottage living room had been hi-jacked at all. That and – just possibly, she had to concede – the fact that she did give at least a teeny tiny Christmas fig about what happened to Marco Cavelli. The Hot Papa from the Park. The Man with the Tux. The idiot who’d crashed his way into her life – and now, apparently, taken it over.

  It was five days since the accident, and two days since Leah had turned up at Ellen’s Empire bearing a huge bouquet of white roses, and an equally huge box of very posh chocolates. Rob had come in first, opening the door with its customary jingle, and they’d found Maggie sweeping up. As usual. Specifically she was trying to get at a card of hooks and eyes she’d dropped behind the sewing machine.

  There was a tape measure draped around her neck, and her hair was swept up into a wild bun. Tiny strands of ivory cotton were stuck like linty limpets to the front of her black T-shirt, and she’d tied a ribbon made of discarded satin around her wrist to remind her to buy milk on the way home. It was her version of writing a note on the back of her hand.

  “Wow,” said Leah, smiling at her, “you look like Cinderella.”

  “And you’re my fairy godmother?” replied Maggie, propping the brush up against the wall and walking forward to take the gifts. She instinctively sniffed at the flowers, and was rewarded with a deep, decadent whoosh of rosy gorgeousness going up her nose. One of her favourite smells ever.

  “Depends on your point of view,” added Rob, looking around the ultra-feminine shop with the air of a sea creature stranded in the Sahara Desert. “If you listen to her long enough, the wicked stepmother starts coming more to mind…”

  Leah made a fake-outraged harrumph and poked him in the stomach, just as the door to the fitting room opened. Out of it walked Lucy Allsop, wearing one of the most beautiful dresses Maggie had ever worked on.

  Lucy was tall and slender with deep brown hair and sunkissed skin, and her dress fitted her like…well, like it had been made just for her. Which it had, with a great deal of care. The A-line shape skimmed over her slim waist, a v-neck hinted at curves but stayed within the boundaries of classy, and the whole gown was covered in lace applique. The arms and the back were made of sheer lace that gave it all a vintage feel, and Lucy’s colouring made her one of those rare brides who could pull off pure white without a hint of anaemia.