She appeared back by his side of the car, shivering in the frosty evening, her bare arms goosebumping so much they made him feel cold as well. She had the chair all set up, and the crutches leaned up against the side of the rear doors. Huh. They’d agreed that he’d walk in, not get wheeled, but she seemed to have changed her mind on him.
“Oh please don’t argue,” said Maggie as he stared at the chair she was brandishing. “Be a gent and get in. I’m freezing my tits off out here.”
He laughed, and started the careful climb from his seat, lifting his broken leg out first and sliding his body round. He took hold of the frame and pulled himself up.
“Well that would be a pity,” he said, lowering himself, with her guiding hands, down into the chair. She’d beaten him again – using the gentleman card against him.
“Here, hold these,” she replied, giving him her clutch and a large silver gift bag to hold. He took a peek inside – and saw it was full of some kind of chocolate. It probably beat a coffee maker, he decided, as wedding presents went.
She locked the door, and pushed him towards the entrance lobby, saying she’d come back for the crutches when she had him ‘all set up’.
Once inside, the noise levels hit them both like a baseball bat to the ears. The large function room was edged with chairs and tables, all decorated with purple and silver cloths and bows, and every single one seemed to be laden down with enough alcohol to fill the lake outside. Pint glasses, champagne flutes, bottled beer and wine were scattered everywhere.
A DJ was set up on the stage, and was presumably having the easiest gig of his life – this was a crowd that had come primed to party. He probably could have played a remix of the Moldovan national anthem and still had people out there attempting the Macarena.
He was currently spinning Kylie’s Can’t Get You Out Of My Head, and the whole dancefloor was pulsating with varying degrees of rhythm. The ages ranged from toddlers being held by their chubby hands through to an elderly couple who looked like they’d both have a framed telegram from the Queen back at home. A couple of the younger kids were doing the traditional ‘slide across the floor in my best clothes’ routine Maggie had seen many times before, disappearing in and out of dancing legs, pumped up on cake and excitement.
She took it all in, and grinned. Looked like a good day had been had by all, and an even better night was ahead. She momentarily regretted driving – this one was going to get messy.
Maggie pushed Marco’s chair towards a partially unoccupied table, mumbled a few words to him, and disappeared back off into the night to retrieve the magical crutches. She could, of course, have left them there – stranding him in the chair. But knowing Marco, he’d find a way to get up and about, and probably not the safest way either. He’d told her stories about his life back home in the States, and a lot of them seemed to involve balls – the kind that got thrown around a football field, or bounced on a basketball court. Staying so inactive was driving him mad, she knew.
By the time she returned, he’d gained two new fans. Gaynor was sitting standing next to him – she probably wanted to sit down, but the fantastical proportions of her frock made it a tricky move. And her niece, six-year-old Ella, was perched on Marco’s lap. He was spinning the chair around in small circles as fast as he could, which was making her squeak with delight. Her bridesmaid dress was already smudged with chocolate, and her blonde curls were making a bid for freedom from the restraints of her headband.
“Go fast, go faster!” she was squealing, clinging on to his neck with her skinny little arms. He obliged, provoking more screams, and then came to a gradual stop, fake panting with the effort.
“More – do it some more!” demanded Ella, bouncing up and down in excitement. “It’s like Alton Towers!”
“I can’t, sweetheart,” he said, smiling up at Maggie. “The boss lady is back. And I’m feeling real dizzy. And hungry – could you maybe go and fetch me some snacks?”
The little girl nodded, jumped down from his lap, and trotted off in her now-bare feet to the buffet table. She cast a sweet smile back in his direction as she went. She’d probably remember him for the rest of her life, thought Maggie. He was a natural with kids – and no matter how much he joked about his single lifestyle, he was a man born to be a father. A man who should, one day, be surrounded by Lucas and Ellens of his own.
“You do realise she’ll only bring you cake, don’t you?” asked Gaynor, whose face was flushed with the excitement of the day. That, and possibly several glasses of celebratory champagne.
“That’s what I’m counting on,” he replied, giving her an easy grin. “I’m only here for the cake.”
Gaynor – newly married as she was – still looked a little bit smitten, and did a double-take when she realised Maggie was standing behind her, holding two crutches.
“Maggie!” she yelled, giving her as much of a hug as the ginorma-dress and the crutches would allow. “I’m so glad you came – and that you brought Marco with you! I recognised him from that day in the shop as soon as I saw him. He told me what happened – that he’s staying with you now. That was a lucky break, eh?”
As she said it, she gave Maggie a hard nudge, making sure she got the gag.
Maggie passed the crutches to Marco to hold, and picked up the gift bag from the table.
“The jury’s still out on that one – he’s not the world’s easiest of patients…anyway, this is for you, Gaynor,” she said, “you’ve earned it.”
Gaynor opened the bag, and her eyes went wide with the kind of unbridled delight that only too much confectionary can inspire in a woman.
“Terry’s Chocolate Orange – loads of the stuff! Oh god, Maggie, that’s the best gift I’ve had all day – I’m going to take it up to the hotel room at the end of the night and gorge on it! Anyway, I’ve got to go – I need to circulate and let everyone set up their wide angle lenses so they can get a snap of the frock! You two, have a drink, have fun – I’ll see you later.”
While she spoke, Marco had been busy – using the crutches to heave himself out of the wheelchair, and into a normal one. He looked much bigger, perched there, legs stretched out in front of him.
“You seem pleased with yourself,” she said, settling down next to him and taking in his smug grin.
“That’s because I am,” he replied, leaning the crutches up against the table. “I feel like a strong independent Italian-American man, and I don’t need no wheelchair, sister…what I do need, if you don’t mind, is a drink. I know you’re driving, and I promise not to turn into the annoying drunk person who shouts the same thing in your ear over and over again all night, but is there any chance you could oblige? I could probably stagger to the bar myself – but I’m saving my strength for later. When I take you for a spin on the dancefloor.”
“Ha!” she said, standing up again, “I wouldn’t recommend it. I’m not much of a dancer, especially in these shoes. I’ll probably break your toes, and that’s the last thing you need.”
“Luckily, I am a fantastic dancer – you can just follow my lead. I’ll teach you everything you need to know – and we’ll take it nice and slow.”
Maggie felt a flare of colour creeping over her cheeks again. She might as well have just coated her whole face in blusher before she came out. Somehow, this man had flipped a switch in her brain that translated everything he said into smut language. She only hoped her brainwaves would go back to normal once he’d left.
“We’ll see,” she replied, non-committally. “Right. Drinks. I’ll be back,” she added, in a totally rubbish Arnie impression.
Hours later, the night had kicked up to a whole different level. A live band had been on, performing a Mustang Sally that had even had the waiters bopping, and Gaynor and Tony had both made exceedingly rude speeches. Several of the kids had passed out in small, well-dressed heaps around the room, some of them lolling on chairs, others on parents’ laps, a couple just completely collapsed under tables, snoring away like exhausted pu
ppies.
The tables were now heaped with paper plates full of chicken bones, half-eaten vol-au-vents, and smudges of chocolate sponge. The staff were lurking around with big black plastic bags, trying to scoop away some of the chaos, and the bar staff probably felt like they needed a spa break to recover from the constant flow of traffic.
Maggie had enjoyed one lovely glass of champagne before switching to the bubbles of fizzy water, and Marco had downed more than a few bottles of Peroni. He’d limped around the room, taken himself to the loo, chatted to pretty much everyone, and hired out his wheelchair for the kids to play with. His plaster cast had been signed by dozens of people, unreadable messages scrawled all over it, along with random love hearts and smiley faces. His hair was all mussed up, and his tie was loose, hanging a few inches lower than it had at the start of the evening. So far, though, he’d managed to stay true to his promise, and not become the drunk person who shouted the same thing in her ear over and over all night.
The DJ, who’d spent the whole break while the band played getting up close and personal with Gaynor’s younger sister, was now back on duty – and hitting them with a perfectly timed Christmas hits section.
Maggie and Marco had looked on in absolute hysterics as the bridegroom’s father did full-on rock and roll moves to Jingle Bell Rock, throwing his wife – who was in her 60s – over his shoulder so hard her skirt flew up and flashed her Spanx. There’d been a mass pogo-ing session to Fairytale of New York, where everyone – including them – had called each other scumbags and maggots with great relish. And a heartfelt communal singalong to I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day.
Maggie had no idea if parties were like this back in Chicago, but Marco seemed to be loving every minute of it – his sparkling hazel eyes drinking it all in; singing (badly) with everyone else, and tapping his good foot along to the music. Even though she was sober, she couldn’t remember a time she’d enjoyed a wedding so much. It was partly the atmosphere – Gaynor’s extended family were all as loud and lovely as she was – and partly, she knew, because of him. Because she had somebody here sharing it all with her.
By now, she’d normally have made a quiet exit – snuck off home for cocoa and a good book, checking to see if Ellen was in her own bed and breathing; occasionally pausing to put her in the recovery position if she suspected she’d had too much to drink. Then climbing under the covers alone – the way she always had. Despite the fact that she’d managed to get pregnant at a stupidly young age, Maggie had never spent a whole night with a man. Never cuddled up under a duvet, never spooned, never relaxed into another person’s arms to sleep.
On the plus side, she’d also never had to worry about farting in bed, or waking up with bad breath either – her life had been very much her own. Or, to be more accurate, Ellen’s.
Tonight, though, she hadn’t felt alone. For the whole of the last week, in fact, she’d not felt alone. Because of him - the big, brawny, funny, and strangely sensitive man sitting next to her. She’d had company in the evenings; laughter at work, someone to eat pizza with and drink beer with and watch TV with. Someone to talk to who wasn’t a blood relative, who hadn’t known her her whole life, and who made her laugh out loud all the time.
There would be a moment, she knew, when she needed to worry about that. To worry about what happened when he left – when he limped back to his own life, thousands of miles away, and she tried to go back to hers. For him, it would probably be a relief – but for her? She wasn’t so sure. It was almost as though she’d been given a brief glimpse of how life could be lived; a peek behind the magic curtain of other people’s normality.
Still, she decided, as the DJ slowed down the tone with Wham’s Last Christmas, now was not that time. Now was not for worrying – it was for enjoying. Reality would come crashing back down soon enough.
“Dance, madam?” said Marco, interrupting her thoughts and holding out his hand. “This one is slow enough that even I could manage…”
“No, not this one,” she replied, ignoring the hand. Touching him in a non-medical way was asking for trouble, “definitely not this one. And in fact not any of them. You have a broken leg. You’re drunk. And I can’t dance.”
“Aww, you’re no fun,” he replied, laughing at her. “And why not this one?”
“Because I had my heart broken to this when I was 15. School disco. I was obsessed with a boy called Martin Tellwright – and when the slowies started, he snogged the face off Gemma Long on the dancefloor. I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”
“Oh no. That’s such a sad story. Maybe it’s time to make some new memories?”
Maggie looked out at the crowd in front of them. There were plenty of couples all tangled up in each other, including Tony and Gaynor, who’d given up with the dress and changed into a leopard-print playsuit instead. There was a whole lot of swaying going on – the alcohol was really hitting home now – and quite a lot of kissing. Some were probably married, or partners – others, though, like Marco said, were making new memories. If they could remember anything at all the next morning, that was.
The song drew to an end, and the DJ played to his crowd again – The Power of Love by Frankie Goes to Hollywood.
Marco hoisted himself upright, and popped just one of his crutches under his arm.
“Come on,” he said, gesturing towards the dancefloor. “This is the one. I feel it in my bones. We can make it our special song, and you can laugh at it every time you hear it once I’m gone, remembering the time you looked after that poor hobbling Yank at Christmas.”
She looked up at him hesitantly, and he realised she was still not convinced. That the caution she always carried around with her, wore like a cloak, was still firmly in place.
“Maggie, if you don’t come with me,” he said, “I’ll dance alone, and everyone will feel sorry for me. And you know how much I hate people feeling sorry for me. I’ve mastered the one-legged hop now, I’ve been practicing all night, and I’m pretty sure I can master the one-legged slow dance. Plus – just for the record, Little Miss Prim, I am definitely not drunk. If I was, I’d be dancing on top of the tables, and encouraging strange women to stick cash down my pants.”
Maggie rolled her eyes, and muttered something along the lines of ‘that’s what all the drunk people say’, but she did, at last, stand up. She took the hand he was holding out towards her, and together they moved slowly and carefully to the very edge of the dancefloor – Maggie guiding them towards a spot with a wall nearby, in case Marco needed something other than her and one crutch to lean on.
As the song – secretly one of her all-time favourites – floated up and out into the room, Holly Johnson’s bittersweet voice urging them all on, she allowed herself to be pulled close to him, his arm clamped firmly around her waist until their bodies met.
She laid her head against his chest and wrapped her arms around him, giving in to the moment, giving in to some basic need to be close to him, feeling herself falling headlong into a black hole of new and frightening sensations. It was just a dance, she told herself. Just one dance in a crowded room – but it left her terrified and thrilled and forced to face the fact that this man could so effortlessly tear her apart at the carefully constructed seams.
His hand came to rest in the small of her back, his fingers fanning out and caressing: gentle, strong, and fiercely sensual as they explored.
She could smell his cologne, and feel his heart thudding as hard as hers, as they swayed, ever so slightly, to the music.
The lights had dimmed, casting flickering shadows all around them, and the only thing she was conscious of was Marco, and the way it felt to be held by him. To feel his fingers touching her, to feel the strength of his thighs crushed into hers. To feel the gentle brush of his lips on her forehead.
He kept a firm hold of her, steadily moving his hips in time to the music, the muscles in his back tensing and releasing beneath the palms of her hands. Without questioning what she was doing, she sighed deep
ly into his chest, closing her eyes and imagining they were the only two people in the room. In the whole world.
“Hey, Maggie,” he whispered, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath. She looked up, into those eyes. Those beautiful hazel eyes gazed back; that delicious mouth curled into a curious half-smile.
She knew what was coming next, and she couldn’t stop it. She didn’t want to stop it. Hadn’t got the will to even try.
He looked at her for a moment, asking the silent question, before leaning down to kiss her. His lips were soft as they touched hers, gentle and tentative, as though he was giving her the chance to change her mind.
When she didn’t – when she responded with a ragged breath, her hands trembling as they touched him – the kiss deepened, grew, took on a life of its own.
His hand roamed up over the smooth lines of her back, snaking up into her hair, tangling his fingers in the tresses and pulling her even closer. They’d both stopped dancing now, lost in the kiss – lost in each other. She felt her body moulding into his like water, felt the magic between them spark, felt a sensation like warm liquid flowing through her.
Her fingers touched the side of his face, tracing his cheekbones, his jaw, delving into the dark waves of his hair. Every nerve in her body was tingling, on fire, begging him not to take his lips away from hers. Begging him to kiss her forever, to make her feel like this forever, to never stop.
When he did, when both of them needed to breathe, neither of them had a word to say. They stayed entwined in each other’s arms, gazing into each other’s eyes as couples swayed and moved around them. Time, it seemed, had stood completely still.
Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper Page 9