Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper

by Debbie Johnson

  “What just happened?” asked Maggie, breathlessly, eyes wide and shining as reality started to catch up with her.

  “I don’t really know,” replied Marco, stroking the side of cheek with the back of his fingers. “Must have been something to do with the song…”

  Chapter 16

  “About last night…” Maggie said, as she handed Marco his much-needed mug of steaming caffeine.

  “Loved that film,” replied Marco, gratefully accepting the coffee and taking one scalding sip. “Demi Moore was hot.”

  “Not as hot as Rob Lowe.”

  “Or this coffee.”

  “That’s debatable…anyway. Is everything okay? I don’t want anything to be…awkward between us.”

  That, thought Maggie, was an understatement. They’d driven home in near-silence, both of them aware that they’d crossed a line, changed something that they couldn’t change back. She had no idea what he’d been thinking – just that he seemed quieter than normal, more subdued. There was no casual banter, no jokes, no reassuring hand on her knee. It hadn’t been tense, exactly – more confused. As though they were both weighing it all up in their minds.

  He’d been tired, she knew. Exhausted by his first proper venture into the real world since his injury. Possibly a little more drunk than he thought he was. She’d walked up the path with him, by his side as he took his halting hops along the still frosty paving, and made sure he was safely inside before she returned to the car for the wheelchair.

  By the time she got back in, he was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. She’d hovered in the doorway for a moment, not quite knowing how to react. She might be 34 years old and a mother, but really, she’d had no experiences so far in her life to prepare her for this kind of situation. Maybe if she had, she’d have been able to laugh about it – to chalk it up as one of life’s adventures. Dismiss it as just a stolen kiss at a wedding. It happened all the time, she knew. Just not to her.

  She’d asked if he needed anything, and was told no. Then as she’d turned to leave, he spoke again.

  “Maggie,” he said quietly, still fascinated by the cracks in the decorative plasterwork overhead. “Come to Scotland with me.”

  She’d been so glad he wasn’t looking at her when he said it. Her eyes had popped so wide she thought they might fall out of their sockets, and she’d wobbled on her high heels. Right then, she couldn’t wait to get away – to retreat to her own territory upstairs, to hide beneath the duvet, surrounded by familiar photos and books and objects. To feel safe and normal and relaxed again. Even one kiss with this man had rattled her so much she couldn’t think straight. Taking a road-trip with him – away from her home, her shop, Isabel and Michael’s wedding, her small but satisfactory life – sounded as relaxing as walking into a cage of lions coated in sirloin steak.

  “Thank you, but no,” she’d simply said, before closing the door behind her and wishing she could lock it.

  Having spent the whole night sober, she’d gone up to her room with a very large glass of wine in her hand, and the pure intent to knock herself out with alcohol. Everything was too fast. Too confusing. Too different. Ellen and Paddy going away for Christmas; him being here; getting kissed into oblivion at the wedding – it was like a festival of firsts. And she wasn’t sure she liked it – wasn’t sure her foundations were solid enough to withstand all this sudden change.

  The wine had done the trick, and she’d slept surprisingly well – although she had woken up flushed and flustered, at the tail end of a deeply erotic dream that involved the man downstairs and a whole lot of whipped cream. Then the eroticism had been spoiled slightly by the surreal arrival of Nanny McPhee, dressed as a comedy sexy nurse, brandishing a sink plunger – the subconscious brain was a mightily strange place. She realised, as she sat up straight and blinked her groggy eyes open and shut for practice, that Nanny McPhee had actually arrived in the real world – and that was what had woken her.

  Wanting to avoid a repeat of the Walking In On Bare Chested Male incident, she’d stayed upstairs, showering, pottering, and generally procrastinating until the nurse had left. She lurked at the top of the steps until she heard the door close behind her, and she knew that Marco would be safely dressed. This was going to be a strange enough morning, without adding semi-nakedness to the mix.

  She’d decided, as she pottered and procrastinated, that she was being a baby. That she was over-thinking it all. Making more of it than it deserved. It was just a drunken kiss – Lord knows their’s hadn’t been the only one going on last night. Everyone was at it – it was that kind of party. And her job, right now, was to help Marco get better – not to treat him like a leper just because he’d followed what was undoubtedly a simple male instinct. Man plus beer plus woman equalled kissing. It had meant nothing – and she needed to be a grown-up about it, go downstairs and clear the air. Put things right between them. There was another wedding to get through today, for goodness’ sake.

  Now, as she sat opposite him, his damp hair curling around his neck, coffee gripped between his large hands, it didn’t seem quite so simple. He wasn’t following the script she’d prepared in her head, and the subdued look on his face told her that he’d also been over-thinking it. She didn’t know men did that as well.

  “Okay,” he finally said, looking up and meeting her eyes. “I get it. I don’t want it to be awkward either – but don’t worry, we don’t need to have a post-mortem about it. I was drunk. I took advantage of the situation. I kissed you. I’m sorry. Maybe we should just leave it at that.”

  He sounded weary, regretful. Like he’d woken up with a self-worth problem, as well as a hangover.

  “Marco, it wasn’t quite like that…it’s not as though you turned into a caveman and forced me against my will. You just kissed me. And I…I didn’t mind it.”

  “You didn’t mind it?” he said, a note of laughter creeping back into his tone. “Wow. That’s a glowing recommendation. I see I’ve not lost my touch with the ladies.”

  “Okay. Possibly I phrased that a bit wrong. I liked it – just a tiny bit.”

  “How tiny a tiny bit?” he asked, grasping hold of the opportunity to lighten the tone. “And think of my poor bruised ego before you answer that question.”

  It was, she said to herself, the single most exciting few minutes of my entire life. The first time I’ve ever felt like that. The only time I’ve ever wanted a man more than I’ve wanted my solitude. The most sensual and stimulating physical contact I’ve ever experienced – and all of that despite the fact that we were in public. And you were drunk. She wondered how he would react if she said all that out loud. Probably he’d hop as fast as he could to the front door, fearing she was about to go all Kathy Bates in Misery and hobble him to the bed.

  “Bigger than a grain of sand but smaller than a Jaffa Cake,” she said instead. “Somewhere along those lines…but like you said. We don’t need to have a post-mortem. We’re both grown-ups. These things happen. I just don’t think it should happen again, that’s all.”

  Even as she spoke the words, she wondered how true they were. Part of her did want it to happen again, very much. Wanted even more to happen. Wanted to jump right onto that bed with him, and let nature take its course. To see if the magic of that one kiss would translate into the fireworks and fantasy that she suspected it would.

  But that, she knew, wouldn’t be wise. She liked Marco. Maybe she liked him a bit too much. The whole thing was messing with her head, and she wasn’t used to it – she’d built a life for herself and Ellen that worked, and that didn’t involve complications like these, for a reason. It was easier, it was safer. He would be out of her life for good within days – and she wished him all the best. Wished him health and happiness and love, and marriage and kids and all the things she could never give him. A repeat performance of last night would just lead them down a path that had no happy endings, certainly not for her.

  “All right, Maggie,” he replied, putting down his coffee an
d stretching his arms in the air like some kind of jungle cat. “That’s probably for the best. Now, what time is this next wedding? And I tell you now, I’ll be furious if there isn’t cake.”

  Chapter 17

  Lucy Allsop’s wedding was a much different affair than Gaynor’s had been. Which made sense – Lucy was a much different woman than Gaynor. The tasteful dress, the under-stated make-up, the beautifully arranged hair – it all screamed class.

  It also, thought Maggie, screamed tension – poor Lucy had gone through the service like a sleepwalker, and now stood receiving her guests like she was hosting a funeral, not enjoying the happiest day of her life.

  When Maggie and Marco reached the head of the queue, the woman looked about ready to keel over from the stress. A warm smile broke out across her strained features when she saw them approaching, and she held out her hands to Maggie, casting a confused glance at her friend. The friend who looked familiar and yet not, at the same time.

  “It’s his twin brother,” said Maggie, correctly picking up on her thought process. She’d met Rob that time in the shop – and Marco looked enough like him to raise an eyebrow.

  “Oh,” said Lucy, quietly. “There are two of them?”

  She gave a small grin – which looked like her first of the day – and shook his hand.

  “I know,” replied Maggie. “Who’d have thought it? Are you okay, Lucy?”

  She so obviously wasn’t okay, it seemed pointless to even ask the question. Maggie was a veteran of these events – and she recognised a Nervous Breakdown Bride when she saw one.

  “Umm…yes, of course. It’s just been a long day, that’s all. The whole family seems to have developed some kind of communal hysteria, and…well, my feet are hurting.”

  Maggie nodded, and fixed her with a warm smile.

  “Can I give you a bit of advice, as a woman who’s been to quite a few weddings? Take off the shoes. Have a drink or six. And remember one thing – you’re here, today, because you and Josh love each other. You love each other so much, you were ready to make a commitment to spend the rest of your lives together. Everything else – the guests, the in-laws, even, dare I say it, the dress – is irrelevant. A side-show. Today you married the love of your life – and this is just the beginning for you two, not the end. Hold on to that thought, and you’ll get through the rest of this, maybe even start to enjoy it. Okay?”

  Lucy nodded, some of the tension seeming to drain out of her with the words. Maggie gave her hand a last squeeze, and started to walk on into the reception room. Marco lingered for a moment, and she heard him say: “And by the way – you look absolutely stunning.”

  Maggie felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips, knowing that at exactly that second, poor Lucy Allsop – now Morgan – would be very prettily blushing as she watched him go.

  “You Cavelli men,” she said, waiting for Marco to catch up to her, “always seem to know the right thing to say to a woman.”

  “Well, what can I say? My mama raised me right. And Lucy did look stunning. As well as a little stunned. Can’t say that I blame her. This whole thing isn’t going to be anything like Gaynor’s wedding, is it?” he asked, as they took their seats at the table.

  The entire room was pure white, crammed with tasteful arrangements of pale roses and lilies, and equally tasteful classical music was being produced by the bow-tie wearing string quartet in the corner. The other guests looked elegant and affluent, with the types of tan you get from the ski-ing season, and conversation hovered in the air in a low, subdued drone. Nobody was going to get drunk and snog a complete stranger at this party – there’d be no children sliding across the floor, no Christmas songs, and certainly no elderly ladies flashing their Spanx.

  “Sadly not,” replied Maggie, eagerly taking two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. “But at least I can drink at this one.”

  The ceremony had been held at a large church on the right side of Oxford for Jericho, and the reception was at a very posh hotel near the banks of the river. All of it, especially as the snow had all-but cleared, was within walking distance – or in Marco’s case, wheeling distance. Maggie had put on her boots, heels tucked away in a bigger handbag to change into, and they’d strolled all the way – Marco’s crutches balanced across his lap, occasionally side-swiping people who got too close. She’d pointed out the colleges like a tour guide as they walked past them, and showed him the first pub she’d got drunk in, and the best chippie in town, and Godwin, where Ellen was studying.

  They’d sat together at the back of the crowded church, ignored a few querying glances from guests who disapproved of Marco’s jogging pants and shirt combo, and looked on as Lucy did her slow, perfect walk down the aisle. There were gasps of delight as people saw her dress for the first time, and Maggie felt the traditional lift in spirits at their reaction.

  “Wow,” said Marco, leaning into her. “You made that?”

  “All by my little old self,” she whispered back, smiling. “Impressed?”

  “You bet. It’s gorgeous.”

  “I’ll make one for you, if you like,” she joked, giggling inside at the thought of how much lace she’d have to stock up to fit around Marco’s body.

  “Thanks, but I think I’d make a very ugly bride.”

  Lucy, luckily, had made a beautiful bride – even if she had about as much sparkle to her as an old lettuce left at the bottom of the fridge.

  After the service, they’d walked the short distance to the reception, which was currently promising to be the very opposite of a barrel-load of laughs. Maggie could feel a close relationship with the champagne waiters coming on. The posh functions always made her more nervous, and things between her and Marco still hadn’t settled onto an entirely even keel. They were both trying, but they also were both tense. Not quite back to the same level of easy banter that they’d enjoyed previously.

  Hopefully nothing, she thought, draining her glass, that time and an acceptably small amount of alcohol couldn’t solve. She followed her own advice to Lucy, and kicked off the shoes under the table. Marco was gazing around at the other guests, a slight frown on his face.

  “What is it?” she said immediately. “Are you in pain?”

  “Nah,” he said, turning back to her. “I’m like Superman. I don’t feel pain. I was just thinking that this reminds me of home – of the things I don’t like about home, anyway. Mainly I go my own way, but I’ve had to attend a lot of events like this one. Society things. Cavelli things. Gatherings, my mother always calls them. Rob’s better at it than me – or at least he is now he’s emerged from the black hole. He’s the head of the company, he’s the one who has to do most of the gladhanging and schmoozing – I’m just the head of legal. But I do have to do it – and it never feels right. It’s like this – too many people thinking more about what everyone else is wearing than why they’re here.”

  “I know what you mean,” Maggie replied, looking around her. “The clothes in this room are probably worth more than my house. I hope you can forgive me for being a slattern and wearing the same dress two days in a row.”

  “I can forgive any woman who actually uses the word ‘slattern’ in a real life sentence,” he said, grinning at the expression. “And you still look better than most of these bozos. How long do we have to stay here for? Can we escape? Do something more fun, like douse ourselves in battery acid?”

  Maggie thought it over. Looked at the menu. Looked at the other guests. Looked at the bottles of expensive wine sitting on the table in front of them.

  “We need to stay to eat our twice baked goat’s cheese and walnut soufflé, and our pan-fried poussin, and maybe to drink a couple of glasses of wine between us. Then I reckon we could build a tunnel and emerge in a pub somewhere, if that’s what you fancy? I could take you to my local. See if you can throw darts while balancing on one leg.”

  “Even with the darts, I fancy it a whole lot more than twice baked goat’s cheese and walnut soufflé, f
or sure.”

  “Great. Then we have a plan. Look…there’s Lucy…” she said, gesturing with her head in the direction of the bride. The bride who was walking – unashamedly barefoot – towards the top table, one hand clasped in her husband’s, the other clasped around a champagne glass, and with a beaming smile on her now radiant face.

  Chapter 18

  “This,” said Maggie, sitting down on the bench next to Marco, “is one of my favourite places in a whole city full of favourite places.”

  “And I can see why,” replied Marco, gazing out across the river. She’d brought him here, to this secluded spot, straight after their pan-fried poussin. Lucy had looked a lot happier by the time they made their excuses and left, blatantly lying about Marco’s medical needs, and after they had indeed finished off a bottle of wine between them.

  “Is this the Thames?” he asked, mesmerised by the way the moonlight danced in glittering silver stripes over the gently flowing water. It was after six, and night had fallen. The place was deserted, apart from the occasional dog walker, or hardy rower out for cold-weather practice.

  “Technically yes, but it’s known as the Isis. Over there, on the far bank, are the boathouses – where the colleges do their rowing. And over there, in the distance with all the lights, is Christ Church. Between them, if we were walking on the other side, there’s a big meadow with cows in it.”

  “Cows? In the middle of the city? Are you messing with me?”

  “No! I’ll take you there some time, and show you – they’re Longhorns as well, they’d be right at home in Texas. And I’ll take you to Magdalen, and show you the deer park. This isn’t like other cities.”

  “So I’m gathering. You English are crazy. But…it’s beautiful, isn’t it? So peaceful.”

  “I know. I thought we could both do with a bit of peace while we let our soufflé settle. I’ve come here a lot over the years – just sat here, watching the seasons change. It’s completely different in summer – full of tourists. Or in May, when it’s Eights Week, it’s like one giant party – all the colleges rowing against each other, all the boathouses open, everyone tanked up on Pimms, all the parents down for the occasion. It’s fun – but I like it like this. When all you can see is the moonlight, and the frost on the grass, and all you can hear is the river. It’s a little bit magical.”