“We all know that’s not true,” Ellen snapped, tapping her fingertips on the top of the table, fizzing with energy. “And much as it pains me to use the L-word, he’s right, we do both love you – and we won’t leave you on your own at this time of year. We’re staying, and you’re just going to have to deal with it. Paris probably sucks anyway.”
Marco watched the emotions play over Maggie’s face in response to Ellen’s words. The content was sweet – but the delivery was sour. He knew Maggie well enough by now to guess what she was feeling: touched, upset, guilty, trapped. Especially trapped.
He leaned forward slightly, interrupting their conversation, and sliding his hand around under the table to grasp hold of Maggie’s trembling fingers.
“There’s no need to change your plans,” he said, waiting for a few seconds until he was sure he had Ellen and Paddy’s full attention. “She won’t be alone.”
All three of them looked at him expectantly. Only Maggie might have had even a slight idea about what was coming next, and she frowned at him as she anticipated it.
“She won’t be alone, because she’s coming to Scotland. With me.”
Chapter 20
“Mu-um!” Ellen hollered up the stairs. It was the day she was leaving for London, and she was up and about uncharacteristically early, doing all the packing she’d more characteristically failed to do the night before. And she was obviously keen to share the joy.
Maggie glanced at the clock through foggy eyes. Just gone 7am. Nice. She wiped the sleep from her lids, and fought the urge to hide under the covers as she heard Ellen’s footsteps barrelling up the stairs.
The door burst open, and her daughter stood there, hands on hips and hair akimbo. Aaagh, thought Maggie, peeking out at her from behind the duvet. Too much energy!
“Mum!” she repeated, striding forward and tugging the sheets away from her still-comatose parent. “You need to wake up. Two very essential things to sort out. First – and most important – can I take your hair straighteners with me? Mine aren’t working. Well, they are, but I seem to have got a load of chewing gum stuck on them and I don’t think that would be a very Parisian look.”
“Yeah, fine,” mumbled Maggie, accepting defeat and sitting upright, leaning against the headboard and fantasising about a coffee fairy who might emerge in place of a sparky teenager. “What else? You said two things?”
“Oh yes. I did. Nanny McPhee just called – she’s not coming. Her husband’s got shingles and she says she can’t make it. There’ll be a replacement sorted by the agency for tomorrow, but you’re going to have to rough it for today. Marco’s awake – says to tell you don’t worry, there’s coffee waiting downstairs. Which I made, selfless creature that I am. Right…busy busy! Can you drop me at the station later?”
“Maybe,” Maggie replied, yawning, stretching, and still coming to terms with the Nanny McPhee sickie shocker. “Depends on what mood I’m in.”
Ellen poked her sharply in the ribs, then cackled, jumped to her feet, and jogged out of the room.
Lord, thought Maggie, waiting for her body and mind to achieve any kind of symbiosis, to have that much life flowing through your veins first thing in the morning…it didn’t seem right. It was like Ellen had taken both their shares. The child was a parasite in human form.
The house, she knew, was definitely going to feel a lot quieter once that wonderfully loud parasite had left it. Jacob’s mum had been lovely on the phone, responding to questions Maggie didn’t even know she had, putting her mind completely at rest that her daughter would be safe. She’d seen Taken a few too many times to not have some doubts about letting her 18-year-old daughter loose in Paris – but it sounded like they’d be well escorted all the way, met at the airport, driven to their apartment, and looked after for the whole week. Marco had insisted on contributing to the Euro fund; Maggie had bought Ellen her own wheelie suitcase, and all was going according to plan. The only thing left was the bon voyage later in the morning, which would undoubtedly eat its way through a few packs of hankies.
But first, she thought, as she clambered out of bed and scrabbled for her slippers, we need to sort my hobbling houseguest out. Nanny McPhee’s brush with illness couldn’t have come at a worse time – today was the day he was giving his lecture at the Institute. He didn’t seem at all nervous – not like she would have been at the thought of speaking in front of hundreds of people – but he’d probably want to be clean, at least. Maybe she could just wheel him into the garden naked and hosepipe him down, like a muddy St Bernard.
Getting quickly dressed, Maggie made her way downstairs, ignoring the sharp swear words coming from Ellen’s room. If she was sitting on that new suitcase and busting the zip, she didn’t want to know about it.
As she walked into the living room, she saw Marco, holding out a mug of steaming black coffee. She nodded good morning, not yet feeling capable of vocalising it, and took it from him before sitting down.
“She told you?” Marco asked, raising an eyebrow quizzically.
“Yes. It’s not a disaster. I can just get you what you need and…leave you to it. Unless you want me to come in and scrub your back for you.”
“Only if you apply fake warts before you do it,” replied Marco, grinning. “That’s what I look forward to most every morning. But – I was wondering…I’m much steadier on my feet now, stronger all together. How about we go back to my flat before the lecture? If you drive me there, I could actually take a proper shower. Wash my own hair. All that big boy stuff. It’s on the ground floor, so that wouldn’t be a problem. I could water my prize orchids and feed my pet chinchillas while I was there.”
“You don’t have any prize orchids, or pet chinchillas, do you?” she asked, used to his sense of humour by now.
“No, but I would really like a shower.”
Maggie pondered the issue as she sipped her coffee. Logistically, she could manage it – take him there, then on to the lecture by nine. Drop him off. Come back for Ellen, take her to the train station for ten. Call into the shop to collect Isabel’s dress, now she’d made the final adjustments – taking it in yet again, as the poor woman had lost even more weight. She could give that a final steaming and leave it ready for them to collect the day after. The two bridesmaids’ dresses had already been finished and taken.
It could all be done in time to collect Marco at 12. Chaotic, but possible. And within a few days her life would be entirely her own again anyway – she might as well make the most of the chaos while it lasted.
“Well, I could do that,” she replied once she’d thought it through. “But don’t you need to keep your cast dry?”
“I do,” he said, staring at it with something resembling hatred. “But I’ve been thinking about that. I could wrap it up in a trash bag, and maybe tape it together at the top and bottom to stop the water getting in? What do you think?”
“Yes. That could work. We could rig something up. Well…are you ready now? I have a few things to do today, and I need to see Ellen off, so the sooner we make a move, the better.”
He nodded, and immediately climbed off the bed and onto his crutches, hopping around the room and gathering his notes together.
He looked utterly thrilled, and it made Maggie realise how hard all of this must have been for him. The lack of independence. Not even having access to a shower he could use himself. Enduring Nanny McPhee every morning. Being completely reliant on other people all the time. And mostly – apart from the occasional lapse – he’d dealt with it well. Hadn’t even complained when he’d been sucked into family dramas, dragged along to wedding dress fittings, paraded at parties, and had her crying on his shoulder about her lack of a love life.
When all this was over, she’d go and buy him one of those toy medals they gave out to kids on school sports’ days – he’d earned it just by digging her out of the holiday hole she’d buried herself in with her dad and Ellen.
They’d eventually accepted the ‘she’s going to Sc
otland’ story, even though it wasn’t true. Partly because Marco had been so convincing – and partly because they wanted to. It was easier for everyone. They never needed to know that she was planning to stay at home; that she couldn’t go to Scotland with Marco, for several reasons.
One reason was simple – she wanted to go to Isabel and Michael’s wedding on Christmas Eve. Others were…less simple. More to do with the strangeness of how close they’d become in such a short space of time. With the way he made her feel; with how that kiss had made her feel.
With the fact that when she was with him, she felt happier, more content. Both more at peace with the world and more excited by it. All of which might have been a good thing if it wasn’t so temporary – but it was. He would be leaving. He would be going to Scotland, and then to Chicago, and then disappearing from her life. He wasn’t a permanent part of her existence – and spending Christmas with him would just make it harder to say goodbye.
Still, the lie had served its purpose. Her dad had left for the cruise terminal at Southampton the day before, giddy as a school kid with his friend Jim, already using the early Christmas present she’d given him – an engraved hip flask that he’d filled with rum. And Ellen was back to being acidically excited and abusing innocent suitcases. Neither of them, as far as Maggie could tell, suspected she was fibbing yet again.
She was relieved about that, and even, she had to admit to herself, slightly looking forward to spending a few days alone. Everything had been so hectic and confusing recently. It would be a relief to get her house back to normal, get her life back to normal. Get her emotions back to normal. It would be dull, but dull could be good. Dull could be her friend, she decided. It had worked so far in life, anyway.
She finished the coffee as quickly as she could, and helped Marco pack up his laptop before walking into the kitchen to get bin bags, duct tape and scissors. She piled them all into a rucksack, feeling like she was assembling a serial killer kit, and then pulled on her coat and boots.
Shouting a probably-unheard goodbye to Ellen, she helped Marco down the path and into the car, glancing back at the house as she went.
The streets were clear of snow now, but there was still a solid patch of white in her front garden, untouched apart from the small tracks made by birds. The inflatable Santa in the house opposite was looking a little the worse for wear, folding over in the middle, as though he’d eaten a few too many mince pies and felt a bit sick. The reindeers had woollen scarves tied around their necks, and a badly deformed snowman was squatting between them with a carrot sticking out of his face.
Just a few more days, she thought, climbing into the car, and it’ll all be over. The insanity will come to a close, and everything can go back to its normal, bleak, January self.
As she slid the door shut and turned to Marco to check he was belted in, she realised he was humming to himself, staring out of the window at the forlorn Santa. She paused a moment, trying to catch the familiar tune. After a few more absent-minded hums, she got it.
“Do you wanna build a snowman?” she said, laughing out loud. This big, beefy, macho man was sitting there, singing a song from a kids’ movie. Priceless.
He grimaced, and shrugged broad shoulders.
“What can I say? I have a two-year-old nephew. That damn film was on repeat back in the flat for days on end. I could probably recite the whole script if I tried.”
“Maybe you should do that at your lecture instead,” she said, starting up the car and heading them towards the Woodstock Road, and Marco’s flat. The mythical land of showers, orchids, and pet chinchillas.
They were there within minutes, and Maggie looked on curiously as she pulled up outside. It was one of the old Victorian villas, with a communal garden and carpark, set right back off the road. Some of them were still grand family houses, but a lot had been converted, like this one, for temporary lets or student accommodation.
“Home sweet home…” mumbled Marco as he fumbled with the keys, opening the door into the hallway. He used his good foot to kick away a pile of junk mail, and led Maggie inside. “Or at least until the end of the month.”
The living room was huge, a massive bay window looking out onto the front garden. Maggie glanced around, keenly interested in the way Marco had been living before he crash landed in Jericho with her. They walked through to the en-suite bedroom, and Maggie realised that Leah had obviously been in and sprinkled some fairy dust - all of the clothes had been cleared away, the bed had been made, and there was a strand of golden tinsel tied around the headboard that she was guessing wasn’t exactly Marco’s style.
Not, she reminded herself as she sat down on the bed, that she knew what Marco’s style was – and this flat, sterile and musty, wasn’t going to give her any clues. Apart from a few tattered paperback copies of Thomas the Tank Engine on the bedside cabinet – either some easy night-time reading or leftovers from Luca’s stay – there was little here that was personal. It looked like what it was – a nice apartment, rented for a month’s working holiday. When he handed back the keys and left for good, there would be no sign at all that he’d ever been there.
Maggie wondered absently if it would be the same with her house. Once the hired bed and the recliner had gone, once the tangible signs of Marco had all been removed, would he be gone forever? Or would he linger, like a hobbling ghost, forever on the edge of her vision as she tried to settle back into her everyday life?
“Okay,” he said, standing in front of her and dragging her back to the here and now. “How do we do this? Have you got the stuff?”
Maggie patted the serial killer kit by her side, and nodded. It was a good question – how did they do this? Could he do it on his own? Or was she going to be an accessory to the crime?
His eyes met hers, direct and questioning, and she felt a slow blush start to spread up her neck and towards her cheeks. View him like a patient, she told herself. Channel your inner Nanny McPhee. Forget the fact that it’s the Hot Papa from the Park. That it’s the Man with the Tux. That it’s the man who made you quite literally weak at the knees at Gaynor’s wedding. He’s just a friend who needs your help.
“I think,” she said eventually, breaking eye contact and extracting the bin bag and the tape, “that you should take your clothes off.”
“Maggie, I thought you’d never ask,” he replied, his tone light and playful. She kept her gaze averted as he leaned back against the edge of the bed for support, and used both hands to pull his T-shirt over his head. She continued to be fascinated by her roll of tape as he sat down next to her, and tugged off his jogging pants.
Finally, when she couldn’t avoid it any more, she knelt down in front of him. He’d kept his boxers on, thank the Lord, but she was still confronted by a huge expanse of bare male flesh. More than she’d ever seen in real life before, that was certain.
Long legs stretched out in front of him; powerful thighs, tanned skin. All attached to a muscular torso that she’d seen before, but still made her hands tremble. It was one thing knowing a man was big when he had his clothes on – it was entirely different having him sitting there before you practically in the buff.
Keeping her eyes on the plaster cast, she managed to fumble out the plastic bag, and wrap it around his knee.
“Hold that there for me,” she said, grabbing up the tape and peeling back a length. She needed to cut it, but her fingers were shaking so much she wasn’t sure she could handle the scissors. Instead, she bit the edge until it broke, and used it to secure the top end of the bin bag, and then the lower part, around his ankle. The tape was yellow and the bag was black, and his leg looked like a huge, shiny bumble bee.
She patted it down, checking everything was safely covered, and tried to ignore the fact that her breathing was suddenly too fast, too desperate. Entirely possibly too audible. It would be so very easy, she knew, to leave that hand there. To let her fingers drift up to his thigh. To touch and stroke and appreciate every masculine curve of that body. To to
pple him down onto that neatly made bed, and climb on there with him.
She might be inexperienced, but she wasn’t an idiot. She knew he found her attractive, for some strange reason. From the corner of her eye, she realised there were things going on in those boxer shorts that made studying the carpet especially important, and things going on in her own body that she had no idea what to do with. It was like being possessed by an especially horny demon.
“There,” she said, giving the wrapping a final pat and jumping to her feet. “All done.”
She turned around quickly, hoping to avoid his eyes, to avoid any complications. To avoid seeing the invitation that she suspected was posted all over his face. It was just too much.
“All righty,” he replied, quietly, before she heard him getting to his feet. Heard him grab the crutches. Heard him hopping away towards the shower. And finally, much to her relief, heard the sound of the water flowing – and Marco singing about snowmen.
Maggie flopped backwards onto the bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the flames that had consumed her face to fade away.
At least, she told herself, he was lucky enough to get straight into a cold shower.
Chapter 21
Maggie trotted up the imposing colonnaded steps to the Law Institute, following the signs for the reception and wishing she was better dressed. Jeans and T-shirts were just fine for Jericho – but here, she felt like a bag lady begging for spare change.
She’d tried to run a brush through her hair, and then spent the next five minutes trying to remove the brush from her hair when it got too tangled to budge. Maybe she should have just left it, sticking out in its pink plastic glory, and confirmed her status as someone in need of kindly police assistance.
Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper Page 12