Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper Read online

  “Like something from Alice in Wonderland,” he said, his smile glinting white in the darkness.

  “Funny you should say that – Christ Church is where the real Alice lived, don’t you know?”

  “I didn’t know, no – you are a regular mine of information, aren’t you, Maggie?”

  She nodded, grinning back at him.

  “I am. Completely. Go on, test me…”

  Maggie was giggling, and it was a totally new sound for her as far as Marco was concerned. He’d seen her after a few beers before, but never quite this…merry. He wasn’t an idiot – he’d realised she was nervous around him; that he’d over-stepped the mark the night before. That he’d scared her, no matter how much she tried to be grown-up about it. That the wine she’d been chugging down so quickly had at least something to do with that.

  He knew he should probably regret it – regret doing anything that drove a wedge between them – but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to. That kiss…the way she’d felt in his arms, the way she’d felt melting against his body; so soft, so responsive. So very surprised by what they’d both experienced. Her wide, shocked eyes as they finally pulled apart. He’d kissed a lot of women – and none of them had affected him quite like that.

  He’d spent the whole journey back to the house wondering what to do about it. Usually, he’d know exactly what to do about it – keep up the good work and persuade her into bed with him. But Maggie was different. And he was different when he was with Maggie. None of the usual rules seemed to apply here – he was on completely unknown ground.

  Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, he wasn’t sure. But he at least wanted to perhaps find out – unlike the woman in question. She’d made it clear it was a mistake, that it should never be repeated. She’d dipped her toe in the water and recoiled in terror.

  But now, here she was. Snuggled up against him, both of them wrapped up in warm winter coats, sitting on a cold bench on a frosty riverbank in the moonlight. Giggling away, and asking him to test her knowledge. Maybe, he thought, this was his chance – his chance to find out a little bit more about how she felt, about what she was thinking. Or, if things didn’t go to plan, a whole lot more about the history of Oxford.

  “Okay. Let’s test each other,” he said, reaching out and taking one of her hands in his. They both had gloves on, but it still felt like the right thing to do. “This is a game I used to play with Rob, when we were kids. We’d take it in turns asking questions, and then both have to answer at the same time. It was usually stuff about which girls we liked at school; what we wanted for Christmas, what we’d said to the Father when we were dragged along to confession…that kind of thing.”

  Maggie shifted slightly, looking up at him with a frown.

  “That sounds a bit more personal than asking me what year the first Boat Race took place, Marco…are you trying to take advantage of me because I’m a bit tiddly?”

  “Tiddly! Another excellent word, Maggie. And maybe, yeah – though I promise I won’t throw you over my shoulder or anything.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to, not in your condition…” she replied. “But go on then. If you insist. Go easy on me though. I’m not used to people actually being interested in what I say – it could all go disastrously wrong.”

  “I’m always interested in what you say, and I promise to be gentle with you…”

  He gazed off into the distance. Go easy on her, he thought, trying to think of a good one to start off with…something that wouldn’t freak her out, something funny, something they could both laugh about.

  “Okay. Now – this is the question, then we both answer on the count of three, all right? No silences, no refusals, no kick to the nuts – you have to answer. And expand after if you want to.”

  She nodded in response, the bobble of her green woollen hat bouncing up and down in time with her head.

  “Here goes. Get ready – here it comes, Maggie. What is.…” he paused dramatically, “your favourite colour?”

  They both counted out together – one, two, three – and Marco said ‘blue’ and Maggie said ‘green’. As soon as she’d gotten the word out, she burst into laughter, poking him in the ribs with her elbow.

  “You swine! I thought there was something serious coming then, I was terrified!”

  “Well, I can’t promise they won’t get harder. Right. Next one. After three, now, both together: who’s the sexiest member of the British Royal Family and why?”

  Again, they counted to three.

  “Prince Harry!” said Maggie.

  “Camilla!” said Marco. “Why Harry?”

  “Because he’s a member of the ginger master race. Why Camilla?”

  “Are you crazy?” he asked, feigning bewilderment, “that woman is a stone cold fox!”

  His reply made Maggie actually snort with laughter so un-ladylike she apologised for it. She was still shaking by the time Marco laid a hand on her leg, and told her to get ready for the next one.

  “Question number three coming at ya…how old were you when you had your first proper date?”

  “14,” said Maggie.

  “11,” said Marco. “Bowling with Virginia Rafferty. She pinned me up against a wall and stuck her tongue down my throat. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

  “Uggh. Sounds horrible – how long did you date her for?”

  “For a whole seven days. It was the longest week of my life…okay. You ready for the next one? This is a humdinger.”

  “Go on, I’m ready for anything,” she said, eyes glinting with amusement.

  “When was the last time,” he said slowly, building up the tension as he had before, “you had sex?”

  He saw Maggie’s eyes widen, and heard the lacklustre way she counted along to three, and thought that maybe this one had been a mistake. It was meant to be silly. Slightly risqué. Lighthearted. At least that was the intention – but the look on her face told him otherwise. Told him that he’d unintentionally taken a mis-step, right into a minefield he hadn’t seen coming. Shit. Too late now.

  “Last month,” said Marco, not choosing to expand on that. It wouldn’t be polite, for all sorts of reasons – not least of which was the despondent look on his friend’s face.

  “May 1996,” said Maggie in a whisper a moment later. She immediately broke eye contact with him, and stared instead at her lap, head bowed, shaking her hair so that it shielded her face. He’d seen girls do that before. It often meant they were embarrassed, or worried, or even crying. Maybe, in this case, all three. Aah, damn, he thought, what’ve I gone and done now? And what can I do to make it better?

  He wasn’t dumb. He could do basic math, and he knew what her whispered confession meant. 1996 was the year she got pregnant with Ellen. And from what she’d told him, the relationship with Ellen’s father had never gone beyond that one initial accident. Could that really be true, he wondered? That this amazing, beautiful, sensual woman had only ever had sex one time in her entire life – sex that resulted in turning her whole world upside down? Jeez. No wonder she was nervous around him. She must feel like she was swimming with sharks. And now he completely understood why their kiss had left her so amazed – it had had the same effect on him, and he wasn’t exactly a stranger to the ways of the flesh.

  He put his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her in tight. He was careful to keep his touch comforting, reassuring. No sly strokes. No touching her hair. No kisses to her forehead. Friendly, supportive uncle all the way.

  “I know,” she said, leaning into him, her voice slightly muffled against the padding of his jacket. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it? I’ve never told anybody. It’s not the kind of conversation you have with your father or your teenaged daughter, and the friends I have in my life have always assumed I was…you know…normal. Active but independent. In reality, life went nuts after Ellen was born. Her. My dad. Then work. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to meet men. I didn’t plan it like that - it just never happened
, apart from that one time. And I was so drunk I can’t even remember it! How sad is that??”

  “It is pretty sad,” he said, nuzzling into her hair before he realised what he was doing. “It’s sad because you’ve missed out. Because you’ve been lonely. Because so long has gone by that something natural and joyous must all look like a foreign land to you. But it’s not pathetic, Maggie – nothing about you is pathetic. And it will change. You’ve said it yourself – everything is changing right now. Your life isn’t over – it’s just beginning.”

  “Ha! That’s easy for you to say,” she replied. “You had sex last month! You were practically having sex with Virginia Rafferty when you were only 11! I bet you have loads of women back home; I bet you’ve had loads of great relationships…I bet you’ve been in love, at least.”

  Marco paused before he replied. He should tell her the truth. Except he wasn’t quite sure what the truth was any more – he felt like he was stranded on ever-shifting sands.

  “Okay, that’s the next question,” he said, “on the count of three – have you ever been in love?”

  “There’s no need for the countdown, Marco, not for me - obviously I haven’t!” said Maggie, still tucked away in his coat, her words punctuated by small sniffles.

  “Well…hey, me neither,” he said, raising her face up to his so he could look into her eyes. Eyes that were, as he’d suspected, glittering with tears. The wine. The tension. Last night. Now the questions. It had all been a bit too much for her.

  “So you’re not so pathetic, are you?” he asked. “I might have had more sex than you, but I’ve never been in love either. It just never happened. Never even came close. If you’re a loser, Maggie, then I’m right up there with you. And at least you have Ellen. At least you have your beautiful daughter – and anyone who created her can’t possibly be pathetic. It’s not genetically possible.”

  That, at least, managed to coax a small, sad smile out of her. He pulled off his glove, and tucked stray locks of red hair behind her ears.

  “See?” he said, stroking her cheeks, wiping away the tears. “you’re way ahead of the game. I don’t have kids. I’ve created nothing. Not like your masterwork.”

  “Yes. You’re right. She is a masterwork, isn’t she? In an evil kind of way. Thanks for that. Can I ask you a question now?” she said quietly, the tears finally stemmed. “And can I apologise for the fact that I’ve probably got snot on your jacket?”

  “Yes on both counts, sweetheart – go for it,” he replied.

  “Do you even want kids?”

  Ah. She’d caught him in a big question. One of the biggest. One he didn’t really know the answer to. He felt those sands shift beneath him yet again.

  “In all honesty, Maggie, I don’t know. I never had any big burning desire to go forth and multiply. But seeing how happy Luca has made Rob did kind of change that; heck, even seeing Ellen changed that. So the answer is…maybe. Probably. One day. When I meet the right woman, and when I know I’ll be bringing a child into the right environment. Or when my mother forces me to – whichever comes first. What about you? I know now why you’ve never had any more – I’m a biology whizz kid like that – but you’re still young. There’s still plenty of time for you.”

  She pulled away from him suddenly, springing to her feet like her ass was on fire. She used her gloves to wipe her face, and tugged her hat more firmly down around her ears. Looked like question time was over.

  “I’ve had enough of this game,” she said, her tone falsely bright. “We’ve got a pub to go to.”

  Chapter 19

  The pub was packed. Maggie had taken a peek inside, wondering how she was going to get a wheelchair through the crowds and also wondering if they should just give up and go home. Lord knew she was ready for bed anyway.

  She’d kept the conversation light between them on the walk back to Jericho, embarrassed and awkward after her unplanned confession. Pointing out the sights, making lame jokes, anything at all other than face up to the fact that she’d told this man her deepest, darkest secret. Or one of them at least.

  Marco had played along, bless him, even though she knew he must be buzzing with questions. He wouldn’t be human if he wasn’t – but he seemed to recognise her need for privacy. Her need to ignore the whole thing, and retreat back into the casually guarded stance that had defined her whole emotional life as an adult.

  She was grateful for that, and not surprised. He was far more sensitive than his bulk and brazenly male persona suggested. He was also, she noticed, looking colder by the second. It was all right for her – the brisk trot through the slushy streets, pushing the chair, had kept her temperature up. He, though, was shivering slightly, and gazing in hope at the pub door as she let it swing shut behind her.

  “Please,” he said, “tell me there’s room at the inn.”

  “Ha,” Maggie replied, chewing her lip as she thought, “we might need to find a kindly stable owner. Or…we could leave the chair outside, if you can manage on the crutches? I’m sure someone will take pity on a poor crippled man and offer us a seat.”

  “And I can cry on demand if necessary,” he said, already clambering up and out of the chair, propping the crutches under his arms and steadying himself. He took a deep breath as Maggie folded it up and hid it behind the pub door. Just in case anyone took it for a joy ride.

  “Let’s do this,” he announced, gesturing towards the entrance with one upraised crutch. “I so need a drink.”

  Maggie went first, clearing a path through the warm bodies, saying her hellos to the people she knew and scanning the room for a space. The temperature was tropical, and the juke box was on full blast – some kind of 80s rock tune she recognised but couldn’t name. It was an old-fashioned pub, all dark wood and real-ale pumps behind the long bar, and pulled in a crowd every night of the week. Even when the students went home, there were enough locals to keep it busy – especially at Christmas, when everyone had an excuse to be out.

  Marco followed behind, smiling at strangers and hopping carefully as Maggie’s ‘excuse me’s opened up a passageway to the back room.

  “Oh! Bugger!” he heard her say, as she came to a sudden stop. He peered over her shoulder, into the room, wondering what it was that had brought her to a halt.

  Straight away, he saw what it was – sitting there, at a small copper-topped table laden down with pint glasses, was Ellen. Right next to her granddad. Both of them were staring at Maggie accusingly; Ellen with a mighty frown across her forehead.

  “Shit…” he muttered, leaning in close behind Maggie’s body. “It’s too late to run. You’ve been rumbled.”

  “I know,” she murmured back, waving at them and plastering a fake smile on her face. “But maybe they’ve not talked about Christmas yet…maybe it’ll be all right…”

  As they approached the table, Ellen shuffling along to make room for Marco, and Paddy finding a spare stool for Maggie to perch on, he suspected that was incredibly wishful thinking. These two had the look of people who’d been settled in for a while – and weren’t exactly delighted to see Maggie.

  The woman herself was fidgeting around on the stool, fishing in her bag for her purse, planning to make a very quick dash to the bar to get the drinks in. It might, she thought hopefully, be extremely busy and take a very long time to get served. And there was always the chance that she could get abducted by aliens on the way there. Even a severe session with an anal probe would be more fun than this.

  “What can I get everyone?” she said brightly, brandishing a £20 note in the air.

  “Well,” said Ellen, narrowing her eyes at her mother in a way that even made Marco feel nervous. “You can get me a pint of cider, granddad’ll have a Guinness, and for you I’d suggest a double truth serum and tonic.”

  Maggie froze, her gulp audible even over the sound of the juke box and the chattering crowds.

  “Did you really think we wouldn’t talk to each other between now and Christmas, mum?” asked Elle
n, gesturing at Paddy, who was sitting with his hands folded across his huge beer belly, looking on like an elderly Buddha.

  “I went round to Granddad’s this afternoon to ask if I could borrow his wheelie suitcase for my trip. When I got there he told me he was using it, for a cruise to the Canaries with Jim. And – because we’re not both completely brain dead – we realised that you’d been fibbing. Letting him think you’d be spending Christmas with me. And letting me think you’d be spending Christmas with him. What the fuck, mum? You know we wouldn’t want to leave you on your own!”

  She was bristling with annoyance by the time she finished her speech, leaning forward and glaring at Maggie with anger she didn’t even bother to try and hide. Maggie knew her well enough to realise what her hostility was hiding – the fact that she was hurt. Upset. Worried about leaving her mother alone, and guilty at even wanting to. It was exactly the same set of emotions she’d hoped to avoid, and epically failed at dodging.

  Her granddad patted Ellen on the hand, and made gentle hushing noises to stop the flow.

  “What she means, love,” he said, “is that we don’t want you to be on your own. That we wished you’d told us, rather than us finding out like this. We love you, and we’d rather spend Christmas with you than go away. We’ve talked about it, before you got here, and we’ve both decided that we’re cancelling our trips. That we’ll have a nice, normal family do – all together, like we always have had.”

  “No,” replied Maggie, as firmly as she could. “That’s not going to happen. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it, but it all happened pretty quickly. Ellen told me first, and that was fine – and then you, dad. And that was fine too. It still is. I want you both to go, and both to enjoy yourselves. I’m a grown woman, and I don’t need you two to babysit me. I have my own life.”