Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper Page 2

“I think I might throw up now…don’t you realise it’s your duty as my mother to remain a completely asexual being for the rest of your life? I like to believe that you’ve only ever had sex once – a majestic coupling that resulted in my entry into the world. I’m not ready to acknowledge anything more than that without trauma counselling. So stop leching and let’s head home. I think you need a cold shower. Invite the rest of the penis-starved hordes to come if you like.”

  “Okay,” said Maggie, laughing inside at the thought of the ‘majestic coupling’ that resulted in her getting pregnant at 16. Not the description most people would have used, taking place as it did in the back of a Datsun Sunny parked in a layby off the A40. “Message received and understood, Captain Puritanical. Just let me have five more minutes of acting like an asexual being perving over a complete stranger, and we’ll be off.”

  Ellen harrumphed, crossed her Bambi legs, and stuck her ear buds back in to listen to music. Presumably to drown out the sound of the sighs whispering all around her.

  Maggie gave her a sideways glance, then looked again at the playground. Apart from the man, the whole scene made her feel a little bit sad. Melancholy. The park was only ten minutes from their home in Jericho, and you could see the dreaming spires of Oxford city centre rising hazily out of the fog, distant and fuzzy and lit up like a Christmas tree made of mellow yellow stone. It was a beautiful view, and one that seemed to never change.

  This was the park she’d been coming to for so many years now. There were distant, almost sepia-tinged memories of her own mother bringing her here as a kid. Then as a teenager herself – reckless and wild, swigging from huge plastic bottles of cider and spinning on the roundabout. A habit that may or may not have been related to the later majestic coupling in the back of the Datsun Sunny.

  Then as a parent with a cute baby girl of her own in the pram, filling in the endless hours of life as a stupidly young mum, feeding the ducks and wondering what her friends were up to. And with Ellen as a toddler, Ellen as a little girl – and now Ellen as an almost-adult. If she closed her eyes, she could almost replay it, like a fractured dream sequence in a movie.

  The swings might have had a lick of paint and the benches were new, but for Maggie, there were ghosts of Christmas past everywhere here, wrapped around the branches of every frost-tinged tree and echoing in every excited childish squeal she heard.

  Ellen’s childhood – those days you take for granted, where you’re the centre of their lives – seemed a million years ago. The mums out there now looked tired, and messy, and frazzled like all mums do. They hadn’t yet realised how precious these times were – and how fast you lost them.

  She dragged her mind away from pointless, bittersweet memories, and back to the present. He was still there. The Man. Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome. It wasn’t just the way he looked that was getting the ladies in a tiz – it was the way he was behaving with the little boy. His son, presumably.

  A chubby faced cherub with unruly, deep brown curls, he was clearly what was known in the trade as ‘a bit of a handful’. That – in school gate speak – could mean anything from a normal energetic tot to a demonically possessed alien being whose head could rotate 360 degrees while humming the theme song from In The Night Garden.

  He was about two, and at that stage where they only have three settings – running, falling over, or sleeping. The Man didn’t look tired though. He didn’t look frazzled. Not a smudge of pea puree in sight. He was glowing with health and vitality, and keeping pace with the kid as he jogged from swings to slide to climbing frame, laughing all the time.

  The Man was always there with a supportive hand, ready to catch the boy when he fell, ready to wipe mud of the knees of his jeans, ready to pick him up and swing him round in circles until the giggling had infected everyone within hearing distance. The Man sounded like he had an American accent, and he was calling the child Luca, which only added to the unexpected glamour of finding him here, on a grey, frosty day in Oxford at the start of December.

  If he was aware of the fact that every woman in the playground was hoping he’d need a spare baby wipe or directions to the toilets, he didn’t show it. He was focused on one thing only – being super fun time dad.

  Yeah, thought Maggie, standing up from the bench and starting to stretch out muscles that were already sore. Asexual. Past my sell by date. And late for work.

  Time to stop the drooling, and get ready for the rest of the day.

  Chapter 3

  The second time she saw him, she had her head up Gaynor Cuddy’s skirt. Gaynor was the first of her Christmas brides, and had come in for her final fitting. She was a larger-than-life girl, Gaynor, and had ordered an even larger dress – in fact, Maggie had decided, it was entirely suitable to feature in an episode of Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. Even if Gaynor wasn’t, to her knowledge, a gypsy, and instead worked as a call centre manager and lived in quite a swish flat off the Woodstock Road with her boyfriend Tony.

  Hooped and embroidered to within an inch of its life, the frock was pretty much done. It had taken over a year to make, and about three miles of satin and tulle to construct. She’d exhausted the stock of every faux pearl merchant within a 100 mile radius, and risked permanent curvature of the spine, hunched over attaching them.

  Now, after much trial and tribulation and detailed accounts of how little Gaynor had had to eat for the last month, it was perfect. Or, more accurately, it was perfect for Gaynor. Some of her other clients would faint with shock, but Gaynor was happy – and that was all that mattered to Maggie.

  The reason she head her head up the skirt was to fiddle with the bridal under-garments. In keeping with the OTT frock, Gaynor had decided she wanted to have a garter belt that could double as a gun holster – where she planned on hiding a small fake pistol to whip out for comedy effect after the ceremony. It wasn’t an everyday request, but perfectly doable with a bit of fast stitching and the occasional dollop of cheat glue.

  She’d normally be doing this in the fitting room, but, well. It just wasn’t big enough – so she was out on the shop floor of Ellen’s Empire, crawling around in discarded scraps of material and the stray threads of cotton that always seemed to coat the tiles, no matter how much she swept up.

  As she worked, the hoop held over her head, Gaynor rattled on about the reception (200 of their closest friends, including Maggie), and their honeymoon (the Seychelles, not including Maggie), and the fact that she planned to eat her own bodyweight in Terry’s Chocolate Orange the minute the dress was off, before she did anything else at all. Tony would undoubtedly be delighted with that schedule.

  Maggie couldn’t hear everything clearly, and just kept shouting the occasional encouraging sound as she practised inserting the little gun into the holster, and pulling it back out to test its quick draw qualities. Yup. It seemed to be working just fine, and would definitely make for an entertaining photo or seven. Not quite a shotgun wedding, but she got the gag.

  As she decided she was finally happy, she slipped the gun out again. It, too, was decorated with faux pearls – and had been filched from a Calamity Jane fancy dress outfit Gaynor had found online. Maggie took one more deep breath before trying to fight her way out again, carefully lifting the hooping, listening to the swish of acres of material, before crawling back out.

  At exactly that moment – with her backside inching away, head still submerged in Gaynor’s flounce – the doorbell to the shop rang. Perfect timing. She should really have flipped the sign to ‘closed’.

  Maggie climbed to her feet, wiping multi-coloured threads off the knees of her jeans, and turned to face her visitor. Gaynor giggled, and she realised she was brandishing the fake pistol in his direction.

  “Don’t shoot! I’ll go peacefully!” he said, face creasing into a grin. A grin she recognised. The grin that belonged to the Man from the Park.

  Her face already flushed from getting way too up close and personal with Gaynor’s stockinged thighs, she tucked a wild lock of her hair
behind her ear, and tried not to look embarrassed. There was, she told herself, nothing to be embarrassed about. Certainly, she’d just crawled out from another woman’s crotch, and yes, she was pointing a toy gun at him. But he didn’t know that she recognised him. That she’d been ruthlessly mocked by her own daughter for leching over him. That several times, often late at night, she’d found herself remembering him – his height, the wide shoulders, the easy way he carried his bulk. The infectious love he’d obviously felt for his toddler son.

  The toddler in question was also with him, and staring wide-eyed at the huge dress. Once his mind had processed it, he ambled towards the table that held Maggie’s small but perfectly formed Christmas tree. She’d made all the decorations herself with spare white silk and taffeta, and sprinkled them with glitter. It was…tasteful. Definitely a lot more tasteful than the one she had at home, which looked like a drunken elf had vomited a rainbow all over it.

  The boy reached out, hands grubby from some chocolatey treat, and the man immediately walked over towards him and gently but firmly pulled him away.

  “No, Luca – you have to be decontaminated before you touch anything like this.”

  The child looked up at him, obviously debating whether he could make a break for it.

  “No want show!” he said, defiantly, stamping one wellington-clad foot.

  “I know you don’t want a shower, but you’re gonna get one – just as soon as we’re finished here.”

  He hoisted the little boy up into arms that – Maggie couldn’t help but notice – were delightfully big and brawny. She had a momentary flash of him in Russell Crowe’s Gladiator outfit and felt her cheeks burn even brighter. She reminded herself that in reality, he was wearing yet another Christmas jumper – this one featuring Santa Claus with a bobble on his hat. He must have a collection of them at home.

  “That’s okay,” she said, walking towards the tree and picking off one of the decorations. “These were made by Christmas pixies. They left a load of them – you can take one with you, if you like?”

  The child looked at her, and looked at the sparkling bow she was holding out. Then he looked at the man, eyes big and hopeful. After getting a nod of approval, the boy grabbed it out of her hand as fast as one of those frogs catching a fly on a nature video. Scary reflexes.

  “Thank you,” said the man. “That’s really kind. He’ll probably try and eat it, but what the hell…I was wondering if you could help me with a suit that needs altering. I have a Christening to go to, and my own got lost on the ‘plane journey over from the States. I got the nearest I could find, but…well, it’s a little on the tight side.”

  Maggie bit back a small gulp, and laid a hand on the Christmas table for support.

  “I bet!” piped up Gaynor, with perfect comic timing, “you’re the size of the jolly green giant!”

  “Not gween!” replied Luca, before promptly stuffing the corner of the Christmas ribbon into his chocolate-coated mouth.

  “Oh…I see…well, I’m really sorry, but I don’t do men…” Maggie stammered, realising as she said it that she might possibly have created the wrong impression. Or, unintentionally, the right one – she hadn’t actually done a man in many years. Her friend Sian said she was convinced ‘it’ had grown over again now, like when you leave your ear-rings out too long. Sian was classy like that.

  He raised his eyebrows, his wide mouth managing to somehow smile with the upward tilt of just one corner. Gawd, she thought, he had a gorgeous mouth.

  “I mean I don’t do men’s clothes. Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” he replied, seeming to be quite enjoying her blush-a-thon. “Well, can you recommend anyone? Anyone who does do men?”

  “I do men!” said Gaynor, before guffawing like Barbara Windsor after three bottles of Rioja.

  Luca joined in, giggling away even if he had no idea what he was laughing at. He really was adorable – if slightly on the terrifying side.

  “You could try Lock’s, up near Cornmarket. He should be able to help.”

  He nodded his thanks, and maintained eye contact for just a fraction longer than the circumstances merited. Please leave, she thought, and let my face fade back to its normal shade. But for some reason he wasn’t moving – his bulk was between her and the door, making her feel trapped and hot and way too bothered.

  He maintained that annoyingly intense eye contact and grinned wickedly at her, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  Maggie tried to smile back, aiming for friendly-but-firm, but thought she probably looked a bit like the Elephant Man as she did it. Her insides were going a bit squishy, and there was a strange ringing noise in her ears. She felt like she should say something more, try and at least appear like a normal intelligent human being, but her vocal chords had decided to go on strike. He was just so…shiny. And big. And healthy. There was a kind of glow around him – the Ready Brek boy crossed with GI Joe. For some reason, it made speech completely impossible.

  “I need to go doo-doo,” said Luca.

  At least someone wasn’t stuck for words.

  Chapter 4

  Everything was hurting. His ribs, his face. His leg. Especially his goddamn leg. Marco had played a lot of sports in his life, and been on the receiving end of a lot of injuries, often inflicted by men the size of small SUVs. But nothing had ever quite hurt as much as this. He felt…broken. All over. He’d been well and truly Humpty-Dumptied.

  It had all happened so quickly. One minute he was pumping along, listening to the playlist Leah had sent him, mind drifting in and out of the lectures he’d been working on, and the next…wham, bam, thank you ma’am – he was off his bike, and lying in the freezing snow wheezing for breath and wanting to cry like a great big baby. With the sounds of Aerosmith’s Love In An Elevator still very inappropriately bouncing around his brain. It was probably all their fault – rock music must have made him cycle too fast.

  And now, on top of it all, on top of all of the pain and the confusion and the damn cold, there was this crazy woman – screaming at him so loud his ears were starting to hurt as well. She was definitely screaming louder than Steven Tyler had been a few minutes earlier.

  She was crouched next to him, kneeling in the snow, and shaking him by the shoulders. Each little tug sent even more excruciating pain ricocheting down his left leg like an electric shock. The worst thing was he couldn’t even understand properly what she was saying – he was probably in shock. Or in concussion. Or in limbo, as the Big Guy decided whether he was going to get sent upstairs to the celestial choirs or downstairs to the red hot pokers. Dead In An Elevator.

  Even that, he thought, trying to focus on the words flying out of her mouth, would be better than this torment. He blinked a couple of times, clenched his fists together so tight he could feel nails cutting into his palms, and stared up at her. Come on, man, he told himself. Get a grip.

  He could hear the sound of sirens wailing in the background, and hoped that help was on its way. That there’d be morphine soon. Oblivion. Even if it did come with red hot pokers. He just needed to hold on for a little while longer; man up until he was whisked away in the back of the truck with the paramedics.

  “Yeah, yeah…okay…stop shaking me, for Christ’s sake!” he managed to say, “it hurts like hell!”

  Abruptly the woman dropped her hold on his shoulders, raising her trembling, blue-tinged fingers into the air with a gesture of surrender. Her eyes were bright green; filled with shining, unshed tears. Wild loops of red hair were tufting out of her cycling helmet, creating a fuzzy auburn halo around her whole head. She looked…crazed. And vaguely familiar.

  “I’m sorry!” she said, leaning in close to his face. “But where’s the baby? Where’s Luca?”

  “He’s not here, okay? He’s fine! I’m…not fine! Didn’t you wonder if I might have had a spinal injury before you started shaking me like that, you crazy woman? I could be paralysed for life!”

  She fell back onto her bottom,
relief flashing across her face, the tears finally falling. He saw a spasm of pain cloud her expression and she wiggled around in the snow, trying to find a more comfortable position. He recognised that pose. Bruised coccyx. He’d been knocked on his own ass enough times to spot the symptoms. He’d actually feel sorry for her, if it wasn’t for the searing agony of his own. He tried to move his leg a fraction of an inch; was relieved when it responded – he wasn’t paralysed for life, after all – but unprepared for how much it was going to hurt.

  Marco let out a scream, then bit his lip so hard he felt tasted blood. Jeez. This was not good. Not good at all.

  The woman he’d collided with leaned forward, and he recoiled as much as he could. For all he knew she was going to whip out a red hot poker any second now.

  “Hey – don’t start shaking me again, okay, lady? Just…back off!”

  She nodded, but stayed at his side. He felt her icy fingers crawl into his, and her other hand gently stroked stray hair back from his forehead.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice now low and soothing and not as generally all-out terrifying as before. “I saw the baby seat on the back. You came into my shop yesterday, and I thought, well…I thought the worst.”

  He held tight onto her fingers. She was even colder than him. So cold that every tear that fell threatened to freeze on her eyelashes. She had terrific eyes…huge, clear, the colour of dark green grass. Eyes that went with the pale, freckled skin, the long, deep red hair. Once he’d mentally removed the cycling helmet, it came back to him: it was the woman from the little place with the dresses in the window. The seamstress with the smile and the toy gun. The chick who’d given Luca that Christmas bow he loved so much. Wow. Small world, he thought, as another wave of pain crashed through him.

  It explained her reactions, at least. Who gave a damn about a big oaf like him if there was a two-year-old cutie pie on the loose? If the roles had been reversed, he’d have shaken her too.