The Zara Stoneley Romantic Comedy Collection

‘I thought you were in law?’ A faint frown lines his brow. How is it fair that frowning can be attractive on a man, but a disaster on a woman? ‘A barrister?’

‘Oh no, no, you must have misheard.’

‘Maybe father was confused. I swear he said …’

‘Oliver’s on the specialist register now, so clever, aren’t you, darling?’ Juliet buts in, which is rather fortunate. ‘That’s how we met, at work.’ She giggles and tries to link an arm through his, which is tricky. ‘And what did you say you did, Maisie?’

‘Daisy, it’s Daisy.’ I might have to thump her. ‘Oh, nothing so highbrow!’

‘I wouldn’t say it’s highbrow, just making a living like everybody else.’ Says Ollie. He shifts self-consciously and manages to extricate himself from Juliet’s grasp. ‘Just part of a team. Not exactly rocket science.’ He gives a self-depreciating laugh and Juliet nudges him.

‘More like brain surgery, ha-ha!’

‘Not exactly.’ He looks uncomfortable, and finally manages to lever himself up off the chair. Released, I nearly slither off onto the floor but manage to grab Frankie on the way and scramble to my feet.

‘Nonsense, darling! It practically is!’ She sounds a bit like Vera, I can see what drew him to her.

He has gone highbrow though, all home counties.

‘That’s enough about us though Maisie, what about you?’ She is not to be distracted, even though I swear she’s not listening to a word I say.

‘Daisy works for the Hunslip and Over Widgley Local Guardian.’ Uncle Terence has crept up unnoticed and pats my arm protectively. It’s getting pretty packed in my little corner now, soon our elbows will be squished against our sides and we won’t be able to drink out of our glasses. ‘For now! She’s quietly planning world domination though.’

‘What a mouthful!’ Juliet’s eyes are wide open.

‘Known as HOWL for short.’ Ollie looks amused, and I’m not sure if I should punch him or smile. I smile, then Juliet guffaws. Well, it’s more like a neigh.

What on earth were they thinking when they named the paper that? Why not Over Widgley and Hunslip? Or ditch the Local bit?

‘Oh, my goodness, how hilarious!’ Juliet is gasping for breath, wiping tears from her eyes.

I want to tell her it’s not that funny, but that would be rude.

‘Oh, I’m going to have to tweet that! I really am! Are they on twitter? I’ll tag them!’

‘Still dogging?’ Ollie raises an eyebrow, and glances down at Stanley who is now lying on his back, legs akimbo. The HOWL thing was his fault, so I can’t exactly forgive him for deflecting the conversation.

‘Dogging! They do that here?’ Juliet pauses, mid tweet. ‘Oh my God, I need to tweet that as well! Do they like, advertise in your paper? Or is it really hush-hush?’

‘Ha-ha!’ I can feel myself going red, but I am not going to be belittled. I also would quite like to punch her on the nose or point out to everybody her unusual level of interest in potential dogging sites. Instead I decide to take a mature attitude and ignore her. ‘I help out with animal welfare.’ I tell Juliet, who I don’t think is actually that interested. She’s too busy brushing imaginary fluff off her boyfriend’s shirt. It’s like watching a monkey groom its mate. But at least it is stopping her tapping on her mobile.

‘Oh, you rescue rhino’s, do you? That’s so brave, so, so visionary!’

‘Dogs.’

‘Dogs?’

‘I foster rescued dogs, street dogs, well I don’t actually go and rescue them myself, I help rehabilitate them and foster. I do have an actual job as well you know, I can’t just go racing off round the world.’ Although right now, that might be an idea. In fact it could be quite a good idea. I must make a mental note to think about this one later.

‘Oh. Like woof-woof dogs?’ She looks at me blankly, as though a rhino is every day, but a dog is harder to comprehend.

‘Like Stanley!’ I point to Stanley, whose sleeping on his back routine was a ruse so that I wouldn’t notice him sneak off. He is now skulking under a table with what looks like a turkey leg in his mouth.

‘What is it?’

‘Erm, a dog.’ Surely, she’s not so fixated on safari animals that she can’t recognise a dog?

‘What type?’

‘Stanley is a street dog.’ I say proudly. ‘From Spain. I think. He had fleas, ticks, mange and worms!’

‘Oh.’ She stares, then wrinkles her nose. ‘Have you thought about having him groomed? My mother takes her dog every week.’ She looks at me, horror dawning and takes a step back. ‘You don’t have fleas, do you? I’m allergic.’

‘No! He was sorted when I met him. But I have helped rehabilitate him!’

‘Maybe not a very good example.’ Says Ollie, with a twitch of smile.

‘Part rehabilitated. He’s a work in progress.’

‘So, no rhino’s then? Tigers?’ Juliet says hopefully.

‘They wouldn’t fit in my flat.’ I point out.

‘No garden I suppose.’ Says Ollie, and I’m not sure if he’s taking the piss out of me, or Juliet, or being serious.

‘Very small balcony. There would be health and safety issues. Ha-ha!’ I wish I could stop laughing nervously but being shoved in front of Ollie seems to have that effect on me. I’m perfectly normal in other company. Just not Christmas party company.

‘So, you still live here?’ Juliet sounds incredulous. She sips her drink delicately and I resist the urge to neck mine. I am well aware that my life is pretty crap at the moment, but ten minutes in the company of this pair and I feel worse than ever.

‘Yep.’

‘Ah,’ she looks as though she’s struggling for something to say, then suddenly smiles triumphantly, ‘so you play polo! Everybody does, don’t they in the countryside! My step-brother lives in Cheshire, plays polo all the time, so exciting!’ As she is excited it seems a shame to disappoint her.

‘Oh yes, polo! Great! All that galloping, hot men, chasing a ball! Yes, of course I play, ha-ha! Definitely.’

Ollie raises an eyebrow. ‘Wow, you have been busy, I thought you hated horses.’

‘Hated horses? Me? Never!’

‘I’ll have to challenge you to a chukka or two next time we’re up this way then.’

‘Splendid.’ What the hell is chucking?

‘My brother plays in Argentina a lot, do you?’

‘Oh no, no, not enough time. Dogs to rescue! Oh sorry, phone buzzing! You know what it’s like, all work no play when you’re a journalist!’ It isn’t, well not here. Unless there’s been a mass food poisoning incident and half the village have been rushed to hospital. But I cannot take this much longer. Just hearing about fabulous Ollie and his fabulous life has been bad enough in previous years, but actually being in the same room as him and his silly girlfriend is making me want to scream. Or run away and hide in a corner. With a book. A book never lets you down, a good book, bad book, any book, I don’t care.

I’m just about to dash off, when there’s a shriek.

‘Oh my God, Maisie!’ For a moment, I think Juliet is about to collapse, her hand is on my arm, she’s grasping, long polished nails sticking in. I stare down, slightly aghast. It’s a bit like being grabbed by a bird of prey wearing nail varnish.

‘Daisy.’ I say it automatically.

‘My God!’ She clasps her throat melodramatically. ‘How absolutely awful.’ She flashes her mobile in front of my face, then waves it in front of Ollie’s.

His reactions are quicker than mine. He grabs her wrist, so that the phone stills and he can read it. ‘That can’t be right. I’m sure it can’t. Never read anything so ridiculous. Don’t worry, Daisy.’

I wasn’t worrying, until he said don’t worry.

‘What?’ I grab the phone from her, but as I’m reading, she’s shouting out.

‘How absolutely awful, to lose your job on Christmas Eve! What on earth will you do, poor Maisie?’

‘Job? You’ve lost your job?’ Mum has heard and scurried back over to my side and is trying to extract the phone from my frozen fingers.

I stare at Ollie, I can’t breathe. There’s a massive lump blocking my throat.

If I’d thought the last couple of days have been rubbish, this is the cherry on top of the bloody cake.

Shit. How low can I go? I’ve cocked up my career plan, been dumped, and now even lost my crap dead-end job. I’m overweight, live in a rabbit hutch, and I’m staring at the man who has it all worked out.

I hate him.

‘Even my hair’s a mess.’ My voice has gone as wobbly as my legs.

‘Hair?’ He looks very concerned, and it makes me want to cry.

‘Come and sit down, you poor girl.’ Terence puts one hand on my elbow and the other in the small of my back and steers me towards the corner of the shop where he houses the special editions. ‘You’re in shock. Somebody get a brandy.’

Even feeling like I do I have to take a deep breath and let the smell of old leather and special words (yes, they do have a smell) filter their way into my body. I’m not sure if I want to cry, or curl up with a book and escape, pretend I’m somewhere else.

I also feel a bit heady, which could be dust, words of wisdom, or the goldfish-bowl sized brandy glass he’s pushed into my hand. The fumes alone are making me splutter.

He gently prises the phone from my fingers and hands it over to Ollie wordlessly.

‘You’ve not been sacked, Daisy.’ Ollie crouches down in front of me and looks into my eyes. He’s got the lovely warm brown eyes he had when he was Joseph to my Mary. Before they turned naughty and he kissed me. He was mischievous then, he’s not now, he’s all earnest and caring, but he actually looks a bit like the Ollie I knew. He looks like the eighteen-year-old Ollie with the luscious lips and the nervous smile. Maybe I don’t hate him.

‘But Juliet said …’

‘It says here,’ his tone is firm. It’s quite commanding and authoritative, I can see why he’s so successful. ‘That the three local newspapers are merging. The office is closing, but there will be opportunities for all staff to apply for jobs and no compulsory redundancies are expected. None.’

‘Well, that’s okay then, none!’ My voice sounds pathetic and all wavery to my ears, but it’s the best I can do. I say it again, trying for a stronger tone. ‘None.’

Uncle Terence pats my hand absent-mindedly, but he’s frowning at Ollie. ‘How the hell can they not have announced it in the office, that’s not on is it? Downright underhand if you ask me. No emails, nothing, Daisy, darling?’

‘Erm, maybe I might have missed a meeting while I was writing a missing rabbit ad. It explains why David was avoiding me when I left.’

Something nudges my left leg. Something damp lands on my left knee. It’s Stanley, with a slice of ham.

I stroke his ears and stare at Ollie. ‘It definitely says there are jobs?’

He nods. ‘Definitely.’ Our gazes lock and his is so intent I’m spun back to that Christmas all those years ago. When it was just him and me, and nothing and nobody else mattered. When all I could see were his eyes, when he tasted of whisky and mince pies, when the scent of cloves and cinnamon mingled with the citrus of his aftershave. And now I’m not sure what is past and what is present. I just know I’m glad he’d here.

‘Mince pies, anybody?’ I blink my way back to the present feeling a bit unnerved, just as Mum waves a tray under Stanley’s nose, so I cover his eyes.

‘He’s not allowed dried fruit, it’s poisonous!’ She waves one tantalising close and his nose twitches. ‘Don’t you dare, Mum!’ I kiss Uncle Terence on the cheek and down the rest of the brandy in one gulp. Which could be a mistake. The fiery liquid burns its way down my throat and insides and brings tears to my eyes and makes me cough and splutter alarmingly. ‘Thank you.’ I blink like an owl in sunlight.

‘You’re welcome, my darling. You’re okay?’

‘Definitely.’ I nod vigorously to prove the point. ‘Sorry, it was a bit of a shock, but I’m fine. All ready to party!’

Uncle T smiles. ‘That’s my girl. Oh look – mistletoe!’

Ollie blushes, and just like that he’s the teenager I used to know. Except the grown-up Ollie is even more gorgeous.

He glances at me, the corner of his mouth quirked up into the hint of a smile. A shared secret, and my stomach does a little flip of anticipation.

I want to touch him, kiss him, see if he still tastes the same.

I mustn’t!

I scoop up my dog and take a hasty step away from Uncle T. ‘Come on, Stanley, let’s mingle.’ Then I flee.

Chapter 4

10.30 p.m., 24 December

‘Sorry, Dais, I’m going to have to whizz.’ Frankie is hugging me as she speaks, she’s all flushed and smiley. Or maybe it’s me that’s flushed and her that’s just smiley. ‘Thanks so much for letting me come, not had so much fun in years, but Tarquin just called.’

‘He did?’ Frankie and Tarquin have quite an explosive relationship. She’s always so controlled and restrained, right up until the moment she screams at him or throws something heavy. I think he winds her up on purpose, their relationship seems to thrive on the emotional highs and lows.

‘He’s sent a car, and roses! He’s booked a hotel for the night to apologise.’ She winks. Break-up make-up is the way they roll.

‘That’s nice.’

She glances across the room at Ollie. ‘Shame he’s got that cow in tow, he seems nice.’ She sighs. ‘Well he’s dishy so who cares if he is or not? You’ll have to give me his deets!’

‘Frankie! You’re just about to make up with Tarquin!’

She grins. ‘He’s an orphan, he’ll have nobody to eat Christmas dinner with if he doesn’t make up with me!’

‘Really? That’s so sad.’

‘Sad? Cheeky cow, what’s sad about having to spend Christmas day with me!’

‘I didn’t mean that, you know I didn’t.’ I glare at her. ‘The orphan stuff, not having anybody. That’s horrible.’

‘He’s not an orphan, you dork.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘He just chooses not to see his fam. So don’t go all drippy and nice to him when you see him. I know you, you’ll be helping him move in!’

‘Oh.’

‘Have a great Christmas if I don’t see you.’ She winks. ‘I’m hoping to be tied up on a four-poster bed! I might text your Ollie and see if he wants to make a foursome!’

‘Frankie!’

‘Oooo! You want him for yourself, don’t you?’

‘No, I don’t! You’re worse than my mother, anyway he’s almost family.’

‘Too sexy for family.’ Her voice has got that dreamy edge to it again. ‘Admit it, he’s a hunk.’

‘He’s a hunk, and he’s got a girlfriend! A nearly fiancée. And it’s not all about looks you know.’ She’s being ridiculous. Totally. I do not fancy Oliver Cartwright.

‘Ha-ha. Says who?’ Frankie smoothes her hair down, the heavy jet-black fringe would make anybody else look like a vampire having a bad day, on her it’s cool. ‘Me thinks you doth protest too much.’

She doesn’t give me time to correct her quote, or protest that I’m not protesting too much. I just don’t want to shag Ollie. End of.

Well, okay, there might be a tiny bit of me that wonders what it would be like. Just a tiny bit. Just out of curiosity, because after all he was a bloody good kisser. And now he’s cuter than ever. And kind, and I was so tempted to go in for some lip action a few minutes ago.

Frankie strides out of the shop, letting a waft of cold air in, then I hear her whoop and there’s a clatter of high heels on the paving stones as she spots the posh car and Tarquin.

The rest of the party passes in a bit of a blur. At one stage, I lose Stanley and rediscover him sharing a chaise longue with Mabel. They look rather sweet, and they’re both snoring.

I think I have had a vat of mulled wine, enough mini food to make up a banquet sized portion of full-size offerings and several unscheduled stops under the mistletoe.

Ollie goes back to being boring, stiff Ollie with Juliet – who keeps giving me patronising sorry looks, until Uncle T tempts her to try the mulled wine, and she falls into a pile of Great Expectations.

Which makes me snigger, and when Ollie catches me at it the corner of his mouth twitches with what could be a smile. Or wind. Either way, it cheers me up.

Then he and Terence prop her back up and she tries to kiss his face off and plucks at his shirt like a hungry kitten as he steers her out. Probably for a night of passion, if she stays awake.

I bet he’s good at that as well. Bugger. Where did that thought come from? I do not want to think about Oliver and his sexual prowess. Not at all. I do not want to even consider the possibility that I have missed out on some brilliant bonking. Not that he would have been that good when we were eighteen. Or even wanted to. It was just a kiss.

She’s too tall for him though. I mean, look, she’s had to wear ballet pumps and I’m sure she’s a high heels girl at heart. Not that he’s short, he’s just normal height. But she’s definitely too tall. It will never last.

Half an hour later, everybody has gone so I prod Stanley awake and let him hoover up crumbs while I’m waiting for my taxi to arrive.

‘Don’t worry about the job dear girl, that can wait. No checking emails tonight, it’s Christmas.’ Uncle Terence kisses me on each cheek, continental style.

‘Of course, I won’t!’

I will.

‘Next year will be better, my dear!’

‘Of course, it will.’ It has to be. If Ollie can do it, then I bloody well can, too.

I hug Stanley close. Ollie has everything, Ollie has the type of life I had assumed I would have. Seeing him tonight has been a bit of a kick in the gut if I’m honest, it’s hit me just how much I’ve been avoiding facing up to all the things that are wrong with my life.

All the things I could make right, if I tried hard enough.

I’ve let what happened to me when I was eighteen define the rest of my life, define me.

I’ve let one sad, horrible failure stop me from trying. I’ve been kidding myself that I’m happy coasting along, accepting what I’ve got, rather than risk failing again. And even though I can never change what happened in my past, I can change me. What’s going to happen in my future. Can’t I?

I’ve got to get my act together, I really have. I deserve so much more than I’ve got.

I am going to show them. I am going to show bloody Ollie Cartwright, and my mum that I am not a complete failure.

I’m going to prove it to myself.

Chapter 5

Very, very late p.m., 24 December (or early 25 December)

I think not knowing about my imminent loss of job could partly be my own fault. Because my data allowance had nearly run out this morning, I was very sensible (this is part of my sorting my finances out strategy) and turned my mobile data off. Then turned my phone off, because what’s the point if you can’t check on Twitter and Facebook? Then forgot all about it as I had so much to do (and the lady in the beauty salon won’t let me near my mobile until my nails are definitely dry).

This is why I have had no notification of my possible change in circumstances i.e. jobless status. Though I have to admit that I was slightly concerned that nobody at all had messaged to wish me a Happy Christmas. I hadn’t thought I was that unpopular at work, or in general.

There is a delay when I switch my mobile back on, while it fiddles about in hyperspace looking for the Wi-Fi, then it goes berserk. Honestly, it is bleating and tweeting like a sheep that has suddenly spotted its lost flock.

I stare, rather drunkenly, as it bleeps and flashes. It is just like cooking popcorn, gradually the time between bleeps gets longer, until it is safe to open the bag.

There’s an unread email. Lots of emails.

There are texts.

Voicemail messages.

I am rather drunk, but I need to read them all, listen to the messages.

Have I really been sacked the day before Christmas? Am I going to start the new year destitute and homeless, relying on my mother (oh my God) to provide shelter and food? Will I have to live in a stable like the baby Jesus (fine, I know he didn’t live in a stable, but I’m drunk, and upset, okay?)?

This is so unfair. Even before seeing Ollie at the party tonight and realising just how pathetic my life really is in comparison to what it should have been, I had decided something has to be done.

I was going to kick off next year demanding a better job, or at least a pay rise, so that I could find a better flat. I do love Frankie, but honestly, my room is so small I end up piling all my books in the corners like mini towers of Pisa. One day they will all lean in so far they’ll meet in the middle then collapse and kill me in my sleep. I had been determined to be more organised, to budget, to change my life.

And now this.

I won’t panic. I will be logical about this and start at the beginning – and not with the most recent, and most eye-catching email with the subject HELLLP MAD COLLIE ON MY HANDS. This one is from Carrie, who runs the dog re-homing centre and is Stanley’s official guardian. She is slightly unhinged, but very well meaning, and I would normally put her top of the queue. I want to help her, and I want to help any dogs that need helping.

I will also prioritise and ignore Frankie’s text ‘Oh my fucking God, send ambulance, won’t be able to walk tomorrow, make up sex is the best! P.S. Did you get the pompous prick’s number just in case?’

No, I can’t ignore it. ‘In case of what?’

‘Injury.’

This is cryptic. I’m not sure if she means hers, or Tarquin’s. I suspect the second, she might be calling on a substitute if he runs out of steam (or something snaps) before she does.

It is very hard to concentrate on possibly life changing emails when all I can think of is Tarquin’s dick snapping off, and I am drunk. But it’s essential. I need to know the worst-case scenario before I tuck into my Christmas turkey a few hours from now.

The first unread email (after one asking if I’ve considered a penis extension, another selling support underwear, and the mad collie one) was sent by my boss David approximately five seconds after I left the office. No wonder he was cross with me – it wasn’t that he was grumpy about Christmas, he was waiting for all staff to leave so that he could drop his bombshell.

He’d had his finger poised over the send button as I was waving and wishing him a happy Christmas.

Twat.

Not only is he a bit of a sex predator, he is also spineless and pathetic. And rude. And a terrible manager. I am sure (given his age) he has been offered a fabulous early retirement package that will mean he can jet off to Spain and never have to face any of us again. Our village is quite small, he would have to face up to all the mutterings and turned backs, the funny looks and rotten eggs. He might well be the headline in the free local newspaper, and he won’t want to hang about for that.

I take a deep breath, clutch Stanley to my pyjama clad breast, and click on the email.

It is very brief; he regretfully wishes to inform us that in the New Year the Hunslip and Over Widgley Local Guardian will cease trading as an individual entity. He has accepted a retirement package and is moving to Kent (not Spain) and will miss our camaraderie (I won’t miss his). A caretaker boss has been appointed and will oversee the operation for the next three months, after which we will have an opportunity to apply for a job within the new organisation. The office will be unavailable from 24 December as the lease has come to an end, all belongings will be packed and sent to a new temporary location for the New Year. Full details attached blah, blah, blah.

Oh my God! You have got to be kidding me? Not only have I lost my job, somebody will be rummaging through my drawers! Have I left anything incriminating on my desk, or anything I’ll miss? There were definitely spare tights, spare knickers, a packet of festive Pringles, a collection of pens that clients have given me. Who has been touching them? Has David himself packed the boxes (eurgh – I do not want my undies back!)?