Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Sweater

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.

“It’s all right. He’s safe. Now, tell me…does that leg look right to you? It sure as hell doesn’t feel right.”

She glanced down, and tried hard to hide her involuntary shudder at what she saw.

“It looks just fine. Nothing a few stitches won’t fix.” And possibly a few metal plates and a skin graft, thought Maggie, while trying to smile reassuringly. It was a hideous mangled mess of jeans and banged up flesh. She hadn’t stared too long in case she started to notice any bright white bone that really shouldn’t be visible at all.

“’Kay,” he replied, strengthening his grip on her fingers. “I’ll take your word for it. You know all about stitches. Listen, keep hold of me, all right? My ID’s in my pocket. My phone’s in there too; look for numbers for Rob and Leah and get the hospital dudes to call them, will you?”

“Don’t be daft,” she said, “you’ll be able to call them yourself soon.”

“Nah,” he replied, his head lolling back down into the snow, listing to one side. “I think I’m gonna pass out now. And I think I’m going to enjoy it.”

Chapter 5

The woman who was handing Maggie a coffee was a good few inches shorter than her. Probably a good few years younger than her. And definitely a whole lot more pregnant than her.

She was also, Maggie thought, heart-breakingly pretty. Blonde hair, tied up in a loose pony. Gorgeous skin. Huge, amber-coloured eyes. Five foot nothing and about ready to pop.

She lowered herself slowly down into the plastic chair next to Maggie, huffing and puffing as she sat, assuming the ‘bowling ball between legs’ pose beloved of heavily pregnant women the world over.

“I’ll be needing one of those soon,” she said to Maggie, pointing down at the inflatable cushion she was perched on. “After Luca was born I didn’t sit down for three days – just lay on my big wobbly belly, demanding caviar and champagne, while I watched reruns of America’s Next Top Model and hated all the thin girls!”

Maggie gave her a half smile, not sure if she was joking or not.

“Joking,” she said, clearing the matter up. “But I was pretty sore, and I still hate all the thin girls. You know how it is. Do you? Do you have kids?”

“One daughter,” replied Maggie, transferring the scalding hot coffee into the other hand to avoid adding third degree burns to her bruised coccyx. “But she’s 18 now. And one of the thin girls.”

The woman – Leah, she now knew, Marco Cavelli’s sister in law – did the usual surprised double take. Refreshingly, she didn’t even try and hide it. She didn’t seem the sort of person who was easily embarrassed. She was just too comfortable in her own skin to even bother.

“Wow,” she said, sipping her own hot chocolate and grimacing at the taste, the heat, or possibly the combination of the two. “You started early. High school sweetheart or too much swigging cider in the park at the weekend?”

Maggie laughed out loud – spilling Nescafe’s finest on her jeans as she did. She’d hit very close to the mark. Maybe she’d had a misspent youth as well.

“A little bit of both, actually,” she replied. “Seemed like a disaster at the time, but…well, it wasn’t. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Leah nodded, her blonde pony bobbing vigorously. “I know exactly what you mean. Luca was something of a happy accident as well, and he’s – “

“Adorable,” finished Maggie for her.

“Yes. I’d say I was biased, but it’s quite obviously a statement of objective fact – he is the most adorable little boy who ever walked the planet. Although he’s not exactly delighted right now – when we got your call we were about to head back up to Scotland with him. Instead, he’s stuck back in Marco’s flat, being looked after by his landlady, who he regards as one step down the moral ladder from Cruella de Vil. The landlady’s looked after him before and…well, let’s just say it took the mention of ambulances and emergency operations to persuade her to do it again!”

Maggie had been at the hospital for the last three hours. She’d drunk approximately fifteen of these coffees, in their finger-killingly thin plastic containers. She’d had her arse X-rayed. She’d been poked and prodded by a boy of about 12 who claimed he was a doctor but had to be lying. And she’d been given two paracetamol and an inflatable cushion to sit on. Her precious first edition was crumpled and soggy and stuffed in her backpack, she’d never got to her chocolate tiffin, and all things considered, it had been the Worst Day Off Ever.

Still, at least she was in one piece. Which was more than could be said for Marco. He’d been whisked away by the doctors once they got here, and had been too doped up to talk once the paramedics arrived. So Maggie had lingered in the family room as she waited for Doogie Howser to tell her what she already knew – she had a sore bum – and used Marco’s phone to call his family.

Rob – his brother – was on voicemail, but Leah had picked up straight away, answering in a fake American accent with ‘what gives, stud-in-law?’.

There’d been a fairly awkward conversation where Maggie explained what had happened, Luca squawking away in the background, and a slightly stunned pause where Leah finally connected the words ‘Marco’, ‘accident’, and ‘hospital’.

They’d arrived an hour later, and Leah had come straight through to find Maggie, while her husband went to ‘harangue the living daylights out of the staff’, as Leah put it.

Since then, the two women had been sitting together, sipping hot beverages, and making small talk as Maggie wriggled around on her inflatable cushion. There was a small fake Christmas tree on one table, and a few dusty drapes of tinsel over the doorframe. It was one of the least festive places she’d ever been, and she was desperate to just get home, take more pain killers, and soak her nether regions in hot water and Radox. Hopefully Ellen would be in later, and they’d have a fun old night applying ibuprofen gel, eating Chinese takeaway, and swapping war stories.

Luca, it turned out, wasn’t Marco’s son at all. He was super uncle, not super dad. He’d been staying here with Marco – who was delivering a guest lecture at the Law Institute – while Leah and Rob had a few days together in their cottage in Scotland.

“Though technically it’s not ours,” said Leah. “It belongs to a midget called Morag. Which I know sounds ridiculous because I look like I still need one of those plastic steps toddlers use to reach the bathroom sink, but Morag is both a midget and a thin girl. I’ve never forgiven her for making me feel fat the first time I stayed there, and tried to squeeze into her clothes. I only had a wedding dress with me at the time…”

Maggie raised her eyebrows, about to ask the obvious question. And also to ask what kind of wedding dress, purely out of professional curiosity.

“Long story,” said Leah, grinning. “Let’s just say it ended with loads of fabulous sex, me moving to Chicago with Rob, and eventually with Luca arriving on the scene to turn all our lives upside down. And now, with little Bella here,” she finished, rubbing her vast tummy.

“It’s a girl?” Maggie asked, feeling the familiar combination of broodiness, regret and several shades of envy flood over her. She recognised its arrival, and tried to mentally scoop it back into the bitter little box where it belonged.

“We don’t know for sure,” replied Leah, “but I’m insisting that the universe provides me with at least one other person who doesn’t pee on the toilet seat.”

“Just wait until she’s a teenager and you’re sharing a bathroom cabinet with her,” said Maggie, recalling the disaster zone that was Ellen’s shelf back at home. “You might yearn for a bit of pee on the toilet seat.”

“Ha! That may be very true…oh, look, here’s my lord and master – he’ll have news for us…”

Leah dumped her hot chocolate cup on the table, and dragged herself to her feet as quickly and gracefully as it was possible for one human being containing another human being to do.

The man who had entered the room walked towards her, scooping his vertically challenged wife into his arms and squeezing her tight enough to produce a little ‘eek!’. Leah rested her head against his chest for a moment, and Maggie could almost feel the relief flowing from her.

She’d been so chatty, appeared so relaxed, that Maggie had been starting to wonder if she was worried about Marco at all. Now, she realised, she had been. With this man to lean on, she suddenly looked small and scared and less larger-than-life. Like she was finally able to relax.

Leah reached up and placed her hands on either side of Rob’s face, planting a big wet kiss on his lips, before disentangling herself and leading him over to Maggie.

“Maggie, meet Rob,” she said. “Rob, meet Maggie. No, don’t try and get up – think of your poor bottom!”

Maggie did as she was told and stayed seated. Her poor bottom was indeed protesting. Instead, she looked up at Marco’s brother, and despite the unpleasant circumstances, couldn’t help but like what she saw. He was just as tall – maybe less brawny – and had the same dark, wavy hair. His eyes were brown, not hazel, but the resemblance was strong. Strong enough to make her blush as she recalled some of the less than chaste thoughts she’d had about his twin over the last few days.

“Hi Maggie,” he said, squatting down in front of her so he was on eye level. “Thanks so much for everything you’ve done. He’s back in recovery – they were able to reset the bone without surgery, and the docs say he’ll be fine; it wasn’t anything too complicated. I just spoke to him for a couple of minutes. He’s pretty high, so I’m not sure what this means, but he said to tell you he surrenders – don’t shoot him, don’t shake him, and don’t scream at him.”

“Oooh,” said Leah with a giggle, “that all sounds very interesting! I thought you two didn’t know each other? How’ve you managed to fit all that in?”

“We don’t know each other,” replied Maggie, finishing off the coffee and urging her red cheeks to fade back down to acceptable levels. Having Rob so up close and personal wasn’t really helping on that point – he had that same tanned, fit, healthy glow that she’d noticed in his brother. It wasn’t really fair to womankind.

“But…well, we’ve crossed paths. Until we were on the same path, that is. Then it all got a bit nasty. Is he all right?”

“Yes, Rob,” added Leah, “will he ever play the violin again?”

“Probably not with his left leg,” he answered, dashing his wife a white-toothed grin. “But he’ll be okay. You want to go see him? Both of you?”

Maggie started to protest – it was, in all honesty, the last thing she wanted to do. She was throbbing in unmentionable places – and not in a good way. Her clothes were still damp. Her hair was so big she might not even make it through the door frame. She needed to get home, back to comfort and calm and safety – and away from dangerously sexy American men and their heart-wrenchingly pregnant wives.