Page 20 of The Matchmaker's Melody
A NEW YEAR
Christmas was over.Emma had spent a few days with her family up at the cottage, but was pleased to be back in her own space. She loved her parents and her older sister, and a couple of days of all-togetherness was fine, but it didn’t take long before she wanted some company that didn’t always turn the conversation back twenty years. Why did families so often regress to patterns from childhood? Emma was ready to be treated like the professional adult that she now was.
Consequently, when Gordon phoned a few minutes after she’d returned to her apartment above the garage, she was so pleased to talk to him she didn’t even mind the old-fashioned mode of communication.
After the expected ‘how was your Christmas?’ chatter, he got to the purpose for his call. “I’ve been invited to a New Year’s Eve party. One of my co-workers and his wife have a big house in the suburbs, and they’re having a small do, with a fancy dress code. I can’t think of anyone who looks better in an evening gown than you. If you’re not busy, will you be my plus-one?”
She threw her head back and laughed. “That’s an odd sort of invitation. You sound more interested in my dress than in my company. Should I be insulted?”
Thankfully, he chuckled in response. “Not at all. I’d be proud to be seen with you, even if you came in sweatpants and a baggy old tee-shirt. But you wouldn’t be the Emma I know if you didn’t always dress for the occasion. Seriously, I can’t think of anyone I’d like to be with more as the clock strikes midnight. Are you free? Can you come?”
She should have teased him about the very late timing of this invitation. After all, everyone should expect that Emma Massey had been booked for New Year’s Eve since September, at the latest. But, perhaps, everyonehadassumed that she was already going somewhere else, and hadn’t bothered to ask. She really was free. Her plans—not that she would admit it to anyone—had been to curl up with an old movie and tub of ice cream, maybe paint her toenails. This was an improvement. Well, maybe not over the ice cream part.
“I’d love to,” she said instead. “My, er, previous plans fell through.” She could be permitted a little fib, right? She had an image to maintain. “How fancy, and what are the details?”
Emma spent the next few days getting ready. She found the perfect dress in her wardrobe, a floor-length number in midnight blue, that she had worn to a play opening last year. The bodice, with its deep vee neck, had an overlay of lace in the same colour with a touch of sparkle, and that lace also made up the elbow-length sleeves. The skirt was her favourite part, the layers of lightweight fabric swirling around her ankles when she stood or walked, and flaring outward when she spun around, making her feel like a fairy princess.
She had her nails done in pale silver to complement the gown, and experimented with her hair and makeup until she was pleased with the results. Hair in a high bun, drippy diamond earrings, grey smoky eyeshadow, and deep pink lipstick. She knew Gordon would like it. Men always did.
The look on his face when he stepped into her living room to pick her up confirmed her expectation. His eyes went wide, and he pursed his lips while nodding his head.
“You’re stunning. I knew you’d look good on my arm,” he teased, although his voice was thick. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”
He was more than fine himself, in the same tuxedo he’d worn to the symphony gala a month before. It was a very smart look, but it was a pity men didn’t have the same fun as women did when selecting outfits for a party.
He helped her on with her coat—the wide swirly one with the faux-fur collar and cuffs—and held the little bag with her silver shoes, the boots on her feet the one compromise she’d make to the weather.
The party was in full swing when they arrived. Gordon introduced her to Rakesh and his wife, Samira. Rakesh offered the usual handshake and words of welcome, but Samira took one glance and gasped.
“Emma? Emma Massey?TheEmma Massey? #JustAskEmma? Oh my God! This is so exciting. Gordon never said he was bringing someone famous. Can I take a photo? Do you mind? You probably hate this, don’t you? Tell me to stop, but if you don’t mind…” She pulled at her husband’s arm. “Do you know who this is?”
How could Emma do anything but beam? She loved being in the spotlight. “I’m happy for photos. Would you mind if I take a peek before you post? Just to make sure we both look gorgeous. Your dress is so lovely, I’ll fade into nothing next to it. Let’s find a spot. Maybe Gordon can be the photographer.”
She didn’t quite understand the odd expression on Gordon’s face as he wielded his phone, snapping half a dozen images, and then five or six more with her suggestions, but he seemed happy enough. Good. She didn’t want to get into another awkward discussion with him.
She’d relied on him for a few days after Phil’s horrible behaviour at the Christmas concert, at first in her mortification over his treatment of poor Halli, and later, when she’d come to terms with what he had done, in shock at his unwanted advances to her. Gordon had been the rock of support she had needed, but at every moment she expected him to lecture her on meddling in other people’s affairs. How galling that he’d seen Phil for the small little rat he really was, while Emma had been absolutely blind to his real motivations.
He’d finally raised the topic the day before Christmas, just as she was getting ready to hop into her car to drive up to the cottage, and they’d left the subject not entirely settled. She didn’t like arguing with him. His good opinion, for some reason, meant a lot to her, more than anyone else’s ever had.
The party was nicer than she’d expected. Many of the guests were people from Gordon’s work, and they were surprisingly not boring. Samira had a group of her friends and co-workers there as well, and for a few minutes Emma was surrounded with adoring fans, which always pleased her. She’d have more than a few photos for her Instagram feed for the next day, and everyone was dressed up enough that her followers would feel deprived at not being invited to such an haute, exclusive event.
“Eating up the attention?” Gordon came up beside her, a glass of wine in hand. Emma had one as well, although she’d taken only two or three sips all evening. Her image did not include getting drunk, thank you very much.
She smiled at him. “I just try to help people. If they like me enough to call me a celebrity, I’m happy with that.”
The lights were dimmed part way, and some people were swaying to the soft music that cushioned the air. It was getting close to midnight, perhaps ten minutes to go. “Will you dance with me?” he asked.
Emma put down her glass, then took his hand to pull him to the space their hosts had cleared in the centre of the room. “I think I can manage that.”
It felt good to be in his arms as they traced a slow waltz in the cosy area. Frank Sinatra crooned from a speaker somewhere, and the air seemed almost golden, like something from a mushy movie. It was a piece she knew and she hummed along, her lips near Gordon’s ear. She wasn’t surprised when he started singing as well, just loud enough for her to hear, and it seemed perfectly normal when he pulled her closer still, so her breasts pressed against his chest and she could feel his heart beat beneath his elegant suit.
And it didn’t seem strange at all when, as the lights dimmed further still and the music gave way to the ten-second countdown to midnight, he gazed into her eyes with that same strange expression, asking a question she now knew she could answer.
Almost without thought, and with no regard to the consequences, she reached up a bit with her head and pressed a kiss to his lips just as the clock chimed twelve.
* * *
They didn’t stay longafter the strike of midnight. Rakesh brought out more champagne for a toast to the new year, everyone sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’, and promises were made to get together before the end of January. With a final round of handshakes and air kisses, Gordon and Emma collected their coats and headed out the door.
