Page 71 of Every Christmas Eve
We have changed so much, but we still have so much more to discover together.
Let’s not waste another year apart. We always said we’d get there when the time was right.
I believe our time is right now, Lou.
And true love is forever, not just for Christmas.
I still love you.
Ben
PS: Do you still bite your nails when you’re nervous? Or forget to use your wing mirrors when reversing a car?
Please come to the party x
I can barely breathe. How did he even think of sending me a note with flowers, like I did with the young couple, Beth and Danny? I lift the letter to my face, close my eyes and I can smell his aftershave. I can see him putting pen to paper. I can imagine him thinking.
And I love that he did it all for me.
Nana comes back for a nosey, but I can’t bring myself to tell her about any of this yet. I need to process it all in my own mind. I want to savour this moment. I want to read over his words again and again.
But I’ll have to do all of that later, because duty calls, it seems.
‘That cute puppy lady is back, so the customers are going gaga again,’ says Nana, taking the bouquet from my arms. ‘And that Mrs Quinn from the committee is here asking foryou, Lou. She’s younger than I thought, I must admit, and Master Campbell looks like he’s going to spontaneously combust over something he won’t tell me about. On top of all that, I’ve made a complete balls-up of one of those fancy lattes, and your mum is up to her ears in dishes. I need you to come to the rescue.’
Despite the romantic bubble I’m now in, I’ve a business to run, so I pat down my apron, fix my eyes with a touch up of make-up and a signatory sweep of lipstick, then make my way out to my shop floor.
I scout quickly around, wondering has Mrs Quinn given up waiting on me, but then I spot Beth with the cute sausage dog, Crumb. She’s with another lady down by the vintage train set at the back of the floristry, deep in discussion as they admire my window display and what’s left of the eclectic mix of ornamentals and gifts scattered around the shop.
She waves, so I wave back, doing my best not to drool over the puppy. The woman with her wears an expensive camel-coloured coat with flattering fitted black trousers. Her hair bounces on her shoulders as she turns around to the sound of Nana Molly’s voice.
‘Mrs Quinn, you were looking for my granddaughter?’ Nana Molly says. ‘This is Lou. Mrs Quinn is Beth’s aunt, can you believe it? She’s from the committee. You know, the one who wrote to Tilda Heaney …’
My grandmother’s words trail off as the woman walks towards me, her hand outstretched to greet me, but I’m frozen to the spot.
‘Lou, it’s been years!’ she says. ‘And I know I’m the last person you want to see, but I’ve a lot of explaining to do. And apologising for some of my youthful decisions. I was a bitch back then. Can you please forgive me?’
I curse myself for giving in to her limp handshake, but I’m too stunned to do anything else right now. She smells of Chanel, her complexion is flawless, and her eyebrows are heightened by what looks like a recent dose of Botox.
Mrs Quinn isn’t a fuddy-duddy little old lady with too much time on her hands, like I imagined her to be.
Mrs Quinn is my age or thereabouts. She is rich, she is glamorous, and she has a striking look with a voice that ties my stomach into knots in the same way it always used to.
Mrs Quinn is my nemesis. She is Olivia Major.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ben
One Day to Christmas Eve
Ballyheaney House is feeling festive and prepared. The fires are lit, the house is cosy, the trees are sparkling, but outside is a different story as the heavens have opened.
So much for the weather being on our side.
Raindrops bounce heavily off the patio area out the back, forming a flowing river that seeps on to the lawns while all five of us all stand at the long, tall windows of the ballroom, looking on with a sense of doom. Even Roly joins in. He whimpers pathetically with his front paws on the low windowsill.
‘Maybe Dad’s trying to give us a sign to say we should have let sleeping dogs lie,’ says Cordelia, sipping her tea. ‘I can almost hear him cursing us, even challenging his precious drainage system to make his point.’
