The Perfect Christmas. Georgie Carter
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tang of his skin while the rain pitter-patters on the coat.
‘OK?’ asks Jonathan.
Even though my goosebumps have got goosebumps and my favourite dress is ruined I haven’t felt this OK for a very, very long time. We venture into the street, laughing as we dodge puddles and cannon off one another while we try to walk in a straight line. Somehow we make it into Starbucks without stumbling from the kerb and falling under a bus. I’m almost sorry to enter the warm fug of the coffee shop because it’s such fun being huddled under his raincoat.
Nothing to do with the fact that it’s nice to be held by an attractive man, of course.
‘We made it.’ Jonathan releases me and shrugs off his coat. His dark hair is beaded with raindrops but he doesn’t seem to care. The cross expression of earlier has been replaced by a smile of incredible sweetness and that cute dimple is back too.
‘What would you like?’ he asks. ‘Coffee? Cake?’
Now there’s the one million dollar question. I peer up at the menu board and then into the cabinet of yummy pastries. What I’d like is a big wedge of carrot cake washed down with syrupy white mocha latte, extra cream and about a zillion calories. What I ask for will, of course, be another matter entirely.
‘Skinny latte, please,’ I say. ‘Nothing to eat, thanks.’
Jonathan rolls his eyes. ‘You women! Why are you always dieting? My wife, Anita, is exactly the same.’
His wife? Ten bums in row! Typical of my Swiss-cheese memory to forget that little snippet.
‘I can’t speak for your wife,’ I say with a smile, ‘but maybe we look lovely because we’re careful about what we eat?’
‘It’s a shame.’ Jonathan shakes his head, ‘Take a seat, Robyn. I’ll bring these over.’
What a gentleman! See, it’s always the good ones who are taken.
I find a couple of battered armchairs and bag them for us. While I peel off my soggy cardigan and rearrange my hair by peering in the display of my phone, I try to dredge up anything that I might have once known about Jonathan Broadhead. He has a wife but she wasn’t at Faye and Simon’s dinner party. I seem to remember that she was held up at work and does something really high powered. Merchant banker? Neurosurgeon? Astronaut?
Oh dear, I really can’t remember. In my defence, we last met at around the time things were going pear-shaped (or should I say Jo-shaped) with Pat. Maybe I can wing it?
‘Here we go,’ Jonathan places the coffees and a large piece of carrot cake onto the table. ‘Get warmed up.’
Carrot cake. The man has excellent taste.
‘Thanks,’ I wrap my hands around the mug and instantly the warmth starts to thaw my frozen fingers.
‘What a shame about your shoes,’ Jonathan remarks. ‘Will they dry out?’
‘I hope so.’ I look sadly at my poor shoes. ‘They are fifties Dior; quite my favourite thing. Collecting vintage clothes is one of my passions.’
‘What are the others?’ he asks, smiling at me.
I think about this. ‘Weddings, obviously! I love all things fifties too. And,’ I smile back at him, ‘carrot cake!’
Jonathan pushes the cake into the centre of the table. ‘I suspected as much,’ he says with mock seriousness. ‘Which is why I brought two forks.’
I laugh. ‘Wow. A mind reader. What talent.’
Jonathan helps himself to a forkful. ‘I totally get the fifties thing. I love the music. Frank Sinatra. Dean Martin. Elvis. Actually, I’ve just spent an embarrassingly large amount of money on a genuine fifties juke box which is now my pride and joy.’
‘Worth every penny though,’ I say. ‘I feel the same about my vintage shoes.’
We chat happily for a while about all things fifties. It’s great to meet a kindred spirit. Gideon can’t bear the ‘clutter’ in my flat, being more a chrome and black marble minimalist, and Faye tries hard not to wince at the very thought of second-hand shoes. Jonathan totally gets it though and we talk for so long that I fetch more coffees because we’re hogging the table.
‘So,’ Jonathan tips sugar into his second latte, ‘how’s life treating you? Your comedian chap’s doing well, isn’t he? I was reading in the paper that he’s been given his own all-male discussion show.’
I read that too. Apparently it’s called Talking Boll*
‘We’re not together any more,’ I say, stabbing at the carrot cake with my fork so he can’t see my face. ‘He’s with somebody else now.’
And she’s pregnant. And they’re getting married.
Stab. Stab. Stab.
‘I’m sorry, Robyn.’ Jonathan places his hand over mine, halting the destruction. ‘I didn’t mean to be nosey.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘It was nearly a year ago. I’m fine about it.’
Jonathan doesn’t move his hand. It remains covering mine, warm, strong and oddly comforting. It’s a friendly gesture.
‘It’s not easy though, is it?’ he sighs.
I slide my hand out from under his.
‘How is Anita? Is she still a … um …’
‘A biochemist?’ He pulls a face. ‘Yeah, ’fraid so.’
I’m not sure quite what a biochemist does exactly but I’m sure it’s really important and I tell him so.
‘It is important,’ he agrees, and now it’s his turn to attack the cake by mashing it with his fork.
I say nothing.
‘And I try to be understanding, really.’ I can tell he’s wrestling with something. ‘Like, last night, we had plans to catch a movie. I was making ’Nita supper when she called to cancel with some excuse to do with single-handedly revolutionising stem cell research. What could I say to that? “Well, you try resuscitating the carbohydrates in a dried-out lasagne.”’ Jonathan smiles weakly at his joke. ‘Of course I didn’t say that. Instead, I said, “OK, honey, I understand”, and then moped around feeling sorry for myself.’ Jonathan laughs, awkwardly. ‘God, sorry! I’m doing it again.’
‘We all do,’ I say. ‘I’m the world’s expert.’
By the time that I’ve finished telling Jonathan about the time Pat popped out for tea bags and ended up in Paris with a supermodel (‘Nothing happened, Robs, so it didn’t, I swear on my mammy’s life!’) Jonathan is laughing so hard that other shoppers are casting disapproving looks our way. I’m laughing too because looking back these stories are really funny. And telling them no longer hurts quite as much, so hurrah! I really am over Patrick! My Christmas wish list is right on track; just need a new man to replace him. Such a shame that it won’t be Jonathan.
‘Christ!’ Jonathan exclaims, looking at his watch. ‘It’s nearly three! I’d better be going. My secretary’s probably sent a search party out for me. At least the rain’s stopped.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say, peering out at the sunshine which had replaced the rain in that way that only ever happens in England in spring. ‘When did that happen?’
‘No idea,’ Jonathan shrugs. ‘I was having far too much fun to notice. Thanks, Robyn, I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.’
My sides are hurting from giggling. ‘Neither can I,’ I tell him.
He smiles, and I notice that his teeth are absolutely perfect. Does this man have any flaws?
‘You’ve