the phone message.
What is the relationship between Jed Turner and Clemmy? They’d been on a ‘legendary’ holiday to France, but that seemed to be a while ago. Were they boyfriend and girlfriend when they jetted off together? Describing a holiday as ‘legendary’ means it was obviously pretty special in some way. Maybe they had stupendous sex for the first time in their lives, or maybe they had a mad, passionate fling but were forced to go their separate ways at the end of their magical holiday, or maybe I should stop dreaming up these ridiculously romantic scenarios because the reality is probably very different. It’s just that having heard Jed Turner’s rumbling and seductively deep voice for myself, it’s little wonder my imagination is running riot.
I stop and stare into my bowl. What am I doing? The recipe calls for 200 grams of plain flour, but I’ve somehow carefully measured out the same weight in granulated sugar instead! I never usually get it wrong. What’s going on?
It’s that phone message.
It’s thrown me because I really don’t know what to do about it. Obviously, Jed is keen to get together with Clemmy, and inviting her to spend Christmas with him is a pretty bold move. But Clemmy didn’t receive the message. I did. And how sad is that? What if they never get a chance to meet up and possibly reignite their passion? All because Jed Turner punched in the wrong digits?
I need to get his number on ‘call return’ and phone him to tell him about his mistake.
Oh, shit!
Glancing down, I grimace at the greyish lump of dough in my hands.
What’s the golden rule of making perfect pastry? Use a light touch! But for the past few minutes, I’ve been pummelling the pastry to within an inch of its life, squeezing and mangling it like I’m trying to hand-wash a stubborn stain from a favourite cardy. I stare into the bowl in dismay. Forget ‘light and flaky’. These mince pies will be hard enough to substitute as balls at Wimbledon.
An hour later, I’m just cracking a tooth on one, trying it fresh from the oven, when I realise I’ve got a text from Harrison, sent half an hour ago.
Getting five-o’clock back. Will phone when on train.
I smile affectionately. Harrison’s texts are always brief and to the point, with no emoticon extras, but I’m used to that. It’s just him.
I glance at my watch. It’s five-fifteen. Panic surges within me.
Oh God, what if he phones me on the landline?
Dropping the mince-pie disaster, I race through to the living room and snatch up the phone before Harrison’s call can wipe the last ‘call return’ number. Dialling 1471, I carefully note down the digits on a nearby piece of paper, noticing that it’s a local call.
Then I study the number thoughtfully.
Jed Turner sounds like a perfectly nice man and I’m sure he would welcome my call. But something is stopping me phoning him, and I’m not really sure what it is.
Carefully, I fold up the paper and slip it into my jeans pocket. I’ll phone Jed Turner when I’ve got more time.
I definitely will …
‘Time for a coffee at your place?’ I call after Erin as we battle our way through the crowds to the main exit of Bradbury’s department store. With less than a fortnight to go until the big day, Christmas-shopping madness in Angelford is reaching fever pitch.
Erin turns and signals happily with her thumb over the heads of several shoppers, totally oblivious to the fact she just almost put a man’s eye out. Wincing, I weave my way through the throng and join her outside on the pavement. After the warm fug of the centrally heated store, the frozen air makes me gasp. We huddle into our coats, hands deep in our pockets, and start walking along to Erin’s flat.
‘So, anyway,’ she says, finishing a ‘bad break-up’ story she was telling me in the perfume department before we got separated in the crowd. ‘He was the one who waited till after midnight so he didn’t have to break up with me on my birthday! Can you believe that?’
I roll my eyes at such idiocy and hunch up my shoulders for warmth.
Erin can relate all these bad break-up stories with a big smile on her face for one very good reason: Mark. Since they met over a year ago, she and Mark have been totally inseparable. They truly are two halves that make up a whole. Same daft sense of humour. Same weird obsession with zombie films. And completely besotted with each other.
I’m so pleased for her because her romantic life before she met him was a non-stop disaster. She seemed to be forever falling heavily for a guy, then finding she’d picked the only bloke in the room with a weird hang-up.
‘He wasn’t as bizarre as the freckle guy, though,’ I remind her.
She snorts. ‘Yeah. That was weird. He said he never went out with freckled girls but he’d make an exception because he thought he might be falling in love with me.’
‘Then he dumped you two weeks later because he tried – he really tried – but he just couldn’t get past the freckles!’
‘Mark loves my freckles.’ She beams, and I smile back at her, not even minding that she sounds unashamedly smug. Erin so deserves happiness in love for once.
She’s been out with some real horrors, who took advantage of her trusting nature (and in one case took her jewellery box as well). But she always bounced back and never once wavered from her conviction that ‘the one’ for her was out there somewhere.
I so admire this inner strength of hers. I’d have been a basket case if Revolting Ronnie had scarpered with my mum’s ruby dress ring. But then, I am – as Erin continually points out – a bit inexperienced when it comes to dating. I’ve had boyfriends, of course, because I do like men. Trouble is, until I met Harrison, I never trusted them to stick around. And so, of course, they never did.
Erin is a true romantic at heart, and she adores her little one-bed flat with its cute Romeo and Juliet-style balcony. It’s on the first floor of a rather stylish, modern block built of mellow red brick. A little sign declaring ‘Home is where the heart is’ hangs, quirkily lopsided, from the wrought-iron balcony railings and there’s just about enough room for one person and a plant to sit out and enjoy the view over the park opposite.
It’s nearly four and already dark – Christmas lights flash all along the high street – by the time we climb the stairs to her flat on the first floor. I collapse onto her lovely, squashy sofa while Erin goes off to put the kettle on.
‘If Harrison were to propose, where would you like it to be?’ she calls through from the kitchen.
I laugh. ‘We’ve only known each other eighteen months. I doubt he’ll be suggesting marriage any time soon.’
‘Oh, you never know. But supposing he did, where would you choose?’
‘Ooh, erm … in Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue, then we could choose the ring there! What about you?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Top of the Eiffel Tower?’ I suggest, grinning, as she comes through with the coffee.
‘Nah! Mark’s terrified of heights so that would be no good.’
‘Of course. I’d forgotten about that.’
She smiles affectionately. ‘He doesn’t even like stepping out onto my balcony, bless him. Speaking of which, how do you fancy having coffee out there, looking at the Christmas lights?’
I laugh. ‘Go on, then. If we must.’
Erin takes every opportunity she can to sit