A Winter's Wedding Read online

‘Yes, wow. It all seemed to be in good working order, so I set it in the window and within two hours it was sold. We’ve made over two hundred pounds. You really should have put it on eBay.’

  ‘That’s okay. But I didn’t think you’d sell the shoes so quickly. They were, um, quite a niche size.’

  Dylan threw back his head and laughed out loud. ‘Niche, did you say? Size nine? Yes, I did notice.’

  ‘Just call me Bigfoot,’ Emily said, and she went bright red.

  Dylan buckled up with laughter. ‘You’ll be enjoying this snowy weather, then?’ he spluttered.

  Emily couldn’t help laughing too. ‘Yes, I’m feeling right at home in these blizzards,’ she wheezed.

  ‘What’s wrong with being a size nine, anyway? You’re really tall, aren’t you? What height are you? Five ten?’

  ‘Yes. Five ten.’

  ‘Well, then. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? You’d look all wrong with tiny feet. And it’s got to be fun leaving your footprints in the snow and keeping the Bigfoot hunters guessing …’

  ‘Very funny, but who bought the shoes? Was it a transvestite?’

  ‘Actually, yes, it was. He said he had lots of Christmas parties to go to, and a posh wedding on Boxing Day.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘No, he took the lot. Five pairs of designer shoes for twenty quid each. He said his guardian angel must have guided him down this street today.’

  ‘But they were all covered in gemstones and, um, very sparkly.’

  ‘Yes, I know. He was almost crying with joy.’

  ‘Well, I’m very happy for him, then. Actually, Dylan, would you mind helping me in with the rest of my clutter? So sorry to ask. Only I’ve nearly done my back in, going up and down the stairs to my flat. My car is right outside the shop.’

  ‘Of course, no problem, just give me one second.’ He opened a narrow door behind the counter. ‘Sylvia, I’m nipping outside for a minute,’ he called.

  A bossy-looking girl with a bleached-blonde pixie cut came bustling into the shop, carrying a tray with two mugs of tea on it and a packet of pink wafer biscuits.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, plonking the tray down on the counter.

  ‘Emily, this is my sister, Sylvia. Sylvia, this is Emily, one of our chief patrons.’

  ‘Hi, Emily,’ Sylvia said kindly. ‘Thanks so much for your very valuable support. Every little helps – and your donations helped a lot. Any sign of that plumber yet, Dylan?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Dylan said.

  ‘He’s an hour late,’ Sylvia declared. ‘Pipe’s dripping all over my fresh paintwork!’

  ‘Look, I just came to drop off some more stuff,’ Emily explained. And then wondered why she’d said something so silly. For why else would she be standing in a charity shop, chatting to a man she didn’t know? ‘I … um … I don’t want to keep you back, but I’ve six more boxes with me.’

  ‘Let me,’ Sylvia said, already halfway to the door. ‘I could do with some fresh air. That storeroom has a whiff of mould in it. Can I have your car keys, Emily?’

  Emily barely had time to say yes, before Sylvia took them and breezed out of the door. Within seconds she was back, carrying not one but three boxes.

  ‘Five years of motherhood,’ she laughed, seeing Emily’s chin drop. ‘I’ve got arms on me like a lumberjack.’ Soon she had the other three boxes stored safely behind the counter. ‘There’s your keys back, thanks. Have my tea,’ she said brightly. ‘By way of thanks. It’s not easy finding good-quality donations at this time of year. And I’m told it doesn’t get much better in January – mostly bath salts and novelty socks.’

  Emily looked longingly at the tea and biscuits, and even more longingly at Dylan’s perfect lips and his lovely broad shoulders, but then decided with great reluctance that she should let him and his sister get on with their work. They’d be closing the shop soon, anyway, and heading for home. Suddenly Emily felt rather melancholy that she had nobody to share Christmas Eve with – or, indeed, Christmas Day.

  ‘Listen, I’d love to stay and chat. But I’ve loads of things to do,’ she lied, ‘and I’m sure you have too. So anyway … I hope you sell the rest of that stuff as easily as the first lot. Bye, then.’

  ‘Do drop by again, won’t you?’ Dylan said, offering his hand for Emily to shake. ‘I’d like to know the hunters haven’t got to you.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Sylvia said, mystified.

  ‘Nothing; it’s a secret,’ Dylan told her.

  Emily’s heart turned over as she placed her hand in his and felt his warm fingers close around hers. The skin on the back of Dylan’s hand felt incredibly soft, covered with a delicious layer of translucent blond hairs.

  ‘Maybe I will drop by sometime,’ Emily said.

  ‘Yes, you’ve got to see how we do this place up,’ he added.

  ‘Drop by any time,’ Sylvia said knowingly.

  Dylan reluctantly let go of Emily’s hand.

  ‘Okay, then. See you soon,’ Emily said as she left.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ Dylan said.

  ‘Yes, merry Christmas,’ Emily replied.

  Sylvia and Dylan exchanged knowing glances. Sylvia winked at Dylan, and he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

  Later that evening Emily lay on her sofa, wondering what Sylvia’s little wink had meant. Did every woman who came anywhere near Dylan end up falling hopelessly in love with him? Did Sylvia spend half her life talking Dylan’s ex-girlfriends down off various window sills? Or had Sylvia simply been aware of a little spark of mutual attraction in the air? Emily wasn’t sure. But she sensed they were good people, and that took away some of the niggling fear that Sylvia and Dylan had been laughing at her instead of with her.

  At nine o’clock Emily’s mobile phone rang.

  To her amazement it was Dylan.

  ‘Emily? I hope you don’t mind me calling you on Christmas Eve,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Dylan? Well, no, of course I don’t mind. But how did you find my number?’

  ‘Sylvia found your business card in one of those handbags you donated.’

  ‘I thought I’d emptied them all out.’

  ‘You did; it was in a side pocket.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Emily said, feeling embarrassed and yet hugely pleased at the same time.

  ‘No need to apologize. I was going to ask you for your number today, anyway. But you left the shop so quickly that I didn’t get the chance. I’m calling to ask if you’d like to have a drink with me sometime.’

  ‘Oh, now let me see,’ she said, feeling slightly flustered.

  ‘I mean, obviously, if you’re not already seeing somebody? And if you’re not interested … then I’m sorry for bothering you.’

  ‘No, it’s no bother.’

  ‘It’s just, I thought it would be nice to make some new friends.’

  ‘New friends … yes, that’d be … well, nice.’

  ‘I mean, I’m asking you out on a date. Yes? But if you’d rather not go on a date with me, then maybe we can still be friends – or, at least, acquaintances? I mean, I’d really like to stay in touch with you. If that’s okay?’

  ‘Well, that’d be lovely. I mean, yes … thanks.’

  ‘Why don’t you come to the shop for a coffee?’ Dylan said, detecting a hint of reticence in Emily’s voice. ‘Sylvia can chaperone us. As you can see, she’s a real no-nonsense sort. She won’t put up with any funny business, so I won’t be pouncing on you or anything. Not unless you want me to,’ he added playfully.

  For a moment Emily was terrified. She’d love to go on a date with Dylan. Of course she would. But what would happen if it turned out to be a proper falling-in-love date, and then a proper grown-up relationship? Emily wasn’t sure she was ready for that. Not after Alex had left her standing at the altar the year before. The humiliation of that day was still seared into her soul. Or would she make a fool of herself if it turned out that Dylan only wanted a casual sort of romance? Would she be able to t
hink of a single thing to say on their date? Would she be able to keep up the façade of the strong, independent woman for more than five minutes?

  ‘Emily, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I was thinking.’

  ‘Were you thinking yes or no?’

  ‘I was thinking … maybe.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll call in next Saturday?’

  ‘Next Saturday?’

  ‘Well, yes. I presume you’ll be working all week? It says on your card that you’re the chief features writer for Stylish Living.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Hey, that sounds pretty impressive.’

  ‘Um, thanks.’

  ‘And, of course, I’m sure you have plans for Christmas Day tomorrow, and so on? So shall we say the first Saturday after Christmas?’

  Emily closed her eyes. She didn’t have a single plan for Christmas Day, but Dylan didn’t have to know that. She’d give her parents a quick call, of course. But that was about it. For the rest of the day it’d just be herself and her Christmas tree, a ready meal and the Radio Times.

  ‘Okay, then,’ she heard herself saying. ‘I’ll see you, then.’

  ‘Great. Bye, Emily.’

  ‘Bye, Dylan.’

  Emily shut off her phone and went into the bedroom. She sat down gently on her unmade bed and looked pointedly at the wardrobe.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she told it. ‘I’m not quite ready yet. But if I don’t do something soon, I never will be ready. I don’t have to throw myself at him, you know. I’ll just go along to the shop for an innocent cup of coffee and see what happens. And if he turns out to be as lovely as he looks, that’ll be brilliant. And if he turns out to be a let-down … well, I’ll just deal with it, okay?’

  She crossed the floor and turned the small bronze key in the wardrobe lock. With a tiny squeak the door opened. Inside, folded neatly into a hundred layers like a cross-section diagram in a geography book, were all the clothes and keepsakes that were holding Emily back. Things she hadn’t looked at in years. She could almost smell the disappointment lingering on everything like brick dust or mothballs. So many things, going all the way back to her insular childhood on a Belfast estate. She was thirty years old, she reminded herself. A milestone year. Surely she was not going to let a milestone year go by without at least making some changes to her safe (but stuck) life? And was it better to be safe and stuck or vulnerable and free?

  A life coach would have described Emily as a butterfly. But was she a cowardly butterfly that was going to remain safely in her little glass box for ever? Or was she going to bravely take flight up into the bright blue sky, with all the possibilities – both good and bad – that might await her there?

  Emily closed the door again and went to bed. She listened to the radio for company and was glad she hadn’t told Dylan she’d be on her own for Christmas. It was too soon to burden him with her various little family anecdotes, none of them pleasant.

  Emily was still awake and thinking about Dylan when Christmas morning dawned. She got up, went into the sitting room and switched on the lights on her pretty tree. She made a cup of hot chocolate and listened to a carol service on the radio. She rang her parents in Belfast to wish them a merry Christmas, but nobody answered the phone – even though she let it ring for ages and ages before she gave up. Wondering what might have happened to her flaky mother and father, Emily opened the sitting-room curtains to find it was snowing heavily, yet again.

  ‘Oh, I don’t believe it,’ she murmured. ‘Not more snow! Will this winter never end?’

  4. Tea and Biscuits

  Dylan set the two mugs on the counter and offered Emily a broken biscuit.

  ‘Sorry, I dropped the packet on the floor,’ he said.

  ‘Better than dropping the tea on the floor,’ she replied.

  ‘So, Emily, is that a trace of an Irish accent you’ve got there?’ Dylan asked brightly.

  Emily laughed in spite of her nerves. She was wearing skinny jeans, brown boots and her warmest jacket.

  ‘It’s a Belfast accent,’ she said carefully. ‘That’s in Northern Ireland, by the way.’

  ‘Um, I know where Belfast is. I’m not completely thick, you know.’

  ‘You’d be surprised how many people don’t know where Belfast is on the map. And then they start all this top of the morning stuff. We don’t say top of the morning in the north of Ireland. I’m not sure they say it in the south either, mind you. Maybe it’s just something that American film makers think we say? So then I remind them that I’m from Northern Ireland and they start shouting No Surrender! into my face – you know, like Ian Paisley? We’re not all like that. Actually, most of us are very shy and softly spoken. It’s only a handful of nutters and narcissists that give us all a bad name. And now I’m rambling again. Anyway, I thought I was doing a great job of covering up my accent.’

  ‘It’s not on a par with that Paisley chap,’ Dylan agreed. ‘You’re not scaring the living daylights out of me, I’ll give you that. But it’s still there. It’s very nice, actually.’

  ‘Ha, you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘I don’t like my accent.’

  ‘You should. It is way nicer than the LA whine that’s taking over the planet these days, not to mention our very own Essex cackle.’

  ‘You say the nicest things, Dylan. But then again, that’s easy for you to say because your accent is nice and clear and easy to understand. And people don’t make fun of it all the time.’

  ‘Fair point,’ he had to admit.

  ‘If you’re interested in accents, I can tell you that every neighbourhood in Northern Ireland has its own very distinct accent. Especially in Belfast – the accent changes slightly with every street corner. I can usually tell a lot about a person by the way they pronounce certain words. As well as their appearance, obviously …’

  ‘Can you really?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘What’s it like over there? I’ve never been to Ireland. Sorry … Northern Ireland.’

  ‘It’s a very complicated society in many ways. People grow up with a heightened sense of danger. Their trouble radar is never switched off – even nowadays. Although most of the really scary stuff ended over a decade ago.’

  ‘But you live in London now, yes?’

  ‘Yes. I left Belfast for good when I was eighteen.’

  ‘Why? Was it for work?’

  ‘Yes, mainly for work. But I longed for the anonymity of London. Back home everybody knows everybody else, and it’s a bit claustrophobic.’

  ‘Same here. I’m from a little village in Surrey, called Appleton.’

  Emily and Dylan were sitting on two old chairs in the charity shop. Dylan had bought a packet of chocolate biscuits in honour of Emily’s visit. But he’d dropped them twice on the way back from the shop and consequently most of the biscuits were in pieces.

  ‘What can you deduce about me?’ Dylan asked, still fascinated by Emily’s strange talent. ‘I know I’m not from Belfast. But have a try, anyway.’

  ‘You won’t be offended?’ Emily asked carefully.

  ‘I promise,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Well, from your accent and the rugby-shirt collar being turned up, I’m guessing you’re from a privileged background. So that makes you middle class at the very least. Though you’re very self-assured – and I mean that in a nice way – so I’d put money on you being upper middle class. Public school, even. You don’t jump every time the door opens, so that means you were generally relaxed as a child. And that leads me to think your parents were and still are happily married. You’re very laid-back in the company of women, and you don’t mind making the tea and handing out the biscuits, so I’d say you have at least three sisters. And your shabby trainers suggest you just want a simple life, which is why you’re working in a charity shop when everything about you indicates a good solid education and that you really ought to be working in
a much better place than this. I know you said you were helping Sylvia out for a while, but I think you enjoy being here. You could probably have paid a carpenter to put up the shelves, after all.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Dylan breathed slowly. ‘It’s all true. I have three sisters. My parents are dairy farmers with a bit of land around Appleton. My surname is Shawcross, by the way. And I still play rugby back home with the village team. I’m the skipper. Anyway, you’re very clever.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Emily said, taking a little bow. ‘I told you we were a nosy bunch in Northern Ireland. I also feel duty-bound to tell you I was baptized a Catholic, but I’m not religious any more. And I have no interest in politics – they’re all as bad as each other in my book.’

  ‘Okay,’ he laughed. ‘And I’m C of E. And I did once vote Tory, but only because the local candidate promised to save our village post office.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Yes, he did, to give the guy his dues. But then there was an armed robbery. The owner of the post office had a nervous breakdown and moved to Cyprus. And now the post office is a branch of Cath Kidston.’

  ‘Ah well, at least you’ll never be stuck for a floral tea towel. Listen, I hope you don’t think I’m neurotic mentioning religion like that? I just don’t care for labels, you see. And I like to get all that sort of thing over and done with, when I meet a new person. Otherwise I’ll only worry about saying the wrong thing. Or they might worry about saying the wrong thing to me. I’m pretty okay with most people – unless they’re about to stab me.’

  ‘Same here. So tell me about your family. Are you from a big Irish clan? Are there ten more of you back home – all girls, and all as gorgeous as you?’

  ‘I’m very flattered, but how dare you suggest I have ten siblings,’ Emily said mock-indignantly. ‘There haven’t been any really big Irish families since the 1940s. Believe it or not, we have heard of family planning these days. All those stories about cutting up flour sacks to make sheets were not an urban myth. I’m an only child, as it happens.’

  ‘Are you, really? How unusual. I don’t think I know very many only children.’

  ‘Well, that’s the situation. And I can’t do anything about it now, I’m afraid.’