Angel put her fingers out, slipping them between the strands of Hayley’s brown hair.
‘You should get it cut,’ Angel announced. ‘Short. Like Anne Hathaway.’
Hayley examined the ends, split, dry and in need of help. She wasn’t going to find anyone as cheap as Brenda back home, but maybe she’d try if she was a living, breathing fashion alert as her daughter seemed to be suggesting. She cleared her throat.
‘Back to the question.’ She took hold of Angel’s hands. ‘If my dream was to marry Jude Law, I could, theoretically, stalking laws allowing, put myself in his world. But obviously not until I’ve had my hair seen to.’
Angel smiled. ‘But he still might not marry you.’
‘No, but I could do everything to make it happen. From being in the right place at the right time, to believing it was possible.’ She squeezed Angel’s hands.
‘But what if you don’t know where the thing you asked Father Christmas for is? Or how to find out.’
Hayley released one hand, placing it on her daughter’s head and smoothing down her silky hair. ‘You have to trust in your wish, Angel, that’s all I’m saying.’
All her daughter had to do was ask and she would tell her what she knew. But she sensed she wasn’t ready. Either that or she was worried what her asking would do, concerned about how it would make Hayley feel.
‘Lie down and close your eyes. And when I’m out of the room,make your wish,’ Hayley said, standing up. She eased Angel back onto the pillow, stroking her hair.
‘Night, Mum,’ she said, her voice breathy as sleep started to overcome her.
‘Goodnight, Angel.’
12
DRUMMOND GLOBAL OFFICES, DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN
Today, Oliver was untouchable. Today, nothing was going to get to him. Not the chest pains, not his employees who didn’t understand the complex nature of his position and definitely not his mother’s threats about Christmas. He was going to be that business magnate all the newspapers said he was. A worthy successor to his father’s throne. Not the son who had ruined one career and was playing around with a second.
He had a macchiato in his gloved hands and the streets weren’t too snow-ridden thanks to the constant stream of citizens ploughing through. Horns blasted and brakes squealed as a large guy trying to carry a Christmas tree swayed into the road. The flags hanging from the buildings either side of him battled against the harsh wind and two men pedalling rickshaws fought against the elements, their passengers huddled up under blankets. Oliver smiled to himself. This morning, he was going to take control and get a buzz going about the Globe.
Taking a swig from the cardboard cup with his name written on it, he pushed at the doors to his building. Standing on the matting just inside, the coffee caught in his throat.
Right in front of his eyes, to the right of the long, stainless-steel reception desk, three men in coveralls were erecting a Christmas tree. ArealChristmas tree at least ten feet tall. The scent of pine and greenery whooshed up his nose uninvited. What the hell was this doing here? He blinked hard and refocused. No, it was still there. He gritted his teeth together. This had to go. He couldn’t have that monstrosity staring at him every time he entered and exited the building. When they had it upright, it would be bedecked. Gold, red, silver bells, stars and those damn jolly Santa Clauses. It wasn’t going to happen.
He closed his eyes. He needed to keep hold of his resolve, own the day. Without even looking at the women behind the desk waiting to greet him, he marched towards the bank of elevators. He’d show the season of goodwill exactly what he thought of it. Goodwill was exactly where the tree was heading.
Dean Walker’s Apartment, Downtown Manhattan
Someone had drugged her. That was the only explanation as to why her brain didn’t feel connected to any other part of her and why her limbs were as heavy as solid rock.
Hayley turned back the bright-turquoise duvet cover that was over her and attempted to slide out. Planting two feet on a sheepskin rug, she stood and hit her head on a glitter-ball-style lampshade.
She let out a groan and put her hand to her temple, mussing her bed hair over her eyes. As she came to and the room came properly into focus, she realised where she was. New York. Her brother’s gigantic apartment, where everything shouted out his love of sparkles and flamboyance. There was a signed photo ofElton John in a gilt frame on the turquoise wall and below it, a sculpture of Liberace, a pink feather boa around his neck. She shook her head, smiling. Her brother was such a stereotype.
She staggered to the door, almost getting her fingers caught in a decorative gold swag on the handle, and pulled it open. The smell of syrup enveloped her and the sound of Frank Sinatra was coming from the kitchen.
She made her way along the hall.
‘Angel Walker, you’re meant to get at least some of the ingredients into the pan!’
Hayley stood in the doorway taking in the scene before her. Angel had a jug in her hand and Dean was in charge of a large pan on the state-of-the-art hob. Last night, she’d barely been able to take in the details of Dean’s home. Now, in the morning light, she saw just what an amazing pad Dean had. This kitchen/dining/living space was the jewel in the apartment’s crown. With chocolate-brown chenille sofas, rugs, perfectly placed knick-knacks and a fifty-inch plasma TV in the lounge area, a ten-seater contemporary dining table with a chandelier over it and then, this fabulous kitchen. It spoke of Dean’s success, a success Hayley had always been proud of, if not a little jealous.
‘Hey, good morning,’ Dean greeted, spotting her leaning against the doorjamb.
‘Good morning.’ She waved a hand attached to a floppy arm. ‘I think I’m still on English time.’ A yawn took over. ‘Actually, scratch that, IknowI’m still on English time.’
‘We’re making pancakes,’ Angel announced.
