I spot the framed picture of Marcy’s son on her desk. It’s a photo of Adam collecting some sort of award for his series of popular young adult books. He’s very handsome in a dark eyed, cocky lothario type of way. Not that I’m interested in any men for the foreseeable future, not since Mitch. I’ve never met Adam but he’s Marcy’s pride and joy. He’s also, in my opinion, a real dummy. I mean, what kind of adult goes drunken ice skating in Central Park, tries a double axel and then breaks his leg?
‘I can order him a cab?’ I suggest, wanting to get home as soon as possible without having to chaperone a thirty-two year old man. This morning has already been overly busy and noisy. I’ve got the beginnings of a thumping headache, I can’t stop thinking about Mitch and I just want to go bloody home!
Marcy must be able to tell what I’m thinking, because she gives me a desperate pleading look. ‘Please, Phoebe? I know you were due to leave for the holidays in ten minutes but Adam’s poor leg is in such a mess. I don’t want him to endure some soulless, uncomfortable cab ride on Christmas Eve. You can take my car…’
Oooh! I think of Marcy’s gorgeous, roomy silver Jag, her second pride and joy after Adam. She’s never let me drive it before. I’m amazed she would even consider it. She must really be learning to trust me…
Hmmm…I suppose it’s only an hour of my time.
And I do pride myself on being the most excellent PA in all of London.
Plus I really want my own office and this good deed will help to get me into Marcy’s good books.
Then maybe she’ll train me to design harmonious spaces like she does.
And, well, if anything’s going to cheer up this miserable day a tiny bit, it would be having a little go on that car.
‘No problem. I’m on it.’ I hold out my greedy little hands for the Jaguar keys.
‘Great! Thanks, Phoebe. Oh, and this is for you. Don’t open it until tomorrow.’
Marcy digs into her desk drawer and passes me a small box wrapped up in brown paper and tied up with string, all Julie Andrews like. I find myself smiling at how thoughtful this is and then swiftly tell myself that Christmas presents are nothing but consumerist propaganda. That quickly wipes the sentimental smile off of my mug.
I take the package and plan to shove it in a drawer until after New Year.
Marcy smiles with relief as I pocket the car keys and head for the door. ‘Phoebe, you are an angel.’
Just as long as it’s not a Christmas angel.
Chapter Two
Christmas Eve 1:30 p.m.
Oh, but of course the first snow of winter starts to fall in soft chubby tufts the minute I leave work. I step out onto the street and pull my gigantic purple scarf more tightly around my neck to ward off the sharp chill in the air.
Portobello Market is even more crammed than usual as disorganised, yet totally psyched, looking people purchase last minute gifts that, let’s face it, will probably get thrown away by the recipient within six months or stuffed in a drawer for six years. An old lady in a woolly hat exclaims to her husband about the fledgling snowfall. She laughs and hopes for a White Christmas. In response, her husband starts to sing the Bing Crosby song to her. I feel a weird aching tug inside my chest and hurry away. As I round the corner towards where Marcy’s car is parked, I sort of skid on a patch of ice, tumbling down onto my bottom with a thud. Ow! I take a moment to get myself together, before getting back up and looking around to see if anyone saw.
Many people saw. Like, ten. One of them shouts ‘Are you alright, love?’ To which I wave and mutter ‘yeah, thanks’. One teenager is filming me on his mobile phone. To him, I give the middle finger.
Well this day just gets better and better. Red-faced and with the pain in my bottom throbbing, I open the door to Marcy’s car and slide in, wincing as my ass makes contact with the seat.
Unlike my fourth-hand Fiat that takes three goes to start up, this car purrs immediately into life. I press my foot down on the pedal and carefully navigate my way through the streets of Notting Hill.
* * *
An hour later I enter the airport to discover a scene of carnage. It’s heaving; full of happy fools, hugging and exclaiming and helping one another with luggage. Tinny Christmas music rings out from somewhere, the roomy departure lounge acoustics amplifying it way too much for my sensitive ears. The departures assistants wear reindeer antlers, or halos or silver tinsel in their hair. It looks like a scene from that Richard Curtis film or was it a John Lewis advert? Same difference.
I hear a delighted whooping from my left and see a pretty woman running into the arms of a stocky, handsome man. The besotted couple walk past, gazing at each other adoringly.
‘Natalie Butterworth, you are the love of my life,’ The man says, taking the woman’s hand and swinging it.
‘Aw, cheers Riley. Ditto.’ She laughs, full of glee and love.
Their joy is too intense for my sad sack mood, so I look away until the couple exit the airport, fingers laced together.
I’m thinking about what Mitch is doing right now and trying to mentally repress the sound of Mariah Carey bawling through the airport speakers, when I spot a laughing man in a wheelchair being rolled out of the gate by what can only be described as anentourageof cabin crew. There are loads of them, fussing over him, laughing at something hilarious he’s apparently said. One of the cabin crew shouts into the crowd. ‘Make space, please. Make space, everyone.’
I recognise Adam Westbury’s dark curls and olive skin from Marcy’s picture. His left leg is in a thick cast from toe to just below his knee, sticking out on the wheelchair footrest. One of the cabin crew is clutching a small on-board bag, another carries two crutches wrapped in tinsel.
