About the Publisher
The most wonderful time of the year
When it comes to telling your best friend that you love him, there are generally two schools of thought. One strongly advises against it, warning that you could lose a friend if they don’t feel the same way. The other urges action because, unless you say something, you might miss out on the love of your life.
Unfortunately for me, I listened to the latter.
The look in Charlie’s midnight blue eyes said it all: I had just made the biggest mistake of my life …
‘Sorry?’
Perhaps he hadn’t heard me the first time. Maybe I should say it again?
‘I said I love you, Charlie.’
He blinked. ‘You’re not serious, are you?’
‘Yes.’ I could feel a deathly dragging sensation pulling my hope to oblivion.
Gone was the trademark Charlie grin that had been so firmly in place only moments before. In its place was a look I didn’t recognise, but I knew it wasn’t a good alternative.
‘H-how long have you …?’
I dropped my gaze to the potted plant beside our table. ‘Um – a long time, actually.’ Maybe I should have worn something a bit more ‘potential girlfriend material’ today? But then this morning when I pulled on my trusty jeans and purple sweater dress I wasn’t expecting to have this conversation. And judging by the look of sheer horror on Charlie’s face, it wouldn’t have made a difference if I had been sitting opposite him in a designer gown and diamonds. This was such a mistake …
‘But … we’re mates, Rom.’
‘Yeah, of course we are. Look, forget I said anything, OK?’
He was staring at his latte like it had just insulted him. ‘I don’t know how you expect me to do that. You’ve said it now, haven’t you? I mean it’s – it’s out there.’
I looked around the busy coffee shop. It was overcrowded with disgruntled Christmas shoppers huddled ungratefully around too-small tables on chairs greedily snatched from unsuspecting single customers. ‘I think it’s safe to assume that none of that lot heard anything.’
As attempts at humour go, it wasn’t my finest. I took a large gulp of coffee and wished myself dead.
Charlie shook his head. ‘That doesn’t matter. I heard it. Oh, Rom – why did you say that? Why couldn’t you just have …?’
I stared at him. ‘Just have what?’
‘Just not said anything? I mean, why me? Why put this on me now?’
I hated the look of sheer panic in his eyes. He’d never looked at me that way before … In my perennial daydream about this moment it had been so very different:
Oh Romily – I’ve loved you forever, too. If you hadn’t told me we could have missed each other completely …
‘We’re fine as we are, aren’t we? I mean, if it’s good then why change it? I can’t believe you actually thought this would be a good idea.’
Well, excuse me, but I did. Somewhere between my ridiculous, obviously deluded heart and my big stupid mouth, my brain got pushed out of the picture and I – crazy, deranged loon that I am – found myself persuaded that I might be the answer to his dreams. That maybe the reason for the many hours we’d spent together – cheeky laughter-filled days and late night heart-to-hearts – was that we were destined to be more than friends. Everyone else noticed it: it had been a running joke among our friends that Charlie and I were like an old married couple. The ‘Old Folks’ – that’s what they called us. We’d lost count of the number of times complete strangers mistook us for partners. So if it was this blindingly obvious to the world, how come Charlie couldn’t see it?
Of course, I couldn’t say any of this to him. Sheer embarrassment stole the clever arguments from my mind so that then and there, in the crowded café packed with people who couldn’t care less about what I was saying, I found that all I could say was:
‘I’m sorry.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘I did not see this coming. I thought we were friends, that’s all. But this – this is just weird …’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Charlie.’
He stared at me, confusion claiming his eyes. ‘I-I didn’t mean … Heck, Rom, I’m sorry – you’ve just got to give me a moment to get my head round this.’
I looked away and focused on a particularly harassed-looking couple talking heatedly at the next table over enormous mugs of cream-topped festive coffees. ‘You don’t appreciate me,’ the woman was saying. Right now, I knew exactly how she felt.
‘The thing is,’ Charlie said, ‘you’ve always been just Rom – one of the guys, you know? You’re a laugh, someone I can hang out with. But now …’ He was digging an impossible hole for himself and he knew it. He gave a massive sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really not sure how to deal with this.’
This was awful – I’d heard enough. I rose to my feet, intense pain and crushing embarrassment pushing my body up off the chair. I opened my mouth to deal a devastating parting shot, but nothing appeared. Instead, I turned and fled, stubbing my toe on a neighbouring customer’s chair and tripping over various overstuffed shopping bags, almost taking a packed pushchair with me as I beat an ungraceful retreat from the coffee shop and out into the bustling street beyond.
Outside, Birmingham’s famous Christmas Market was in full flow, packed with shoppers grabbing last-minute Christmas shopping and crowding around the wooden beer stalls. The coloured lights strung overhead glowed brightly against the greyness of the December afternoon sky and Christmas music blared relentlessly from speakers along the length of New Street.
‘Rom! Where are you going? I’m sorry – please come back! Rom!’ Behind me, Charlie’s shouts blended into the blur of crowd noise and Christmas hits of yesteryear. I picked up my pace, making my way blindly against the tidal flow of bodies, their countless faces looming up before me, unsmiling and uncaring. I had humiliated myself enough already: the last thing I needed was for Charlie to come back for Round Two …
As I passed each shop front the sale signs began morphing into condemnatory judgements of my actions, screaming at me from every lit window:
Insane!
Stupid idiot!
What were you thinking?
As the jostling crowd propelled me involuntarily towards the marble pillars of the Town Hall, Paul McCartney was singing ‘Wonderful Christmastime’ like it should have an ironic question mark at the end. Unable to wriggle free, I found myself moving along with the throng. But I felt nothing;
