Second Chances at the Log Fire Cabin: A Christmas holiday romance for 2018 from the ebook bestseller

I wrench off my heels and start to scurry along the pavement, dodging groups of people in their Christmas finery coming towards me. All I want to do is get home and pour out the whole ridiculous story to Flo – and ask her not to rent my room out to someone else because I’m not moving in with Jackson after all!

But of course when I finally arrive home and burst through the door, she and Fergus are snuggled together on the sofa. By the looks of things, Fergus is manfully sitting through Flo’s favourite rom-com for about the two hundred and twenty-fifth time. (Fergus is lovely like that.)

Flo looks up questioningly to see me back so early.

‘Bit of a hiccup. Don’t ask!’ I paste on a grin, implying a ladder in my tights or something equally harmless. Then I escape up the stairs to my room.

Sitting upright on my bed, hugging my knees, I stare at my feet and the tights that are blackened and full of holes from my desperate dash home. I dropped one of my gorgeous new shoes on the way but ran on like someone possessed, not caring. I wish I’d stopped now. There’s a small smear of blood mixed with the dirt from where my foot pounded onto something sharp.

I reach down to touch the wound, and the sting intensifies a hundredfold.

Tears well up as the full horror of what I’ve done hits me with the force of a sledgehammer. I’ve just made the biggest tit of myself in the history of TV bloopers. I’ll probably be on every episode of When Proposals Go Wrong for the next ten years, and that’s only if I get lucky.

The nightmare scenario of the most cringe-making, toe-curlingly gruesome hour of my life seems to be playing on repeat in my head – presumably in case I might somehow, without the constant helpful reminders, forget it happened.

Like I’m ever going to forget tonight!

I flump face down on the bed. What on earth possessed me? You do not propose to someone unless you are one hundred per cent certain of the answer. Especially if you’re doing it on live TV!

Flo knocks softly on the door.

‘I’m asleep,’ I call.

There’s a pause. Then, ‘Okay, but come and get me when you want to talk about it.’

‘Okay,’ I mumble into the pillow, feeling quite nauseous. The alcohol is making my head spin round and round.

Those bloody champagne cocktails! They should come with a warning: Danger. Drink at your peril. You might be forced to emigrate to escape the shameful consequences of your actions.

I scramble under the covers fully clothed, just wanting to disappear from earth, never mind the UK – perhaps taking a year’s sabbatical on Mars – so that no human being will ever again clap eyes on the tragic soul who proposed to her boyfriend in front of six million people.

And received the answer: Er, no?

I lie there for an hour or so, trying not to think about the most mortifying experience of my life, but without a great deal of success. (It’s like someone telling you not to think about a purple elephant. After that, it’s all you bloody can think about.)

Then my mobile rings and it’s Jackson.

Since I’ve been expecting him to ring ever since I fled the studio, I don’t immediately pounce on it. Let him wait! In fact, I might not answer it at all. He could at least have phoned to make sure I was okay.

But then my emotions get the better of me. Perhaps … perhaps he’s going to say he’s sorry and that it was all a big mistake and of course he wants to marry me.

So I pick up. My voice when I answer sounds thick with tears.

And then blow me if he doesn’t just sound like his usual cheery self – no apologetic note in his voice at all – as if I didn’t just lay my emotions on the line with practically the whole of the UK watching!

This just plunges me into even deeper gloom.

‘You didn’t miss much,’ he’s saying. ‘The programme was rubbish. Not a patch on the old Blind Date.’ As if that’s supposed to make me feel better – knowing that, instead of rushing out after me, he actually sat through the entire rest of the showand even paid attention to it!

When I remain silent, he says gently, ‘Roxy, why did you do it? In front of all those people? I don’t mean to sound harsh but did you really think the answer would be yes?’

My throat closes up. I want to end the call right then, but I suppose he deserves an answer. ‘I don’t know … maybe … you asked me to move in so I naturally thought you really cared.’

He laughs. Yes, actually laughs. ‘Of course I care, Roxy. But I only suggested you move into my place as a practical measure because you couldn’t pay the rent on Flo’s flat.’

A practical measure?

‘You’re still welcome to move in – until you get yourself another job.’

I can’t speak. My head is spinning and not in a good way.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re great, Roxy,’ he adds, piling on more humiliation. ‘But I thought we were just, you know, having a good time?’

I manage to dredge up some spirit from somewhere. ‘Jackson, could you just bugger off now and leave me alone?’

‘What about the Winter Ball on Saturday? You are still going with me?’

I laugh incredulously.

‘You’ve got your dress and everything. You’re going to be the belle of the ball,’ he says, turning on the charm. ‘Please, Roxy?’

Tears threaten to break through. I’d been so looking forward to attending the Winter Ball with Jackson. It was something he organised for his employees every year and, by all accounts, it was pretty magical. I absolutely adored the dress I’d bought …

‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘I really do care about you, Roxy.’

My throat is too choked up to answer.

So instead, I end the call.

For the next two days, my phone stays resolutely turned off as I retreat to the safety of the sofa to lick my wounds.

There’s a little pile of ‘essentials’ scattered on the floor below. Tissues. An array of used coffee mugs. Giant box of fake After Eights, kindly donated by Flo after a trip to her favourite everything-for-a-pound shop. Plus a self-help book (that’s no help whatsoever) called Moving On After Yet Another Disastrous Break-Up.

The Christmas tree I decorated with Jackson stands there in all its garish glory, unapologetic and impossible to ignore – a constant sparkly reminder of happier times.

At intervals, Flo – who’s now been fully briefed on what happened – creeps in quietly, as if there’s an unexploded bomb beneath the floorboards, and brings me messages from Jackson, who has resorted to calling on the house phone. The gist of them seems to be: Are you coming to the Winter Ball? Or should I find someone else to go with me because I’m definitely not pitching up alone. Can you call me back?

Which is all very touching but something is stopping me from phoning him back. I suppose, deep down, I don’t think his gestures are grand enough. He must know how embarrassed and devastated I am after making such a plonker of myself at the show. And worse, having my proposal – however drunken it might have been – flatly turned down. If I’d turned Jackson down like that, I’d be jumping through hoops now to make things right. A few phone calls from him don’t really cut it.

The whole thing has also made me realise that Jackson has never felt about me the way I feel about him …

On the third day, I wake up feeling more positive.

Turning on my mobile, I decide that this time, when Jackson phones, I’ll actually pick up.

I’ve had lots of time to think, and with the benefit of hindsight, I’ve concluded that it was very foolish and unfair of me to put him on the spot like that, proposing marriage in front of millions of people. No wonder the poor man said no! He must have thought he’d hooked up with a woman who was more than slightly unhinged. Maybe he still thinks that. But it hasn’t stopped him phoning and trying to talk to me.

I stay in the house by the phone. Apart from wanting to be there when it rings, to be honest I’m a bit worried about venturing out after my infamous appearance on Saturday night TV. The story of my humiliation seems to have gone a little bit viral. I’ve spotted a fair few stories online – with pictures – detailing my hideous rejection on live TV and I know I shouldn’t read them, but I can’t seem to help myself. What if people recognise me as that sad, drunk woman whose boyfriend rejected her?