The Perfect Christmas

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Ten Top Tips On How To Create the Perfect Christmas

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_e96c4852-f704-5e25-94fa-d3c25cf8e737)

Christmas Day

Is it possible? Have I managed to sort my life out, after all?

Curling my fingers around a warm mug brimming with mulled wine, I gaze thoughtfully at the small cylindrical present in my lap. I can’t quite bring myself to open it yet.

Instead, I take my time and stare into the peaceful garden. Although it’s still early afternoon the sun is already fading from the sky and shadows are pooling across the neat gravel, intersected by the yellowy glow that spills from the French windows. Multi coloured fairy lights strung between the old peach tree and the trellis throw trembling jewelled beams into the twilight. A plump and very seasonal robin investigates the bird table hoping for scraps before vanishing into the scarlet-speckled holly bush. It’s the perfect Christmassy setting for what is – unexpectedly – turning out to be a perfect Christmas.

The occasional car passes in the street, driving to see relatives and loved ones, but not the steady hum of traffic this is so typical of London suburbs. Quiet. Peaceful. As Christmas should be.

‘I don’t like Brussels sprouts!’

I can hear Faye in the kitchen. She’s laughing.

‘Nobody likes Brussels sprouts!’ replies Simon. ‘But you have to eat them, by law. It’s not Christmas otherwise.’

My dearest friends Faye and Simon are cleaning up after Christmas dinner. Carols are playing in the background, the soothing time-honoured words interrupted only by the occasional pop of another champagne cork or the rattle of utensils.

What a contrast to last Christmas! I shake my head in disbelief at how totally and utterly twelve short months can alter your world. Last year I stood in this exact same spot but rather than my stomach turning in delicious cartwheels of anticipation, it was knotted with misery, and my throat was clotted with sadness. While my lovely friends did their best to cheer me, nothing could soothe the ache of loss or take away the bitter sting of regret.

Pat broke my heart. Could it be that it’s finally mended?

As I sip my drink, the riot of cinnamon, citrus and cloves dances across my taste buds and whizzes me back in time to last December with such speed I feel giddy. Same place, same friends, same drink – but a very different me … and one extra place setting at the table. Back then I had dabbed my eyes and blinked back the sadness before forcing myself to stitch on a smile and join in the festivities. This year excitement is fizzing through me like champagne bubbles and I feel like a child again as I can’t wait to open this present.

Last Christmas I’d made myself a stern promise that this year I would sort out my life. I’d make a list; no aspect was to be spared! I was taking a broom to every dusty cobwebby corner. My finances, my career and my love life were all going to be given a thorough makeover and made to shine. I’d be like Gok Wan – only without the control pants – and by this Christmas, I’d promised myself my life would be sorted. There would be light at the end of my tunnel – and this time it wouldn’t be a train!

And today, although I hardly dare believe it, it seems as though my Christmas promise is coming true …

‘Happy Christmas, Robyn,’ says Faye, joining me at the French doors and clinking her mug against mine.

‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ I say. ‘It’s a very happy Christmas.’

‘Any special reason why it’s such a happy Christmas?’ she asks with a raised eyebrow. ‘Anything you want to share with your best friend?’

I laugh. Faye is about as subtle as Wile E. Coyote tipping an Acme anvil onto the Road Runner.

‘Come on, Robs! Are you thinking about you know who in there?’

‘I was just thinking what a crazy year it’s been,’ I say, sidestepping the you know who comment.

‘I’ll say,’ Faye agrees.

Her blue eyes meet mine in the reflection of the glass door. I lean my head against her shoulder, soft in the palest cream cashmere.

‘You’re a dark horse keeping him to yourself. He’s gorgeous! How long have you two been an item?’

I laugh. ‘No comment.’

‘There’s so much chemistry I practically get an A-level just watching you both.’

My cheeks are possibly the same colour as my mulled wine. Faye’s right; the man who’s accompanied me to this Christmas party is great. In fact, he’s better than great. He’s funny, kind, thoughtful and every time I catch his eye my knees turn to melted butter. Lob into the mix a fit muscular body, merry dancing eyes and a sexy curly mouth and there he is – the perfect package.

Speaking of packages … I look down at the package in my hand. The paper is red with white reindeers and glittery stars, and the wrapping is … bad, like a two-year-old put it together. But it’s the thought that counts.