Proposal At The Winter Ball (Harlequin Romance) Page 14

It wasn’t until he hit Russell Square that Alex realised just how far he had walked—and how far out of his way he was. He stood for a moment in the middle of the old Bloomsbury square wondering what to do. Head into a pub and drink himself into oblivion? Keep walking until he was so exhausted the pain in his legs outweighed the weight in his chest? Just sit here in the busy square and gradually decompose?

  Or run home, grab the car and head off to Kent. He’d be welcomed; he knew that. Flora would try her best to pretend everything was okay. But he didn’t belong there, not really. He didn’t belong anywhere or with anyone.

  So what would it be? Pub, walk or wither away in the middle of Bloomsbury? He leaned against a bench, unsure for the first time in a really long time which way he should go, looking around at the leafless trees and railings for inspiration when a brown sign caught his eye. Of course! The British Museum was just around the corner. He could while away the rest of the afternoon in there. Hide amongst the mummies and the ancient sculptures and pretend that it wasn’t Christmas Eve. Pretend he had somewhere to go, someone to care.

  Pretend he was worth something.

  His decision was made; only as he rounded the corner and hurried towards the huge gates shielding the classically inspired façade of the famous museum he was greeted, not by open gates and doors and a safe neutral place, but by iron bars and locks. The museum was closed.

  Alex let out a deep breath, one he hadn’t even known he was holding, gripping the wrought-iron bars as if he could push them apart. No sanctuary for him. Maybe it was a judgement. He wasn’t worthy, no rest for him.

  He stared at the steps, the carved pillars, the very shut doors. It was strange he hadn’t visited the museum in the eleven years he’d lived in London; after all, it was visiting this very building that had first triggered his interest in building design. The neoclassical façade built to house the ancient treasures within. He used to come here every summer with his grandmother.

  With his grandmother...

  When had that stopped? When had he stopped seeing her? Before he was ten, he was pretty sure. She took him out a couple of times his first year at prep school, had visited regularly before then, although he had never been allowed an overnight stay. And then? Nothing.

  No cards, no Christmas presents. Nothing. He hadn’t even thought to ask where she had gone—after all, his father had made it very clear that it was Alex who was the problem. Alex who was innately unlovable.

  But it wasn’t normal, was it? For a grandparent to disappear so completely from a child’s life? If she had blamed Alex for her daughter’s death then she wouldn’t have been around at all. And surely even his father would have told him if she had died.

  There was something missing, something rotten at the heart of him and he had to know what it was, had to fix it. Fix his friendship with Flora.

  Be worthy of her...

  He couldn’t ask his mother why she couldn’t love him, why she’d left him. He couldn’t expect any meaningful dialogue with his father. But maybe his grandmother had some answers. If he could find her.

  He had to find her. He couldn’t go on like this.

  * * *

  Christmas Eve was usually Flora’s favourite day of the year. All the anticipation, the air of secrecy and suppressed excitement. The rituals, unchanging and sacred. They were usually all home and unpacked by late afternoon before gathering together in the large sitting room to admire the tree and watch Christmas films. The last couple of years they had pretended that the films were to amuse the children—but the children usually got bored and wandered off leaving the adults rapt, enthralled by stories they had watched a hundred times before.

  Then a takeaway to spare Flora’s dad cooking for this one evening, before stockings were hung. Milk and carrots would be put out for the reindeers, home-made gingerbread and a snifter of brandy for Father Christmas himself and then the children were bundled off to bed. The last few years Minerva and Flora’s mother had stayed behind to babysit the children and put the last few touches to presents but the rest of the family would disappear off to the pub for a couple of hours, finishing off at Midnight Mass in the ancient village church.

  She loved every unchanging moment of it.

  But this year it would all be different.

  What if she had said yes? Right now she and Alex could be walking into the house hand in hand to congratulations, tears, champagne.

  But it would all have been a lie.

  Flora took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves as the car Alex had ordered for her rolled smoothly through the village towards the cottage her parents had bought over thirty years before, but her hands were trembling and her stomach tumbling with nervous anticipation. They must never know. Alex thought they would blame him but she knew better; they would blame her for driving him away.

  She needed some air, time to compose herself before the onslaught of her family. ‘This will be fine, thanks,’ she said to the driver as they reached the bottom of her lane. ‘I can walk from here.’

  Flora stood for a moment gulping in air before shrugging her weekend bag onto her back and picking up the shopping bags full of presents. The bags were heavy and her back was aching before she had got more than halfway down the lane but she welcomed the discomfort. It was her penance.

  The cottage stood alone at the end of the lane, a low-roofed half-timber, half-redbrick house surrounded by a wild-looking garden and fruit trees. Her father grew most of his own vegetables and herbs and kept noisy chickens in the back, although he was too soft-hearted to do more than collect their eggs.

  The house was lit up against the grey of a late December afternoon, smoke wafting from the chimney a welcome harbinger. All she wanted to do was curl up in front of the fire and mourn but instead Flora pinned a determined smile onto her face and pushed open the heavy oak front door.

  Game face on. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she called as the door swung open.

  ‘Flora!’ ‘Aunty Flora!’ ‘Darling.’ She was almost instantly enveloped in hugs and kisses, her coat removed, bags taken from her aching arms, drawn into the sitting room, a mince pie put into one hand, a cup of tea into the other as the chatter continued.

  ‘How was Austria? Did you see snow?’

  ‘Your scarf looked lovely in that picture. Congratulations, darling.’

  ‘We need to talk strategy.’ Minerva, of course. ‘Boxing Day you are mine. No running off.’

  ‘Nice journey back, darling?’

  And the inevitable: ‘Where’s Alex?’ ‘Didn’t Alex travel with you?’ ‘Did you leave Alex in Austria?’

  If she had come back to a quiet house. If it had just been Flora and her dad, she sitting at the wide kitchen counter while he bustled and tasted and stirred. Then she might have cracked. But the tree was in the corner of the room, decorated to within an inch of its life and blazing with light, her nieces were already at fever-pitch point and for once nobody was asking when she was going to get a real job/move out of that poky room/get a boyfriend/grow up.

  So she smiled and agreed that yes, the scarf looked lovely; yes, Minerva could have all the time she needed; yes, there was plenty of snow and guess what, she’d even been on a horse-drawn sleigh. And no, Alex wasn’t with her, he had been delayed but he should be with them tomorrow.

  And if she crossed her fingers at that last statement it wasn’t because she was lying. It was because she was hoping. Because now she was here she couldn’t imagine Christmas without him. She couldn’t imagine a life that didn’t have him in it.

  And even though she wished that he loved her the way that she loved him. And even though she would have given everything for his proposal to have come from his heart and not his head, she still wished he were here. Even if it was as friends. Because friends was still something special. Something to cherish.

  She needed to tell
him. Before he sealed himself away. Before he talked himself into utter isolation.

  ‘I’m just going to take my bags upstairs. No, it’s okay, thanks, Greg,’ she assured her brother-in-law. ‘I can manage. Besides...’ she looked mock sternly at her giggling nieces ‘... I don’t want any peeping.’ She kissed her still-chattering mother on the cheek and went back into the hallway to retrieve her bags and hoist them up the wide carpeted staircase that led to the first floor and then up the winding, painted wooden stairs to the attic. There were just two bedrooms up here, sharing a small shower room. To the left was Flora’s room, to the right a small box room they had converted into a room for Alex.

  His bedroom door was ajar and Flora couldn’t help peeking in as she turned. The bed had been made up with fresh linen and towels were piled onto the wicker chair in the corner. An old trunk lay at the foot of the bed—his old school trunk—a blanket laid across the top. A small bookshelf held some books but otherwise it was bare. Spartan. He had never allowed himself to be too at home here. Or anywhere. No wonder he was such an expert packer.

  Flora’s room was a stark contrast. It was more than twice the size of his with a wide dormer window as well as a skylight. Old toys, books and ornaments were still displayed on the shelves and on the white, scalloped dressing table and chest of drawers she had thought so sophisticated when she was twelve. Old posters of ponies and boy bands were stuck to her walls and a clutter of old scarves, old make-up and magazines gave the room a lived-in air.

  She dropped her bags thankfully in a corner of the room and pulled her phone out of her pocket. The message light flashed and Flora’s heart lurched with hope as she eagerly scanned it, but, although she had received at least a million emails urging her to buy her last-minute Christmas gifts Right Now, been promised the best rate to pay off her Christmas debts by several credit-card companies and a very good deal on sexual enhancement products, there was nothing at all from Alex.

  Swallowing back her disappointment, she stared thoughtfully at her screen. Call or text? Texting would be easier, give her a chance to phrase her words carefully. But maybe this shouldn’t be careful. It had to be from the heart. She pressed his number before she could talk herself out of it and listened to the dial tone, her heart hammering.

  She was so keyed up it didn’t register at first that the voice at the other end wasn’t Alex but his voicemail message. ‘Darn it,’ she muttered while his slightly constrained voice informed her that he wasn’t available right now but would get back to her as soon as he could.

  ‘Alex,’ she said quickly as soon as it beeped. ‘It’s me. Come home. Please? It’s not the same without you. We all miss you. We’ll be okay, I promise. Just come home. Come home for Christmas.’

  She clicked the hang-up icon and let the phone drop onto her bed. She had done all she could. It was up to him now.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HOW HE REMEMBERED the address, Alex had no idea. He must have written it on enough letters that somehow he had retained the information, lying dormant until his need unlocked it once again. It took less than an hour of research to ascertain that his grandmother was still alive and living in the same house. But as he drove along the leafy, prosperous-looking road it was all completely unfamiliar and doubts began to creep in.

  What if he had got the name and address wrong?

  Or worse, what if he had got them right and she didn’t want to see him?

  He pulled up outside a well-maintained-looking white house and killed the engine. What was he doing? It was Christmas Eve and he was about to drop in, unannounced, on a long-lost relative who probably didn’t want to see him. He must be crazy. Alex gripped the steering wheel and swore softly. But then he remembered Flora’s face as she walked away from him at the airport. Disappointed, defeated. If there was any way he could put things right, he would.

  And this might help.

  The house looked shut up. Every curtain was drawn and there was no sign of light or life anywhere. The driveway was so thickly gravelled that he couldn’t step quietly no matter how lightly he trod, and the crunch from each step echoed loudly, disturbing the eerie twilight silence. Any minute he expected a neighbour to accost him but there was no movement anywhere. It was like being in an alternative universe where he was the last soul standing.

  The door was a substantial wooden oval with an imposing brass door knocker. It was cold and heavy as he lifted it, making far more of a bang than he expected when he rapped it on the door. He stood listening to the echo disturb the absolute silence, shivering a little in the murky air.

  Alex shifted from foot to foot as he waited, straining to hear any movement in the house. He was just debating whether to try again or give up, half turning to walk away, when the door swung open.

  ‘Oh, you’re not the carol singers.’ He turned back, words of explanation ready on his tongue when he found himself staring into a pair of familiar green-grey eyes, eyes growing round, hope and shock mingled in their depths. ‘Alex? Is it really you?’

  * * *

  ‘You’re not watching the films?’ Flora’s dad looked up from the pastry he was expertly rolling out and smiled at her. ‘It’s The Muppet Christmas Carol.’

  ‘I know.’ Flora wandered over to the oak and marble counter where her father practised his recipes and slipped a finger into the bowl of fragrant home-made mincemeat, sucking the sweet, spicy mixture appreciatively. ‘Mmm, this is gorgeous. What’s the secret ingredient?’

  ‘Earl Grey and lemon.’ He nodded at her finger. ‘Dip that again and I’ll chop it off. I thought the Muppets were your favourite?’

  ‘They are.’ Flora slid onto a high stool and leaned forward, propping her chin in her hands as she watched her father work. The pastry was a perfect smooth square as he began to cut out the rounds. ‘Only I peeped in and Minerva, the twins and Greg are all curled up on the sofa. They looked so sweet I didn’t want to disturb them.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have minded.’

  ‘I know, but it’s not often I see Minerva so relaxed. She might have wanted to start talking marketing strategy or buzz creation and then the film would have been ruined for everyone.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’ Her mother bustled into the kitchen, her phone in her hand. ‘Great news, darling. Horry’s colleague wants to work Christmas, bad break-up apparently, so she’d rather work. Awful for her but it means Horry can come home this evening after all. Now we just need Alex and the whole family is together again.’

  Guilt punched Flora’s chest and she resisted the urge to look at her phone to see if he’d responded. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can.’

  ‘We’re all very excited about your scarves.’ Her mother filled the kettle and began to collect cups from the vast dresser that dominated the far wall. The kitchen used to be two rooms but they had been knocked into one and a glass-roofed extension added to make it a huge, airy, sun-filled space filled with gadgets, curios and the bits and bobs Flora’s dad couldn’t resist: painted bowls, salt and pepper pots, vintage jugs and a whole assortment of souvenirs. Saucepans hung from a rack on the ceiling, there were planted herbs on every window sill and the range cooker usually had something tasty baking, bubbling or roasting, filling the air with rich aromas.

  ‘It doesn’t seem quite real.’ Flora grimaced. ‘I’m sure Minerva will change that. She was hissing something about Gantt charts earlier.’

  ‘She’s right, you should take this seriously.’ Her mother added three teaspoons of tea to the large pot and topped it with the boiled water. No teabags or shortcuts in the Buckingham kitchen. ‘I don’t know why it’s taken you so long. It’s obvious you should have been focusing on this, not wasting your talents on that awful pub chain. Those disgusting neon lemons...’ She shuddered.

  Flora stared at her mother. ‘I thought you wanted me to have a steady job.’
She couldn’t keep the hurt out of her voice. ‘You’re always asking me when I’m going to settle down—in a job, a relationship, a place of my own.’

  ‘No,’ her mother contradicted as she passed Flora a cup of tea. Flora wrapped her hands around it, grateful for its warmth. ‘I wanted you to have direction. To know where you wanted to go. You always seemed so lost, Flora. Vet school to compete with the twins, interior design to fit in with Alex. I just wanted you to follow your own heart.’

  ‘It’s not always that easy though, is it? I mean, sometimes your heart can lead you astray.’ To Flora’s horror she could feel tears bubbling up. She swallowed hard, trying to hold back the threatening sob, ducking her head to hide her eyes. She should have known better. Nothing ever escaped Dr Jane Buckingham’s sharp eyes.

  ‘Flora?’ Her mother’s voice was gentle and that, combined with the gentle hug, pushed Flora over the edge she had been teetering on. It was almost a relief to let the tears flow, to let the sobs burst out, easing the painful pressure in her chest just a little. Her mother didn’t probe or ask any more, she just held Flora as she cried, rubbing her back and smoothing her hair off her wet cheeks.

  It was like being a child again. If only her mother could fix this. If only it were fixable.

  It took several minutes before the sobs quietened, the tears stopped and the hiccups subsided. Flora had been guided to the old but very comfortable chintzy sofa by the window, her tea handed to her along with yet another of her father’s mince pies. She curled up onto the cushions and stared out of the window at the pot-filled patio and the lawn beyond.

  ‘I won’t ask any awkward questions,’ her mother promised as she sat next to her. ‘But if you do want to talk we’re always here. You do know that, I hope, darling.’

  Flora nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. She didn’t often confide in her parents, not wanting to see the disappointed looks on their faces, not to feel that yet again she was a let-down compared to her high-flying siblings.