Proposal At The Winter Ball (Harlequin Romance) Read online

  But she wasn’t sure she could carry this alone. Not any more.

  ‘Alex asked me to marry him.’

  She didn’t miss the exchange of glances between her parents. They didn’t look shocked, more saddened.

  ‘I wondered if it was Alex. You’ve always loved him so.’

  She had no secrets, it seemed, and there was no point in denying it. She nodded. ‘But he doesn’t love me. He thought marriage would be sensible. He said I would have financial stability and storage for my designs.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I mean, I didn’t expect sonnets but I didn’t think anyone would ever suggest storage as a reason for marriage.’ Flora was aware she sounded bitter. ‘How could I say yes? It would have been so wrong for both of us. Only now he’s not here and I miss him so much...’

  Her mother patted her knee. ‘Have I ever told you how your father and I met?’

  Flora stifled a sigh. Here it came, the patented Dr Jane Buckingham anecdote filled with advice. ‘You were flatmates,’ she muttered.

  ‘For a year,’ her father said, standing back to survey the trays of finished mince pies.

  ‘And then you went out for dinner and looked into each other’s eyes and the rest is history.’ Perfect couple with their perfect jobs and a perfect home and nearly perfect children. The story had been rehashed in a hundred interviews.

  ‘I think I fell in love with your mother the moment I saw her,’ her father said, a reminiscent tone in his voice. ‘But I didn’t think I was good enough for her. I was a hobby baker and trainee food journalist and there she was, a junior doctor. Brilliant, fierce, dedicated. I didn’t know what to say to her. So I didn’t really say anything at all.’

  Flora’s mother picked up the tale. ‘But when I came off shift—exhausted after sixty hours on my feet, malnourished after grabbing something from the hospital canteen—I would walk in and there would be something ready for me. No matter what time. A filo pie and roasted vegetables at two in the morning, piles of fluffy pancakes heaped with fruit at seven a.m. Freshly made bread and delicious salads at noon.’ A soft smile curved her mother’s lips. ‘Do you remember when I said I missed falafel and you made them? They weren’t readily available then,’ she told her daughter. ‘It was just a passing comment but I got home two days later to find freshly made falafel and home-made hummus in the fridge.’

  ‘You old romantic.’ Flora smiled over at her dad.

  ‘I still barely spoke to her,’ he admitted. ‘I didn’t know what to say. But I listened.’

  ‘And then on Valentine’s Day I came in, so tired I could barely drag myself in through the door, and waiting for me was the most beautiful breakfast. Home-made granola, eggs Benedict, little pastries. And I understood what he’d been telling me for the last year. Not with words but with food, with his actions. So I slept and then I took him out for dinner to say thank you. We got married six months later.’

  ‘If you want to be wooed with flowers and lovely words, then Alex is never going to be the man for you, Flora,’ her father added. ‘And maybe he really does think storage and stability is enough. But maybe those words mask something more. You need to dig a little deeper. See what’s really in his heart. A pancake isn’t always just a pancake.’

  Flora bit into the mince pie. The pastry was perfect, firm yet melting with a lemony tang, the filling spicy yet subtle. When it came to food her dad was always spot on. Maybe he was right here as well.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, but she couldn’t help checking her phone as she did so. Nor could she deny the sharp stab of disappointment when she saw that Alex hadn’t replied.

  Was her father right? Was Alex’s matter-of-fact proposal a cover for deeper feelings and if so would she be able to live with someone who would never be able to say what was in their heart? Live with the constant uncertainty? Flora sighed; maybe she was clutching at straws and there was no hidden meaning. Maybe storage was just that. The question was how willing was she to find out and what compromises was she willing to make?

  And if a practical marriage was the only way to keep him, then could she settle for that when the alternative was losing him for ever?

  * * *

  ‘That’s you and your mother. You must have been about eighteen months.’

  Alex stared at the photo, lovingly mounted in a leather book. It was one of several charting his mother’s brief life from a smiling baby to a wary-looking teen, a shy young bride to a proud mother.

  ‘She looks...’

  ‘Happy?’ his grandmother supplied. ‘She was, a lot of the time.’

  Alex struggled to marry this side of his mother with the few pieces of information his father had begrudgingly fed him. He put the album back onto the low wooden coffee table and stared around the room in search of help.

  Alex had never really known any of his grandparents but he had always imagined them in old, musty houses filled with cushions, lace tablecloths and hordes of silver-framed photos. The light, clean lines of his grandmother’s sitting room were as far from the dark rooms of his dreams as the slim woman opposite with her trendy pixie cut and jeans and jacket was from the grey-haired granny of his imagination.

  ‘My father said she cried all the time. That she hated being a mother, hated me. That’s why...’ he faltered. ‘That’s why she did what she did.’

  His grandmother closed her eyes briefly. ‘I should have tried harder, Alex. I should have fought for you. Your father made things so difficult. I was allowed a day here, a day there, no overnight stays or holidays and I was too scared to push in case he locked me out completely—but he did that anyway. In the end my letters were returned, my gifts sent back. He said it was too hard for you to be reminded of the past, that he wanted you to settle with your stepmother.’

  Letters, gifts? His father hadn’t just returned material items. He had made sure that Alex would never have a loving relationship with his family.

  His grandmother twisted her hands. ‘If I had tried harder then I could have made sure you knew about your mother. The colours she liked, her favourite books, the way she sang when she was happy. But most importantly I could have told you that she loved you. Because she did, very, very much. But she wasn’t well. She didn’t think she was a good enough mother, she worried about every little thing—every cry was a reminder that she was letting you down. Every tiny incident a reminder that she was failing you. In the end she convinced herself that you would be better off without her.’

  Alex blinked, heat burning his eyes. ‘She was wrong.’

  ‘I know. I should have made her get help.’ She closed her eyes and for a moment she looked much older, frailer, her face lined with grief. ‘But she was good at hiding her feelings and she was completely under your father’s control. He couldn’t admit that she wasn’t well; it didn’t fit with his vision of the perfect family. And so she got more adept at denying she was struggling but all the time she was sinking deeper and deeper. I knew something was wrong but every time I tried to talk to her she would back away. So I stopped trying, afraid that I would lose her. But I lost her anyway. And I lost you.’ Her voice faltered, still raw with grief all these years later.

  Alex swallowed. ‘Can you tell me about her now?’

  His grandmother blinked, her eyes shiny with tears, and glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Goodness, is that the time? My son—your uncle—will be collecting me soon. I always spend Christmas Eve at their house. You have three cousins, all younger than you, of course, but they will be so excited to meet you.’

  Christmas Eve, how could he have forgotten? ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think...’

  His grandmother carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I’m just going to ask him to collect me in the morning instead. You will stay for dinner? There’s a room if you want to spend the night. We have a lifetime of catching up to do
. Unless, there must be somewhere you need to be. A handsome boy like you. A wife?’ Her eyes flickered to his left hand. ‘A girlfriend?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There isn’t anyone.’ But as he spoke the words he knew they weren’t entirely true.

  Alex wasn’t sure how long his grandmother was gone. He was lost in the past, going through each album again, committing each photo to heart. His mother as a young girl on the beach, her graduation photos, her wedding pictures. There was a proud, proprietorial gleam in his father’s eyes that sent a shiver snaking down Alex’s spine. Love wasn’t meant to be selfish and destructive; he might not know much but he knew that. Surely it was supposed to be about support, putting the other person first. Shared goals.

  Pretty much what he had offered Flora.

  And yet it hadn’t been enough...

  His brooding thoughts were interrupted as his grandmother backed into the room holding a tray and Alex jumped to his feet to take it from her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘There’s not much, I’m afraid. I’m at your uncle’s until after New Year so rations are rather sparse.’ She directed him to the round table near the patio doors and Alex placed the tray onto it, carefully setting out the bowls of piping-hot soup and the plates heaped with crackers, cheese and apples.

  ‘It looks perfect. Thank you for rearranging your plans. You really didn’t have to.’

  ‘I wanted to. Everything’s arranged and your uncle has asked me to let you know that you are welcome to come too tomorrow—or at any point over the holidays. For an hour or a night or the whole week. Whatever you need. There’s no need to call ahead, please. If you want to come just turn up, I’ll make sure you have the address. Now sit down, do. I tend to eat in here—I don’t like eating in the kitchen and sitting in sole state in the dining room would be far too lonely. I rarely use it now.’ She sighed. ‘This house is far too big but it’s so crammed with memories—of my husband, of your mother—that I hate the idea of leaving.’

  ‘When did my grandfather die?’ Another family member he would never know.

  ‘When your mother was eighteen. It hit her very hard. She was a real daddy’s girl. I sometimes think that’s why she fell for your father. He was so certain of everything and she was still so vulnerable. Your grandfather’s death had ripped our family apart and we were all alone in our grief. I still miss him every day. He was my best friend. He made every day an adventure.’

  The soup was excellent, thick, spicy and warming, but Alex was hardly aware of it. Best friends? So it could work.

  ‘That’s the nicest epitaph I ever heard. He must have been an amazing man.’

  How would Alex be remembered after he died? Hopefully as a talented and successful architect. But was that enough?

  No. It wasn’t. He wanted someone to have that same wistful look in their eye. That same mingled grief, nostalgia, affection and humour. No. He didn’t want just someone to remember him that way.

  He wanted Flora to. He wanted every day to be an adventure with his best friend. Not because it was safe and made sense. No. Because he loved her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FLORA WOKE WITH a start, rolling over to check her phone automatically. Five a.m. and still no answer from Alex.

  She rolled onto her back and stared at the luminous green stars still stuck to her ceiling. It had been a typical Christmas Eve; Horry had turned up during dinner, ready to hoover up all the left-over rice, pakoras and dahl, and then Greg had insisted on babysitting so that Minerva and Flora’s mother could join the rest of their family for a couple of drinks before they all trooped to the ancient Norman church for the short and moving celebration of Midnight Mass. It wasn’t often they were all together like this, but it just made Alex’s absence all the more achingly obvious. Flora had tried not to spend the whole evening checking her phone. She had failed miserably, barely taking part in the conversation and mouthing her way through the carols.

  Still no word. She just needed to know he was okay.

  No, she was kidding herself. She wasn’t that altruistic. She wanted to know, to look deeper, to see if somewhere, deep inside, he cared for her the way she so desperately wanted him to.

  And if not to ask herself if that was all right. If all he was capable of offering was friendship mixed with passion, then should she agree to marry him anyway—because she would still be with him? Was it settling or being pragmatic? Selling herself short or grabbing the opportunity with both hands?

  Although it was rather moot; having said no once, she wasn’t sure how to let him know if she did change her mind. It wasn’t exactly something you could drop into conversation.

  Flora turned her pillow over, plumping it back up with a little more force than was strictly necessary, and attempted to snuggle back down; but it was no use. She was wide awake. Not the pleasurable anticipatory tingle of a Christmas morning but the creeping dread that nothing would ever be the same again.

  Well, she could lie here and brood or she could get up, make coffee and make a plan. She reached for her phone again and the sudden light illuminated her room and the bags of presents still piled in the corner. It was an unwritten law that all presents had to be snuck under the Christmas tree without the knowledge of anyone else in the household. Flora and Alex usually spent most of the early hours trying to catch the other out—a heady few hours of ambush, traps and whispered giggles because it was also a sternly enforced law that nobody could get up before seven a.m., the edict a hangover from her childhood.

  She swung her legs out of the bed, feeling for her slippers in the dark and shrugging on the old vintage velvet dressing gown Alex had bought her for her sixteenth birthday, before padding quietly across the room to retrieve the bags. The house was in darkness and, not wanting to wake anyone else up, she switched on the torch on her phone to help guide her down the windy stairs. Alex’s door was still ajar, the empty room dark.

  Her bags were bulky and it was all Flora could do to get them quietly along the landing and down the main stairs. Every rustle of paper, every muffled bang as the bag hit the bannister made her freeze in place, but finally she stepped over the creaky last step and into the hallway. Not for the first time she cursed her mother’s decision to furnish the wide hall as a second sitting area. Not only did she have to dodge the hat stand, umbrella stand and the hall table, but she also had to weave around a bookcase and a couple of wing-backed chairs before she reached the safety of the sitting-room door.

  Flora froze, her hand on the handle as she clocked the faint light seeping under the door? Another early riser? She could have sworn she had heard all her family make their stealthy present-laying trips soon after she had gone to bed, and it was far too quiet to be either of her nieces.

  One of them had probably left the light on, that was all. She turned the handle and nudged the door open with her hip as she lugged the two bags into the room, turning to place them next to the tree...

  Only to jump back when she saw a shadowy figure already kneeling under the tree. Grey with tiredness, hair rumpled and still in the clothes she had seen him in yesterday morning, on his knees as he added his own gifts to the pleasingly huge pile. ‘Alex?’

  He rocked back onto his heels. ‘Merry Christmas, Flora.’

  Her throat swelled and she swallowed hard, so many things to say and she had no idea which one to start with. ‘You’re here?’ Great, start with the blindingly obvious. ‘I tried calling...’

  ‘I know. I got your message, thank you.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘That’s a long story.’ He nodded at the bags lying forgotten at her feet. ‘Shall I pretend I haven’t seen those and go and put some coffee on?’

  She blinked, trying to clear her head, take in that he was actually here, that he had come home. ‘Yes. Coffee. Thanks.’

  The corners of his mouth q
uirked up in a brief smile. ‘Good. I could kill for one of your dad’s mince pies as well.’

  Normally Flora took her time placing her gifts, making sure they were spread out, tucked away, but right now she didn’t care, chucking them onto the pile haphazardly with no care for the aesthetic effect. She switched off the lamps and sidled out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her before turning into the kitchen.

  The scent of coffee was as welcome as the sight of Alex. Really here, reassuringly here, leaning against the counter, a mince pie in one hand, a mug in the other. ‘Nothing says Christmas like your dad’s baking.’

  ‘That was the title of his last interview.’ Flora leaned over and stole a crumb off his plate. ‘It’s good to see you, Alex.’ It didn’t feel like less than twenty-four hours since they had parted; it felt like a lifetime.

  ‘I’m sorry I just took off but I needed some time, some space. I took your advice. I looked up my mother’s family.’

  Whatever Flora had been expecting, it wasn’t this. ‘You did? I thought you didn’t know where they were?’

  ‘I didn’t. Only since you mentioned them the idea was niggling away at the back of my mind. You were right, there had to be someone out there. And then I remembered, when I was a little boy I used to see my grandmother sometimes—and I wrote to her a lot. I remembered enough of her address to be able to track her down.’

  ‘What it is to have a photographic memory.’

  ‘Turns out it comes in useful.’

  ‘So.’ Flora felt unaccountably shy. ‘What was she like? Did you meet her?’

  To her surprise Alex laughed. ‘Nothing like I expected, very chic, rather cool and very lovely. You’ll like her, Flora. And it was as if all the missing pieces just slotted together. She had answers and photos and she knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  His voice broke. ‘That my mother loved me. She didn’t kill herself because she hated me. She killed herself because she thought she was letting me down. It was her illness that was to blame, not me.’