Читать книгу Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Sweater - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 13

And so it had come to pass, against all her better judgment, that Marco Cavelli was to be her unexpected houseguest for the next few weeks.

Maggie had half hoped that Ellen would object, and give her the perfect excuse to say no – but once her daughter had stopped laughing, she was all in favour of the idea.

“It’ll give you something to do,” she’d said, “other than drink gin and watch Christmas cooking shows. Last year’s obsession with goose fat still haunts me. Now you can drink gin and watch him instead. Invite Sian round, and those women from the park. It’ll be like a Chippendales’ party. I’m fine with it as long as he stays out of my stuff.”

Her dad, Paddy, had been just as annoyingly supportive.

“It’s the Christian thing to do, love,” he’d said, “a stranger in need and all that. Especially at this time of year. Beside, it’ll keep you busy, won’t it?”

Both responses had highlighted one very unpleasant fact to Maggie: that her nearest and dearest obviously saw her as a sad, lonely being floating through life with nothing to occupy her other than work and them. The even more unpleasant fact was that they might just be right.

She’d always been secretly proud of how she’d coped with the challenges life had thrown at her. Losing her mum when she was 14. Getting pregnant not that long after. Abandoning her hope to go to University when she chose to keep the baby. The trauma of the birth and the surgery that followed it. The long, sometimes difficult years that had come after.

She’d raised her child – who had, despite her acid tongue, turned out beautifully – and had managed to make a living from what had always been a hobby. She’d kept them fed and housed and happy – mostly all on her own. She’d learned to be independent and smart and strong, looking after her dad when he needed it and making sure Ellen had everything a girl could wish for.

But now the landscape of her life was changing. Paddy was well out of his dark days, the days when he viewed life through the bottom of a glass, and Ellen…well, Ellen was starting to create the landscape of her own life. Which was good – it was the way it was supposed to be; you raise a child well enough, confident enough, capable enough, and you get rewarded by seeing them fly the nest. It was the natural rhythm of life – but one that perhaps, Maggie had to acknowledge, she hadn’t been quite prepared for.

Caring for Marco might be ever so slightly terrifying – but it would indeed keep her busy.

Leah had finally left, having hustled and bustled her way through the house making sure everything was ‘just perfect’ – which mainly seemed to involve adding Christmas decorations, riding up and down on the recliner chair while making small excited noises, and stocking the fridge with Marco’s favourite beer. She’d headed back up to Scotland with Rob and Luca, full of promises to stay in touch, giving Maggie a massive hug on the doorstep before she disappeared off into the snow.

The snow that was still falling – coating the front garden like icing on a very large cake, where it remained, pure and untouched. Not so long ago Ellen would have been out there making snowballs and ambushing passing postmen. Now, she was out at the pub, saying a fond farewell to her super-posh boyfriend Jacob and drinking cider.

Maggie looked out of the window. Looked at her watch. Almost 6pm. He was due any minute, and she had no idea what she was going to do with him. The main living room was now kitted out for him to use, and a nurse was going to come every morning to help him with his ‘personal care’. Even the words made her blush, so she hadn’t pondered that one too closely. There was a TV, she had DVDs, and there was a downstairs loo – which he’d definitely need if he drank all that beer Leah had bought. The second living room – usually draped with fabric samples, patterns and bridal magazine cuttings – had been tidied and cleared so that Maggie had her own space to retreat to.

Upstairs – due to the annoying but convenient broken leg – would be completely out of bounds for Marco. Probably a good thing – the only man Maggie had ever lived with had been her own father, and Ellen had never lived with one at all. He’d probably faint at the sight of their hoards of undies, make-up, and never-put-away tampon boxes. There’d never been any need to man-proof that part of the house, and Maggie was glad there still wasn’t. She remained convinced that one puff of testosterone would result in the whole bathroom exploding.

A few minutes after six, a car drove up outside. It was one of those boxy van-type things, and Maggie knew it had been hired for her to use, to ferry Marco around if he needed it. Her own car – a little Fiat 500 – probably wasn’t big enough for him even without the broken leg.

She watched as a man in uniform walked to the back, and pulled out a folded wheelchair. He set it up, then walked round to the side of the van and slid the doors open. Marco immediately tried to stand up, using the frame of the car for support, and she looked on as the nurse told him off, insisting instead that he waited until he could help ease him into the chair.

Marco’s face as he did it was a picture of frustration and clenched anger. Maggie bit back a smile – looked like Rob was definitely right about one thing. He was indeed going to be a difficult patient.

She jumped off the window seat and ran round to the front door, opening it wide. Luckily there were no steps, it opened right out onto the path, and she stood there with chattering teeth as her new ward was wheeled towards her, the chair making parallel tracks in the snow as it moved.

He looked a lot better than the last time she saw him, which probably wouldn’t have been difficult. The tanned skin had regained its healthy glow; his poor face was starting to heal, and he was wearing loose-fitting sweat pants rather than a puke green hospital gown. His left leg was in plaster and propped upright, and he had a laptop case resting on his knees.

His eyes met hers as he was pushed up the pathway, and he gave her a little lopsided grin that added to the goosebumps. She had the sneaky feeling this man could be coated head to toe in plaster and still make her tummy feel odd.

The nurse came to a stop outside the door, his face creased with a massive frown. It had clearly been a fun ride from the hospital for both of them.

“So,” said Marco, looking up at her, “we meet again. Any chance of a beer? My grandma back here refused to stop on the way.”