Читать книгу A Miracle on Hope Street: The most heartwarming Christmas romance of 2018! - Emma Heatherington, Emma Heatherington - Страница 10

‘This way Ms Ryans! Look this way please. Thank you, Ms Ryans.’

‘Ruth! Over here! Ruth!’

I flash my biggest smile, wave at the cameras as my plus one for the evening, George, puts his arm tightly around my shoulder (a bit much for a first date considering we only met in real life minutes ago) and we duck away from the camera flashes and light evening snow on Hope Street, through the cinema doors into the warm sticky heat and a sea of cheap champagne. Inside, tanned, perfect and perfumed bodies, huddle together with just enough room to pose for more photos and we see how many well-known faces we can spot as we revel in another fifteen minutes of fame.

‘Ruth, darling! You made it!’

Margo Taylor air-kisses me, admires my dress, swoons at my shoes, fondles my necklace and totally invades my space, but I don’t dare to even take a gracious step back from her overpowering ways and her wrinkly cold hands. I’m her prodigy, her discovery, her baby, her pride and joy. Without her I wouldn’t be where I am now and without me . . . let’s just say we know how important it is to suck up to each other, so I do the same back.

‘You look amazing as always, Margo.’

‘I should do,’ she cackles. ‘I’m bloody freezing in this weather but I’m wearing enough money to feed a small country. It’s all going back to the shops tomorrow, of course. The perks, eh?’

I nod and smile and laugh in all the right places. Margo Taylor is not to be messed with and I know that thousands of freelance writers like me would pay the price of a small country just to spend a moment in her company in a bid to further their career.

‘And this must be the handsome landscape gardener?’ she continues. ‘How lovely to meet you at last! Ruth has told me all about you and I have to say you are much more gorgeous than she ever mentioned.’

George looks away, embarrassed.

‘This is George,’ I correct her above the noise, giving her a look but she doesn’t as much as blush. ‘This is George Gallagher. He works in—’

‘Mischa, darling!’

And at that she is gone, leaving only a faint echo of her rasping voice in the suffocating heat of a hundred voices and I’m glad she left when she did as whatever it is that George does for a living, I can’t for the life of me remember. I think of my dad, a world away in his little room – and for the first time in my career, I feel slightly suffocated in this unfamiliar crowd of unimportance.

‘Sorry about that,’ I say to George who, to be fair, seems already over it as he ogles the scantily clad promo girl who serves us a drink. Her ‘outfit’, which I assume is meant to be a mermaid to fit in with the theme of tonight’s movie premiere, leaves very little to the imagination and I automatically pull in my tummy and straighten my shoulders, feeling frumpy in my little black dress which cost me a bloody fortune and looks like a bin liner in comparison.

‘I wrote to you once,’ whispers the little mermaid as I sip champagne from the glass she hands to me. ‘Man trouble, of course. Over it now, but I took your advice.’

‘Oh, really?’ I say in genuine surprise. ‘What did I tell you to do?’

‘Dump the bastard,’ she says, a little too loudly over the din and I see Margo crane her neck from her neighbouring company. The mermaid covers her mouth and laughs. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout!’

I burst out laughing and look at George who hasn’t heard a word as he still seems infatuated by her boobs and I remind myself not to invite him out with me ever again. Another one bites the dust.

‘You must be like a total expert in relationships!’ she gushes. ‘My mum reads you every week and she lives by your words and even quotes you sometimes. Swear.’

She crosses her voluptuous chest to emphasise her enthusiasm.

‘Wow, thank you,’ I say to her. I am genuinely touched, despite the irony in what she is saying. It’s so nice to get feedback from readers and it doesn’t happen very often.

‘Then my dad tells her to stop believing everything she reads in the paper, ’cos if you knew so much about relationships, he says, you’d have a proper one of your own.’

She covers her mouth like she has said too much, her hazel eyes wide in despair.

‘That’s okay,’ I whisper. ‘Your dad might just have a point.’

I grab another glass of champagne from her tray before she gets out of reach and off she disappears as George ogles her from behind. I’m going to need more than alcohol to get through this evening with outspoken mermaids and George with his roving eyes. I think of people like Oonagh the nurse, snuggled up on the sofa with her loved ones, and of my big empty house waiting for me on the little street I grew up on, filled with not much more than memories of days gone by, and of the mermaid’s father’s words that have hit a nerve. It’s true, I’m crap at relationships of all sorts. Crap. I just can’t do it. I can’t seem to let people outside of my tiny immediate family into my life too closely or for too long and it doesn’t take a genius or a psychologist to know why.

The crowd starts to shuffle towards the movie theatre and George and I follow suit, grabbing goody bags and free popcorn along the way. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I subtly move so that it falls off and I feel the champagne bubbles go to my head and wonder what day of the week it is. Tuesday, that’s right. Bingo night at my dad’s care home . . . I really hate to miss it and the guilt is eating me up inside. I wonder if anyone would even have noticed if I hadn’t shown up here at all. I should have said that my sister was in town and I needed some family time . . . anyhow, I’m here now. Live in the present, as my dad used to say, and never, ever take any of life for granted.

‘Are you having a good time?’ I ask George who really hasn’t spoken to me much since we got out of the taxi, despite his over-friendly hands. He is open-mouthed, looking like a starstruck schoolboy, which is a bit unimpressive for a man of his calibre. Surely he has been to a C-list celebrity event before where the guest list is made up of soap stars, ageing pop stars and the odd media face like me? I mean, it’s hardly Hollywood . . .

‘I didn’t realise that so many people know you!’ he says, wearing a very unattractive stupid grin now. ‘They all keep staring and whispering. It’s like you really are a celebrity or something.’

A celebrity or something?

Get me out of here. I should have known this wouldn’t work when he told me he’d arrived at my house thirty minutes early in a taxi and waited there for fear of being late and me cancelling on him. He must really like mermaid movies.

‘I’m just going to nip to the bathroom before the movie starts,’ I say to him, relieved that we are passing the Ladies for some momentary relief from his boring company.

I check my phone when I go inside, delighted to see two missed calls from my sister who is undoubtedly calling to fill me in on Dad’s latest little outburst of imagination or to tell me how bored she is at the care home and in wonder as to how I go there every day. I call her back quickly.

‘Two fat ladies, eighty eight!’ I joke when she answers her phone. ‘Don’t tell me! You won the jackpot!’

‘No, Ruth—’

‘Did Mable call a false win? I bet you love her as much as—’

‘Ruth! God, I have been trying to get through to you for ages!’ she says. ‘Did you not get my message?’

I glance at my phone screen but there’s nothing there. Mind you, the mobile reception looks dire in this place.

‘No, what’s wrong, Ally? Is something wrong?’

I fear by the tone of her voice that this isn’t a social call after all.

‘It’s Dad,’ says Ally, sounding terrified now. ‘Oh Ruth, it was awful. He was just sitting there and then he caught my eye and I knew he was in pain when I saw his face.’

‘What!’

‘Ruth, they think he’s had a heart attack and he’s on his way to hospital so we’re following the ambulance into town.’

‘But I was just with him today and—’

‘I’ll pick you up in ten, okay?’ she says. ‘Meet me outside the cinema. I’m going as fast as I can but it’s snowing pretty heavily now. Go outside and wait for me.’

My body shifts into autopilot and I stuff the phone into my handbag then leave the bright lights of the bathroom and push past the sheep-like crowds with my head down, ignoring hellos and whispers until I find George. I tell him I have to go, a home emergency. I urge him to stay and don’t wait for his reply.

Not my Dad. Please, no. Not my darling daddy.

I stop outside when I hit the cold and a flurry of snow. Shit, it’s cold.

Just as the weatherman forecast, it’s below freezing outside and my warm breath fills the air as I stand, shuffling from one leg onto the other, with my fake fur coat pulled up under my chin, trying to digest what I’ve just heard and what news might lie ahead when we get to the hospital. I knew I shouldn’t have come out tonight! Maybe if I’d stayed with him like I always did? Maybe he panicked over something and I wasn’t there to help?

The flashing cameras and the madness of the hubbub from before are gone now and I stand here alone on Hope Street, with only the flurry of snow against the yellowing street lights and the hum of Christmas carols in the distance for company as I wait for my sister. I close my eyes and try to keep calm, but I’m shaking all over from anxiety and guilt and the cold and I hope to God that Ally will just get here quickly.

‘Please hurry up,’ I mumble as I shuffle. ‘Please, Ally.’

Seconds feel like minutes, minutes feel like hours. That’s it, I can’t stand here any longer. It’s too cold and I’m too worried to wait so I take out my purse from my bag and decide to hail a cab, unable to wait even though I know she can’t be far. With a £20 note clutched in my freezing hand I reach out to try and get the attention of a passing driver but he whizzes by, oblivious to my desperation.

‘Stop! Stop, please stop! Please, I’m begging you!’

‘It is you, isn’t it? From the newspaper?’

I look around to see a man huddled on the pavement against the cinema wall in a thick maroon blanket calling me, his dark eyes just about visible under a woolly green hat and an overgrown fringe and beard. He sits on what looks like a damp sleeping bag and I wince at how cold he must be. Then the beep of a horn alerts me and when I look towards the street again, I see the beam of lights from Ally’s car at long last.

‘Thank you, God! Here,’ I say to the man, handing him the £20 I had taken out for the taxi and another I pull from my purse. ‘It’s not much, but find a warm meal somewhere. You must be freezing, poor thing.’

He takes the money and my hand brushes his red, ice-cold fingers and we lock eyes for a split second.

‘You got bad news?’ he asks and I realise that I’m crying, then I’m thrust back to reality and I rush away as Ally beeps the horn.

‘You’re an angel!’ he calls after me as I get in to my sister’s car. ‘God bless you tonight. Thank you! Thank you so much!’

I look back to see him examine the money in disbelief, and then he catches my eye with his smile as we drive away from Hope Street.

I really wish I could do more for him right now but I need to get to the hospital. I need to see my dad before it’s too late.

But when we get to the hospital, we are just that. Our darling daddy is gone forever.