The Perfect Christmas. Georgie Carter

I surface the rain is falling in earnest, big dollops that splat onto the soft suede of my coat and pool into large puddles. Soon my lovely shoes bleed pink dye everywhere and my feet look as though a vertically challenged vampire has popped in for lunch. By the time I arrive at the adult education centre my hair, so carefully straightened after my shower, is springing back into ringlets and my makeup is sliding down my cheeks.

      I think I should have stayed in bed.

      When I try to push open the door of the centre and discover that it’s locked, I know I should have stayed in bed.

      ‘Closed for lunch,’ I read, while the rain plasters my hair to my head and turns my dress into a damp rag. ‘Fan-flipping-tastic.’

      I back into a shop doorway in a feeble attempt to get some shelter – pointless really because I’m so wet now that you could wring me out – and decide to wait. The small shop sells the most amazing lingerie, all pink satins, peach ribbons and frothing cream lace. I stare at the pretty bras and French knickers like a Dickensian pauper staring at buns, and feel rather sorry for myself. These are exactly the sort of underwear that I used to hope Patrick would buy me one day. Not that it would have occurred to my ex to buy me underwear. For the last birthday that we were together he’d proudly presented me with a state-of-the-art food processor. What a sexless present! Was that really how little my fiancé knew me? In the kitchen I’m not so much Raymond Blanc as totally blank, but he said it would come in useful for pureeing baby food. I forced a smile to my face at the time but I remember thinking, baby food? I haven’t mastered plant food yet!

      I’m trying to mop up the water dripping down my neck when a man appears beside me and attempts to enter the building. It would be hard not to notice him because not only is he tall and ridiculously handsome with glossy dark hair and sapphire eyes, but he is hammering on the door so hard that the glass panes rattle.

      ‘It’s closed,’ I tell him, rather unhelpfully since he’s probably figured this out. ‘Lunchtime.’

      ‘What sort of place closes at lunchtime?’ growls the man, giving the door another bash. From the expensive cut of his suit and the Rolex on his wrist, he’s probably one of those city types who think lunch is for wimps.

      I must be a wimp because my tummy is growling. To cover the unladylike noises I say brightly, ‘I’m here to sign up for a course!’

      The man looks at me as though I’m insane. ‘It’s an adult education centre,’ he points out.

      ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I want to do swing dancing. I’m going to learn to jive – or I am if I ever get in to put my name down. I can’t wait to start. I love all that 1950s dancing. Apparently it’s brilliant exercise and really good for keeping fit and …’

      Normally I’m such an energetic talker that you could wire me to the National Grid and use me to power Britain, but the man is looking at me really strangely, his amazing blue eyes trained on my face in a powerful gaze, and my words peter away. Staring back at him, I’m shocked to find myself thinking how plump and kissable his lips are. He looks rather familiar too. Maybe we’ve met before. Is that why he’s staring at me? Or maybe this is what love at first sight feels like.

      Just my luck that I meet the most attractive man in months when I look as though I’ve swum here from Ladbroke Grove. In a novel he would be captivated by my soggy beauty and offer to shelter me under his raincoat rather than continuing to stare.

      Just as I turn to make a run for it his hand reaches out and brushes my arm. ‘You’re Robyn, aren’t you? Robyn Hood?’

      Oh. It wasn’t love at first sight. Just plain old small world.

      I nod, wracking my brains to place him.

      ‘We’ve met before,’ he continues, and now that he’s forgotten to be angry about the adult education centre he’s smiling, a cute dimple playing hide and seek in his cheek. ‘At the Harveys’ dinner party?’

      Good old Faye and her dinner parties.

      ‘And you remember my name, right?’ I sigh. It’s annoying when a random decision by your parents becomes your defining feature.

      ‘I remember you,’ says the man, his eyes warmer now and the lashes starry from the rain. ‘You’re the wedding planner who had to dash off to a comedy gig in the middle of the beef Wellington.’

      Those were the days.

      ‘I’m Jonathan Broadhead.’

      The memory is hazy but it’s coming back to me slowly. I met Jonathan at one of Faye’s dinner parties last March and we were thrown together because our partners were both absent. We’d chatted for a while and I’d told him about the wedding Hester and I were planning for a glamour model. The bride’s beloved Chihuahua was going to be the ring bearer and Hester had kindly designated me to be the trainer. Never in the history of pampered pooches had there been a more spoiled neurotic dog. Its snapping teeth put Jaws to shame and I lived in fear of losing my fingers every time I attempted to place the ring in the pink velvet pouch that hung on its diamanté collar. As for escaping, believe me, that dog was the Houdini of the canine world. By the time of the dinner party I’d chased the disobedient mutt so many times I could have taken on Ussain Bolt and won! Still, at least Faye’s guests had been entertained by my tales of woe and for at least five minutes the conversation had turned from house prices and au pairs. Gazing up at him I realise how much I must have loved Patrick and how focused I must have been on the wedding not to have been struck dumb by how incredibly handsome Jonathan is. He has the sort of face that makes you want to take a second look and then a third and maybe even a fourth.

      ‘You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?’ I recall. ‘You work with Simon.’

      He laughs. ‘That makes me sound really dull. I wish I’d dropped out of school and joined the circus.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Erin Brockovich’s life was pretty interesting.’

      ‘I’m no Erin Brockovich.’ He shakes his head seriously. ‘I look ridiculous in short skirts.’

      ‘Knee length is more your style,’ I nod, and then the ice is broken and we’re laughing.

      ‘Look,’ says Jonathan finally, ‘I don’t know about you but I think it might be a good idea to go inside until this rain stops. Pleasant as the view is,’ he inclines his head in the direction of the lingerie shop, ‘I don’t think that I can really follow you in there.’

      ‘Do you buy your fishnet stockings elsewhere then?’ I tease, liking the way that his eyes crinkle when he laughs.

      ‘I’m more M&S than S&M,’ Jonathan says. ‘Come on, let’s get in the warm somewhere, grab a coffee and dry out.’

      I’m trembling like a whippet, partly because I’m soaked right through to my knickers, and partly because I’m not in the habit of going for coffee with strangers, especially ones this attractive. I hardly know Jonathan Broadhead. It makes more sense to go home for a hot shower and try to sign up for swing dancing another day. But sometimes fate likes to pull a moonie at me and today is no exception. Just as I’m telling Jonathan that I’m going back to Ladbroke Grove, a lorry thunders past and showers us both with cold, dirty water. I splutter and the chilly rivulets trickle down my cheeks like tears. I certainly feel like sobbing because my lovely dress is wrecked. Beaten, I sway wearily on the pavement.

      ‘Right, that’s it,’ says Jonathan firmly, his hand steadying me. ‘I’m taking you to Starbucks to thaw you out. It was very brave of you to wear such a lovely summery dress in early May—’

      ‘I think you mean stupid rather than brave,’ I sigh.

      ‘You’re an optimist and that’s a great quality to have,’ Jonathan says warmly. ‘Now, Miss Hood, no arguments,’ he adds when I open my mouth to protest. ‘Simon will never forgive me if I let his best friend get hypothermia. Here, come under my coat and get out of the rain.’

      He’s offering to shelter me under