Christmas Magic. Cathy Kelly

      I carefully inched my way out of a hundred and fifty quid’s worth of purple spider’s web and simmered. Why did my only sibling have to drive me insane every time she opened her mouth?

      Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I reached for my T-shirt, I remembered why. Because Chloë was gorgeous and I wasn’t. Because she had attractive men falling over themselves to take her out to dinner while my last date had been with a systems analyst named Humphrey who’d taken me to a sports club in Clapham and run out of cash after buying me two vodkas. And because at the age of twenty-seven I was sick and tired of being ‘the clever one’.

      Just a year apart in age, we were a million years apart in everything else. All through school, Chloë’d had endless boyfriends and everyone loved her. She’d actually been voted the most popular girl in the school in her last term. My claim to fame was winning the fifth-year physics prize, not an achievement guaranteed to make you a member of the cool gang. Chloë wasn’t just a member of the gang; she ran it. Despite that, I still wasn’t allowed in.

      Ten years after leaving school, it still rankled. The invitation to the reunion had seemed like the ideal chance to redress the balance, to prove to the old girls of St Agatha’s that I was different from the Sarah Powell of old: glamorous, successful, and chased by scores of men. Except that I wasn’t any of those things. Well, I was successful enough. I’d just been given a promotion – without the help of the Head of Marketing – and I’d saved up enough for the deposit on a flat of my own. But the ‘glamorous and chased by men’ bit was a non-starter. You couldn’t be glamorous with unruly long red curls, freckles and the build of an Olympic swimmer.

      I’d drafted Chloë in to help purchase the perfect outfit. If anyone knew how to wow the St Agatha’s Old Girls, it was Chloë. But that hadn’t exactly panned out either. I suppose you couldn’t expect a size-eight nymph to know what would suit a six-foot-tall Olympian with no discernible waist.

      We hurried along Old Brompton Road together. Me stomping along in my TV researcher’s uniform of black jeans, black leather jacket and white agnès b T-shirt. Chloë immaculate in a white Michael Kors trouser suit, killer stilettos and more MAC than Lady Gaga needed for a photo-shoot.

      I was too disheartened to talk but she chattered away like a canary on acid.

      There was a guy she liked from another PR company, she said, but she didn’t think he liked her.

      ‘Why not?’ I said, surprised. Men loved Chloë.

      ‘He just doesn’t, right?’ she snapped.

      ‘Fine,’ I said, although I didn’t think Chloë had ever met a man before who didn’t fall at her feet. She was obviously imagining it. He was probably shy. I was about to tell her to just chat to him, but I thought better of it. How could I give Chloë advice?

      We kept walking.

      ‘We’re organising the opening of the Jacob Kelian exhibition at Jo Jo’s on Friday night and everything’s been going wrong,’ she fretted, half-running to keep up with my long strides.

      ‘Who’s Jacob Kelian?’ I asked, wondering if he was that bloke I’d seen on TV who made sculptures out of old wine bottles. If it was the same guy, he’d go berserk with delight when he saw all the raw materials he could dredge up from the drinks cupboard at my place. We never got around to cleaning out the old bottles, and when we were manless – most of the time – myself and my flatmate, Susie, went through quite a lot of bottles of wine for our spritzers.

      ‘Honestly,’ huffed Chloë. ‘Don’t you ever read the arts pages? He’s only the hottest young artist around. He paints the most amazing nudes in oils.’

      ‘Oh,’ I muttered, keeping an eye out for taxis as I was now very late for work. ‘Sorry, never heard of him.’

      ‘He’s gorgeous, you know – Jacob. I met him yesterday. Real he-man stuff, American-football shoulders,’ Chloë said dreamily. ‘You can come along on Friday, if you want,’ she added off-handedly. ‘It’ll be fun.’

      Since my usual Friday-night plans involved watching TV or going out with Susie and our pals to the Duke’s Head, I accepted. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. And there were bound to be cocktail nibbly things to eat, so I wouldn’t have to cook that night. Although it did cross my mind that Chloë probably wanted me there so I could hand out the cocktail nibbly things.

      On Tuesday I left work early and hit the shops desperately hoping that the perfect reunion dress would leap out at me screaming Buy Me! Buy Me!

      Nothing leapt out, apart from a blue fleece jacket that would look great with jeans but would hardly cut the mustard in Brighton’s poshest restaurant among sixty Prada-clad high-fliers.

      Dejected and ravenous, I hiked over to Marks & Spencer’s food hall and proceeded to trawl the aisles for dinner. Forget the latest turn-into-a-nymph-in-a-week diet, I thought savagely, as I threw a brace of full-fat chocolate dessert things in my basket along with a tub of ice cream.

      The reunion’s on Saturday, my conscience reminded me, so I put it all back and took two low-cal mousses instead.

      ‘I can never make up my mind either,’ said a deep voice with a faint American twang. ‘I love the fatty stuff, but you’ve got to really work it off.’

      I wheeled around and found myself staring up – yes, up – at a dark-haired man in denim who was holding a shopping basket crammed with fruit. He was undeniably good-looking, with short, wavy hair brushed casually back, glittering black eyes and enough designer stubble to make him a dead ringer for the Diet Coke bloke. Broad-shouldered and lean in a grey marl sweatshirt worn with faded jeans, he was one of the few men I’d ever met who dwarfed me. He certainly looked like he worked out. All he needed was the Harley Davidson, I thought with a gulp, noticing the biker boots and the chunky diver’s watch on one massive tanned wrist.

      ‘I don’t usually do this, but I couldn’t help noticing you,’ he said, dark eyes appraising me coolly. ‘Would you like to go for a drink when you’ve picked up your groceries?’

      I stared at him the way you would stare at a strange, admittedly gorgeous man who’d just chatted you up in the supermarket. My mind raced. This had to be a joke. There was no way he was for real. Men like this went for beautiful girls like Chloë. They didn’t eye up women like me over the low-fat yogurts, even when I was wearing my favourite pinstripe stretchy trouser suit and had recently washed my hair.

      I peered around him, convinced I’d see someone from Reel People TV hiding behind the cheese, giggling hysterically at the idea of having set me up so marvellously. I couldn’t see anyone, but I knew they were there. It had to be Lottie’s idea; she loved practical jokes and had just started dating some American bloke. They’d probably spotted me coming into M&S and had decided to play a wicked trick. It wasn’t going to work.

      ‘Are you on a day release, by any chance?’ I asked, trying to sound supercilious. ‘Is this Care in the Community Week?’

      ‘No.’ He looked a bit surprised at this. One dark eyebrow went up in a look that was almost genuine. Probably an out-of-work actor, I thought. Lottie loved actors.

      I marched off towards the vegetables. Nobody was going to make a fool out of me. He followed.

      I picked up some celery and stuck it virtuously in my basket. Whoever he was, he wouldn’t be able to tell Lottie that I was a glutton who ate the wrong things. I dumped another packet of celery in for good measure. The fact that I didn’t like celery was immaterial. You could use it for Pimm’s, couldn’t you?

      ‘I didn’t mean to give you a shock, but I really would like to buy you a drink,’ he said, standing very close to me so that I could smell his aftershave, a musky scent I didn’t recognise.

      New York? I wondered. I’d never been very good at American accents. I’d rilly likta buy y’a drink. Great accent, great voice. Dark, rich and treacly. Great-looking guy. I sighed. Why couldn’t