The Perfect Christmas. Georgie Carter

should know how hard marriage really is. My parents have hardly set the best example.’

      My parents’ marriage survived for about six years and I can’t remember the last time they had a civil word to say to each other. I try not to focus on this, concentrating instead on creating perfect wedding days for other people. At least I can get that right. The happily-ever-after bit I leave to my clients. I can’t believe that I still well up like this at the idea of true love because I’ve experienced all kinds of emotions since Pat and I split up, seesawing wildly from total disillusionment to a fervent optimism that true love can still overcome all.

      So long as there are no comedy circuit groupies around, obviously.

      Blast. Sometimes disillusionment wins.

      ‘Introspection over,’ I inform Si, who expresses his relief. ‘My pragmatic head is now firmly back in place and … oh God,’ I add, my heart sinking when I see who is coming my way. ‘Not a minute too soon either. I’ll call you back, Si.’

      So much for my cunning hiding place.

      It’s Patrick. And he’s making a beeline for me.

      Here we go.

       CHAPTER TWO

      My ex-fiancé is looking ridiculously handsome in his morning suit. The thick chestnut curls, which I used to love threading my fingers through, are longer than I remember, but the lopsided smile and twinkling eyes haven’t changed one bit. He broke my heart and totally humiliated me. I will not still find him attractive.

      I take a deep breath and prepare myself for a game of social chess.

      Snapping the phone shut, I paste a bright ‘I’m fine’ smile onto my face. No girl wants her ex to see her teary-eyed at a wedding. Patrick would be bound to think I’m blubbing over him and, let’s be honest, he’s certainly given me enough cause to cry in the past.

      ‘Hello, Robyn,’ smiles Patrick, his peat brown eyes twinkling. ‘You’re looking lovely, so you are. How’s it going?’

      Patrick is a born flirt. He probably drew his first breath and then started chatting up the midwife. With his dark good looks, razor-sharp wit and that Irish blarney, he’s pretty irresistible. Or so he thinks. Believe me, I’m resisting these days.

      ‘Fine, thanks.’ My smile is so forced it feels as though my skin is going to rip. I don’t love Patrick any more but I’m not sure if I’m over him, and I’m a long way off from forgiving him. That’s what the Christmas wish list is all about.

      Faye says that I have issues to resolve. Simon says that Pat’s a tosser.

      No prizes for guessing that I’m with Si on this one.

      ‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ he continues, loosening his tie and raising an eyebrow Roger Moore style. The suave effect of the gesture rather is ruined because I know he practises it in the mirror. ‘Have you been away?’

      Patrick may not have seen me for several months but unfortunately I’ve been seeing an awful lot of him and so has the rest of Britain. I haven’t encountered him in the flesh but there’s no escaping Patrick on the telly. Judging by the expensive haircut and the perfectly manicured nails, Patrick McNicolas has come a long way from the impoverished stand-up comedian/bookshop assistant that I used to know. His agent must have made a pact with Satan or something because now Pat has a lead part in the cult BBC 3 cooking sitcom Nosh! and regularly appears to make smart-alec comments on shows like Have I Got News for You. He’s also started to feature in the tabloids for his exploits out and about with other celebrities, while kids the length and breadth of Britain are driving their parents insane with his catchphrase ‘Jaysus!’

      It’s a catchphrase I feel like uttering right now as I face my wedding-wrecking ex-fiancé and try to hold back from punching him on the nose.

      Maybe Faye has a point about issues.

      ‘I’m fine, thanks, Pat,’ I say, delighted that my voice is calm and low. ‘I’ve been really busy with the wedding planning business. It’s doing OK. More than OK, actually.’

      If the mention of weddings embarrasses Pat then he does a good job of hiding it. Instead he nods approvingly and helps himself to a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.

      ‘Adam said that this was one of your dos.’ Pat glances around the room before turning the charm back onto me, his eyes lazily sweeping my body in that old familiar way. ‘It looks amazing, Robs. And so do you. I love that dress. Very, very sexy.’

      ‘Thank you,’ I say.

      Is there anything more awkward than trying to make small talk with a man who once had you in positions that yoga teachers baulk at? Fortunately I’ve been anticipating this encounter ever since I noticed that Patrick was on the guest list, and I’ve had weeks to psych myself up for it. I’m determined to look gorgeous and be every bit the successful business woman. I don’t want Patrick back, but there’s no harm in showing him exactly what he’s missing, is there? And I know that I’m looking good today. My vintage 1950s prom-style dress nips my waist in to a hand’s span and flares out over my hips, the black netting underneath holding the skirt out ballerina style and drawing attention to my legs, which are actually looking slender as they taper into delicate strappy sandals. The bodice of the dress is strapless and boned and pushes up my boobs in a frankly amazing manner, and it’s all topped off with a cashmere shrug which magically hides my upper arms. Wow! I must patent these optical illusions.

      ‘Is there a Merry Man with you, Miss Hood?’ asks Patrick. He always did love to play on the fact that my name is Robyn Hood. Yes, that’s right, as in green tights, Sherwood Forest and the Sheriff of Nottingham. School was a right barrel of laughs, saddled with this moniker. Another thing to thank Mum and Dad for.

      ‘I’m working, Pat,’ I point out coolly. ‘I’m not here to socialise.’

      ‘Jo’s with me,’ continues Pat, gesturing towards the redhead who is hovering by the stack of pink iced fairy cakes.

      My mouth drops open.

      ‘Jo?’ I parrot. ‘That’s the Jo?’

      Pat nods. ‘You must remember Jo, Robs?’

      Duh. Of course I do. Only Pat could be this tactless. Thank God I don’t have an open wound; he’d be shovelling salt into it by now. ‘She was worried about introducing herself; worried about your reaction,’ he continues. ‘I told her not to be a sissy, that everything between us is fine now, but she still isn’t sure. Come and say hello.’

      Patrick has all the sensitivity of a bull rampaging through the china department of Liberty’s. Since Jo is the Comedy Store groupie that he was shagging behind my back, presumably while the ink was drying on our wedding invitations, it wouldn’t take Einstein to suss out that we are not destined to be best friends. Does the man really have such little self-awareness? I refrain from throttling him since that would ruin the whole ‘over him by Christmas’ thing. Part of me wishes that he was on his knees pleading for a second chance just so that I could have the pleasure of turning him down.

      Hmm. In my dreams. If Pat had groupies before he was famous then I dread to imagine what it’s like now. He hardly needs to beg girls to be with him. I stare at Jo, who looks so pale and worried, and feel nothing but relief that I’m not in her Jimmy Choos.

      ‘Sure,’ I say airily, even though just thinking about the engagement-wrecking woman makes me feel as though crocodiles are having a good old munch on my intestines. ‘Why not?’

      Patrick drains his champagne and leads me towards Jo. Her pale skin blanches as we approach, and I wonder quite what Pat has told her about me.

      ‘Hi, Jo.’ I hold out my hand. ‘Good to meet you. Finally.’

      ‘Robyn, hi.’ Jo’s green eyes can hardly bear to meet mine and instead she seems to find