Winter's Fairytale. Maxine Morrey

whipped my head around to face her. Thanks to the copious amount of alcohol now thinning my blood, it took the world a moment or two to catch up. I blinked, and waited a few seconds for it all to settle down. Mags pushed her own cute little nose to the side, as if to illustrate the point.

      ‘I couldn’t have! He’s an ex-army, six-foot-three rugby player and I’m…’ I paused to look down at my own far less statuesque frame, ‘…not. I didn’t even hit him that hard!’

      If I’m honest, I wasn’t entirely sure about the last bit. In the days following the incident, my hand, with its perfectly manicured nails, had turned a variety of shades, none of which were particularly attractive, as the whole thing became one massive bruise. And he had ended up on his bum.

      ‘Hard enough, it seems.’ Mags confirmed, a small smirk catching her lips.

      I saw it.

      ‘Stop it! It’s not funny.’

      Her smirk turned into a grin.

      ‘It’s not!’ I reiterated, ‘Anyway, how do you know?’

      ‘I saw him a few days ago. I was at Borough Market at lunchtime and he came into the pub with some colleagues.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘He was asking after you. He wanted to know if you were ok.’

      ‘Oh.’ I said again. ‘What did you tell him?’ I asked, after a couple more minutes.

      ‘I just said that you were doing ok, under the circumstances, and that you would be fine because you’re not about to let a lowlife piece of pond scum like Steven ruin your life.’

      ‘Right. Good. Ok. So long as you were subtle about it.’

      ‘Of course.’

      And the funny thing was, that actually was subtle for Mags. It was lucky that it had been Rob and not Steven she’d run into. We’d been there for every good, and every awful, moment in each other’s lives and her fury at seeing her best friend hurt was probably more than my own could ever be. If Steven appeared in her line of vision any time within the next few months, there was every chance a trip to the casualty department would be in his very immediate future. I was just entertaining that idea in my head when Mags broke into my thoughts.

      ‘I think he’d like to see you.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Rob.’

      ‘Me? Why?’ My hand suddenly flew to my mouth, ‘Oh my God! He’s going to sue me for breaking his nose!’

      Mags spurted out her wine over my kitchen table in laughter. ‘He does not want to sue you for breaking his nose!’

      ‘How do you know? Did he specifically say that? He is a lawyer! Why else would he want to see me?’

      ‘Izz, he specialises in company law, not ambulance chasing! Like I said, he’s just concerned as to how you are,’ she said, mopping up with a paper towel, ‘I think he feels some sort of odd sense of responsibility.’

      ‘Well, he shouldn’t.’

      ‘No, I told him that too.’

      ‘Good. Well, that’s that then.’

      ‘Excellent. Glad that’s settled. Is there any more wine?’

       Chapter Three

      The screen on my phone lit up for the third time in an hour. I glanced over, read the name and pressed ‘Ignore’. Again. The bride-to-be whose dress I was working on noticed.

      ‘Do you want to get that? It’s ok. I have plenty of time.’ She almost bounced as she said it, her excitement palpable.

      I loved this part of my job. I loved almost every bit of my job actually. It was one of the reasons I’d specialised in bridal wear after leaving Central St Martins, degree in hand. For the happiness, the joy and the excitement that came along with it all. Of course, there was the inevitable odd ‘Bridezilla’, but for the most part, the women that came in to my studio were wonderful and fun, and sometimes a little nervous, although the champagne I provided usually took care of that bit. I loved it. Even now.

      It had been over six months since my own non-wedding debacle and the pain, and even the anger, were fading more and more each day. I had come to the conclusion that I’d actually been prevented from making one of the biggest mistakes of my life. A full-on, humiliating and very public prevention, but a prevention all the same. It had, dare I say it, been a good thing. I’d even managed to sell my dress. Time really was a healer in this instance. I was moving on. It wasn’t like I was about to start dating again or anything drastic like that just yet, but I was getting through it and doing ok.

      I looked up at the bride, smiled, and shook my head, the mouthful of pins I was momentarily sporting a handy excuse for not giving a more informed answer.

      ‘I saw Rob again yesterday lunchtime. He said he’s tried calling you but you never answer your phone or reply to any of his texts.’

      ‘Well then, maybe he should take the hint. What does he even want anyway?’

      ‘I don’t know. Maybe you should answer the phone and find out.’ Mags smiled.

      I rolled my eyes.

      ‘Didn’t he say what he wanted when you saw him?’

      Mags shook her head and speared an olive from the antipasti platter in between us. ‘Nope. Just that he’d been trying to ring you.’

      ‘Did you tell him I don’t want to speak to him?’

      ‘I didn’t know if you’d been ignoring his calls on purpose or just genuinely missed them, so I didn’t like to say either way.’

      ‘Well, now you know for sure so feel free to pass on my wishes next time you bump into him.’

      I aimed my cocktail stick at the last remaining olive. It glanced off, causing the olive to fly from the table, ricochet off the lovey-dovey couple’s table next to us, and bounce three times on the floor before finally rolling to a stop at the feet of the restaurant owner. He looked down at the offending fruit, then at us, then back at the olive.

      ‘Oh my God, he’s coming over!’ Mags was now the colour of a beetroot from trying to stifle her laughter in the hushed restaurant. We normally plumped for the noise and bustle of Carluccio’s, but Mags had seen an offer for this one online and the price was too good to miss trying it out. Right now though, I was wishing we’d resisted.

      ‘Signorina.’

      I kicked Mags under the table and looked up at the man. ‘I’m so sorry, it just sort of flew off the plate!’

      He nodded. ‘Indeed. You would be surprised how much it happens.’ He smiled, gave a sweet little bow and left, gesturing to a waiter to clear away the escaped food. Moments later he was back, placing another full dish of olives down on the table, and removing the previous, now empty, bowl.

      ‘On the house.’ He did the little bow again, smiled at both of us, then turned and left.

      ‘Excellent! Well done Izz,’ Mags dived in and stabbed another unsuspecting olive. She glanced over at the owner and returned his smile before turning back to assess which olive was next. ‘I think you’ve pulled there!’ she stated, spearing her chosen subject.

      ‘But we could eat for free!’

      Mags was again putting forward her case for why I should call the Italian restaurant bloke, after he’d made a point of handing me a business card with his mobile number written on the back. She was right. There were definite benefits. And the guy seemed nice, and was certainly attractive. So what was the problem? Why didn’t I just go for it? Embrace the joys of being a single woman in the heady metropolis of London? Honestly,