An Autumn Crush (43 page)

‘Ladies and gentlemen, get your arses outside for the fireworks!’ yelled Alberto.

He had lit patio heaters and strung fairylights outside in the chilly beer garden.

‘Stand well back, for frig’s sake!’ said Mrs Masserati, herding those members of the wedding party who had strayed past a chalked white line on the ground.

‘Wait, I need to throw my bouquet,’ said Juliet, turning around and tossing it high into the air. It sailed a good foot over Floz’s outstretched hand and landed straight into
Coco’s.

‘Oh my GOD!’ he joked. ‘Gid, you’ll have to marry me now.’

Gideon thought for a moment. Then he made Coco’s mouth drop to his shoes. ‘Okay. Why not? Bit more of a whirlwind than I’m used to in my life, but it feels right. Coco –
will you marry me? Really?’

Coco went into paroxysms of noisy glee until he was shocked into silence by the bang of the first firework. Steve had a feeling that Robber Johnny had got them from the IRA. The noise was
thunderous, the reverberations would have made the space station wobble in the sky. Someone had to go and get Aunt Clara’s heart pills out of her coat pocket. The men were in a state of
orgasmic delight.

Floz stood at the back of the crowd gazing into a sky that was suddenly flashing with coloured crackles and fizzles, the air full of that familiar end-of-autumn fire smoke. Jeff Leppard was
passing around sparklers and like big kids the wrestlers were attempting to write their names in the air with them. Everyone was standing in couples, arms round each other, or leaning on each
other, or holding hands. It was touching and warm, yet she felt as if she were stood in some cold lonely shadow at the edge.

Then she felt
him
behind her. She did not need to turn to know it was Guy.

‘Lovely but mad, aren’t they?’ he said. She didn’t know if he meant the guests or the fireworks, not that it mattered for the answer was the same for both.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Are you cold?’ He noticed her shivering.

‘A little.’

His arms closed around her, his breath was warm on her neck as he leaned over her and felt her delicious gasp of shock.

‘Dear Floz,’ he said, his cheek upon hers. ‘I think I’m in love with you.’

She twisted to face him. He saw the flicker of firework sparks reflected in her eyes.

‘Oh, Guy, I’m not the woman for you.’

He lifted up her hand and kissed the back of it. Her skin was scented with those dear, familiar strawberries.

‘I think you are every inch the woman for me,’ he said. ‘I don’t care if you can’t have children. Yes, I know about it, Floz. You’re all I want. Anything else
would be a bonus.’

He cupped her face in his big hands, lowered his head slowly and kissed her on the lips. His arms came around her and she felt like the perfect shape against him and he knew that all the
pictures he’d had in his head of her and Hallow’s Cottage and stupidly tall Christmas trees and that huge log fire were wonderful scenes waiting to happen.

‘Watch out, everyone, I’m lighting the “Big Bugger”,’ said Alberto.

The massive explosion went off with a defeaning
whoosh
. Everyone stood reverently still as the ‘Big Bugger’ rocketed moonward then it burst into a magnificent chrysanthemum of
rainbow fire, blossoming across the sky with a boom that was off the Richter scale. And still it couldn’t be heard above the fireworks going off in Floz Cherrydale’s and Guy
Miller’s hearts.

The
South Yorkshire Herald
, 7 November:

There are a few people I’d like to thank for helping me with this book.

Firstly the wonderful, funny, warm UK wrestling community – especially my mates ‘Tarzan Boy Darren’ Ward and Klondyke Kate, Sam ‘Dwight J Ingleburgh’ Betts, Ray
Robinson, Tony Kelly and the late greats: Gordon ‘Pedro the Gypsy’ Allen, Arthur ‘Butcher Goodman’ Betton, Herbert ‘Wilson Sheppard’ Craddock and George
‘Joe Williams’ Hubbard for inspiring this story – and giving me so many anecdotes. I just wish I could put them all into print, but I’d be arrested under the indecency
act.

To the fabulously friendly WWE, especially the lovely Heather Sanford, who arranges for me to cuddle huge wrestlers twice yearly, freeze-frame the moment in photographic form – and thus
thoroughly embarrass my sons Tez and George.

To my gorgeous agent Lizzy Kremer and everyone at Simon & Schuster who sorts me out and looks after me, especially my brilliant editors Suzanne Baboneau and Libby Yevtushenko and my
long-suffering publicist and friend Nigel Stoneman – all of whom are a constant source of support despite the fact I must drive them barmy.

To Joan ‘Eagle-Eye’ Deitch who works her magic on my manuscript and is my good luck charm.

To Jill Craven at our lovely library – a lady who never fails to shove my name out there and has no concept of the words ‘switching off from the job’. To all the Yorkshire
press who have been with me from the beginning and helped my career blossom – you’ve been smashing.

To the utterly delightful Daphne Butters who won the Supreme Cat competition to name the moggy in this book. What a pleasure it was to meet you.

To my ace family and friends who keep me on the right side of sane – and insane.

To my solicitor David Gordon at Atteys who answers all my obscure research questions with such grace.

To Jackson Taylor whose daft little idea about an autumn book didn’t half bear some fruit.

And to the fantastic greetings card companies who have given me a wage over the years and allowed me to afford school clothes, a roof over my head – and gin: Emotional Rescue, Wishing
Well, Quitting Hollywood, Carlton, Paperlink – and to the late Chris Douglas-Morris at Statics who started that enchanted ball rolling. The golden days of joke-writing were the best fun I
ever had.