Her Christmas Fantasy & The Winter Bride (13 page)

‘Make sure you have something to eat,' he urged her as they reached the train. ‘It will be a long journey and…'

And she wouldn't be spending it eating, Lisa thought as he went on talking. Nor would she be doing anything more than flipping through the expensive magazines he had bought her. No, what she would be doing would be trying to hold back the tears and wishing that she were with him, thinking about him, reliving every single moment they had spent together…

A family—mother, father, three small children—paused to turn round and hug the grandparents; the smallest of them, a fair-haired little boy, clung to his grandmother, telling her, ‘I don't want to go, Nana… Why can't you come home with us…?'

‘I have to stay here and look after Grandpa,' his grand
mother told him, but Lisa could hear the emotion in her voice and see the tears she was trying not to let him see.

Why did loving someone always seem to have to cause so much pain?

‘Oh, to be his age and young enough to show what you're feeling,' Oliver murmured under his breath.

‘It wouldn't make any difference if I did beg you to come home with me,' Lisa pointed out, trying to sound light-hearted but horribly aware that he must be able to hear the emotion in her voice. ‘You'd still have to go to New York. We'd still have to be apart…'

‘Yes, but I… At least I'd know that you want me.'

It was too much. What was the point in being sensible and listening to the voice of caution when all she really wanted to do was to be with him, to be held in his arms, to tell him that she loved and wanted him and that all she wanted—all she would ever want or need—was to be loved by him?

He was looking at her…watching…waiting almost.

‘Oliver…' She wanted so desperately to tell him how she felt, to hear him tell her that he understood her vulnerability and that he understood all the things she hadn't been able to bring herself to say, but the guard was already starting to close the carriage doors, advancing towards them, asking her frowningly, ‘Are you travelling, miss, because if so…?'

‘Yes… Yes…'

‘You'd better get on,' Oliver advised her.

She didn't want to go. She didn't want to leave him. Lisa could feel herself starting to panic, wanting to cling to him, wanting him to hold her…reassure her, but he was already starting to move away from her, lifting her case onto the train for her, bending his head to kiss her fiercely but far, far too briefly.

She had no alternative. She had to go.

Numbly Lisa stepped up into the train. The guard slammed
the door. She let down the window but the train was already starting to move.

‘Oliver. Oliver, I love you…'

Had he heard her, or had the train already moved too far away? She could still see him…watching her…just.

 

Oliver waited until the train had completely disappeared before turning to leave, even though Lisa had long since gone from view. If only he didn't have these damned negotiations to conclude in New York. He wanted to be with Lisa, wanted to find a way to convince her.

Of what…? That she loved him?

 

Lisa pushed open the door of her flat and removed the pile of mail which had accumulated behind it. Despite the central heating, the flat felt cold and empty, but then that was perhaps because
she
felt cold and empty, Lisa recognised wryly—cold without Oliver's warmth beside her and empty without him…his love.

In her sitting room the invitation she had received from her friend Alison before Christmas to her annual New Year's Eve party was still propped up on the mantelpiece, reminding her that she would have to ring Alison and cancel her acceptance. The telephone started to ring, breaking into the silence. Her heart thumping, she picked up the receiver.

‘You got home safely, then.'

‘Oliver.'

Suddenly she was smiling. Suddenly the world was a warmer, brighter, happier place.

‘Lisa, I've been thinking about what you said about us not rushing into things…about taking our time…'

Something about the sombreness in his voice checked the happiness bubbling up inside her, turning the warmth at hearing his voice to icy foreboding.

‘Oliver…'

Lisa wanted to tell him how much she was missing him, how much she loved him, but suddenly she wasn't sure if that was what he wanted to hear.

‘Look, Lisa, I've got to go. They've just made the last call for my flight…' The phone line went dead.

Silently she replaced the receiver. Had it really only been this morning that he had held her in his arms and told her how much he loved her? Suddenly, frighteningly, it was hard to believe that that was true. It seemed like another world, another lifetime, already in the past…over…as ephemeral as the fleeting magic of Christmas itself.

‘No…it's not true,' she whispered painfully under her breath. ‘He loves me; he said so.' But somehow her reassurance lacked conviction.

Even though she had been the one to insist that it was too soon for them to make a public commitment to one another, that they both needed time, she wished passionately now that Oliver had overruled her, that he had confirmed the power and strength of his love for her. How? By refusing to let her leave him?

What was the matter with her? Lisa asked herself impatiently. Could she really be so illogical, saying one thing, wanting another, torn between her emotions and her intelligence, unable to harmonise the two, keeping them in separate compartments in much the same way as Oliver had accused her of doing with sex and marriage?

Had she after all any real right to feel chagrined at the sense of urgency, almost of impatience in his voice as he had ended his brief call? She had, she admitted, during the last few days grown accustomed to being the sole focus of his attention, and now, when it was plain that he had something else on his mind…

She frowned, aware that instead of feeling relief when he
had told her that he agreed that they did need time to think things over she had actually felt—
still
felt—hurt and afraid, abandoned, vulnerably aware that he might be having second thoughts about his feelings for her.

How ironic if he had—especially since she had spent almost the entire journey home dwelling on the intensity of her own feelings and allowing herself to believe…

It would only be a few days before they were together again, she reminded herself firmly. Oliver had promised that he would be back for the New Year and that they would spend it together. There would be plenty of time for them to talk, for her to tell him how much she loved and missed him.

Even so… Sternly she made herself pick up her case and carry it through to her bedroom to unpack. A small, tender smile curled her mouth as she picked up the stocking that she had so carefully packed—the stocking that Oliver had left for her to find on Christmas morning.

There were other sentimental mementoes as well—a small box full of pine needles off the tree, still carrying its rich scent, the baubles that Oliver had removed from it and hung teasingly on her ears one night after dinner, a cracker that they had pulled together… She touched each and every one of them gently.

Through what he had done for her to make her Christmas so special Oliver had revealed a tender, compassionate, emotional side to his nature that made it impossible for her not to love him, not to respond to the love he had shown her.
Had
shown her?

Stop it, she warned herself. Stop creating problems that don't exist. Determinedly, she started to unpack the rest of her things.

I
T WAS
N
EW
Y
EAR'S
E
VE
and almost three o'clock in the afternoon, and still Oliver hadn't rung. Lisa glared at the silent telephone, mentally willing it to ring. She had been awake since six o'clock in the morning and gradually, as the hours had ticked by, her elation and excitement had changed to edgy apprehension.

Where
was
Oliver?
Why
hadn't he been in touch? Was he just going to arrive at her door without any warning so that he could surprise her, instead of telephoning beforehand as she had anticipated?

Nervously she smoothed down the skirt of her dress and just managed to restrain herself from checking her reflection in the mirror for the umpteenth time.

She had spent most of her free time the previous day cleaning the flat and shopping for tonight. The lilies she had bought with such excitement and pleasure were now beginning to overpower her slightly with their scent. The champagne waiting in the fridge was surely chilled to perfection; the special meal she had cooked last night now only required reheating. Oliver might be planning to take her out somewhere for dinner, but the last thing she wanted was to have to share him with anyone else.

And even if she had dressed elegantly enough to dine at the most exclusive restaurant in town and her hair was immaculately shiny, her make-up subtly enhancing her features, it was not to win the approval of the public at large that she had
taken such pains with her appearance, or donned the sheer, silky stockings, or bought that outrageously expensive and far too frothily impractical new silk underwear. Oh, no! Where
was
Oliver? Why hadn't he been in touch? The small dining table which was all her flat could accommodate was lovingly polished and set with her small collection of good silver and crystal—unlike Oliver's grandparents she did not possess a matching set of a dozen of anything, and her parents, peripatetic gypsy souls that they were, would have laughed at the very idea of burdening themselves with such possessions.

However, through her work Lisa had developed a very good eye for a bargain, and the small pieces that she had lovingly collected over the years betrayed, she knew, the side of her nature that secretly would have enjoyed nothing better than using her dormant housewifely talents to garner a good old-fashioned bridal bottom drawer.

To help pass the time she tried to imagine Oliver's eventual arrival, her heartbeat starting to pick up and then race as she visualised herself opening the door to him and seeing him standing there, reaching out for her, holding her, telling her how much he had missed her and loved her.

Oliver, where are you? Where are you…?

Almost on cue the telephone started to ring—so much on cue in fact that for several seconds Lisa could only stand and listen to the shrill sound of it, before realising that she wasn't merely imagining it and that it had actually rung, was actually ringing.

A little to her own disgust she realised as she picked up the receiver that her hand was actually trembling slightly.

‘Lisa…'

Her heart sank.

‘Oliver…where are you? When will you—?'

‘Bad news, I'm afraid.' Oliver cut her off abruptly.
‘I'm not going to be able to make it after all; I'm stuck in New York and—'

‘What?'

There was no way Lisa could conceal her feelings—shock, disappointment, almost disbelief, and even anger was sharpening her voice as she tried to take in what he was telling her. A horrid feeling of sick misery and despair was beginning to fill her but Lisa's pride wouldn't let her give in to it, although her hand was clenched so tightly on the receiver that her skin was sharp white over her knuckles.

‘I'm still in New York,' she heard Oliver telling her, his voice curt and almost—so her sensitive ears told her—hostile as he added brusquely, ‘I know it's not what I'd planned but there's simply nothing I can do…'

Nothing he could do or nothing he
wanted
to do?

All the doubts, the fears, the insecurities and the regrets that Lisa had been holding at bay ever since they had had to part suddenly began to multiply overwhelming and virtually obliterating all her self-confidence, her belief in Oliver's love. She had been right to be mistrustful of his assurances, his promises; she had been right to be wary of a love that had sprung into being so easily and now, it seemed, could just as easily disappear.

‘Lisa?' Oliver said sharply.

‘Yes, I'm still here.'

It was an effort to keep her voice level, not to give in to the temptation to beg and plead for some words of reassurance and love, but somehow she managed to stop herself from doing so, even though the effort made her jaw ache and her muscles lock in painful tension.

‘You do understand, don't you?' he was asking her.

Oh, yes, she understood. How she understood.

‘Yes,' she agreed indistinctly, her voice chilly and distant
as she tried to focus on salvaging her pride instead of giving in to her pain. ‘I understand perfectly.'

She wasn't going to weaken and let herself ask when he would be coming home, or why he had changed his mind…so obviously changed his mind.

Before he could say any more and before, more importantly, she could break down and reveal how hurt and let down she was feeling, Lisa fibbed tersely, ‘I must go; there's someone at the door.' And without waiting to hear any more she replaced the receiver. She must not cry, she
would
not cry, she warned herself fiercely.

In the mirror she caught sight of her reflection; her face was paper-white, her eyes huge, revealing all too clearly what she was feeling, the contrast between her carefully made-up face and the misery in her eyes somehow almost pathetically grotesque.

Her flat, her clothes, her whole person, she decided angrily, made her feel like some modern-day Miss Havisham, decked out all ready for the embrace of a man who had deserted her. The thought was unbearable. She couldn't stay here, not now…not when everything around her reminded her of just how stupid she had been. Why, even now she was still emotionally trying to find excuses for Oliver, to convince herself that she had overreacted and that he felt as bad as she did and that he wasn't having second thoughts.

Alison's invitation was still on her mantelpiece. She reached for the telephone.

‘Of course you can still come, you didn't need to ask,' Alison reproved her when she'd explained briefly that there had been a change in her plans and that she was now free for the evening. ‘What happened? Has Henry—?'

‘It's all off with Henry,' Lisa interrupted her.

There hadn't been time to explain to Alison just what had happened when she had telephoned her to ask her how her
skiing holiday had gone and cancel her acceptance to her party and now Lisa was grateful for this omission, even though it did give her a small twinge of guilt when Alison immediately and staunchly, like the good friend she was, declared, ‘He's let you down, has he? Well, you know my feelings about him, Lisa. I never thought he was the right man for you. Look, why don't you come over now? Quite a few people are coming early to help but we can always use another pair of hands.'

‘Oh, Alison…'

Ridiculously, after the way she had managed to control herself when she'd been speaking to Oliver, she could feel her eyes starting to fill with tears at her friend's sturdy kindness.

‘Forget him,' Alison advised her. ‘He's not worth it…he never was. You may not believe me now, but, I promise you, you are better off without him, Lisa. Now go and put your glad rags on and get yourself over here… Are we going to party!'

As she replaced the telephone receiver Lisa told herself that Alison's words applied just as much to Oliver as they did to Henry, although for very different reasons.

Forget him. Yes, that was what she must do.

Tonight, with the old year ending and the new one beginning, she must find a way of beginning it without Oliver at her side. Without him in her life.

On impulse she went into the kitchen and removed the champagne from the fridge, pouring herself a glass and quickly drinking it. It was just as well that Alison's flat was within reasonably easy walking distance, she decided as the fizzy alcohol hit her empty, emotionally tensed stomach.

There was no need for her to get changed; the little black dress she was wearing—had put on for Oliver—was very suitable for a New Year's Eve celebration. All she had to do was redo her make-up to remove those tell-tale signs of her tears.

She poured herself a second glass of champagne, realising too late that instead of filling the original glass, which still had some liquid in the bottom, she had actually filled the empty one—Oliver's glass. Grimacing slightly, she picked them both up and carried them through to her bedroom with her, drinking from one before placing them both on the table beside her bed and then quickly repairing her make-up.

 

In New York Piers frowned as he walked into his cousin's hotel suite and saw Oliver seated in a chair, staring at the telephone.

‘Is something wrong?' he asked him. His curiosity had been alerted earlier by the fact that Oliver had been extremely impatient to bring their discussions with the Americans to a conclusion, stating that he had to return to England without explaining why. Piers had happened to be looking at him when they had heard the news that the talks would have to continue. Oliver had been none too pleased.

‘No,' Oliver responded shortly. Why had Lisa been so distant with him—so uninterested, so curt to the point of dismissal? She had every right to be angry and even upset about the fact that he had had to change their plans, but she had actually sounded as though she hadn't wanted to see him.

‘Well, Jack Hywell is anxious to get on with the negotiations,' Piers told him. ‘Apparently he's due to take his kids away the day after tomorrow, which is why he wants to take the discussion through the New Year period.

‘Oh, by the way, Emma rang me this morning. She's been up to Yorkshire, and whilst she was up there she heard that Henry is getting married. Apparently, he's marrying someone he's known for a while. I must admit I'm surprised his mother finally sanctioned a marriage. Still, good luck to him, I say, and to her.

‘What is it?' he asked Oliver. ‘Hey, Oliver, watch it…'
he warned his cousin as he watched the latter's hand clench tightly on the glass he was holding. ‘Look, I know how much pressure these negotiations are putting you under,' he commiserated, ‘but with any luck they'll be over soon now, and… Oliver, where are you going?'

‘Home,' Oliver told him brusquely.

‘Home? But you
can't
,' Piers protested. ‘The negotiations.'

Oliver snarled at him, telling him in no uncertain terms what should be done with the negotiations and leaving the room.

Piers stared open-mouthed at his departing back. Oliver hardly ever swore, and he certainly never used the kind of language that Piers had just heard him use. He was normally so laid back… Something was obviously wrong, but what?

 

‘Ugh?'

Reluctantly Lisa opened her eyes. What
was
that noise? Was someone really banging a hammer inside her head or was someone at the door?

Someone was at the door. Flinging back the duvet, she reached for her robe, wincing at both the pain in her aching head and the state of her bedroom—clothes scattered everywhere in mute evidence of the decidedly unsober state in which she had returned to her flat in the early hours of the morning. She had never had a strong head for alcohol, she admitted to herself, and Alison's punch had been lethal. She would have to ring her later and thank her for the party, and for everything else as well.

‘Don't even think about it,' Alison had advised Lisa drolly the previous evening after she had determinedly rescued her from the very earnest young man who had buttonholed her.

‘He's even worse than Henry,' she had warned Lisa, rolling her eyes. ‘He still lives with his parents and his hobby
is collecting beetles or something equally repulsive. I only invited him because it was the only way I could escape from his mother. I know how much you like a lame dog, but really, Lisa, there are limits. Has he invited you round to look at his beetle collection yet?' she asked wickedly, making Lisa laugh in spite of herself.

‘That's better,' she had approved, adding more seriously, ‘I hadn't realised that Henry meant quite so much to you, but—'

‘It isn't Henry,' Lisa had started to say, but someone had come up and dragged Alison away before she could explain properly and after that, rather than cause her friend any more concern, she had forced herself to be more enthusiastic and convivial, the result of which was her aching head this morning. No, this afternoon, she acknowledged as she saw in horror what time it was.

The doorbell was still ringing. Whoever it was was very determined. What if Oliver had changed his mind and come back after all? What if…?

Her fingers were trembling so much that she could hardly tie the belt of her robe. Quickly she hurried into the hallway, leaving her bedroom door open, and went to open the door, her heart beating so fast that she could hardly breathe.

Only it wasn't Oliver, it was Henry.

Henry!

Dumbly Lisa stood to one side as he walked self-importantly into her flat without bothering to close the door. Henry—what on earth was he doing here? What did he want? He was the last person Lisa wanted to see.

She pressed her fingers to her throbbing head. How could she have been stupid enough to think it might be Oliver? So much for all her promises to herself last night, as they'd all waited for midnight to come and the new year to start, that she would put him completely out of her mind and her heart.