Last Christmas Read online

  LAST CHRISTMAS

  by

  Talli Roland

  Book Description:

  For Lucy, the best Christmas present is forgetting the past.

  Eager to banish the ghost of Christmas past – when her boyfriend dumped her on the streets of Paris – Lucy is determined to make this the best Christmas ever. She rallies friends and family for an epic celebration that just happens to fall on the same day as her ex’s festive wedding. Furious at how she’s been treated, Lucy can’t help relishing the party v wedding smackdown.

  But when the wedding is threatened and only Lucy can help, can she find the spirit inside to save the day, or will this Christmas be even more disastrous than the last?

  PRAISE FOR TALLI ROLAND

  Talli Roland is rapidly running up my ladder of favorite authors . . . If you haven't read anything yet from Roland, get her on your list!

  Chick Lit Plus

  All of Talli's books are funny, romantic and easy to read, and you find yourself constantly turning the pages, becoming involved in the story and wanting to find out more.

  Kim the Bookworm

  Talli’s writing is fresh, lively and different. Her words carry you along and her characters make you care what happens to them.

  Bookersatz

  She's a fantastic story-teller and I really can't wait to see what's next as she has the potential to become a huge chick lit star.

  Chick Lit Reviews

  Bestselling novelist Talli Roland writes fun, romantic fiction. Her novels have been shortlisted for industry awards and placed on Book of the Year lists by review websites. A former journalist, Talli is now a full-time author and lives in central London, UK, with her husband and young son.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘I can’t wait for Christmas!’ Mimi’s excited voice filled the small office as she dangled mistletoe from the sprinkler system on the ceiling.

  I grimaced, taking in the clump of sickly-looking leaves and dusty berries. ‘Um, not so sure that complies with health and safety.’

  ‘Pah, health and safety.’ Mimi waved a hand, almost toppling off the pile of folders she was perched on. ‘That can’t ruin the Christmas spirit!’

  ‘No, but a broken leg can,’ I said wryly, helping her down. The last thing my tiny recruitment business needed was a disability claim.

  ‘Okay, okay, boss.’ Mimi plopped onto a chair, then yanked open a window on her advent calendar, neatly inserting a chocolate into her mouth. ‘Yum. Only one more week until the big day. How are you celebrating, Lucy?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual.’ I shoved a pile of CVs her way. ‘Can you finish calling these candidates before you head home?’

  As Mimi’s chipper tone rang through the space, I slumped over my computer screen, willing away thoughts of Christmas. With an assistant who’d appointed herself Santa’s little helper, it was almost impossible. Besides the daily countdown, she’d slathered our one-room office with festive decorations, from a blinking tree to fake poinsettias to a blow-up Santa that frightened me each time I turned on the lights in the morning. Our tiny space looked like Christmas had caught the stomach flu, spewing its contents everywhere.

  I wished Christmas would get the stomach flu and take a break this winter. After last year, all I wanted was to bury myself in work and forget the occasion even existed. In fact, that was exactly what I’d planned. I’d grab a bottle or three, order an Indian takeaway with curry so hot it burned my mouth, and finish my accounts. Hopefully the pain, boredom and/or drunkenness would blot out the day.

  ‘Right!’ Mimi removed her headset with a flourish. ‘I’m done.’ She wound a colourful scarf around her neck, then checked her reflection in the full-length mirror she’d installed in the corner, claiming ninety-nine percent of success in the workplace was looking like you meant it. I shook my head – even the shiny surface was adorned with reindeer and snowman stickers. It’d take ages to peel those off . . . or were they still there from last year?

  Watching Mimi slather on sparkly eyeliner, memories of one year ago filtered into my mind. With only a week to Christmas, I’d been in fits of excitement, even giving Mimi a run for her money. I’d helped deck the office with glee, but all the twinkly lights and silver decorations hadn’t come close to how I felt inside. In exactly seven days, I was going to be engaged. And not just to any old run-of-the-mill fiancé: I’d be engaged to Robert, my childhood sweetheart and the man I’d loved ever since he chucked me into a muddy puddle in Year Four. The knowledge had made my heart beat faster than the Little Drummer Boy’s rum-pum-pum-pum.

  Tears sprang to my eyes now and I angrily shook my head. For God’s sake, twelve months had passed since that disastrous day. Time to move on . . . or, at least, try everything possible to forget. This season, I’d have such an un-Christmassy Christmas even Santa himself would be put off the festive spirit.

  ‘Okay, I’m ready to party!’ Mimi perched a pair of antlers on her curly head. They jiggled and danced as she shrugged on her coat. ‘Wanna come? It’s Christmas karaoke.’

  As if! I’d rather ingest pine needles than listen to punters belt out tuneless carols, although I did have the perfect song to sing. Wham’s Last Christmas would suit me to a tee. In fact, I’d had it on repeat for months until my downstairs neighbour retaliated by blasting Guns N’ Roses each time I played the tune, and my landlady started offering to cleanse my aura of ‘any residual trauma’. I’m ashamed to admit I almost took her up on it.

  ‘No, no. I have lots to finish up here.’ Truthfully, though, work had slowed to a dribble. I could probably close the office over Christmastime, but then what would I do?

  ‘All right. See you tomorrow. Good night.’

  ‘Night.’

  Mimi thumped down the stairs, and the office fell silent except for the humming light outside advertising the kebab shop below. I stood and stretched, fury filling me as my eyes landed on blow-up Santa’s smug smile.

  ‘Think you’re clever, don’t you?’ I flicked his chin with my finger, noting with satisfaction how he reared back. ‘But if you were really so clever, you would have made my wish last Christmas come true. But no. Oh, no. Instead, you had to go and mess it up royally, didn’t you? What have I ever done to you, Santa? What—’

  ‘Um . . .’

  I turned, mouth falling open in horror at Mimi in the doorway.

  ‘I forgot my phone,’ she said, slowly edging towards the desk like I was a psycho who could turn on her any minute. Not that I blamed her – I had been talking to a blow-up doll.

  ‘I was just . . . ’ My voice trailed off as I realized there was no way to explain my actions.

  ‘It’s okay. Look, I got it.’ She held up her mobile. ‘So, um, I’ll be going now. And maybe it’s time you did, too. Get out of here and have a rest or something.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I think you might be right.’ I avoided her eyes, my cheeks flushing as I tidied the desk then put on my coat. ‘You have a fun time. Good night.’

  Her footsteps sounded on the stairs. Sighing, I shut down my computer, turned off the light, and stood in the middle of the darkened room. Had I really just been telling off Santa? It would have been funny if it wasn’t so tragic.

  I peered into the street below, resolve flooding through me. If ever I’d doubted my holiday strategy, my little chat with Santa had made it even clearer: I had to escape from all things festive before Christmas did me in.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I clattered down the narrow stairs, trying not to inhale oniony fumes drifting from the shop below. Outside, the air was fresh and crisp, and I breathed it in. What to do now? Dread filled me at the thought of returning to my small studio flat. There was barely enough room for my queen-sized bed, now also functioning as a sofa/ dinin
g-room table/ ironing board, and I’d yet to decorate the stark white walls. The place felt like an upscale mental institution, which – given I’d started talking to blow-up dolls – was probably the best place for me.

  Maybe a walk would clear my head. Living only a few doors from the office meant my typical journey to and from work covered all of one-hundred metres. The commute was enviable but it certainly wasn’t helping my backside, which seemed to be expanding on a weekly basis. Robert used to say he liked my curves, but now my curves had merged into one rotund lump.

  Heaving a sigh, I trudged down Borough High Street towards the river. No matter how low I felt – or how pissed off at Santa – the peaceful flow of the Thames calmed my spirit. I’d spent practically all of last winter and spring pacing up and down the riverside walkway, asking myself over and over how I could have been so wrong.

  I trailed a hand along the railing as I passed the Millennium Bridge and Tate Modern, then weaved between trees sparkling with tiny blue lights. Music drifted through the air and I squinted, making out the silhouettes of people thronging the walkway in front of the Royal Festival Hall. Oh God, was that tune Jingle Bells? It was! My heart dropped as the smell of roasted nuts and mulled wine assaulted my nostrils. A Christmas market was in full swing, pine booths plying upscale holiday paraphernalia as far as the eye could see. God, could I not get away from the festive season for one bloody evening?

  I half-closed my eyes to block out the merriment as best I could and picked up the pace, determined not to let any Christmas tat – artisan or not – protrude into my consciousness. The music and buzz of the crowd faded after a few minutes as I neared the safe (Christmas-free) zone and I urged my legs faster and faster—

  ‘Oof!’ A solid body knocked the air from my lungs, and my lids flew open. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .’ My jaw dropped as I met the eyes of the person I’d collided with. It wasn’t a random stranger. It was someone I knew all too well – a man I knew better than anyone.

  ‘Lucy!’ Robert seemed as stunned as me.

  My lips worked, but I couldn’t form words. This was the first time I’d seen him in almost a year, and although he looked exactly the same – thick blond hair, dark eyebrows that seemed out of place, and generous lips – there was something different about his face.

  ‘Hey, babe. What do you think of this one?’ A tall slim brunette appeared at Robert’s side, laughing as she tugged down the side of a furry hat. She took his arm, then turned towards me. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi.’ Oh God, how I wished a tsunami would magically sweep down the Thames, taking me with it. It was bad enough to encounter Robert again, but to encounter Robert with another woman?

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us, Robbie?’ She flashed me a dazzling smile with teeth so white and straight they almost didn’t look real. Suddenly I was conscious of the gap between my front teeth, one I hated but Robert always claimed to love.

  I waited for Robert’s usual scowl whenever anyone dared call him ‘Robbie’. Instead, he nodded, cheeks flushing. ‘Um, sure. Greta, this is Lucy. Lucy, Greta. Lucy and I have known each other for ages.’

  That was one way of putting it, I thought. I watched Greta’s face for recognition of who I was, but her friendly gaze remained unchanged. ‘Nice to meet you, Lucy,’ she beamed. ‘Right, I’d better go return this hat before they think I’ve stolen it!’ As she lifted the hat from her head, something flashed on her finger. My heart went into lockdown as I took in the large, princess-cut diamond ring on her left hand.

  Oh. My. God.

  Robert was engaged. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.

  Silence fell between us after Greta darted away.

  ‘Congratulations.’ I managed to force out the word even though my insides were frozen and one false move might shatter me into a million pieces.

  Robert shook his head. ‘I was going to tell you before you found out through someone else. I figured I owe you that much. But then, well, I wasn’t sure you’d be keen to hear from me.’

  You owe me that much, I wanted to scream? Yes, you bloody well did. You owe me that and more for wasting almost fifteen years of my life!

  ‘So when’s the big day?’ I didn’t want to know, but my survival instinct told me to inflict maximum pain in one go, then let the wound heal. If I didn’t uncover all the details now, the stream of news that trickled down the grapevine over the next few months – or whenever their wedding was – would be like ripping off a scab over and over.

  Robert shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, um, actually, it’s Christmas Day.’

  The words hit me like a blow. Christmas Day? How could he even contemplate getting married on that day after last year’s events?

  Get real, I told myself a heartbeat later. He could contemplate it because what happened didn’t mean anything to him – or, at least, not as much as it did to me. How many times did I need reminding?

  ‘I’m back.’ Greta snaked an arm around his waist, her eyes sparkling. ‘What did I miss?’

  ‘I was just telling Lucy about our wedding.’ Robert shuffled his feet awkwardly.

  ‘Oh my God, I can’t wait. One week to go! It’s going to be perfect. Presents in the morning, married in the afternoon, party in the evening. Hey, listen, why don’t you come to the ceremony? It’s at the hotel right by the London Eye, at four p.m. The more, the merrier.’

  I’d rather stab out my eyes with icicles. ‘That sounds lovely, but I’m afraid I already have plans. Some friends and I are holding an epic festive bash.’ The lie slid easily from my mouth, and I wondered where the words had come from. At least it sounded better than my real plans. Next to Robert’s nuptials, my anti-Christmas day of accountancy and cheap wine seemed downright pathetic.

  ‘Ooh, fun!’ Greta trilled. ‘But such a shame you can’t make it. Enjoy your holidays, and perhaps we’ll see you in the New Year.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I mumbled, thinking I’d sooner spend time with Blow-Up Santa than my ex and his girlfriend. No, wife.

  Robert nodded goodbye and the two of them wandered back into the crowd, Greta excitedly chattering in his ear. An instant later, I lost sight of them.

  I stood stock-still, trying to process what had just happened. Robert, the man – the only man – I’d imagined marrying, would become someone else’s husband on Christmas Day. Even though a year had passed since we’d broken up, the hurt still hit me like a hammer to the head. Or heart, I thought, trying to force air into my lungs.

  I trudged to the railing, watching the dark water below as my mind spun back to that fateful day. I’d had everything planned to the minute – 12:01 a.m. on December twenty-fifth – when I’d whip out the uber-posh Patek Philippe watch I’d bought, go down on one knee, and ask the love of my life to marry me. In Paris, no less! It had taken some doing to convince Robert to leave England, but when I showed him the swanky hotel I’d booked, along with the delectable buffet they served on Christmas Day, he was won over.

  Proposing myself was unconventional, I knew that, but I never dreamed he’d say no. I pictured surprise – maybe slight embarrassment I’d beaten him to it – not rejection. For God’s sake, we’d dated for ages, lived together for years, and were called ‘Lucy and Robert’, as if we were one entity. I almost felt like we were one entity. Marriage and kids were the next logical steps, even if Robert hadn’t got around to proposing yet. I figured I’d save him the hassle. Besides, it would be a fun story to tell our children one day.

  We’d hopped on the EuroStar Christmas Eve, laughing and singing our way to Paris along with loads of French expats heading home. The carriage had a festive air, and one traveller was even going from seat to seat, pouring champagne.

  ‘We should take the train more often!’ I’d said, turning to smile at Robert.

  ‘Your nose is red.’ He grinned back, tweaking the result of my alcohol overindulgence.

  ‘Fill me up.’ I held out my plastic glass, my heart squeezing with happiness as I watched him slosh
in more wine. Only – I checked my watch – seven more hours, and we’d be engaged! Finally, after so many years, our coupledom would be official. Looking back, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than at that moment, the train zinging through the Chunnel on the way to the City of Love, with my head full of dreams.

  We pulled into Gare du Nord, hailed a taxi to our hotel on the Left Bank, then quickly changed and headed into the frigid night to the place I’d booked for dinner. Weaving hand in hand through the medieval streets, tiny pinpricks of snow drifted in the air. Inside the restaurant, yellow light glowed from art deco lamps, oil paintings lined the walls, and candles flickered on tables. This was exactly the evening I’d envisioned. So far, everything was on track – no, more than on track. So far, everything was perfect.

  Bellies full of delicious food and bodies warm from wine, we’d left the cosy space and wandered down to the Seine, trundling along the walkway as Notre Dame loomed large and bateaux mouches glided by. When our legs threatened to buckle, we ambled back to the hotel, where we wrapped up in fluffy robes before flopping on the luxurious bed. I peeked at the clock: 11:55 p.m. Time to get things into gear, I thought, anticipation flowing through me.

  I eased off the bed and stealthily grabbed my wash-bag where I’d concealed the watch. I’d racked my brain to think of the male equivalent of an engagement ring, and after spotting the watch online, I knew I’d found it. The gleaming Philippe was second-hand and had still cost almost two months’ salary, but I didn’t care. This night was worth it – the rest of our lives were worth it – and I couldn’t wait to see Robert’s face. He’d been lusting after one of these for ages.

  Inside the marble-clad loo, I removed the black leather box holding the watch and examined myself in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed and my eyes radiated happiness and excitement. In a matter of minutes, I told my reflection, I would be engaged. I watched as a smile grew, so wide my face ached.