Liz Fielding - Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto

‘The initial impact is stunning. The views are incredible, but…’ She hesitated as she struggled to find the words to explain how she felt.

‘But?’

‘But everything with colour, life, movement is happening somewhere else. To someone else. Up here, you’re just…’ she gave an awkward little shrug ‘…a spectator.’

‘HOW long have you been here, Lucy?’

‘I don’t know. Twenty minutes?’ She looked across at him. ‘Do you want me to leave now?’

‘You’re not going anywhere. And I’m not offended. I was merely calculating how long it had taken you to see the fatal flaw in a design that wowed the interior design world. Was featured in a dozen magazines.’

‘And was cousin Christopher pleased about that?’ she asked, sensing that he wasn’t entirely happy with what had been done with the amazing space he’d provided. ‘He is the man whose clothes are shrouded in the dressing room upstairs, I take it?’

‘He was torn, I’d say. He’d thrown open the doors to the likes of Celebrity magazine, wanting the world to see his eyrie. He’d forgotten that I was the one who would be credited with its creation.’

And the impression she’d gained that he didn’t like the man much, even if he was kin, solidified.

‘I’ll bet you a cheese omelette that they all focused on the windows. That’s if you’d allow anything that yellow to brighten the monochrome perfection of your kitchen.’

‘I let you in,’ he reminded her, ‘and I promise you no one has ever looked greener, or more out of place.’

‘Dressed like this,’ she replied, reprising the twirl, ‘I’d look out of place anywhere except your basement.’

‘True.’

‘Maybe you should have left me down there.’

‘Maybe you should get out of it.’

Something about the way he was looking at her sent a tremor of longing through her. It was as if something had become unhinged in her brain. Shock-it had to be shock. She didn’t do this. But, before she could do something really stupid, she said, ‘I think we’ll stick with the plan.’

Plan! What plan?

When he didn’t answer she crossed to the drawing board to take a look at what he was working on. It wasn’t a big project, just the front and side elevations of a single-storey house.

There was a photograph clipped to the corner of the board. Taken from a rocky ledge, the land fell away to a small sandy cove. The site for the house?

The edges of both photograph and drawing were curling slightly, as if they hadn’t been touched in a long time. Yet it was here, he kept it close, and she ran a hand over the edge of the photograph in an attempt to smooth it.

‘This is nice,’ she said, looking back at him. ‘Where is it?’

He didn’t look at the picture.

‘Cornwall.’

‘I’ve never been to Cornwall.’

‘You should,’ he said, his face devoid of expression and for a moment she thought she’d put her foot in her mouth. Right up to her ankle. ‘It’s…nice.’ Then she saw the tiny betraying flicker at the corner of his eye. ‘And full of Cornish piskies. Dressed like that, you’d be right at home.’

He was teasing her?

‘I’m not a pixie,’ she said, mock indignantly, to disguise the rush of pleasure, warmth, that threatened to overwhelm her. ‘I’m an elf.’

‘Piskies, not pixies.’ Then, abruptly, ‘That’s the lot. You’ve seen it all now. Choose a room, Lucy. Make yourself at home. I’ll go and make a start on that cheese omelette I owe you.’

‘You’re admitting I was right?’ she demanded, not wanting him to go.

‘Smart as paint,’ he agreed, leaving her in his room. A gesture of trust? Because she was a stranger, too. Or because he felt the same tug of desire, heat?

Except they weren’t. Strangers. They might never have met before but, from the moment their eyes had met, they had known one another, deep down. Responding to something that went far beyond the surface conventions.

She looked again at the photograph.

Nice.

What a pathetic, pitiful word to describe such a landscape. To describe a house designed with such skill that it would become a part of it. It wasn’t nice; it was dramatic, powerful, at one with its setting.

It was extraordinary. Twenty minutes. That was all it had taken her to see through surface veneer to the darkness at the heart of the apartment.

He’d designed it as a gift for Claudia, his cousin’s wife. Envisaged it filled with light, colour, life-reflecting the light, colour, life of the city. He’d been forced to watch, helpless, as Christopher had taken his vision and sucked the life right out of it. Just as he’d sucked the life right out of the woman he loved.

Lucy didn’t bother to look at each room before deciding which to choose. They were all as soulless as the room upstairs.

She dumped her bag on the bed and checked out the en suite bathroom. Like those upstairs, it was supplied with all the essentials, including a new toothbrush which she fell upon with gratitude.

She’d replace it first thing…

She caught her reflection in the mirror. First thing suggested that she was staying. That she had taken him at his word. Trusted that bone-deep connection…

‘Not bright, Lucy B,’ she said. ‘You are such a pushover. One smile and he’s got you wrapped around his little finger.’

One look and she’d seen her engagement to Rupert for the sham it was.

But, even if he was as genuine as her instincts-and just how reliable were those dumb whoosh, flash, bang hormones anyway?-were telling her, this was, could only ever be, a very temporary stopgap. Breathing space.

She took out her own phone and it leapt into life. Of course. Why would Rupert cut her off when it was the one way he could contact her?

There were dozens of voicemails. She ignored them. There was no one she could think of who’d have anything to say that she wanted to hear. But she opened Rupert’s last message:

Henshawe 20:12. We need to talk.

Blunt and to the point, it didn’t escape her that he’d waited until the store was closed, all the doors were locked and there was no chance that she was still inside before calling her.

Proof, if she needed it, that he’d had someone watching all that time, just in case.

No doubt he’d had everyone out checking anywhere else she might have taken cover, too. She guessed some of the messages were from her former flatmates, the owner of the nursery where she’d worked. Everyone who had touched her life since the day her mother had abandoned her.

No apology, but at least there was no pretence. Forced to accept that she’d somehow slipped through his fingers, he was ready to talk.

The problem there was that there was nothing he had to say that she wanted to hear.

Or maybe one thing, and that was unintentional.

Not that, in her heart of hearts, she’d needed confirmation that Nathaniel really was on the level. That he’d seen she was in trouble and hadn’t hesitated to step forward.

That he was one of the good guys.

But it was good to know that her judgement wasn’t terminally damaged. Not as crap as she’d thought.

She logged into Twitter. There were hundreds of messages now. And a new hashtag: #findLucyB

No prizes for guessing who’d come up with that one, she thought, as she logged into her diary.

Nathaniel Hart is on the side of the angels. Not only can he make the world go away with a look, but he doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. Which doesn’t mean I’m not going to have to tell him everything. I am. I will. But not yet.

Right now, I’m a lot more interested in his story. The man is clearly a genius architect, so what the heck is he doing running a department store-stores?

And if those clothes upstairs in the creepy bedroom belong to his cousin, the one who commissioned this apartment, where is he?

‘Can I help?’

Nat, emptying the trolley, turned at the rare sound of another human voice in his kitchen. Lucy was standing in the doorway, a discordant slash of garish green against the cool grey of the slate and marble surfaces of the kitchen.

A discordant note in his life, knocking him off balance, sending a fizz of expectancy racing through his veins.

‘Shall I put these away?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but picked up a bag of salad leaves and, as she turned, he saw that she’d taken off the felt boots and striped tights, that the tunic barely covered her satin-skinned thighs and that her toenails were painted a bright candy-red that would have all the boy elves’ heads in a spin. Not to mention the CEO of this department store.

She opened one of the doors to the stainless steel fridge and he saw her pause for a heartbeat as she realised that, apart from bottled water, it was empty.

‘You don’t do a lot of entertaining, do you?’

‘I usually eat in one of the store restaurants,’ he said. ‘It keeps the staff on their toes, knowing I might drop in at any time.’

‘Right.’

‘There are eight of them to choose from,’ he said, needing to prove that he wasn’t totally sad. ‘Everything from Italian to Japanese.’

‘Sushi for breakfast?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The store doesn’t open until ten, does it? I don’t know about you, but I’d be gnawing my fingers off by then.’

‘It’s just as well I ignored your demands to put the porridge back on the shelf, then.’ He took one of her hands, rubbed a thumb over the back of her slender fingers, perfect nails. ‘It would be a pity to spoil these.’

‘Nathaniel…’ The word came out as a gasp.

‘Fortunately, the staff canteen opens at seven,’ he said, cutting off the little thank you speech he could see she was working up to, letting go of her hand. He didn’t want her thanks. He didn’t know what he wanted. Or maybe he did. He just wasn’t prepared to let go of the past. Admit it. ‘It takes time to get everything pitch perfect for the public.’

‘Well, that makes sense, I suppose.’ She sounded doubtful. ‘If you don’t like to cook.’ She turned back to the island, continued putting away the cold food. ‘What are you planning to do for Christmas? I don’t imagine the store is open on Christmas Day.’

‘No. Obviously, I’ve tried to persuade the staff that it’s a good idea, purely for my own convenience, you understand, but for some reason they won’t wear it.’

Bad choice of words.

She wasn’t wearing nearly enough. If she was going to stay it was essential that she cover those shapely legs. Those sweet little toes with their shiny red nails. Or he wouldn’t be answerable.

Nathaniel frowned and Lucy swallowed. Hard. She was totally losing it.

‘I’m sorry. That was unbelievably rude of me. You’ve probably noticed, but I tend to say the first thing that comes into my head. Obviously, you’ve got family, friends.’

A cousin, at least.

‘I’m never short of invitations,’ he agreed, ‘but, by the time the big day arrives, all I want to do is open a tin of soup.’

‘You can have too much of a good thing, huh?’

‘Remind me again,’ he invited, ‘what exactly is good about it?’

‘You don’t like Christmas?’

‘I repeat, what’s good about it?’

‘Lots of things. The fun of choosing gifts for the people you love.’ No response. He didn’t love anyone? No… ‘Planning the food?’ she offered quickly, not wanting to think about the red rose in the room upstairs. ‘Oh, no. You don’t cook. How about a brass band playing Christmas carols in the open air? The sense of anticipation. The faces of little children.’ She didn’t appear to be making much impression with the things that she loved about Christmas so she tried a different tack. ‘How about the profits, Nathaniel? Remind me, how much does it cost to take a sleigh ride to Santa’s grotto?’

If she’d hoped to provoke him into a show of emotion, she would have been disappointed.

‘Would you care to see a breakdown of the costs involved in designing and creating a visual effects spectacular that will satisfy children who’ve been brought up on CGI?’ he enquired, clearly not in the least bit excited by the cost or the finished product. ‘You’re right, Lucy. Christmas is a rip-off. A tacky piece of commercialism and if I could cancel it I would.’

‘I didn’t say that!’

‘No? Forgive me, but I thought you just did.’

‘What I was doing was offering you a personal reason to enjoy it.’

‘The profit motive? Sorry, you’re going to have to try harder than that.’

‘Okay. Come down to the grotto and listen to the little ones for whom it’s all still magic, the wonder still shiny-bright.’

‘At a price.’

‘I know. And I wish every child had the chance to see it.’ She reached up for an egg basket, hanging over the island. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing it myself.’ Then, because he was a cynic and she was a fool, ‘Should any of them ask you, by the way, the reindeer are parked on the roof.’