Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
Page 69
‘Oh yes?’ she said. She glanced over his shoulder, looking around the room.
‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘I love it.’
He watched her gaze fall on his stick, lying just beside him.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think I’ve just seen my friend come in.’ And she shimmied her perfect body away from him, the sequins on her dress sparkling.
Olly stuck his arm round her as she stood up.
‘Hey, Mills, not enjoying talking to Lord Lipton? Sixty-room manor house not enough for you these days?’
The girl’s face changed again immediately, from disdain to renewed interest to clear disappointment as Stephen did not return her gaze but instead moved up for Olly, who scooshed in next to him, the girl he’d been talking to by his side, then suddenly on his knee.
‘Meet…’
‘Della,’ the girl supplied helpfully. She was gorgeous and looked about twenty-two, and it was Christmas Eve and she was hanging out with a fat bloke fifteen years older than her who didn’t even know her name. Suddenly Stephen felt unutterably weary and about a hundred years old.
‘You look down, old boy. Fancy a toot?’
Stephen glanced at him.
‘God, no. Do you know how many lives are ruined to get that filthy stuff to you?’
Olly rolled his eyes.
‘Oh God, yes, I forgot about activist Stephen. Having a good time? Aren’t the girls classic?’
‘They’re very pretty,’ said Stephen wearily. ‘But no, I’m not having a good time.’ He realised as he said it how true it was. ‘Oh man, Olly. I miss Rosie. I really do. I think I might have fucked it up beyond recovery.’
‘Plenty more fish in the sea,’ said Olly, who found this sort of talk very embarrassing.
Stephen looked around.
‘Well, I suppose so. But she’s the one I want.’
‘You’re going to bury yourself up there, then?’ said Olly. ‘With that fat shop girl?’
Stephen came to a decision. He stood up.
‘If she’ll have me,’ he said. ‘And by the way, speak about her like that one more time and I’ll punch you in the face.’
‘Sorry, sorry, bit pissed, only joking, only my way,’ said Olly hastily. He knew what Stephen was like in a fight, never mind his leg. He softened his tone.
‘Under your bloody mother’s roof? Are you sure you can bear that?’ In the end, he had known Stephen a long time, and was kinder than his bluff exterior would suggest.
‘Might have to,’ said Stephen.
One of Mills’s friends had sidled up to him.
‘Mills was wondering if you wanted to take her to dinner.’
Stephen glanced over to where Mills was sitting at a table looking both unutterably ravishing and utterly penitent.
‘Christ, no,’ he said.
He grabbed hold of his stick and went out into the freezing London night.
There wasn’t a cab to be found anywhere, and his leg was giving him trouble, but he wanted to walk. Chelsea looked pretty under a little blanket of snow, but he found it hunched together and annoying; traffic noise everywhere, concrete, concrete, noisy people spilling out of bars and shouting; nightclubs and restaurants pouring out light and music everywhere you turned. Where did people get peace and quiet? Where did they escape the craziness of the city? He passed two men fighting over a woman, who was screaming at them that it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t, of course. He couldn’t see a single star above his head in London’s fake orange glow.
He craved Rosie suddenly. Craved her like a glass of cold water after a long hot day; or a cup of hot chocolate after a snowy afternoon playing outside with eleven five-year-olds; exactly, in fact, the kind of hot chocolate she’d made him just over a week ago. He needed her. He took out his phone, scrolled down. He couldn’t call, it was 1 a.m. He wouldn’t get through anyway; she wouldn’t have a signal, and if he rang the house phone he might wake Lilian. He was still on the point of ringing when something else struck him, a better idea. He’d need to get out of Olly’s way anyway; if he knew his friend, he’d be carting that girl home to examine his gleaming Aston Martin any minute. He texted quickly to say thanks, but he was cutting his London trip short, then headed for his car, parked outside Olly’s mews house. He was going to go home.
Chapter Twenty
‘And one… two… three… PUUUUSH! I can see it… Come on, Hester, come on!’
‘FFFFFFRRRRRRIG!’ shouted Hester, who was trying to tone down the language, as Arthur and a very tentative Edison had come upstairs, Arthur carrying Edison carefully in his arms, as if he were made of glass and might break.
‘Are you sure?’ Rosie had said, when they’d asked to come in. Arthur had deferred to Edison.
‘I should see,’ said Edison. ‘It will help my scientific devment.’
‘Fine,’ said Rosie. Moray didn’t say anything; he was occupied down the business end.
‘And… PUUUSH!’ he shouted. ‘AND again. And —’
With a sudden rush, the baby shot out, straight into Moray’s arms.
‘Thank FRICK for that,’ said Hester, loudly. ‘Frick. Bloody hell.’
Arthur and Edison crowded round as Moray towelled off the baby.
‘It’s a girl!’ he said, as the tiny new person who had suddenly appeared in the room opened her little tiger’s mouth and let out a wonderful, full-throated roar.
Rosie handed the boiled scissors to Arthur, who handed them to Edison, and very carefully, they cut the cord together.
‘A girl!’ said Moray, handing her over to Hester, who was noisily throwing up in a bowl.
There was a ring downstairs on the doorbell. They all looked at one another, wondering who on earth it could be.
‘The midwife!’ said Rosie finally. ‘Well, she’s a bit late.’
‘No she isn’t,’ said Moray out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I hate birthing the placenta. Iknow I’m meant to be an emotionaless medic and all that but it’s completely gross.’
‘Sssh,’ said Rosie reprovingly, washing her hands before going down to answer the door.
But none of the little family could possibly have heard him, so rapt were they – even Hester, in between shouting for a fricking cup of tea, the least she could expect after what she’d been through – gathered round their perfect tiny human, who even now was feeling blindly for Hester’s nipple.
‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘I love it.’
He watched her gaze fall on his stick, lying just beside him.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think I’ve just seen my friend come in.’ And she shimmied her perfect body away from him, the sequins on her dress sparkling.
Olly stuck his arm round her as she stood up.
‘Hey, Mills, not enjoying talking to Lord Lipton? Sixty-room manor house not enough for you these days?’
The girl’s face changed again immediately, from disdain to renewed interest to clear disappointment as Stephen did not return her gaze but instead moved up for Olly, who scooshed in next to him, the girl he’d been talking to by his side, then suddenly on his knee.
‘Meet…’
‘Della,’ the girl supplied helpfully. She was gorgeous and looked about twenty-two, and it was Christmas Eve and she was hanging out with a fat bloke fifteen years older than her who didn’t even know her name. Suddenly Stephen felt unutterably weary and about a hundred years old.
‘You look down, old boy. Fancy a toot?’
Stephen glanced at him.
‘God, no. Do you know how many lives are ruined to get that filthy stuff to you?’
Olly rolled his eyes.
‘Oh God, yes, I forgot about activist Stephen. Having a good time? Aren’t the girls classic?’
‘They’re very pretty,’ said Stephen wearily. ‘But no, I’m not having a good time.’ He realised as he said it how true it was. ‘Oh man, Olly. I miss Rosie. I really do. I think I might have fucked it up beyond recovery.’
‘Plenty more fish in the sea,’ said Olly, who found this sort of talk very embarrassing.
Stephen looked around.
‘Well, I suppose so. But she’s the one I want.’
‘You’re going to bury yourself up there, then?’ said Olly. ‘With that fat shop girl?’
Stephen came to a decision. He stood up.
‘If she’ll have me,’ he said. ‘And by the way, speak about her like that one more time and I’ll punch you in the face.’
‘Sorry, sorry, bit pissed, only joking, only my way,’ said Olly hastily. He knew what Stephen was like in a fight, never mind his leg. He softened his tone.
‘Under your bloody mother’s roof? Are you sure you can bear that?’ In the end, he had known Stephen a long time, and was kinder than his bluff exterior would suggest.
‘Might have to,’ said Stephen.
One of Mills’s friends had sidled up to him.
‘Mills was wondering if you wanted to take her to dinner.’
Stephen glanced over to where Mills was sitting at a table looking both unutterably ravishing and utterly penitent.
‘Christ, no,’ he said.
He grabbed hold of his stick and went out into the freezing London night.
There wasn’t a cab to be found anywhere, and his leg was giving him trouble, but he wanted to walk. Chelsea looked pretty under a little blanket of snow, but he found it hunched together and annoying; traffic noise everywhere, concrete, concrete, noisy people spilling out of bars and shouting; nightclubs and restaurants pouring out light and music everywhere you turned. Where did people get peace and quiet? Where did they escape the craziness of the city? He passed two men fighting over a woman, who was screaming at them that it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t, of course. He couldn’t see a single star above his head in London’s fake orange glow.
He craved Rosie suddenly. Craved her like a glass of cold water after a long hot day; or a cup of hot chocolate after a snowy afternoon playing outside with eleven five-year-olds; exactly, in fact, the kind of hot chocolate she’d made him just over a week ago. He needed her. He took out his phone, scrolled down. He couldn’t call, it was 1 a.m. He wouldn’t get through anyway; she wouldn’t have a signal, and if he rang the house phone he might wake Lilian. He was still on the point of ringing when something else struck him, a better idea. He’d need to get out of Olly’s way anyway; if he knew his friend, he’d be carting that girl home to examine his gleaming Aston Martin any minute. He texted quickly to say thanks, but he was cutting his London trip short, then headed for his car, parked outside Olly’s mews house. He was going to go home.
Chapter Twenty
‘And one… two… three… PUUUUSH! I can see it… Come on, Hester, come on!’
‘FFFFFFRRRRRRIG!’ shouted Hester, who was trying to tone down the language, as Arthur and a very tentative Edison had come upstairs, Arthur carrying Edison carefully in his arms, as if he were made of glass and might break.
‘Are you sure?’ Rosie had said, when they’d asked to come in. Arthur had deferred to Edison.
‘I should see,’ said Edison. ‘It will help my scientific devment.’
‘Fine,’ said Rosie. Moray didn’t say anything; he was occupied down the business end.
‘And… PUUUSH!’ he shouted. ‘AND again. And —’
With a sudden rush, the baby shot out, straight into Moray’s arms.
‘Thank FRICK for that,’ said Hester, loudly. ‘Frick. Bloody hell.’
Arthur and Edison crowded round as Moray towelled off the baby.
‘It’s a girl!’ he said, as the tiny new person who had suddenly appeared in the room opened her little tiger’s mouth and let out a wonderful, full-throated roar.
Rosie handed the boiled scissors to Arthur, who handed them to Edison, and very carefully, they cut the cord together.
‘A girl!’ said Moray, handing her over to Hester, who was noisily throwing up in a bowl.
There was a ring downstairs on the doorbell. They all looked at one another, wondering who on earth it could be.
‘The midwife!’ said Rosie finally. ‘Well, she’s a bit late.’
‘No she isn’t,’ said Moray out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I hate birthing the placenta. Iknow I’m meant to be an emotionaless medic and all that but it’s completely gross.’
‘Sssh,’ said Rosie reprovingly, washing her hands before going down to answer the door.
But none of the little family could possibly have heard him, so rapt were they – even Hester, in between shouting for a fricking cup of tea, the least she could expect after what she’d been through – gathered round their perfect tiny human, who even now was feeling blindly for Hester’s nipple.
