Happy Ever After Read online

  HAPPY EVER AFTER

  by

  Christina Jones

  A Collection of Romantic Comedy

  Short Stories

  Cover illustration by www.theauthorworks.com

  A PROPER PANTOMINE

  Cinderella was far, far luckier than me. At least her older sisters were ugly. Mine, Sophie and Jem, are stunning, slender, dainty, blonde, blue-eyed fairy dolls. It’s thoroughly demoralising for someone who is none of these things to be constantly compared with them - and found wanting.

  As the third daughter, naturally everyone expected me to be cast in the same neat-and-pretty mould. Sadly, I couldn’t oblige. I bypassed my mum’s and sisters’ petite gorgeousness and inherited the tall gawkiness and wild hair of some long-ago relative, throwing in my own pronounced lack of co-ordination just for good measure.

  Sophie and Jem have always been swamped in admiration: first from the family, then school friends, and now men. Oh, men! Sophie and Jem had been spoiled for choice! They’d always attracted the sort of boyfriends who send entire shopfuls of flowers and cuddly toys and eighteen foot cards on their birthdays.

  Me? Oh, I don’t attract men at all. Not on that level. Well, I’d had boyfriends, of course, but I seemed to attract men as just-good-friends, and I’d never had a real hearts and flowers, rockets and rainbows romance.

  I was known as “good old Polly”, mopping up the tears of Sophie and Jem’s cast-offs when yet another relationship bit the dust, when I secretly yearned to be a pretty flirt, breaking hearts with a flutter of my heavily mascara'd lashes.

  Actually, between you and me, my eyelashes don’t take well to mascara. They’re sort of pale and tend to clog. Even when I try really hard with my make-up I still seem to look like the “Before” in the “Before and After”.

  And I’d never learned how to flirt – and I couldn’t even begin to think about causing anyone heartbreak – so it was all a bit of a non-starter to be honest.

  But never was the reverse-Cinderella comparison more obvious than that Saturday morning about six weeks ago…

  ‘Oh, wow!’ Sophie squealed dancing round the living room brandishing a red and gold embossed card. ‘We’ve all been invited to Shelley and Jake Bartlett’s Christmas party! At Gorse Glade Hall!’

  My first thought was trust show-off Shelley to hire the swankiest venue in the neighbourhood for her Christmas party. She’d been the same at school: her uniform was just that bit neater, cleaner and better pressed; her holidays were taken in Antigua before anyone else had ever heard of it; her birthday presents were ponies. And then she married Jake Bartlett who was her male counterpart. A materialistic match made in consumer heaven.

  My second thought was how wonderful – a proper old-fashioned Christmas party in a proper old-fashioned country house.

  My third thought was that I couldn’t go because I had nothing remotely suitable to wear.

  Sophie and Jem had bypassed the first two ands were straight in on point three.

  ‘I’ll have to stretch the overdraft for a new dress,’ Jem sighed happily. ‘Do you think we should hit the London shops, Sophie?’

  ‘Definitely – we can’t be seen at Gorse Glade Hall in anything local…’

  They stopped and looked at me.

  ‘Oh, no. Don’t expect me to join you,’ I said quickly. ‘You know what I’m like in frock shops – especially posh ones. Nothing looks right on me – it looks great on the hanger then I put it on and sort of sabotage it. I’ll just have to wear my red dress…’

  ‘Polly!’ They squealed together. ‘You can’t! Not to Shelley’s Christmas party!’

  ‘You’ve had that dress for years,’ Jem shook her head. ‘Everyone’s seen it a million times.’

  ’That red dress,’ Sophie looked at me severely, ‘was out of fashion when you bought it. You can’t wear that dress to a glitzy Christmas party at Gorse Glade Hall.’

  ‘Can and am,’ I smiled blithely. ‘I like it. I feel happy in it. It’s the only dress I feel really comfy in –‘

  ‘That’s because it’s the only dress you’ve got,’ Jem shook her head. ‘Surely you’d like a new one?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t – it’d be a waste of money which I haven’t got - and I’m happiest in jeans. I can dress the red one up a bit with some Christmassy jewellery or something. And anyway, who’s going to look at me?’

  It was only a teeny bit hurtful that neither of them rushed to contradict me.

  Jem drove us to Gorse Glade Hall in her new, shiny, snazzy sporty car. Both she and Sophie had bought the most fabulous party frocks I’d ever seen. They looked, I thought as I sat, knees-to-chin, practically doubled up in the back, like two exotic, brightly coloured, beautiful birds. I did love them very much, but we certainly didn’t look as though we could possibly share the shame genes. Still, despite everything, I was really, really looking forward to the evening.

  And I wasn’t disappointed. The Christmas party was a dream. I do so love parties in centuries-old manor houses with panelled walls and twisting staircases and roaring log fires and ancestral portraits on the wall.

  Not that I’d been to that many, of course. In fact I hadn’t been to any at all. Gorse Glade Hall was my first. But it fulfilled all my wildest expectations.

  Gorse Glade Hall, all dark and romantically Gothic, with a ceiling-high Christmas tree twinkling with lights in the hall, and every inch tastefully decorated with entire boughs of holly and ivy, was elegance personified.

  Warm and welcoming, the ballroom was perfumed by evergreens and Christmas spices. Candles flickered amidst the festive greenery, and carols played discreetly. Waitresses hovered with mulled wine on silver platters, while the stunningly-dressed guests ate and drank and chattered.

  ‘Gorgeous!’ Jem sighed, gazing round at the wall-to-wall glamour. ‘Oh, I could get used to living like this.’

  ‘Me too,’ Sophie agreed, nursing her welcoming goblet of mulled wine. ‘This is absolutely stunning. Everyone looks as if they’ve just stepped out of a glossy magazine… Even the really jolly-hockey-sticks girls from school look like catwalk models – and the men…’

  ‘Oh, yes, to die for – oh, and who is he?’ Jem drooled, pointing in the direction of the cavernous fireplace. ‘How gorgeous is he? And I think he’s on his own… He’s the most dreamy thing I’ve ever seen…’

  ‘Oh - yes… he’s something else!’ Sophie enthused, following Jem’s eyes across the crowded room. ‘I really must get to talk to him….’

  ‘He’s definitely ten stars plus.’

  ‘Definitely. I know there’s dancing later – I’m going to make sure he doesn’t ask anyone else.’

  ‘Except me.’ Jem sipped her wine. ‘We’ll keep him all to ourselves. I don’t think there’s anyone else here who even comes close, do you? What about Jake’s brother? An eight? Or Tom or - ?’

  And then they were off, giving every man at the party marks out of ten for fanciability. I listened to my older sisters and smiled indulgently, feeling absolutely ancient.

  I spoke briefly to a designer-dressed Shelley and Jake and thanked them for inviting us, then, as I knew lots of people, really enjoyed myself, catching up on gossip while carefully sipping at my wine. I had to be careful because I’m quite clumsy. While it probably wouldn’t have mattered a jot about slopping my wine on my own dress, I lived in dread of doing it to someone else’s.

  And yes, I’d worn my red dress, despite Jem and Sophie’s protests. And with some rather Christmassy glittery angel earrings, and my unruly hair tied up with sparkly tinsel in a sort of feathery top-knot, for once, to be honest, I felt pretty good about myself.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a deep voice said in my ear. ‘Aren’t you…?’

  I turned qu
ickly, smiling my circulating-Christmas-party-guest smile. It immediately froze on my lips. The man – the man by the fireplace who my sisters had described as “the dreamiest thing they had ever seen” - was gazing at me with interest.

  ‘Oh!’ my lack of co-ordination came to the fore as I dropped a slice of rich, plummy Christmas cake neatly down the front of his pale blue shirt. ‘Oh – I’m so sorry…’

  ‘No problem,’ the man gamely mopped at the squidgy mess with a holly-decorated napkin. ‘I’m sure it won’t stain.’

  ‘If it won’t wash out, I’ll pay for the cleaning,’ I babbled, wanting the floor to swallow me. ‘Please send me the bill…’

  ’There’s no need,’ he smiled bravely. ‘It’s fine. Can I get you some more cake…?’

  ‘No thank you. I don’t think I ought to risk another slice. It was a bit – er – lively… And I’ve already almost spilt champagne over Shelley’s mother’s new boyfriend and practically garrotted one of Jake’s brothers in a scrum in the food queue. I’m a bit accident prone.’

  The man laughed, but not unkindly. ‘In that case, the edge of the dance floor might be safer. Less crowded. And as the band is getting ready, I think we’re going to be in the way here.’

  I blinked. Was this gorgeous man actually asking me to go with him? It seemed he was, so I followed. We joined several other people on the periphery, all being party-polite and watching the glorious Christmas-card ballroom scene.

  I squinted at him. The shirt didn’t seem to have stained too much, and was, I noticed, perfect for his broad-shouldered body, and his dark hair tousled boyishly above a heart-stoppingly attractive face.

  Sophie and Jem had got it exactly right. He was truly dreamy…

  ‘Do you paint portraits?’ He grinned at me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I looked away. ‘I always stare at people too much. I prefer to read faces than listen to what people say…’

  ‘Very wise.’ He nodded. ‘Never trust words. Words lie. Eyes never do.’

  I jerked my head up again in time to see his face soften.

  ‘I read faces, too, ‘ he said. ‘I’ve watched you – laughing and talking with everyone, but your eyes were sad.’

  I wasn’t used to people understanding me or being nice. It had always been my role in life to dispense sympathy and I wasn’t used to being on the receiving end.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not prying. My name’s Lewis.’

  ‘Polly,’ I smiled again. ‘And I really don’t mind. I’m an avid people-watcher, too.’

  ‘So, now we’ve found something in common – would you like to dance when the band starts playing?’

  ‘No!’ I squeaked. ‘I can’t!’

  Lewis looked hurt.

  ‘Look,’ I said desperately, ‘I don’t mean I can’t dance with you - I mean I can’t dance full-stop. I’m clumsy and totally uncoordinated.’

  ‘No problem,’ Lewis said gravely. ‘I’m sure the music will be the swaying type. You’ll be able to cope with that. Trust me.’

  The ballroom was festooned with red and gold balloons bobbing in the heat, and the lights dimmed now so that the flickering candles were the only illumination as the band started to play.

  ‘Come along then,’ he smiled, as everyone poured on to the dance floor, ‘let’s see you strut your stuff.’

  Making sure I didn’t knock over anyone’s wine or tread on the hem of someone’s designer frock, I nervously followed him on to the dance floor.

  Lewis was right, the music was gentle and it was easy to move with him, my hands resting on his broad shoulders, our eyes almost on a level. For once I felt as delicate as thistledown.

  ‘Before I chucked my cake at you,’ I said dreamily, ‘weren’t you going to ask me something?’

  ‘Was I?’ he frowned. ‘Ah, yes… I was going to ask if you could possibly be Sophie and Jem’s sister.’

  I fell to earth like a stone.

  Of course, no one as devastating as Lewis would be interested in someone like me, would they? He’d only wanted to get to know me as an invitation to meeting my beautiful sisters…

  I nodded miserably, following Lewis’s eyes to where my sensational sisters undulated across the dance floor in those exquisite dresses that had cost more than my monthly salary.

  ‘You’re not like them at all, are you?’ Lewis continued twisting the knife. ‘No-one would ever believe you were sisters.’

  ‘No,’ I said shortly. ‘They never do. Would you like me to introduce you?’

  There was no need. Sophie and Jem, looking like mini-supermodels, waved and swooped across at the end of the dance and started to introduce themselves with giggles and batting eyelashes.

  I let my hands slip from Lewis’s shoulders, stood back, and watched my dream crumble. Again.

  They didn’t even notice I’d left. I called a taxi and was home well before midnight without even a sniff of a pumpkin.

  ‘Polly,’ Sophie said, appearing in the kitchen the next morning, ‘you look awful. How much mulled wine did you drink?’

  Not nearly enough, I thought sourly, wishing Mum hadn’t asked me to try and ice the Christmas cake while she and Dad popped into town for stocking fillers. Christmas cake held some very, very bad memories now.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lied, relieved that Sophie had interpreted my dark-ringed eyes as over-indulgence rather than lack of sleep. ‘Jem not up yet?’

  ‘No,’ Sophie stretched languidly as she made coffee. ‘She’s probably still dreaming about Lewis…’

  ‘Who?’ I squeezed the icing bag so tight it squirted all over the table.

  ‘Lewis!’ Sophie laughed. ‘Honestly, Polly – now look what you’ve done – and you’re hopeless! You were dancing with him – remember? The most gorgeous man in the place and you don’t even remember him! Jem’s crazy about him!’

  I didn’t blame her.

  ‘Is – is she – seeing him again?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t caught up on the latest. But Jem had had too much wine to drive back, so I got a lift home with Shelly’s sister. Lewis gave Jem a lift home - but I listened, and he didn’t come in for coffee, and that’s all I know. I expect he’ll call her today. Lucky so-and-so…’

  I returned to the icing with increased fury. For the first time I was actually jealous of my sisters’ beauty.

  Just then the church bells pealed their Advent call joyously across the drowsy Sunday morning quiet of our small town.

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ I snarled under my breath as the icing went completely haywire. ‘What’s there to be jolly about?’

  An hour or so later, I was still cleaning up the mess when I heard a car pull up outside.

  ‘It’s Lewis!’ Sophie squealed in delight, erupting from the Sunday papers in the living room and yanking open the front door. ‘Hi! Jem’s not up yet! I’ll give her shout!’

  Well, what would you have done? There was no way I was going to hang around and watch Lewis and Jem fall in love, so I abandoned the Christmas cake in all its gooey glory, and disappeared through the back door, feeling more miserable that I ever had in my life.

  It was bitterly cold, and the sky was dark and heavily grey. I shivered inside my oversized sweater and searched for a means of escape. I had to get as far away from the Lewis and Jem reunions as possible.

  With a quick look over my shoulder, I decided to use my childhood getaway route and grabbed the top of the garden wall. As I started to haul myself inelegantly over it, my ancient sweater got entangled on one of the twigs of the dwarf apple tree, leaving me sitting astride the wall, my hair tumbled across my face. The wind blew from the Arctic, and shivering, I tugged at my sweater but it was held fast. The more I pulled, the worse it became.

  ‘Let me,’ Lewis’s voice was close to me, but I couldn’t see him because of my hair.

  ‘It’s okay’ I muttered. ‘I can manage. There!’

  I surveyed the unravelled sleeve. Oh, well – it was a very old sweater…

  I shook my hair from my ey
es. Lewis, now that I could see him, looked as amazing as ever. My heart gave a funny sort of lurch.

  ‘You were running away,’ he said accusingly. ‘Again. You ran away last night, too.’

  I looked steadily into his eyes which were almost as dark-circled as my own. Obviously he’d been pining for Jem.

  ‘I didn’t run away. I left. I was surplus to requirements. You made it quite clear that your only interest in me was as Sophie and Jem’s sister. I’d served my purpose.’

  To my amazement, Lewis laughed. It didn’t seem like much of a laughing matter to me.

  ‘Polly, I’m not remotely interested in Sophie and Jem. And it’s far too cold to be having this conversation out here. But, I wasn’t interested in them last night and I’m certainly not interested in them this morning.’

  ‘But you said – ‘

  ‘I asked if you were their sister, yes. But only because I found it impossible to believe.’

  ‘There you are then!’ I said triumphantly.

  ‘Impossible to believe,’ he continued fiercely, ‘that someone as wonderfully individual and unconventional as you could possibly be related to them.’

  ‘But they’re beautiful!’

  ‘Of course they’re beautiful,’ Lewis, his teeth chattering, leaned his hands on the wall beside me. ‘They’re beautiful glossy celeb clones. I told you – I read faces – and I look for something more than an attractive cover…’

  I pushed my hair away from my face. My eyes were running and my nose, I knew, would be turning red. It was starting to snow. Heavily.

  Now, I love snow, but right now there were more important things going on. ‘You drove Jem home!’

  Lewis shook the first snowflakes from his hair. ‘Goodness – this is ridiculous. We’ll freeze to death out here. Yes, I drove Jem home because she’d had too much to drink to drive herself and she asked me to, and because it was the only way I’d find out where you lived. You’d disappeared, and in the absence of a glass slipper, it was the only option left open to me.’