Belinda Missen - One Week ’Til Christmas

I snorted. Single-serve meals. Now that , I could relate to.

‘Bloody journalists,’ he continued. ‘Not one of you is rooted in truth or the real world. Pack of fantasists.’

Why, I never! I must have gasped aloud, as heads turned towards the noise behind me.

It became infinitely more difficult to resist the urge to shoot him my best how-very-dare-you scowl and, maybe, the two-fingered salute. Then again, who was I kidding? This wasn’t my battle. I pulled my phone from my pocket to find a text from my sister, Miriam.

I know I’ve asked a dozen times, but you will be home for Christmas, right?

That was one of the things I didn’t love about my job. The nature of being a travel journalist meant I had no control over my plans or where I’d be at any given time, and I was usually at the mercy of my boss. Trips often overlapped with family events, leading to terse phone calls, huge swathes of guilt, and expensive gifts to try and smooth over the cracks in relationships when it was revealed that, no, I wouldn’t be home for a birthday party. Again.

More than once, I promised myself that I’d start my own blog one day so I could work for myself. Then, the electricity bill would arrive and I’d remember why I couldn’t just throw caution to the wind, dance right out the front door of my job and make it happen.

‘You know what? Don’t worry about it. All I need to do is tweet and it’s out to millions of followers … Okay, all right, thousands if you now want to be pedantic about the truth. If you lot can’t do your job properly, then I’ll do it myself.’ His voice cut in again as his pace quickened and he got closer. ‘Now, where’s my bloody car?’

Typing out my reply to Miriam, I skirted the small crowd at the bus stop until I reached the timetable, in time to see a black saloon car roll into the kerb. Its tyres were slick with moisture, and beads of water rolled off highly polished panels. Midnight-black windows made sure nobody was seeing the precious cargo within. By comparison, my ride, a big ol’ red bus, rumbled, lurched, and rattled its way towards us.

‘Excuse me … pardon … out of the way.’ There he was again, moving through the crowd with forceful, heavy sighs. ‘Move, please , I’m so sorry. Yes, I realise he’s parked illegally. I’m terribly sorry.’

As I reached for my pocket, I heard the polyester ruffle of fabric. My elbow, then my shoulder connected heavily with someone behind me, that same someone who’d been pushing through the crowd. I stumbled as my feet slipped out from under me on the icy footpath.

Everything slowed as time stretched out between us like an elastic band. Sound drowned out to an underwater mumble and the world rushed past me. I felt the pressure of fingers curling around my upper arm in a desperate attempt to stay upright. I pulled one way, he pulled the other, and shop fronts tilted as asphalt approached. I landed with a thud and a puff, and then he landed in my arms to the sound of a bus braking and hissing as it pulled to a shuddering stop.

When I unclenched my eyes, it was like pulling up for a gulping breath after a deep dive. Conversations were dialled up to a dull roar, and car horns sounded in the distance. But it was okay. The sound, the heaving chest, the desert dry mouth, all of it meant I was alive. That was good. I’d take that.

I tipped my head back to the enormous red cliff-face of the bus. When confronted with something of that scale upside down, you realise how truly impressive they are. I was close enough that I could notice the stone chips in the registration plate and see the brake cables that had just saved my life.

I should have been angry. I should have been gnashing my teeth and lecturing the Shouty Man on safety near roadways. But, right now, I could only think of two things. Firstly, that my backpack was so laden I probably looked like a turtle ready to be picked off by a predator. If someone didn’t help me up, there was every possibility I’d rock myself to sleep trying to get myself up off the ground.

The second thought was that I hadn’t paid him enough mind when he’d burst from the supermarket. In fact, I was more irritated at having to navigate him like a roundabout. Up close? Though wide and bewildered, his eyes were a beautiful cosmic cerulean blue.

Oh, and he was between my legs. He had the dubious honour of being the first man to boldly go there in the better part of twelve months. No, wait … eighteen. Hell, it was that long that even my maths was getting sketchy. Either way, it had been an age.

My heart danced a tango against my ribcage as I continued staring at him. How could I not? His nutmeg hair was pushed back from his face in short curls, he had lips that were screaming to be kissed, and don’t even get me started on the stubble that barely concealed a slowly forming dimple in his left cheek. He was the most handsome man who ever did handsome. Maybe I was dead after all.

Wow.

‘Well, then,’ he blurted, shifting uncomfortably on his hands.

His knee knocked the back of my thigh and, despite the initial fright, laughter – jittery and so very glad to be alive – bubbled up and out of me.

‘Well, then,’ I echoed.

My backpack! My laptop ! The last thing I needed was my work equipment full of water. Have you ever tried to write anything lengthy on a phone? I’d be blind by forty. And where was my suitcase? Lazing about in the gutter like an overfed cat. I lurched forward underneath him and, while I was held down by the contents of my bag, it brought him to life.

Leaping to his feet, he held out a hand. ‘Oh my God, I am so sorry. Here, let me get you up.’

Gingerly, I let him pull me up from the ground. His hands were cold and shaky but, beneath that, an unmistakable surge of energy shot up my arm and wound its way around my heart. I slung my bag around my front and alternated between watching him and checking the contents. If something was broken, better to find out now than after he did a runner.

Eggnog clung to my pants like a dropped tin of paint, the cold chill of the gutter seeped into the seat of my pants, and I winced at a sharp bite in the palms of my hands.

‘Are you okay? I haven’t damaged you, have I? Let me just … I’ll fix your hair—’ His hands bounced around nervously before his finger traced the outside of my ear, and my stomach took a bow. There might have been hair involved, but I … phew. ‘—there, where it was.’

‘Where it was?’ I asked, studying him as his eyes darted about my face.

‘As you passed M&S,’ he mumbled, his hand suspended in the air near my head. ‘You had it just so.’

‘Oh.’ My lungs squeezed. Right now, I might’ve forgiven him just about anything.

The bus sounded its fiery angry horn. I looked around him, to the driver tapping at her wrist.

‘Are you … are you okay?’ he asked, brows knitted in concern. ‘I feel like a complete arse.’

‘I … I have to go,’ I sputtered.

‘Go? Sorry?’ he asked. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Yes. The bus.’ He extended his hand again, and I shook it, warm and tight, much more than it had been moments earlier when he’d helped me off the ground. ‘Again, I’m ever so sorry. Have a good day.’

‘I do.’ Oh, shit. ‘I will … I mean, I will. You, too.’

‘Thank you.’

The doors of the bus opened again with a pneumatic hiss and I was greeted by a driver wearing a Santa hat. I was still brushing my pants off as I boarded. She smiled knowingly as I tapped my Oyster card and grabbed for the handrail.

‘There are worse ways to land on your arse.’ She winked.

Heat bloomed in my cheeks as I looked around to find an entire busload of people watching, waiting. For me . I shied away as the bus pulled out into the street, my mystery assailant watching on from the kerb. Even if I now had a backside that hadn’t been this wet since I was a baby, it truly was the most wonderful time of the year.