Page 7 of Stuck With My Christmas Crush

“Yay! Wildlife.”

“Yes.” I sigh. “I am making the best of the situation. Finding the positive. Smiling in the face of defeat. The world is still a beautiful place, my friend.”

“You got this, Charlie.”

“Yes, I have, Lou. Look, I’ll see you soon. Muah!” And with that, I hang up the call.

I’m bright and breezy when I say goodbye, cutting the call short because my phone battery dropped below ten percent. As I hang up, I think, if I’m so prioritized with Roadside Recovery, then how come I am still here at the side of the road? But talking with my friend has elevated my flagging spirits and shone a spotlight on a situation that really isn’t that bad. I take a moment to breathe and focus on what I’m learning from this experience.

I am a firm believer ofFake it til you make itphilosophy and the physiological fact that you can change your mood and frame of mind by smiling: pretending that you’re happy until you actually are. It’s simple but it works.

I’m grinning like a Cheshire cat as a soft misty rain begins to fog up Bertie’s windows. Thinking happy thoughts, I hear the soft misty rain increase in intensity and gently drum on the roof.

My phone rings. I pick up instantly.

“Mr Charlie Lennox?”

“It’s Miss, actually.”

“Hi. Miss. This is Roadside Recovery. I’m sorry to have to inform you that we can’t get a recovery vehicle out to you tonight due to road closure in the area. All our recovery vehicles are deployed at this present time. We’re doing our utmost in these circumstances…”

“What? Can’t get to me tonight? That is unacceptable. What the…”

“Sorry ma’am. I know this is inconvenient. The best we can do is tomorrow morning.”

“No. No. No, no, no. I’m in the middle of nowhere.”

“Is there someone you can call?”

“Yes.” I close my eyes. “Yes, thank you… I’ll do that.”

“Please stay on the line and rate our customer service. Your feedback is imp…”

My phone dies before the end of the sentence.

The drumming rain gets heavier and louder. I’ll wait until it stops. Then I’ll… What? My options have dwindled to one.

I pack as much as I can into my bag and locate my umbrella, which thankfully, is where I thought it might be, stashed under the seat. The rain has not eased up but is getting heavier and turning to sleet, which attacks me on an aggressive diagonal when the car door is whipped open by a sharp gust of wind, as I clamber out. I fumble with the umbrella, which doesn’t want to cooperate, and I pull my faux fur jacket tight around me wishing it was a more practical piece of wet weather gear. My sparkly ballet pumps leak instantly and bone-aching cold sets in.

I lock up the broken car and stomp off up the road to find the turning to the hot guy’s house. Determined not to let things get me down, I put on my happy face and look on the bright side, as I slosh through freezing puddles. At least, when I get to the hotel, I can charge up my phone and call Lou to come and get me. This really is my only option now.

By the time I arrive at the wrought-iron gate, my dress is soaked through, and my faux fur jacket is acting like a sponge. I wrestle with my umbrella which has blown inside out a couple of times in the ever-increasing biting wind. I can’t feel my feet anymore.

The double gate is chained together, which isn’t very welcoming for guests arriving at the hotel. I search the ivy-covered walls on either side for a button to press, butthere isn’t one. I grab the gate with both hands and shake it vigorously. I call out, but my voice is whisked away by the wind and drowned by rain. The roof of a small house or a shed is behind a dense bush close by. I call out again, louder this time, and a massive dog comes hurtling around the corner and jumps up at the gate in front of me growling and barking fiercely. I’m so shocked I scream and drop my umbrella which instantly blows away.

“Rocko. Down boy,” a man says as my phone drops out of my pocket and splashes into a puddle when I bend down and scrabble around trying to retrieve the inside-out umbrella. “Don’t be scared. He’s a big softy. Aren’t you, boy.”

I drag my hair off my face and blink the rain out of my eyes to see Mr Gorgeous Dad lifting the weighty chain and pulling it through to open one of the gates.

“Come on in,” he shouts through the deluge.

Rocko stands to attention to let me pass. The hot guy closes the gate behind us and repositions the chain but doesn’t lock it. I follow him around a corner to a teeny tiny house that wouldn’t look out of place in a Disney movie about princesses and evil stepmothers. Mr Gorgeous Dad takes off his raincoat under the porch and gives it a shake. Then ushers me in, shuts the door behind me, and hangs his coat on a peg in the hall. Inside is warm, dry, andrelatively quiet after being out in the rain which still insistently hits the roof and windows.

“Hey, thanks so much. The recovery guys can’t come for me until tomorrow,” I say with teeth chattering. “Can you believe it? I’m not going to be awarding many stars on their customer service feedback form, that’s for sure.”

“Is this what you have for your emergency kit? A fake fur and an umbrella?”

“Excuse me?”

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