Page 31 of A Very Irish Christmas
I look up into his deep green eyes, and wonder if breathing might be too tall an order. There is something so intimate about this, the way our bodies are pressed together, the touch of his fingers against mine. He is holding me firmly, so I feel safe and secure, and I am swamped with the delicious smell of his cologne.
He waits for the right beat in the song, and we begin. To start with I stare at my feet, and inevitably make mistakes. He deftly avoids stepping on my toes even when my foot is in the wrong place, and laughs off every error.
‘Look up,’ he says, ‘not down. Or am I so unbearable?’
No, I think, as I lift my gaze. Far from unbearable. In fact he’s gorgeous, and I am only human, and I am starting to feel warm for all kinds of reasons.
‘That’s it,’ he says, as we move around the room, ‘you’re getting the hang of it. Just stay relaxed, and listen to your body.’
I’m not sure my body would be talking any sense right now, even if I was capable of listening to it. I am being whirled around an actual ballroom in an English manor house, clasped in the arms of a very handsome man, listening to incredibly romantic music. My feet seem to have disconnected from my mind and taken on a life of their own – moving with more confidence, trusting my partner, letting him guide me as we twirl together.
I’m not sure how long we are dancing for, or what time it is in the real world, because I am lost in this one – the world where love can last for a thousand years. My eyes are locked on his, and his hand is solid and present on my back, and our fingers are curled together – whatever our other worries, we are both lost in this one magical moment.
He seems to pull me even closer, or maybe it’s me who moves – but suddenly there is no distance between us, and my face lies against his chest. I feel his touch move higher, flowing slowly and smoothly up my back until his fingers tangle into my hair.
We slow, settling in the centre of the room, abandoning the waltz hold, now barely moving – just the tiniest of sways, locked into each other’s arms. My hands are around his firm shoulders, my hips against his, and I daren’t look up. I know that if I look up, I will want him to kiss me. And if he doesn’t kiss me, the spell will be broken – and I never want this spell to be broken.
I sigh, lean into him and the music, inhaling his scent and wondering if there is a way to make this dance last for the rest of my life.
‘Hey!’ someone yells. ‘Look, it’s snowing!’
I jolt back into reality, and my eyes blink rapidly, as though I’m waking up from a dream. It’s Georgie, I realise after a few seconds. It’s Georgie, and she is running excitedly past us and towards the terrace.
‘Stop doing old people dancing, and come and see!’ she shouts over her shoulder, so wrapped up in her own excitement that she doesn’t notice how wrapped up her father and I are in each other.
He smiles down at me, his lips quirking in a question, and he slowly moves his hands away from me. I immediately miss them, and smile back. I wonder if he’s going to turn into a stereotypical English gentleman and stammer an apology, but the expression on his face is more intrigued than sorry.
‘See – I told you it was a good way to clear your mind. I don’t know about you, but my mind was definitely not in control for a few moments there.’
‘Mine neither. In fact I don’t think I have a mind right now. Thank you – that was… special. My first real waltz.’
He laughs, and replies: ‘I’m not sure either of is quite ready for the rumba! Come on, we’d better go and see what she’s so excited about.’
We find Georgie outside, doing her own dance – arms extended, spinning and jumping, shrieking in delight at the thick flurries of snow that are pouring down on us. Her hair is already covered in it, and she looks genuinely overjoyed at this simple act of nature.
‘Snow!’ she yells. ‘Snow snow snow snow snow! I bloodylovesnow!’
I look up, see the brilliant white of the snowflakes falling from the starlit sky, feel them fall on my upturned face.
Is any of this real?
TWELVE
Later that night, when I am tucked up in bed after a fun evening of snacks and screen slapstick, I do my duty and send a couple of pictures to my family on our group chat. One is of Charles, standing beside the decorated tree, an enigmatic smile on his face.
Suzie replies immediately with just two words:
MARRY HIM!
I laugh quietly, snuggled beneath the covers – it looks like I’ve finally done something that my sister approves of.
After that, I call June. It’s just after five at home, and she is finishing up her work for the day. I’ve been wanting to talk to her for hours, because I am feeling odd. Not odd in a bad way – quite the opposite in fact. But something is stirring in me, something is changing, and I need to hear my best friend’s voice. I am thrilled to see her face, and remind myself to speak quietly – Georgie is in the next room, and she might have a glass to the wall.
We spend a while catching up on her end of things, and I smile as she carries her phone around with her, seeing thefamiliar backdrop of the home she shares with her boyfriend, Neil. It’s a nice place in Brooklyn, and looks like an artist’s hangout even though they both work in finance. Her fat ginger cat, Mr Potato Head, sits on her lap when she settles on the couch with a mug of tea, purring so loudly I can hear him all the way from England.
‘So,’ she says, grinning at me devilishly, ‘you seem to be surrounded by hot men right now. Ryan is a ride, but so is Charles, in a totally different way. Ryan’s all big and bear-like and he could probably kill you a woolly mammoth before he fixes your plumbing, if you know what I mean by “fix your plumbing”.’
Her tone leaves me in no doubt as to what she means, and I reply: ‘But he’s a player, and unashamedly so. I’m not sure I need that in my life.’
