Page 116 of Meet Me Under the Mistletoe
“I appreciate the offer and I understand that it comes from a good place, but you can’t fix this, Mum.”
She didn’t want to, but she began to cry down the phone. Once the sobs came, they came thick and fast, and she didn’t seem to be able to stop them. She wished at that moment shewas snuggled up in the sitting room at her parents’ house, the TV on in the background, her mum chatting regardless of whether anyone was listening or not. Her dad would keep her topped up with an endless stream of mugs of tea because that was the only way he knew how to deal with his daughter’s boyfriend issues: to drown the problems in an ocean of tea in the hopes they would float away—and to be fair, it had always been pretty effective.
“Oh, my darling girl.” Her mum sniffed. “You know I cry if you cry!”
“I know.” Sniff. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you be sorry—I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you liked Isaac so much.”
“Neither did I at first.” More sobs. “Mum?”
“Yes, love?”
“Do you think it’s possible to fall in love with someone in six days?”
“Doyou love him?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s possible. The phrase ‘love at first sight’ had to come from somewhere.”
“Should it hurt this much, though? Shouldn’t I still be in the shallow end of love after so short a time?”
“Love is love, my darling girl. Time is no measure for the depth of it. Do you want Dad to come and get you?”
Nory managed a weak laugh. “No, Mum, I’m a big girl, I’ll be fine. But if you do see Isaac, can you tell him... can you tell him that I’m sorry?”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
Nory climbed into bed and messaged Andrew whilewatchingAntiques Roadshow, the BBC’s most soothing Sunday program. She began her message withPlease don’t reply tonight, I’ll see you in the morningbecause she couldn’t face another phone call this evening.
She sent one more message before putting her phone on silent and trying to concentrate very hard on the television program in which people brought old heirlooms from their attics to show experts.
I don’t know if you got my note, or any of my other messages. But I’ll say it again just in case: I’m sorry. My intentions were good, if misguided. Guy means nothing to me. But you mean everything. My heart belongs only to you. xxx
Nory pressed Send, not knowing if Isaac would bother to read it; for all she knew he may have already blocked her number—she probably would have if the roles were reversed.
She hadn’t expected to sleep. She had imagined that she’d be tossing and turning and pacing the floor of her tiny flat all night long in despair. Instead, she had fallen into an almost coma-like sleep the moment her head had touched the pillow and had woken up to the voices of the peppy broadcasters on BBCBreakfast; she must have left the TV on all night. As the events of the previous day came back to her, Nory was overwhelmed by a sudden urge to turn over and go right back to sleep. Apparently, heartbreak was soporific. But sleeping all day wasn’t an option. She had a shop to run and a grumpy cat to reinstate.
Andrew knocked on her door at 8:15 a.m. He was red-faced and panting and holding a scowling Mugwort in a cat basket.
“I hate those stairs,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “How are you, my little heartbroken shopkeeper? I would have brought coffee, but your cat weighs a ton; he was a two-handed job most of the way here. I got some very strange looks on the tube.”
“Thanks, Andrew, you’re a star.”
“Yes, I am.”
Nory was glad he wasn’t being overly tender, even though it was absolutely in his nature to be so. She was still very much in danger of bursting into tears at the first sign of sympathy.
Mugwort slinked out of his basket and shook himself. He gave the corners of the sofa and the chair legs a good sniff and then, as though satisfied that everything was in order, he jumped up onto the sofa and began to snore almost instantly.
“Let’s get a coffee before work,” said Andrew, pulling her into a hug. “And don’t you dare weep on my shoulder. This jacket is suede, and everyone knows salt stains are a nightmare.”
Thirty-six
The Christmas rush in the shop continued, as did the radio silence from Isaac. Nory had tried to call him, but it went straight to voice mail, which Ameerah agreed most likely meant he had blocked her. Nevertheless, she persevered with two more WhatsApp messages in the following days, which remained “delivered” but not “read.”
