Escape for Christmas (26 page)

“Are you trying shoes on while I’m sitting here like a lemon, waiting for you?”

“I’m multitasking,” Susie says quickly. “You should approve, Cleo. You were only telling me yesterday to be more organised.”

“I meant you should keep your purse, Oyster Card and door keys in the same place, not buy multiple pairs of shoes! Susie Maxwell! What are you like?”

“A disaster,” she says cheerfully. “I just can’t be as anal as you, Cleo Rose Carpenter!”

“I’m not anal!” I protest.

“Babes, you write lists about what lists you need to write! I’d say that makes you pretty anal.”

“Rubbish! I’d say that makes me
organised
. And at least being on time means
I’m
warm and dry in the coffee shop,
whereas you’re going to get soaked now traipsing around trying to get here.”

“But will you have leopard-skin thigh boots?” she counters.

I start to laugh in spite of myself. “No, we can safely say I won’t have a pair of those!”

When she rings off, promising faithfully to be with me in half an hour, I’m still smiling. Susie drives me nuts but I can never be cross with her for long, because she’s like a small blonde sunbeam – or rather, a pink-haired one, now that she’s discovered dye. We may be very different but there’s nothing like being misfits in a posh girls’ school to bond two opposites. We were the class weirdos: the skinny, speccy ginger girl and the short, plump blonde. It was bad enough being called Cleopatra without having a passion for all things ancient Egypt, but luckily for me Susie always had a reply as sharp as a samurai sword for any bitchy comment slung at us. Before long, the other students learned to leave us alone rather than risk her scathing putdowns. I left the verbal battles to Susie and did her homework, which seemed to me more than a fair exchange for being left in peace. Nearly twenty years on we’re still friends, and when I returned to England sharing a London flat seemed like a good idea.

At least, it did until I discovered just how messy she could be…

Deciding I may as well make good use of the time while I wait, I delve into my satchel, fish out a folder and settle down to read through the first few thousand words of my notes on Aamon. Or rather, I try to read but I’m being deafened by Christmas music.

When once I had an angel’s kiss

Never knew love could hurt like this

How depressing are the lyrics of this Christmas song they’re playing now? Add as many sleigh bells as you want; it’s still utterly miserable. Come back George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley: all is forgiven. At least Pepsi and Shirley looked like they were having fun playing snowballs and wearing earmuffs.

On my own, out in the cold

No one to love, no one to hold

I put my hands over my ears. The words remind me of a chance meeting, one long-ago Christmas Eve that had been the worst of my life.

I close my eyes and let the memories wash over me. I’d taken a last-minute flight from Cairo and then journeyed to my home village in Buckinghamshire, in a desperate race against time to see Mum. It had been truly awful. The single carriage that posed for a train had deposited me on the platform with my luggage and then trundled away into the night, taking with it all light and life. For a moment I’d stood dazed, numb with grief and the cold alike, before managing to gather my wits about me sufficiently to drag my case towards a bench. There I’d shivered and wept while the snow whirled down and distant church bells pealed, summoning the faithful to worship.

“May I join you?” a voice had asked, out of the whiteness.

The flurry of needle-sharp wind and swirling snow had snatched my breath way. Or maybe what took my breath was the sight of him, silhouetted against the night sky; a tall figure with a guitar slung across his back and violet eyes set above sharp, jutting cheekbones. It was as though he’d walked straight off the cover of one of the trashy romances that Susie devoured. I’d looked away, firstly because I couldn’t trust myself to meet those eyes and secondly because I never liked anyone to see me crying.

“Hey,” he’d said, sitting down beside me and shaking the snowflakes from his dark curls, “you’re sad. Nobody should be sad at Christmas.”

I’d dabbed my eyes with the back of my gloved hand and tried to paste a smile onto my face, but I’d seen from the concern in his eyes that I was failing miserably. For a moment I’d teetered on the brink of pretending to be polite, being the usual Cleo Carpenter who just got on with everything and took all life’s blows in her stride – but there was something about the tenderness in his face that had pulled me back. It was late and I was jetlagged, half frozen and worried sick. Uncharacteristically, I’d found myself pouring out my heart and telling him everything: how Dad’s frantic phone call to Cairo, where I was doing my field studies, had sent me tearing across time zones in the desperate hope that I might make it back in time; how I knew in my heart that Mum wouldn’t last through Christmas; how I should never have gone so far away; how I couldn’t believe my father hadn’t called me home earlier. Before I’d even known it, I’d been sobbing in earnest, with the arms of the compassionate traveller holding me close. It should have felt wrong – he’d been a total stranger, after all – but it hadn’t felt that way at all.

And I’d never even asked his name…

“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” Susie charges though the coffee shop like a paratrooper with pink dreadlocks and hurls herself next to me on the sofa. My daydream evaporates abruptly and for a second I’m bewildered to be back in the coffee shop rather than at the cold railway station.

“Aren’t these totally worth being late for?” Rummaging through her bags, Susie plucks out a pair of platforms that even the Spice Girls in their heyday would have baulked at.

“Let me go and buy us some lunch,” I say hastily when Susie starts to show me her other purchases. I know from experience that she’s about to unpack every single item. “Latte? Cheese and ham panini?

“Lovely, but a skinny latte, please! I’m on a diet.”

I smile. Susie lost all the weight she carried at school a long time ago, but old habits die hard. I leave her gloating over her shopping, but when I return she’s peering at my Kindle, her brow corrugated with concentration.

“Why can’t you read
Heat
like everybody else? You’re such a brainbox.”

“Stop talking and eat your lunch,” I order, plonking down the tray. “I’ve got to get back to work soon.”

“Work? But it’s Saturday! Your day off, remember? We’re going to Oxford Street and then clubbing. You promised!”

“Suse, I can’t afford a day off right now. There’s an exhibition coming up and the post of Assistant Directorship of the Egyptology Department in the offing. I’m flat out.”

“I don’t know how you can bear working with those mummies,” shudders Susie. “It’d creep me out, especially if I was on my own at night. I’d be pooing myself.”

Late at night has to be my favourite time at the museum. No visitors and no noise. Just my laptop, my research and me. Perfect.

“What on earth would you be worried about?”

“Seeing a ghost, of course! The museum must be crawling with them.”

Susie loves all things paranormal. Our flat’s crammed with crystals and psychic magazines. Her idea of heaven is to curl up in front of the
TV show
Totally Spooked
and watch celebrity medium Lilac Delaney trying to commune with the dead, although why any dead people would want to talk to a woman who wears more make-up than a drag queen and rolls her eyes like a dying horse is beyond me.

“Suse,” I say patiently, “there’s no such thing as ghosts. When you’re dead you’re dead.”

“So
you
say, but nobody’s actually scientifically proven that ghosts don’t exist either.”

“That’s a fair point,” I concede, “but since I spend most of my time in a museum that, according to you, is crawling with ghosts, surely I’d have seen something by now? Maybe a mummy stumbling down the corridor like something out of
Scooby-Doo
?”

“OK, that does sound daft.” Looking abashed, Susie returns her attention to her lunch. “So, if you’re not coming shopping I suppose you’re going to blow me out tonight as well?”

“I’ll be there,” I promise, rashly. “It just might be a bit later, that’s all. I promised Simon I’d go through some notes this evening.”

Susie’s eyebrows shoot into her fringe. “Sexy Dr Simon? Is there something I should know?”

“Simon’s just a colleague.” I say, as I do an impression of an Edam cheese. Drat. Why do redheads blush so easily? It’s so unfair. As if corpse-white skin and freckles aren’t enough to contend with.

Susie stretches out her hands and pretends to warm them on my scarlet face.

“Wow! Look at the colour of you! You really fancy him, don’t you?”

“What are we? Fifteen?”

“Don’t change the subject, Cleo Rose Carpenter. This is
me
you’re talking to, remember? You looked just like that when you fancied Duncan from Blue!”

That’s the problem with having a best friend who’s known you since you were eleven – you can’t get away with anything. I’ve spent years trying to live down my embarrassing teenage crushes and fashion errors, or at least live them down as much as I can when I have Susie on hand to remind me. Thanks goodness I never told her about my Christmas stranger. She’d still be on about him now.

Unable to meet her gaze, I look down at the table, suddenly fascinated by the muffin crumbs scattered across the sticky surface. If Susie takes one look at me now she’ll know the truth – the painful, awkward, unprofessional truth: I do indeed fancy my newest colleague. Since he arrived I’ve struggled to focus on anything else. This is most unlike me. Normally I’m entirely career focused and, give or take a few dates now and then, pretty happy with being single. Life might be a little lonely sometimes but at least it’s under control. Usually my pulse never races, and I certainly don’t find myself checking my hair and make-up in the display cases every five minutes just in case I bump into a particular person. Until now, I’ve never regarded my colleagues as anything other than respected academics, probably because they’re only slightly younger than some of our exhibits – so to suddenly be working with an Egyptologist who’s not only brainy but also sex on a stick has thrown me completely.

“You do fancy him!”

I sigh. Right. I admit defeat. Of course I fancy our new Egyptologist – not that there’s much mileage in it, given that every female with a pulse in the Henry Wellby Museum fancies Simon Welsh.

“Come on, babes, ask him out!” Susie urges. “He sounds perfect. After all, what are the chances of you ever meeting a fit guy who’s as obsessed with dead Egyptians as you are?”

She has a point. The odds of my winning the EuroMillions are probably higher – and I don’t even buy tickets. But ask Simon out? No way! Never! Imagine if he said no? Just thinking about how humiliating this would be makes my skin prickle with horror.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Chicken,” says Susie.

She’s right. I’m such a chicken it’s a miracle Colonel Sanders hasn’t coated me in eleven secret herbs and spices and served me up in a KFC Bargain Bucket. When it comes to guys I’m useless. Unlike Susie, who can flirt for England, I just get quieter and quieter. Men probably think I’m aloof, when the truth is I’m just shy.

Dr Simon Welsh is the newest addition to our department. I don’t think anyone’s arrival has ever caused such a stir at the Wellby. Not only does he have very recent field experience and an impressive list of published papers behind him, but he’s also exceptionally good-looking, in a dishevelled, stubbly sort of way. When Simon was introduced at his first department meeting, our Departmental Assistant, Dawn, was practically drooling all over the minutes and her eyelids were batting so much she looked deranged. Even our secretary looked flustered and gave him all the custard creams. I’d kept my face impassive and listened intently to Dr Welsh’s presentation – but I hadn’t heard a word because I’d been far too busy sneaking glimpses at those sleepy denim-blue eyes and that slow, sexy smile. When a lock of corn-coloured hair flopped across his face I’d had to practically sit on my hands to stop myself leaping forward to brush it away.

So for the past few weeks I’ve been a nervous wreck. I’ve done my best to avoid Simon, but on the few occasions we have met, my tongue’s turned itself into a pretzel and I’ve hardly been able to say a word. Which is ridiculous. I’m twenty-nine! Surely I’ll be back to normal soon?

“Anyway, never mind Simon,” continues Susie, who knows me well enough not to push the issue. “I’m your oldest friend and deserve some quality time. You even blew me out on my birthday last week, so you have some serious grovelling to do.”

“I was working!”

“That’s a crap excuse, but because I love you I’m going to let you off. On one condition.”

Susie’s conditions are not for the faint-hearted. The last one involved me tackling a pile of ironing so high that NASA could have used it for the Mars mission.

“Which is?”

My best friend reaches into her bag and pulls out two tickets. Passing one to me, she says quickly, “Annie from work got them for my birthday but she’s going away and I really don’t want to go on my own. Please come with me, Cleo! Please!”

“Lilac Delaney: An evening of clairvoyance and mediumship,” I read. “You have got to be joking.”

“Come on, Cleo, please! You’re always letting me down.”

“Just because I don’t always want to join in your social whirl doesn’t mean I’m letting you down. I pay all my bills and the rent on time, don’t I? And who bailed you out last month when you’d forgotten to pay the council tax and spent the money on some ridiculous new bag?”

“It was really funky,” mutters Susie sulkily.

“So
you
get a brand new bag and
I
get to pay the council tax? I think that makes me the world’s best flatmate.”

“You’d be an even better one if you came to see Lilac Delaney with me. What have you got to lose? It’s not as though you actually believe in any of it.” Susie narrows her blue eyes thoughtfully. “Unless you’re scared that something’ll happen and you’ll be proved wrong, Mrs I’m-Such-a-Sceptic.”