Welcome to My World (46 page)

This is where Harri and Alex chose to begin the greatest journey of their lives – together. And all around them, the city smiles.

When it comes to telling your best friend that you love him, there are generally two schools of thought. One strongly advises against it, warning that you could lose a friend if they don’t feel the same way. The other urges action because, unless you say something, you might miss out on the love of your life.

Unfortunately for me, I listened to the latter.

The look in Charlie’s eyes said it all: I had just made the biggest mistake of my life . . .

‘
Sorry?
’

‘Maybe I should say it again? I said I love you, Charlie.’

He blinked. ‘You’re not serious, are you?’

‘Yes.’ I could feel a deathly dragging sensation pulling my hope to oblivion.

‘H-how long have you . . . ?’

I dropped my gaze to the potted plant beside our table. ‘Um – a long time, actually.’

‘But, we’re
mates
, Rom.’

‘Yeah, of course we are. Look, forget I said anything, OK?’

He was staring at his latte like it had just insulted him. ‘I don’t know how you expect me to do that. You’ve
said it
now, haven’t you? I mean it’s – it’s
out there
.’

I looked around the overcrowded coffee shop with its uniformly disgruntled Christmas shoppers, huddled ungratefully around too-small tables on chairs greedily snatched from unsuspecting single customers. ‘I think it’s safe to assume that none of that lot heard anything.’

As attempts at humour go, it wasn’t my finest. I took a large gulp of coffee and wished myself dead.

Charlie shook his head. ‘That doesn’t matter.
I
heard it. Oh, Rom – why did you say that? Why couldn’t you just have . . .?’

I stared at him. ‘Just have what?’

‘Just
not said anything
? I mean, why me? Why put this on me now?’

I hated the look of sheer panic in his eyes. He’d never looked at me that way before . . . In my perennial daydream about this moment it had been so very different:

Oh Romily – I’ve loved you forever, too. If you hadn’t told me we could have missed each other completely . . .

‘We’re fine as we are, aren’t we? I mean, if it’s good then why change it? I can’t believe you actually thought that declaring your undying love for me would be a good idea.’

Well,
excuse me
, but I did. Somewhere between my ridicul ous, now obviously deluded heart and my big stupid mouth, my brain got pushed out of the picture and I – crazy, deranged
loon
that I am – found myself persuaded that I might be the answer to his dreams. That maybe the reason for the many hours we’d spent together – cheeky laughter-filled days and late night heart-to-hearts dripping with chemistry – was that we were destined to be more than friends. Everyone else noticed it: it was the running joke amongst our friends that Charlie and I were like an old married couple. We’d lost count of the number of times complete strangers mistook us for partners. So if it was this blindingly obvious to the world, how come Charlie couldn’t see it?

Of course, I couldn’t say any of the above to him. Only much, much later, staring at the wreck that was my reflection in the bathroom mirror through mascara-blurred eyes, did I deliver my Oscar-worthy performance. But then and there, in the crowded café packed with people who couldn’t care less about what I was saying, I found that – to my utter chagrin – all I could say was:

‘I’m sorry.’

Charlie shook his head. ‘I did
not
see this coming. I thought we were friends, that’s all. But this – this is just
weird
. . .’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Charlie.’

He stared at me, confusion claiming his eyes. ‘I – I didn’t mean . . . Heck, Rom, I’m sorry – you’ve just got to give me a moment to get my head around this.’

I looked away and focused on a particularly harassed couple talking heatedly at the next table over enormous mugs of cream-topped festive coffees. ‘You don’t appreciate me,’ the woman was saying. Right now, I knew exactly how she felt. ‘The thing is,’ Charlie said, ‘you’re just Rom – one of the guys, you know? You’re a laugh, someone I can hang out with . . .’ He gave a massive sigh.

‘I’m really not sure how to deal with this . . .’

I’d heard enough. I rose to my feet, intense pain and crushing embarrassment pushing my body up off the chair. I opened my mouth to deal a devastating parting shot, but nothing appeared. Instead, I turned and fled, stubbing my toe on a neighbouring customer’s chair, tripping over various overstuffed shopping bags and almost taking a packed pushchair with me as I beat an un-graceful retreat from the coffee shop into the bustling shopping mall beyond.

‘Rom! Where are you going?
Rom!
’ Charlie’s shouts behind me blended into the blur of crowd noise and Christmas hits of yesteryear as I ran through the shopping centre, making my way blindly against the tidal flow of bodies, countless faces looming up before me, unsmiling and uncaring.

As I passed each shop the Sale signs began morphing into condemnatory judgments on my actions, screaming at me from every window:

Paul McCartney was singing ‘Wonderful Christmastime’ like it should have an ironic question mark at the end, as the jostling crowd propelled me involuntarily towards the upward escalator. Unable to wriggle free, I found myself moving along with the throng. But I felt nothing; my senses numbed by the faceless bodies hemming me in and my heart too beset by ceaseless repeats of Charlie’s words to care any more. At a loss to make sense of the total catastrophe I’d just caused, I surrendered to the welcoming blandness of my surroundings and, quite literally, went with the flow.

What was I
thinking
telling my best friend in the whole world that I loved him? Perhaps it was the impending arrival of the
Most Wonderful Time of the Year
(thanks for nothing, Andy Williams) or the relentlessly festive atmosphere filling the city today that caused me to reveal my feelings to Charlie like that. Perhaps it was the influence of watching too many chick-flick Christmas scenes that had tipped my sanity over the edge and made the whole thing seem like such a great idea (Richard Curtis, Norah Ephron, guilty as charged). Whatever the reason, I had completely ruined everything and was now undoubtedly facing my first Christmas in fifteen years without him.

Unceremoniously dumped onto the next tier of the mall by the escalator, I managed to squeeze through the slow-moving shoppers to emerge breathless into a small pocket of relatively fresher air by a large, over-decorated artificial Christmas tree. Tears stung my eyes and I swallowed angrily in a vain attempt to keep them at bay.
What was the matter with me? How did I get it so devastatingly wrong?

All the signs had been there, or so I thought: hugs that lingered a moment too long, snatched glances and shy smiles in the midst of nights out with our friends, moments of unspoken understanding during conversations begun in the early evening and ending as birdsong heralded a new day. Then there were his unexplained silences – times when I felt he had something more to say, where unresolved question marks sparkled magnificently in the air between us and the room held its breath – ultimately in vain. There had been more of these lately, peppering almost every occasion we spent together with an irresistible spice of intrigue. Only last Wednesday, Charlie had stopped the car in a country lay-by on our way to meet friends at our favourite bistro, specifically to give me a hug – with no words, no explanation. It was an intensely warm, lingering embrace, his cinnamon scent pervading my senses and his neck soft against my cheek, while his fingers traced slow circles across my shoulder blades. Once it ended, he started the car and we drove on as if it had never happened. If it didn’t mean what I thought it did, then what on earth was that all about?

My mobile phone rang in my bag, but I couldn’t face answering the call, so Stevie Wonder continued his tinny rendition of ‘Sir Duke’ unhindered by my usual intervention. Reaching into the crummy depths of my coat pocket, I retrieved a half-screwed up shopping list and read down the list of scribbled names: my To-Do list for the afternoon. It was the last Saturday before Christmas and my final chance to buy everyone’s presents. Christmas shopping waited for no one, it seemed – not even thoroughly embarrassed owners of newly-shattered hearts.

Charlie
. My breath caught in the back of my throat as my eye fell on the last name.
No need for that one to be there
, I hissed under my breath
, I think he’s had quite enough surprise gifts from me this year.
I stuffed the list back into my pocket and turned as I prepared to dive back into the undulating ocean of people.

And that’s when it happened.

It was so fast that I almost didn’t realise what was going on. Even now, the details remain frustratingly sparse in my mind. But here’s what I know:

As I was about to step out, a hurrying shopper slammed into my shoulder from behind, the force of it stealing my balance and propelling me forward. I braced myself for the inevitable impact as I headed towards the polished mall floor, but instead found myself suddenly supported by strong arms, lifting me back to my feet. My eyes first met a striped scarf, then headed north to reach quite the most gorgeous face I had ever seen. His hazel eyes caught the light from white fairy lights strung overhead, whilst wavy strands of his russet-brown hair picked up the twinkling blue light from the lavishly decorated Christmas tree beside us. A slight shadow of stubble edged his jaw-line and his cheekbones were quite defined. Tiny details, really. But what I remember most – apart from what happened
next
, of course – was the expression on his face.

It was the kind of look you see in movies when a bridegroom turns to see his bride walking towards him for the first time; a heady, overpowering mix of shock, surprise and all-encompassing, heart-stopping love. It was the look that Charlie
should have
given me when I told him I loved him. But this wasn’t Charlie: and that, in itself, was part of the problem. Because – apart from
not
being the man to whom I had publicly expressed my undying love not fifteen minutes beforehand –
this
person was almost perfect: from the woody scent of his cologne and the smile making its unhurried progress across his lips, to the strong, safe arms cradling me like a precious gem.

But most of all because of what happened next . . .

He only said two words, but they were enough. Two simple, amazing words that were just about to change
everything
.

‘Hello beautiful,’ he said.

I was about to say something in return when his head turned and I could hear a voice calling from the melee of faceless shoppers behind him.

‘We’ve got to go . . .
Now!
’

His eyes returned to mine, now widening as he debated his next move. He stepped back, his hands slipping from my shoulders to my elbows, maintaining their hold on my arms. When they reached my hands, he took another look behind him, then back at me. Shaking his head, he drew both my hands towards him until we were face-to-face. I held my breath as the sudden intensity of the moment seemed to suspend time around us . . .

. . . and then, he lifted my hands up between us to meet his lips, and kissed them.

Although it was only the smallest of gestures, it was unlike anything else I’ve experienced. It was the kind of moment you only expect to see in Hollywood films – finally uniting the two leads as the credits start to roll over the delicious tones of Nat King Cole. In fact, even the soundtrack was perfect – because, at that very moment, Mr Cole himself began crooning ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ from the muffled speakers of the shopping mall, as I closed my eyes and gave in to the unexpected gift of the stranger claiming my hands.

It was almost perfect.
Almost
. But not quite. Because, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone: swallowed up by the heaving, unyielding mass of shoppers. So there I stood alone once more, dazed yet elated by the Christmas tree, my heart thumping wildly and my whole life altered irrevocably.

And that’s why I have to find him.

Miranda Dickinson has always had a head full of stories. From an early age she dreamed of writing a book that would make the heady heights of Kingswinford Library. Following a Performance Art degree, she began to write in earnest when a friend gave her The World’s Slowest PC. She is also a singer-songwriter. Her first novel,
Fairytale of New York
, was a
Sunday Times
top ten international bestseller.
Welcome to My World
is her second novel.

To find out more about Miranda visit www.miranda-dickinson.com

Visit
www.AuthorTracker.com
for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Wow. You mean I get to do this again? Blimey . . . First of all – and most importantly – I’d like to thank you, for picking up my book today. You’re amazing. I still can’t quite believe that people other than my family and friends want to read my stories. Thank you!

Thanks as ever to the fantastically talented Authonomy.com community and the lovely Clive, Laura and team who run the site. Here’s to many more Authonomy successes!

A massive thank you to the Avon team at HarperCollins, for believing in me and making the whole experience so fun and fulfilling. I hope this book is just reward for your faith in me. To my brilliant editor, Sammia Rafique, for not only being the very best editor any writer could wish for but also a true friend. To Caroline Ridding, Claire Bord and Kate Bradley, for supporting me so much, and Tara Hiatt and the Rights team at HarperCollins for all their hard work on my behalf. Thanks also to Yvonne Holland and Anne Rieley.