Second Chances at the Log Fire Cabin Read online

  The truth is, it’s not the TV show that’s making me jumpy. It’s the thought that, tomorrow, I’ll be moving in with Jackson. It’s only natural to be nervous about something like that, I suppose – it’s a bit like pre-wedding nerves. It’s a big commitment, after all.

  And actually, the more I think about it, the more certain I feel that living with Jackson is absolutely the right thing to do …

  At ten o’clock tomorrow, a van will arrive to transport all my belongings to his gorgeous house in a gated community twenty miles from here, in the heart of the Surrey countryside.

  Flo seems more excited about the cutting-edge design of his house than anything, although since she’s really into architecture, I suppose that’s understandable.

  But to be honest, I’d live in a caravan as long as I was with Jackson.

  And I think he feels the same, judging by what he said to me the other day before he flew off to Spain.

  He was heading abroad to negotiate a property deal. I drove him to the airport, parked at the drop-off point and asked him if he’d miss me while he was away – and his reply was so lovely, I find myself still thinking about it days later.

  He unbuckled his seat belt and turned to look deep into my eyes. ‘Roxy,’ he murmured, ‘just the thought of spending even a couple of days without you is unbearable. What’s the bee supposed to do without the honey?’ He shrugged with a wistful smile, looking so cute and vulnerable that tears sprung to my eyes.

  When I told Mum I was moving in with Jackson, she burst out, ‘And about time, too!’ She didn’t mean it was time I moved in with Jackson – we’d only been together a couple of months – but that it was time I finally let a man get close to me.

  Now that it’s actually happening, I can’t help feeling nervous. But I’m really excited, thinking about our future together.

  ‘How on earth did Jackson get tickets for this TV show?’ Flo asks now, looking green with envy.

  ‘Oh, you know Jackson.’ I can’t help saying it with a touch of pride. ‘He’s got contacts everywhere.’

  It’s true. He’s always networking, dashing off to some event or other to ‘press the flesh’. Flo once joked that he’d attend the opening of an envelope if it meant widening his business circle, and there’s more than a grain of truth in what she said. But I think it just shows how much drive Jackson has to succeed. He’s got an entrepreneurial mind with a keen eye for a new business opportunity. He puts it down to growing up in a single-parent household with his mum, Maureen, who was utterly devoted to him but had very little money. She held down three jobs, cleaning and working as a waitress, to keep their heads above water.

  Last year, Jackson bought Maureen a modern three-bedroom house in a lovely area of Guildford. It makes me feel warm inside just to think of it.

  I finish my make-up and spin round on the stool to face Flo. ‘Do I look all right?’

  ‘You look fab.’

  I frown. ‘Are you sure?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I wish you’d believe in yourself more, Roxy. Honestly, you look fantastic. And once you’ve got that dress on, Jackson will think he’s the luckiest man alive, I promise you.’

  She crosses her hands over her heart and smiles goofily at me. ‘By this time tomorrow you’ll have moved in with him. Are you excited?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  I spin back round to face the mirror, catching the trace of anxiety on my face. I am excited. Of course I am. It’s just that, living together, I’ll have no more excuses not to let my barriers down …

  Jackson is picking me up in ten minutes. He flew back from Spain only this afternoon. The plane was late landing and I texted him to say I’d be just as happy with a quiet night in. But I knew he’d still want to go to the show tonight. That’s one of the things I love about him. His incredible energy. He routinely works late into the night then has to be up for a seven o’clock breakfast meeting. It’s the kind of schedule that would kill most people, but for Jackson, business is like a labour of love. His enthusiasm for what he does carries him through.

  The doorbell rings and Flo dashes to the front door, returning – after some giggling in the hallway – with Fergus. They’re so loved-up, it can be pretty gruesome at times, to be honest.

  But I’m really happy for her.

  She’s a shining example that relationships can work out perfectly. She and Fergus had known each other for only three months when she proposed to him – and he said yes right away. Which I knew he would because they’re both absolutely smitten and totally right for each other. Everyone can see that. As I joked in my speech at their engagement party last month, no one else would have them, what with their mutual passions for battle re-enactments and liver and onions.

  I’m in awe of Flo’s ability to wear her heart on her sleeve.

  Five minutes later, the doorbell signals Jackson’s arrival and I grab my winter coat and bag, and totter to the door in the pale green dress, cream shrug and shoes that are much too high to actually walk in. Because I stand at five foot eleven, I’ve tended to stick mainly to flat shoes, so it’s a bit like learning to walk all over again. Jackson bought these beauties for me – nude skyscrapers with their distinctive red sole – to go with the dress. He believes a woman can never have too much glamorous footwear. He’s six foot four, which means I’m as tall as he is when I’m wearing the shoes.

  ‘Have fun,’ calls Flo. She catches me up in the hallway. ‘And just relax, hun. The fact that Jackson’s asked you to move in with him means he thinks you’re pretty special, okay? So stop acting as if you think he’s doing you a favour!’

  I grin. ‘Yes, boss. Trouble is, no one can be as happy as you and Fergus. It’s just not possible. I mean, that proposal on the battlefield as he lay wounded will go down in history as the most romantic ever. Especially the bit where the fake blood spurted all over your face.’

  She gives me a look. She’s used to me glossing over awkward moments with humour.

  ‘You know what I mean, Roxy. Stop holding back because you think you’re not good enough or something.’ She shrugs. ‘If I’d held back from proposing to Fergus, I wouldn’t be planning my wedding now, would I? And feeling the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.’

  I laugh. ‘Er, you’re not suggesting I propose to Jackson, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She grins. ‘That’s just idiot me, rushing headlong in. You have to be true to yourself. And that just wouldn’t be you.’

  ‘I’ll stick to being boringly un-spontaneous, then, shall I?’

  Before going to the TV studios, we head to an elegant bar Jackson knows for cocktails.

  Although it’s only the first week in December, Christmas has arrived in style on the high street. The shops, bars and restaurants glimmer with fairy lights and a huge Christmas tree takes pride of place in the town square.

  My mood soars. I love Christmas. I love the lights and the glitter. I love going for frosty walks and coming home to hot chocolate by a roaring fire. I love everything about it, really. And, this year, it’s going to be even more special than usual.

  I smile up at Jackson, loving the feel of his warm hand wrapped around mine. Tonight is going to be a good night!

  In the bar, we find a cosy corner table and I order a Manhattan, which makes me giggly and slips down almost before I realise. I insist on buying the next round, which is eye-wateringly expensive but well worth it, because I’m a Piña Colada convert! I tell myself it’s a special night and I won’t have to worry quite so much about rent now that I’m moving in with Jackson.

  I assume we’ll head off to the studios after that, but just as we’re leaving the bar, a crowd of people that Jackson knows walks in, so naturally we stay to chat a little. From the conversation he’s having with a couple of the guys and a woman in a stunning sequinned mini dress, I gather they’re on a work night out from a company Jackson occasionally does business with.

  He introduces me simply as ‘Roxy’ – no mention of
the word ‘girlfriend’, which I try not to mind about. We’ve only been going out a couple of months, after all, and maybe Jackson didn’t want to be presumptuous. We join them at their table for a drink.

  ‘Just one,’ murmurs Jackson in my ear. ‘Is that okay?’

  I smile at him, feeling deliciously mellow. ‘Of course.’

  Naturally, the talk is mostly about business, so I smile and drift off, only half listening, just happy that Jackson is happy. He seems to be having a lot of chat with the woman in the stunning dress, who’s called Lara. She keeps laughing and flicking her hair and touching his arm. But watching them, I just feel proud that he’s with me. I know how important business is to Jackson and that any opportunity he has to mingle, he’s right there.

  After a while, I glance at my watch and realise the time is getting on. If we’re not careful, we’ll be late to the studios. But I’m happy to leave it in Jackson’s hands – and the champagne cocktails that keep arriving are going down wonderfully well.

  A little too well, I realise, when we finally make a move.

  I stand up a bit too quickly, and have to cling onto Jackson because everything is spinning as if I’m on a ride at the fairground.

  ‘Have a great time!’ sings the girl in the sequinned dress, as we leave, giving Jackson a ‘call me’ sign.

  I give her a thumbs-up because I can’t make my mouth work and I nearly fall over. Jackson grabs me just in time and I smile up at him.

  Where are we going again?

  Through a haze of alcohol, I vaguely recall something about the TV.

  Are we going to be interviewed on the telly? God, I hope not. On the other hand, maybe being three sheets to the wind will loosen me up a bit and turn me into a reality TV star overnight! But it actually doesn’t matter where we’re going as long as my gorgeous man is here to cling onto. Jackson will look after me! Jackson Cooper loves me, not that girl in the naff, sparkly dress he was talking to for ages!

  At the TV studios, Jackson asks me if I need the bathroom, which makes me giggle and tell him I’m not ten. Then he takes my arm quite firmly and steers me up the steps to our seats. It seems to take quite a long time because I can’t stop giggling and trying to make him stop and kiss me.

  We finally arrive at our seats and I slump down happily and snuggle into Jackson.

  Being with Jackson is making me fizz with happiness inside. My cheeks feel nicely flushed and my banter with him is rather witty (if I say so myself). I can’t stop laughing at a man sitting further along the row in front. He’s wearing a Christmas tree on his head – quite a tacky one, at that – and the person behind him taps him on the shoulder and asks him to remove it, which he does.

  ‘Bah humbug!’ I say, getting thoroughly into the Christmas spirit.

  The woman in front of me turns and glares, and I make a shamed face at Jackson, but he just grins and squeezes my hand, which makes me even more in love with him than ever.

  Feeling full of the joys, I lean my head on his shoulder and smile goofily to myself, drifting away from what’s happening on stage and into the world of my imagination. I’m moving in with lovely Jackson tomorrow! The woman sitting in front is probably just jealous because she doesn’t have a gorgeous, handsome, funny, intelligent man to make her life sparkle! And Flo is right. I need to have more confidence in myself. I should tell Jackson exactly how I feel about him …

  ‘Ah, do we have a pair of lovebirds here?’

  The man who had been on the stage talking to the audience has suddenly appeared in the aisle next to us. He’s leaning over me, thrusting a microphone at Jackson.

  ‘So how long have you two been together?’ he asks.

  Jackson, cool and laid-back as ever, smiles and says, ‘Not long enough for my liking.’ I smile and snuggle closer, and there’s a big ‘aaah!’ from the people around us.

  Jackson kisses the top of my head, and in my cocktail haze, I feel quite weepy. I really am the luckiest girl in the world!

  The TV host is looking at me now. ‘Are you enjoying yourself tonight?’ he asks.

  The microphone veers towards me and my hazy brain takes in the fact that millions of people are probably watching the show at home and every one of them is waiting for me to answer. So I throw a big smile to the camera and announce, ‘I’m having a fabulous time, thank you very much. I’m the luckiest girl in the world!’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ The TV host’s eyebrows rise. ‘And why’s that?’

  I attempt to get my tongue around the words, Because I’m here with Jackson. But it emerges as, ‘Because I’m jeer with Hackson.’

  The host nods. ‘And is there anything you want to say to – erm, your man – on this date night to beat all date nights?’

  My head spins woozily as Jackson smiles down at me, and the microphone hovers expectantly in front of my nose. ‘There is, acshully.’

  For some reason, an image of Flo drifts into my head.

  Flo thinks I can’t be spontaneous. She thinks it’s just not who I am. But maybe, with Jackson, I can become a braver person – the person I’ve always wanted to be!

  I turn to Jackson, trying my hardest to focus. And there are two of him!

  Lovely Jackson. He’s been so patient with me and I really want to show him how much he means to me. And this lovely audience and the TV host are looking at me, waiting for me to speak, expecting something amazing.

  I swallow hard. And then the words just tumble out of my mouth.

  ‘Hackson Jooper, I love you. Will you marry me?’

  There’s a second’s silence then the whole studio gasps with delight.

  You could hear a pin drop as Jackson clears his throat. And I wait, misty-eyed, to hear the words we’ll tell our grandchildren in years to come …

  He’s staring at me, with a frozen look on his face, as if he’s never seen me before and I find myself drawn to his Adam’s apple, which keeps bobbing up and down.

  Finally, he leans towards the microphone and murmurs:

  ‘Er, no?’

  Chapter 3

  It’s amazing how quickly you sober up after your proposal of marriage is flatly turned down.

  It’s also amazing how fast you can locate an exit and flee the studio – even with double vision and two left feet.

  Blundering down the front steps of the building, I’m praying for some form of transport to arrive and get me out of here. The last thing I want is to hang around here, waiting for a bus or a taxi, and risk Jackson catching up with me.

  If he followed me out, that is.

  Did he follow me out?

  I glance back, not sure if I desperately want to see him or desperately don’t.

  I might get over the shame of it all – in about twenty years – if Jackson hotfooted it after me and told me he froze when I asked him to marry me and said the first thing that came into his head. And that really, now he’d had a chance to think about it, the marriage thing wasn’t such a bad idea.

  But there’s no sign at all of Jackson, which hurts almost as much as the original rejection.

  A bus lurches to a stop in front of me, so I jump on and sink into the nearest seat – before realising it’s going in entirely the wrong direction. Stumbling off at the next stop, I vaguely recognise an important landmark – our local kebab shop – at which point I realise I’d been on the right bus after all. The bus that is now disappearing into the distance.

  I wrench off my heels and start to scurry along the pavement, dodging groups of people in their Christmas finery coming towards me. All I want to do is get home and pour out the whole ridiculous story to Flo – and ask her not to rent my room out to someone else because I’m not moving in with Jackson after all!

  But of course when I finally arrive home and burst through the door, she and Fergus are snuggled together on the sofa. By the looks of things, Fergus is manfully sitting through Flo’s favourite rom-com for about the two hundred and twenty-fifth time. (Fergus is lovely like that.)

  Flo
looks up questioningly to see me back so early.

  ‘Bit of a hiccup. Don’t ask!’ I paste on a grin, implying a ladder in my tights or something equally harmless. Then I escape up the stairs to my room.

  Sitting upright on my bed, hugging my knees, I stare at my feet and the tights that are blackened and full of holes from my desperate dash home. I dropped one of my gorgeous new shoes on the way but ran on like someone possessed, not caring. I wish I’d stopped now. There’s a small smear of blood mixed with the dirt from where my foot pounded onto something sharp.

  I reach down to touch the wound, and the sting intensifies a hundredfold.

  Tears well up as the full horror of what I’ve done hits me with the force of a sledgehammer. I’ve just made the biggest tit of myself in the history of TV bloopers. I’ll probably be on every episode of When Proposals Go Wrong for the next ten years, and that’s only if I get lucky.

  The nightmare scenario of the most cringe-making, toe-curlingly gruesome hour of my life seems to be playing on repeat in my head – presumably in case I might somehow, without the constant helpful reminders, forget it happened.

  Like I’m ever going to forget tonight!

  I flump face down on the bed. What on earth possessed me? You do not propose to someone unless you are one hundred per cent certain of the answer. Especially if you’re doing it on live TV!

  Flo knocks softly on the door.

  ‘I’m asleep,’ I call.

  There’s a pause. Then, ‘Okay, but come and get me when you want to talk about it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I mumble into the pillow, feeling quite nauseous. The alcohol is making my head spin round and round.

  Those bloody champagne cocktails! They should come with a warning: Danger. Drink at your peril. You might be forced to emigrate to escape the shameful consequences of your actions.

  I scramble under the covers fully clothed, just wanting to disappear from earth, never mind the UK – perhaps taking a year’s sabbatical on Mars – so that no human being will ever again clap eyes on the tragic soul who proposed to her boyfriend in front of six million people.