Megan stooped down so that she was on the same level as the
six-year-old, brown-haired, blue-eyed boy in front of her.
Face of an angel, but spoiled rotten. She had seen many
versions of this child over the past two years, since she
had been working in London. It seemed to be particularly
predominant at private schools, where children were lavished
with all that money could buy but often starved of the
things that money couldn't.
'Okay, Dominic. Here's the deal. The show's about to start,
the mummies and daddies are all out there waiting, and the
Nativity play just isn't going to be the same without you in
it.'
'I don't want to be a tree! I hate the costume, Miss
Reynolds, and if you force me then I'm going to tell my
mummy, and you'll be in big trouble. My mummy's a
lawyer, and she can put people into prison!' he ended, with
folded arms and a note of irrefutable triumph in his voice.
Megan clung to her patience with immense difficulty. It had
been a mad week. Getting six-year-old children to learn and
memorise their lines had proved to be a Herculean feat, and
the last thing she needed on the day before school broke up
was a badly behaved brat refusing to be a tree.
'You're a very important tree,' she said gently. 'Very
important. The manger wouldn't be a manger without a
very important tree next to it!' She looked at her watch and
mentally tried to calculate how much time she had to
convince this tree to take his leading role on stage—a
role which involved nothing more strenuous than waving his
arms and swaying. She had only been at this particular
school for a term, but she had already sussed the difficult
ones, and had cleverly steered them away from any roles that
involved speech.
'I want my mummy. She'll tell you that I can be
whatever I want to be! And I want to be a donkey.'
'Lucy's the donkey, darling.'
'I want to be a donkey!'
Tree; donkey; donkey; tree. Right now, Megan was heartily
wishing that she had listened to her friend Charlotte, when
she had decided to leave St Margaret's and opted for another
private school. Somewhere a little more normal. She could
deal with normal fractious children. She had spent
three years dealing with them at St Nick's in Scotland,
after she had qualified as a teacher. None of them
had ever threatened her with prison.
'Okay. How about if we fetch your mummy and she can
tell you how important it is for you to play your part?
Remember, Dominic! It's all about teamwork and not letting
other people down!'
'Donkey,' was his response to her bracing statement, and
Megan sighed and looked across to where the head of the
junior department was shaking her head sympathetically.
'Happened last year,' she confided, as Megan stood up. 'He's
not one of our easier pupils, and fetching his mum is going
to be tricky. I've had a look outside and there's no sign of
her.' Jessica Ambles sighed.
'What about the father?'
'Divorced.'
'Poor kid,' Megan said sympathetically, and the other
teacher grinned.
'You wouldn't be saying that if you had witnessed him
throwing his egg at Ellie Maycock last Sports Day.'
'Final offer.' Megan stooped back down and held both
Dominic's hands. 'You play the tree, and I'll ask your mummy
if you can come and watch me play football over the vacation
if you have time.'
Forty-five minutes later and she could say with utter
conviction that she had won. Dominic Park had played a very
convincing tree and had behaved immaculately. He had swayed
to command, doing no damage whatsoever, either accidental or
intentional, to the doll or the crib.
There was just the small matter of the promised football
game, but she was pretty sure that Chelsea mummies, even the
ones without daddies, were not going to be spending their
Christmas vacation at home. Cold? Wet? Grey? Somehow she
didn't think so.
Not that she had any problem with six-year-old Dominic
watching her play football. She didn't. She just didn't see
the point of extending herself beyond her normal working
hours. She wasn't sure what exactly the school policy was on
pupils watching their teachers play football, and she wasn't
going to risk taking any chances. Not if she could help it.
She was enjoying her job and she deserved to. Hadn't it
taken her long enough to wake up in the morning and look
forward to what the day ahead held in store for her?
From behind the curtain she could hear the sound of
applause. Throughout the performance cameras and video
recorders had been going mad. Absentee parents had shown up
for the one day in the year they could spare for parental
duty, and they were all determined to have some proof of
their devotion.
Megan smiled to herself, knowing that she was being a little
unfair, but teaching the children of the rich and famous
took a little getting used to.
In a minute everyone would start filtering out of the hall,
and she would do her duty and present a smiling face to the
proud parents. To the very well-entertained
parents—because, aside from the play, they would be
treated to substantial snacks, including crudités,
delicate salmon-wrapped filo pastries, miniature
meatballs and sushi for the more discerning palate. Megan
had gaped at the extravaganza of canapés. She still
hadn't quite got to grips with cooking, and marvelled at
anyone who could produce anything edible that actually
resembled food.
Out of nowhere came the memory of Alessandro, of how he'd
used to laugh at her attempts at cooking. When it came to
recipe books she was, she had told him, severely dyslexic.
It was weird, but seven years down the road she still
thought of him. Not in the obsessive, heartbroken,
every-second-of-every-minute-of-every-waking-hour way that
she once had, but randomly. Just little memories, leaping
out at her from nowhere that would make her catch her breath
until she blinked them away, and then things would return to
normal.
'Duty calls!'
Megan snapped back to the present, to see Jessica Ambles
grinning at her.
'All the parents are waiting outside for us to tell them
what absolute darlings their poppets have been all term!'
'Most of them have been. Although I can think of a
few…'
'With Dominic Park taking first prize in that category?'
Megan laughed. 'But at least he waved his arms tonight
without knocking anyone over. Although I did notice
that Lucy the donkey kept her distance. Amazing what a spot
of blackmail can do. I told him he could watch my next
football match.' She linked her arm through her colleague's
and together they headed out to the main hall, leaving
behind a backstage disaster zone of discarded props and
costumes, all to be cleared away the following afternoon,
when the school would be empty.
The main hall was a majestic space that was used for all the
school's theatrical performances and for full assemblies. A
magnificent Christmas tree, donated by one of the parents,
stood in the corner, brightly lit with twinkling lights and
festooned with decorations—many from the school
reserves but a fair few also donated by parents. Elsewhere,
along one side, were tables groaning with the delicacies and
also bottles of wine—red and white.
The place was buzzing with parents and their offspring, who
had changed back into their school gear, and numerous doting
relatives. In between the teachers mingled, and enjoyed the
thought that term was over and they would be having a
three-week break from the little darlings.
Megan was not returning to Scotland for the holidays. Her
parents had decided to take themselves off to the sunshine,
and her sisters were vanishing to the in-laws'. Playing the
abandonment card had been a source of great family mirth,
but really she was quite pleased to be staying put in
London. There was a lot going on, and Charlotte would be
staying down as well. They had already put up their tree in
the little house they shared in Shepherd's Bush, and had
great plans for a Christmas lunch to which the dispossessed
had been cordially invited. Provided they arrived bearing
food or drink.
A surprising number of people had seemed happy to be
included in the 'dispossessed' category, and so far the
numbers were up to fifteen—which would be a logistical
nightmare, because the sitting room was small—but a
crush of bodies had never fazed Megan. The more the merrier,
as far as she was concerned.
She heard Dominic before she actually spotted him. As was
often the case with him, he was stridently informing one of
his classmates what Father Christmas was bringing him. He
seemed utterly convinced that the requested shed-load of
presents would all be delivered, and Megan wondered whether
he had threatened the poor guy with a prison sentence should
his demands not be met.
She was smiling when she approached his mother, curious to
see what she looked like. Matching parents to kids was an
interesting game played by most teachers, and this time the
mental picture connected perfectly with the real thing.
Dominic Park's mother looked like a lawyer. She was
tall, even wearing smart, black patent leather flats, with a
regal bearing. Dark hair was pulled back into an elegant
chignon, and her blue eyes were clever and cool. Despite the
informality of the occasion, she was wearing an immaculate
dove-grey suit, with a pashmina loosely draped around her
shoulders.
She was introduced via Dominic, who announced, without
preamble, that this was Miss Reynolds and she had promised
she would take him to watch her play football.
'You must be Dominic's mum.' Megan's smile was met with an
expression that attempted to appear friendly and interested
but somehow didn't quite manage to make it. This was a
woman, Megan thought, who probably distributed her smiles
like gold dust—or maybe she had forgotten how to smile
at all, because it wasn't called for in a career that saw
her putting people into prison, if her son was to be believed.
'Correct, Miss Reynolds, and I must say that I was very
disappointed when Nanny told me today that Dominic would be
playing a tree. Not terribly challenging, is it?'
She had an amazing accent that matched her regal bearing
perfectly.
'We like to think of the Nativity Play as a fun production,
Mrs Park, rather than a competition.' She smiled down at
Dominic, who was scowling at some sushi in a napkin. She
took it from him. 'And you made a marvellous tree. Very
convincing.'
'When will you be playing football?' he demanded.
'Ah… Timetable still to be set!'
'But you won't forget, will you?' he insisted. 'Because my
mummy's a—'
'Yes, yes, yes… I think I've got the message on that
one, Dominic' Megan smiled at his mother. 'I've been told
that I shall be flung into prison without a Get Out Of Jail
Free card if I don't let him watch one of my matches….'
'Silly boy. I've told him a hundred times that I'm a
corporate lawyer! And we shall have to discuss Dominic
watching your football match, I'm afraid. We're very busy
over the Christmas period, and Nanny won't be around for
three days, so I shall be hard-pressed to spare the time to
take him anywhere.'
Megan was busy feeling sorry for poor Nanny, who had clearly
been inconsiderate enough to ask for time off over
Christmas, when she was aware that they had been joined by
someone. The elegant lawyer had stopped in mid-flow, and
there actually was something of a smile on her face now as
she looked past Megan to whoever was standing behind her.
'Alessandro, darling. So good of you. I'm absolutely
parched.'
Alessandro!
The name alone was sufficient to send Megan into a
tail-spin. Of course there was more than one Alessandro in
the world! It was a common Italian name! It was just
disconcerting to hear that name when she had been thinking
about him only minutes earlier.
She turned around, and the unexpected rushed towards her
like a freight train at full speed, taking her breath away.
Because there he was. Alessandro Caretti. Her
Alessandro.
Standing in front of her. A spectre from the past. Seven
years separated memory from reality, but he had remained the
same. Still lean, still muscular, still staggeringly
good-looking. Yes, a little older now, and his face was
harsher, more forbidding, but this was the man who had
haunted her dreams for so long and still cropped up in her
thoughts like a virus lying dormant in her
bloodstream—controlled, but never really going away.
She had never seen him in a suit before. Seven years ago he
had worn jeans and sweatshirts. He was wearing a suit now, a
charcoal-grey suit, and, yes, a white shirt—so some
things must not have changed.
Megan could feel the blood rushing into her face, and it was
a job to keep steady, to hold out her hand politely and
wonder if he would even recognise her. Her hair was shorter
now, but still as uncontrollable as it always had been.
Everything else was the same.
She was shaking when she felt the brief touch of his hand as
she was introduced.
What was he doing here? Was he Dominic's father?
But, no. From next to her she could hear that cut-glass
accent saying something about her fiancé. He was
engaged! Wearing a suit and engaged to the perfect woman he
had foreseen all those years ago when he had broken up with her.
He didn't appear to recognise her as he held out the glass
of wine to his fiancée, eliminating her from the scene
by half turning his back on her.
On the verge of flight, she was stopped by Dominic
announcing yet again—this time to
Alessandro—that Miss Reynolds would be taking him to a
football match. At this, Alessandro focused his fabulous
dark eyes on her and said, un-smilingly, 'Isn't that beyond
the call of duty, Miss Reynolds?'
How can you not even recognise me? Megan wanted to
yell. Had she been so forgettable? Didn't he even
recognise her name? Maybe he had met so many women
over the years that faces and names had all become one great
big blur.
'It seemed the only way to persuade Dominic to be a tree.'
It was a miracle that her vocal cords managed to remain
intact when everything else inside was going haywire. 'And
it's not taking him to a football match. It would be to
watch me playing football.'
'You play football?'
His dark, sexy voice wrapped itself around her, threatening
to strangle her ability to breathe.
'One of my hobbies,' Megan said, taking one protective step
back. She dragged her eyes away from that mesmerising face
and addressed his fiancée. 'I hope you have a lovely
Christmas, Mrs Park.' She realised that she was still
clutching the discarded sushi, which had seeped through the
napkin and was now gluey against the tightly closed palm of
her hand.
'You'll have to give my mother your phone number, Miss
Reynolds, and your address. For the football match? You
promised!'