Authors: Emma Lee-Potter
White Christmas (7 page)
Still fuming at Dan Moody’s ridiculous demand, Lizzie caught
the bus to work bright and early on Christmas Eve. She jumped off in the Strand
and bought a coffee at Starbucks, then hurried towards Ace TV, trying not to
spill it. As she approached the offices though, she was surprised to see an
army of photographers clustered outside in the cold.
“Who are you lot waiting for?’ she called out. She’d heard
that a couple of Hollywood megastars were in town for Christmas so she
suspected one of them must be a guest on the breakfast sofa.
The moment she spoke, the camera shutters went crazy.
‘Lizzie,’ yelled the photographers in unison. ‘This way,
Lizzie. Look this way.’
In an instant Lizzie clammed up. She didn’t ask any more
questions, just hurtled inside the building as fast as she could.
‘Oh my God, what was all that about?’ she shouted at Bert
Watkins, the security man on duty. ‘What’s going on? Why are they all shouting
my name?’
‘Could be something to do with this, love,’ said the stoical
Bert and thrust a couple of the morning red-tops at her.
Lizzie took the Daily News and the Morning Sentinel from him
and stared at the front pages in disbelief.
‘BATTLE OF THE WEATHER FORECASTERS,’ screamed one headline,
while the other had splashed with ‘HAL AND LIZZIE – SNOW IN LOVE.’
Lizzie read on, scarcely able to comprehend what she was
seeing.
‘Last Ditch’s Hal Benson and Ace TV’s Lizzie “Onesie” Foster
have hatched a secret Christmas bet,’ said the Daily News story.
‘Hal’s predicting a White Christmas but serious-minded
Lizzie reckons snow’s too close to call.
‘The pair are supposed to be deadly rivals but - unknown to
their bosses – they have grown increasingly close in recent weeks. They
regularly whisper sweet-nothings to each other at a café called Coco’s in
London’s Covent Garden…’
Lizzie stopped reading as the truth slowly dawned. There was
only one person who could have told the tabloids about the two of them meeting
at Coco’s – and it certainly wasn’t her. White-faced, she handed Bert back his
papers. She’d tried to help Hal, she really had. She’d thought they were
friends. Yet all the time he’d been using her to get his name in the papers and
further his career.
He clearly didn’t know her very well at all, thought Lizzie,
stomping up the stairs in fury. She didn’t give a stuff about Hal Benson’s
stupid White Christmas Challenge and she was going to prove it once and for
all.
For a split second Lizzie wasn’t sure where she was when she
woke up on Christmas morning. Then the lonely truth dawned. She was in her flat
in Battersea, on her own at Christmas. Apart from the two Christmases she’d
spent with Rob, she’d always been in Dorset on Christmas Day – with a
present-filled stocking at the foot of her bed and the delicious smell of roast
turkey wafting up from the kitchen.
Feeling sorry for herself, Lizzie stumbled out of bed and
pulled back the curtains. She gasped out loud when she looked out across the
park. Her eyes must be playing tricks on her.
Everything - the trees, the grass, the paths criss-crossing
the park - was blanketed in white. The whole landscape had been transformed
overnight. Despite all her predictions and her endless calculations, it was a
White Christmas. A proper White Christmas. Hal had been right. She had been
wrong. And she knew what she had to do.
After a strong coffee to steady her nerves, Lizzie hurriedly
got ready. She eschewed the annoying pile of onesies scattered across the floor
and picked out bright red jeans, a thick Guernsey sweater and a pair of sturdy
boots. She put her old duffle coat over the top and wrapped a long scarf around
her neck.
By the time she crossed Prince of Wales Drive and strolled
into the park, her despondent mood had begun to lift. It was a crisp, cold
morning, with a bright azure sky and just a hint of sunshine behind the clouds.
Everyone she passed seemed to be in a festive mood. Small children threw
snowballs and shrieked with delight, while the grown-ups all beamed at her and
merrily called out ‘Happy Christmas.’ With every step she took, Lizzie felt
better than she had done in months.
Lizzie headed towards the park’s snow-covered bandstand and
then turned right towards Battersea Bridge. She had a three-mile walk ahead of
her and she was determined to enjoy every minute of it.
Walking briskly along the Thames and past the Houses of
Parliament, she marvelled at how beautiful London looked in the snow. She kept
up such a steady pace that she reached her Trafalgar Square in just over an
hour. She checked her phone quickly. It was exactly eleven-fifty-five. Just
five minutes to go.
As Lizzie waited, she gazed up at the stunning Norweigian
Christmas tree in the square. She’d always loved the time-honoured tradition of
the people of Norway presenting a tree to London at Christmas – in thanks for
Britain’s support during the Second World War.
Lizzie stamped her feet on the ground to keep warm and
looked at her phone again. It was five past twelve. He clearly wasn’t coming.
‘Merry Christmas, darling,’ said a voice behind her, and
Lizzie swung round, her heart beating fit to burst.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said a man she’d never seen before. ‘I
thought you were someone else.’
Lizzie turned away and slowly began trudging back in the
direction of Whitehall. What an idiot she was. She’d been determined to honour
their stupid bet – but he’d clearly forgotten all about it. Either that, or he
had better things to do this Christmas.
She was halfway across Trafalgar Square when she heard
someone shouting her name.
‘Lizzie. Lizzie. Wait for me.’
Turning her head cautiously, Lizzie saw Hal speeding towards
her, slipping and sliding as he ran.
‘It snowed,’ he yelled, grinning ear to ear.
‘Yep,’ said Lizzie. ‘It snowed. You win. I lose. I’m clearly
a crap weather forecaster. Actually, do you know what? I’m not a weather forecaster
at all any more.’
‘It’s funny, that,’ smiled Hal. ‘I’m not either.’
‘How come?’
‘I got one of the parts I auditioned for. I start rehearsals
in the New Year. And after that I’m off on tour.’
‘Hal, that’s amazing news,’ said Lizzie softly. And before
she knew what was she doing she was flinging her arms around him.
‘But how about you, Lizzie?’ whispered Hal into her hair.
‘What do you mean about not being a weather forecaster?’
‘Because I quit,’ she muttered, stepping back awkwardly. ‘I
quit yesterday. Handed my notice in. Told them what to do with their stupid
job. I couldn’t stand the crap any longer. All that nonsense about keeping it
simple and wearing crazy clothes… it just wasn’t me. I’m a…’
‘A serious scientist,’ laughed Hal, finishing her sentence
for her. ‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘I’ve got an interview for a job as a physics lecturer,’
said Lizzie. ‘No crap, no weather and definitely no onesies.’
‘Well that makes two of us,’ laughed Hal. ‘I quit yesterday
too. Not just because I got the part but, I don’t know, I hated us being set up
as rivals like that. And all that garbage about the battle of the weather
forecasters. Where did they get that from?’
Lizzie stared at him in astonishment.
‘You mean it wasn’t you? I thought you must have told them
about our White Christmas bet.’
‘Of course it wasn’t me. Why would I want to do that? No, it
was probably someone at the café wanting to make a quick buck.’
For a second Lizzie felt guilty at doubting Hal. But as Hal
pulled her into his arms and his lips met hers, she forgot everything. She
didn’t give a damn who had tipped the papers off. Or whether it was a White
Christmas or not. As long as they were together, everything was going to be
fine. Just fine.
SATURDAY
The crowd roared with delight as the chestnut stallion
soared gracefully through the air. The fence was more than one and a half
metres high, but the rider and horse made the jump look effortless. When the
duo touched the ground on the other side, there was a swell of applause from
the spectators packed into the stand. The rider, resplendent in a navy blue
show jacket and skin-tight white breeches, ignored it all, set on taking the
next thirteen jumps with similar ease.
Jack Stone’s jaw tensed as he watched. Stylish, brave and
fast - this was a competitor he was going to have to go hell for leather to
beat.
Up until now, he’d reckoned he stood a good chance of a gold
medal. After all, the American show-jumping team had won the last two Olympic
titles. Not only that, they had left nothing to chance in their preparations
for London 2012. They had been training in the US for months on end, and had
only flown into London a week ago. But watching riders of this quality made him
uneasy. Only for a second, though – Jack wasn’t the type to be racked by
self-doubt. But even so, he felt a flicker of irritation that when it came to
technique and speed, the European teams so often had the edge. They were
elegant and self-assured and had dominated the international showjumping scene
for as long as he could remember. He couldn’t put his finger on quite how they
did it but when the chips were down they had the knack of pulling that extra
special something out of the bag.
It was the first day of London 2012’s fiercely contested
jumping event and Greenwich Park had never looked lovelier. The oldest of
London’s Royal Parks, Greenwich was also one of the greenest, with long,
tree-lined avenues and acres of lush grassland. Jack had ridden in some
spectacular places in his time but this beat the lot. The jumping arena,
dramatically bordered on all four sides by the flags of the competing nations,
faced on to the elegant stone façade of The Queen’s House, part of the National
Maritime Museum. Even with scores of sleek city skyscrapers towering in the
distance and the distant hum of the Olympic traffic, it was hard to believe
they were slap bang in the heart of London.
As he glanced across to the start, keen to check which rider
would be up next, a huge cheer erupted from the crowd. Jack straightened up to
his full 6ft 2ins and narrowed his eyes. The rider he’d just been admiring had
completed a clear round in the allotted time and was dismounting from her
horse. Tiny next to the massive stallion, she removed a pair of dazzling white
gloves and a black riding hat to reveal a head of blonde curls caught up in a
ponytail. But when she turned her head to smile at a couple of Olympic
officials standing nearby, Jack gasped in disbelief. What the hell was she
doing here?
‘God, this room’s tiny,’ said Suzie Gregg. ‘How long have we
been here? A week? A month? It feels like a year. It reminds me of that
horrible trapped feeling I used to get at boarding school. Even the navy blue
curtains and wooden floor are the same. All we need is the head girl barging in
and confiscating our vodka and it’ll be like being back in the sixth form
again.’
Mimi Carter frowned and glanced up from her laptop.
Desperate to tell her parents how the first day’s jumping had gone, she had
been trying to send an email for the last ten minutes. But Suzie’s incessant
chatter kept distracting her.
‘For goodness sake, Suzie, stop whining. The Olympic Village
is amazing. I wouldn’t mind moving in for good. Gym, cinema, shops – and we’ve
even got a view of the stadium. Besides, I wouldn’t have a clue what boarding
school’s like…’
‘I agree the mattresses are brilliant,’ grinned Suzie. ‘I
read somewhere that the guys in charge tried out eight different sorts till
they were happy with them.’
‘Nothing but the best for London 2012,’ said Mimi. ‘It still
hasn’t hit me that we’re actually here. My mum’s told the whole of Lancashire I
took part in the opening ceremony…’
Suzie smiled at her friend. The two girls had known each
other since they were ten year olds in braces and pigtails. They’d met at a
pony club gymkhana, Suzie riding an elegant bay mare called Brandy and Mimi on
Magic, a piebald borrowed from the local riding school. Back then, their lives
had been worlds apart. Suzie’s parents ran a classy hotel on the outskirts of
Clitheroe and were adamant that their only daughter should want for nothing.
Mimi’s dad was a struggling tenant farmer. Their family finances were so tight
that as well as working on the farm her mum did two part-time jobs to make ends
meet.
It was ironic really, thought Suzie sitting in their Olympic
room all these years later, that while Mimi had turned into a brilliant rider,
she’d rebelled and swapped horses for bikes. Much to her family’s horror, Suzie
had eschewed the world of gymkhanas and eventing for the joys of cycling fast
and furious up and down the lonely hillside roads of north Lancashire.
Mind you, the efforts of both girls had paid off big time in
the end. At twenty-two, Mimi had recently made it into the British jumping
team, while Suzie, just a couple of months older, was competing in the famously
tough track cycling event. No wonder the press loved the pair of them. They’d
been dubbed the golden girls and in the lead-up to 2012 had appeared in
countless newspapers and magazines. There had been a glamorous two-page spread
in Grazia only a few days ago. ‘Two childhood friends,’ ran the first line.
‘One blonde, one brunette. One a top class showjumper, the other an elite
cyclist. Both competing for their country at the highest level - and both going
for Olympic gold.’