A Miracle on Hope Street: The most heartwarming Christmas romance of 2018! - Emma Heatherington

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the ambulance into town.’

      ‘But I was just with him today and—’

      ‘I’ll pick you up in ten, okay?’ she says. ‘Meet me outside the cinema. I’m going as fast as I can but it’s snowing pretty heavily now. Go outside and wait for me.’

      My body shifts into autopilot and I stuff the phone into my handbag then leave the bright lights of the bathroom and push past the sheep-like crowds with my head down, ignoring hellos and whispers until I find George. I tell him I have to go, a home emergency. I urge him to stay and don’t wait for his reply.

      Not my Dad. Please, no. Not my darling daddy.

      I stop outside when I hit the cold and a flurry of snow. Shit, it’s cold.

      Just as the weatherman forecast, it’s below freezing outside and my warm breath fills the air as I stand, shuffling from one leg onto the other, with my fake fur coat pulled up under my chin, trying to digest what I’ve just heard and what news might lie ahead when we get to the hospital. I knew I shouldn’t have come out tonight! Maybe if I’d stayed with him like I always did? Maybe he panicked over something and I wasn’t there to help?

      The flashing cameras and the madness of the hubbub from before are gone now and I stand here alone on Hope Street, with only the flurry of snow against the yellowing street lights and the hum of Christmas carols in the distance for company as I wait for my sister. I close my eyes and try to keep calm, but I’m shaking all over from anxiety and guilt and the cold and I hope to God that Ally will just get here quickly.

      ‘Please hurry up,’ I mumble as I shuffle. ‘Please, Ally.’

      Seconds feel like minutes, minutes feel like hours. That’s it, I can’t stand here any longer. It’s too cold and I’m too worried to wait so I take out my purse from my bag and decide to hail a cab, unable to wait even though I know she can’t be far. With a £20 note clutched in my freezing hand I reach out to try and get the attention of a passing driver but he whizzes by, oblivious to my desperation.

      ‘Stop! Stop, please stop! Please, I’m begging you!’

      ‘It is you, isn’t it? From the newspaper?’

      I look around to see a man huddled on the pavement against the cinema wall in a thick maroon blanket calling me, his dark eyes just about visible under a woolly green hat and an overgrown fringe and beard. He sits on what looks like a damp sleeping bag and I wince at how cold he must be. Then the beep of a horn alerts me and when I look towards the street again, I see the beam of lights from Ally’s car at long last.

      ‘Thank you, God! Here,’ I say to the man, handing him the £20 I had taken out for the taxi and another I pull from my purse. ‘It’s not much, but find a warm meal somewhere. You must be freezing, poor thing.’

      He takes the money and my hand brushes his red, ice-cold fingers and we lock eyes for a split second.

      ‘You got bad news?’ he asks and I realise that I’m crying, then I’m thrust back to reality and I rush away as Ally beeps the horn.

      ‘You’re an angel!’ he calls after me as I get in to my sister’s car. ‘God bless you tonight. Thank you! Thank you so much!’

      I look back to see him examine the money in disbelief, and then he catches my eye with his smile as we drive away from Hope Street.

      I really wish I could do more for him right now but I need to get to the hospital. I need to see my dad before it’s too late.

      But when we get to the hospital, we are just that. Our darling daddy is gone forever.

       Chapter Four

       Ruth

       Eight Days before Christmas – One Year Later

      ‘Stop talking about me like I’m not here, please. I can hear you, you know.’

      The squeal of the wipers on the windscreen, the whirr of the engine, the boom from the stereo . . . I feel drunk but I’m perfectly sober, sick but I’m in physically great health, invisible but I’m very much in person here in my colleague’s car on our way out for pizza on the evening of the first anniversary of my father’s death and I feel hot and claustrophobic. I knew this was a bad idea.

      ‘I’ll take her home once I drop you all off at the restaurant,’ says Gavin to Bob who looks across at Nora, and then Gavin catches me in the rear-view mirror, his head tilted in pity.

      ‘I’ll be okay when we get there, I promise,’ I say to Gavin who’s in the driving seat. It’s our once-a-month-after-work evening out to Caprino’s, when we usually promise to be home by twelve, but almost always end up crashing at mine and staying up at least three hours later than we should do on a school night.

      An uncomfortable silence follows with more staring, more head tilting, more blurring in my head.

      ‘You’re on a different planet there, Ruth,’ Bob says.

      At just twenty-seven, he’s the youngest of our group of workmates but sometimes I do believe he is the wisest of all.

      ‘She needs to go home.’

      ‘She’s allowed to cry if she wants. Bawl your eyes out if you have to, Ruth, or stay at home if you have to. No one is forcing you into this, you know. Your dad—’

      ‘Go easy! It’s not even five in the evening, it’s only a bite of pizza and a few drinks then home again. Hardly like we’re taking her out on the razz, is it?’

      I have no idea who is saying what. All I can hear is their voices, muddling up, swirling around in my head.

      ‘It’s a tough time of year, Ruth, that’s all I’m saying.’

      Wise young Bob this time . . .

      ‘Caprino’s will be here next month and the next and the next and I’m sure you can catch up again on Gavin’s nonexistent love life and Nora’s never-ending marriage problems. It’s not like you’ll miss anything new if you want to go back home instead.’

      ‘My never-ending marriage problems?’ says Nora. ‘Tell it like it is, why don’t you, Bob! At least I have a man!’

      ‘Not to mention Bob’s latest hypochondriac moaning,’ says Gavin, never one to let Bob off with too much. ‘What is it tonight, Bobby? Back trouble? Ingrowing toenail? Dumped again by the man of your dreams?’

      ‘Sore back if you must know,’ says Bob. ‘I swear I’ve been in agony all week. Why does no one ever believe me? You believe me don’t you, Ruth? Don’t you?’

      I can’t even answer my friend, so I lean my head on the car window from where I stare out at the white lines racing by, trying desperately to convince myself that a bite to eat with my workmates is just what I need to make me turn a corner and distract me from the day. It’s my everyday job to understand other people’s problems, so a night at the pizzeria, listening to each of their moans, won’t be any different to what I usually deal with. I can do this. My dad would want me to do this.

      A bus passes us with my smiling face emblazoned on the side panel and no one bats an eyelid, nor do they when we pass a billboard with my giant, very airbrushed, may I add, larger-than-life features. My ‘Ask Ruth Ryans’ column in Today is by miles the most popular weekly feature and I’m a true expert at shelling out advice on City Radio every Sunday evening on family issues, relationship problems, health and lifestyle issues, you name it. I can advise them with my eyes closed, yet I can’t seem to manage my own issues at all, these days. I just can’t seem to take my own advice when it comes to this overwhelming grief that just won’t go away.

      ‘It’s time for her to get out of the house more. It can’t all just be about work and stupid dates

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