A Christmas Kiss

by Vicky Pattison

Genres: General Fiction; Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

It's the perfect season to fall in love. Amber Raey is working all the hours God sends as assistant to one of the country's top fashion designers, and her boss is a complete nightmare. But Amber has big plans for her future so, for the time being, she just has to grin and bear it. And then opportunity comes knocking and suddenly she's on the fast track to the top. Amber adores her new life, especially as she's falling in love for the first time too. But soon the glossy exterior starts to slip and Amber begins to wonder if she's made the right decision entering this world. Then a face from her past reappears and she finds herself in real trouble. With Christmas fast approaching, Amber is drifting further away from her loved ones. Can she get her life back on track before it's too late for a merry Christmas? Full of heart, warmth and humour, A Christmas Kiss is a romantic and festive read - it's the perfect book to curl up with this Christmas!

Release date: October 22, 2015

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 352

Sample

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

An incessant beeping interrupted my dreamy sleep. I reached for a pillow and buried my head under it. Sshh, man. I’m sleeping.

‘Amber,’ a familiar voice said.

Nope. 

‘Amber, get up.’

Definitely not. If I stay really still and pretend to still be asleep maybe she’ll go away. 

‘AMBER!’ the voice shouted.

I sat bolt upright.

‘What the hell?’ I said to Jess, my flatmate, rubbing my eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Jess! I was sleeping! What’s your problem?’ I am not a morning person. Through bleary eyes, I took in Jess’s immaculately fitted suit, her neatly styled long red hair, her perfectly applied make-up.

She tutted disapprovingly. ‘Mate, didn’t you hear your alarm clock?’ She waved it in my face.

‘No. Now kindly go away and let me go back to sleep. I was dreaming that Tom Hardy took me to the cinema. He was just buying me Haribos and Ben and Jerry’s when you interrupted.’ I screwed my eyes shut, pulled the pillow back over my head and willed my subconscious back to the confectionary queue at the cinema with Tom.

‘What flavour were you going for?’ Jess was not giving up.

‘Cookie dough, obvs.’ Ridiculous question, but I thought I might as well humour her.

‘Amber, now that I have your attention through the power of ice cream…’

I started to drift off again. Jess grabbed my pillow and hit me over the head with it.

‘What the —’

‘AMBER!’ Jess interrupted. ‘You need to get up. Now. It’s six-thirty a.m.!’

‘WHAT?!’ Suddenly, it hit me. How could I have slept through my alarm? Oh shit!’ I jumped out of bed, stubbing my toe on the bedside table in the process and shouting more expletives. Balls! I tore out of my bedroom and ran straight to the bathroom, Jess’s laughter ringing in my ears.

Ten minutes later I was back in my room. I threw on the outfit I’d picked out the night before, and grabbed my make-up bag. I’d have to do my make-up in the cab. I couldn’t really afford a cab, but it was the only chance I had of making it to work before Diana, my boss. I rushed into our open-plan living area and Jess handed me a mug of coffee and a piece of toast. While throwing things into my huge, but somehow already full, bag, I shrugged myself into my jacket, ate a few bites of the toast and washed them down with as much of the coffee as I could – burning my mouth. More balls! I ran to the door, flung it open and I was about to run down the stairs and into the street when I heard Jess calling my name.

‘What?’ I said impatiently. ‘What is it?’

‘You’ve only got one shoe on,’ Jess said, holding up my other wedge. ‘You’re going to need this, I think.’

I looked at my feet. How can a person not realise that they are only wearing one shoe? Who does that? I need to get my life together. I’m a twat and Jess is a wedge-wielding angel sent by God. Balls again!

‘What would I do without you?’ I said to Jess. ‘Thank you!’ I threw the last comment over my shoulder as I ran down the stairs, hurriedly putting the wedge on, so of course, I fell over. Balls. My fourth set of balls for the day and I wasn’t even out the front door yet.

‘You OK, Ambs?’ Jess called down the stairs through stifled giggles.

‘Yip! Yeah, just fine. Bloody shoes. See you tonight!’ I scrambled to my feet and ran out the door.

‘Good luck!’ she called after me.

 

A crisp February sun was shining. I love wintery sunny days like these. I glimpsed the golden light of a free cab, waved my arms and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the taxi gods when it stopped immediately.

‘Where to, love?’ the driver asked as I clambered into the back of the cab.

‘Somerset House, please,’ I replied.

‘You off to London Fashion Week?’ he said. ‘Are you a model then?’

‘Nope,’ I replied, ‘Just a fashion assistant.’

As the cab wound its way with snake-like skill through the London traffic, I started applying my make-up. I’d mastered how to do this in taxis, on trains, on buses, without blinding myself with a mascara wand or painting my cheeks with lipstick years ago. It was a CV-worthy skill that saved me time on mornings like this one, of which, I’m not going to lie, there are many. Did I mention I hate mornings?

I smiled as the cab driver chatted about all the models he’d had in his cab since London Fashion Week had kicked off. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked me if I was a model; whenever it happens I always roll my eyes and tell them no. It’s probably my height that does it – at just under six feet, I’ve got long enough legs for it. Though not the grace: my ankle was still slightly sore from the tumble down the stairs. I scrutinised myself in my compact mirror. My eye make-up made the most of my chocolate-brown eyes, I’d pulled my long caramel-coloured hair into a messy bun so I slicked on a bit of MAC nude lipgloss to complete the look. A model I was not, but I’d do for backstage at today’s shows – hopefully. The adrenalin, the running around, all those beautiful clothes, amazing new prints and trends – I couldn’t wait. This was what I lived for. I’m a total clothes perv. And I am not ashamed.

As a kid growing up just outside Newcastle city centre in Walker, I spent all my time sketching and drawing clothes. My mam taught me how to use her sewing machine when I turned thirteen and that had been it. If I hadn’t been addicted to fashion before, I definitely was after I’d made my first skirt. The hem had been wonky and one of the buttons had fallen off after a week but you would have thought I’d created a classic Chanel piece the way I treasured it. The only way was up after that. There was no getting me off that bloody sewing machine and I had more holes in my fingers and thumbs than a second-hand dartboard, but I didn’t care. I’d found my passion and that was it.

Now, just like any other twenty-four-old, I love shopping but have developed my own style over the years and often customise the things I buy. And here I was on my way to work at London Fashion Week… not exactly in the capacity I’d always imagined, but I was still going. And that was the main thing, wasn’t it?

I was still a far cry from my dream of designing my own fashion line. Right now, I was a lowly assistant to the formidable Diana Grant. I’d idolised her for years and had been so excited when I’d landed the job as her assistant – her designs were some of the most unique and timeless in the business. To work for and learn from someone like that was the opportunity of a lifetime, so despite the appallingly low salary (it barely keeps me in gin) I’d accepted the job without hesitation. In reality Diana is such a grade-A cow she makes Cruella de Vil look like Mary Poppins. She isn’t interested in mentoring anyone and she doesn’t waste any compassion or warmth on her employees. She’s still a genius, yes, but she is also mean, small-minded and unkind to anyone she deems beneath her. Which is almost everyone. However, I know that to make it in this industry, you have to pay your dues and so I’ve stuck it out. I’ve taken care of her dog, let her shout abuse at me for things I haven’t done, and for the first six months of work I allowed her to call me Amy. She didn’t like the name Amber, you see, though thankfully now it has grown on her ‘like a cancerous cell’. I still had hope that one day Diana would take me seriously and look at my sketches. She’d better, or I’ll set her car on fire. I laughed evilly to myself at the thought of her precious Porsche going up in flames and caught the taxi driver looking at me in his mirror like I was a fruit loop.

‘Erm, we’re here, love.’

Great, now he thinks I’m insane. 

The cab pulled up outside Somerset House, which even at this time was beginning to crowd with similarly harried-looking assistants. I threw my make-up back into my bag, paid the driver, thanked him profusely while trying to look as normal as possible – the weird cackle had obviously freaked him out – and jumped out.

I immediately felt the buzz around me as I rushed to the Edmond J. Safra Fountain Court, where Diana’s collection was being shown. I love London Fashion Week. It’s glamorous, fast-paced, fun and has such a significance within the industry all at the same time. It had cast its spell on everyone here, and no matter how hard we had to work, how difficult it could be, every single one of us was powerless to resist its charms. I fancied London Fashion Week. It was the David Beckham of Fashion Weeks.

As I squeezed myself backstage, showing my staff pass through all the security checks, I looked around and let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding – Diana wasn’t here yet. I had made it! Jess, you legend! You have saved my skin once again. I had the chance to make a quick mental note to buy her a lifetime’s supply of gin and Pop-Tarts before the extent of the chaos hit me smack in the face. Models were everywhere in various states of undress, hair stylists were working furiously while make-up artists were trying to do their thing at the same time. Diana’s team of designers was shouting, shrieking and sweating about God knows what. It was madness. And I had to try to coordinate it before the maddest hatter herself arrived.

No one took any notice of me. I dumped my bag in a corner and went to find Portia, the headline model of today’s show. I spotted her in one of the hairdresser’s chairs so made my way over to her.

‘Hey, Portia,’ I said. I liked her a lot, despite the fact that she and Diana genuinely appeared to be friends.

‘Hi dahling,’ she said in an accent which made the Queen sound common. ‘What do you think of my hah?’

‘Eh?’ I asked, frowning.

‘You know, my hah style.’

Oh, hair, I thought. Honestly, sometimes I needed subtitles to understand what Portia was saying – though she probably thought the same about me and my Geordie accent.

‘You look a beaut, babes,’ I replied. The tiny plaits that were being piled on her head looked uncomfortable but she smiled through the pain like a pro. Eat your heart out, Cara Delevingne.

‘Everything all right here?’ a Mancunian accent said behind me. I turned to see a face that seemed very familiar to me. It couldn’t be…? She nodded at the stylist and I realised that it really could be – she must be supervising the hair stylists.

‘Er, are you Issy Jones?’ I asked before I could stop myself. ‘From Can You Cut It?’ I’d been obsessed with the hairdressing competition/reality TV show when it had been on the telly and Issy had been hands down my favourite contestant.

‘Yeah, hun, that’s me,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m in charge of hair for Diana today.’

‘I had no idea, she never told me,’ I said. ‘I’m one of her assistants, Amber Raey.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Issy said, giving me a warm hug, completely unlike the usual fashion world air-kisses. She gestured to Portia’s intricate hairstyle. ‘What do you think?’

Diana’s collection was highly tailored this season, so the dramatic hair would be perfect to show off the sharp, crisp angles of the clothes.

‘It’s perfect,’ I gushed. ‘You’re a genius. I loved you on Can You Cut It?’ I knew I was fangirling so hard but I couldn’t help myself. The room might be full of A-listers, but reality TV star turned celebrity hair stylist Issy Jones was making me lose my shit more than any of them.

‘Thanks, babes,’ she laughed. ‘It didn’t exactly go to plan, though, did it?’

‘I thought you were great. What’s been happening since? I didn’t see you in the papers much after the show finished.’

Issy shook her head. ‘That kind of fame wasn’t for me in the end. I took some time, figured things out and decided what I really wanted to do. I’ve opened a couple of salons now, one back home in Manchester and another in Shoreditch.’ She looked around. ‘And I get to style hair for shows like this. Life’s good,’ she finished with a big smile.

‘It means a lot to people like me,’ I said, ‘to see someone, you know, normal make something of themselves. It gives the rest of us hope.’

Issy reached out and squeezed my arm. ‘If this is really what you want then stick with it, work hard and good things will happen.’ As she pulled her hand away something on her finger caught my eye.

‘Hey!’ I caught her left hand and looked at the elegant ring on her third finger. ‘This is beautiful. So you and Ryan…?’ One piece of scant information I had read in New magazine was that Issy had fallen for a fit sound man who worked on her show. I knew they were dating but I hadn’t realised they were this serious. OMG. I sound like a stalker.

Issy nodded, a happy look on her face. ‘We’re getting married in the summer. It can’t come soon enough.’

‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘That’s great news.’

‘Thanks, babes. Anyway, I better get on. I’ve got a lot to do before Diana gets here, and we don’t want to be on the wrong side of her, do we?’ She threw me a knowing look before wandering off to check on another model’s hair while I stood there grinning like an idiot, completely starstruck.

There was a commotion near the door to the backstage area and I hurried towards that section, knowing what was coming – the temperature in the room had dropped a couple degrees. It could only mean Diana was in the building. An eerie silence descended over the chaos as she appeared. She was a striking figure. She was about six foot tall, an inch or two taller than me, and her slick bobbed hair was midnight black, a striking contrast to her pale alabaster skin and postbox red lips. She was carrying her pug, Lulu, while behind her Paddy, her first assistant, shuffled along carrying Diana’s Hermès bag. As first assistant, Paddy was with Diana all the time, and as far as I could tell his main job was to continually stroke her ego. As lowly second assistant, I was lucky if I got to say hello to Diana most days. Or should that be unlucky? Whichever way you look at it, I thought to myself, when we do talk she’s normally too busy shouting at me or barking me her lunch order to even let me even open my mouth. I braced myself for her worst as she approached me.

‘Amber,’ she shouted unnecessarily.

I’m right here mate, no need to shout whatsoever. I’m literally in front of you. 

‘I’m right here, Diana,’ I said.

She thrust Lulu at me and pushed me aside as she strode into the middle of the room. ‘Paddy, coat,’ she yelled. Paddy hurriedly slid the coat from Diana’s shoulders and scurried off with it without a word.

Diana was wearing a pristine white suit, so tight it could’ve been sprayed onto her bony frame. Glaring at me for unknown reasons, she clicked her fingers and she was immediately surrounded by her designers.

For all her loathsome ways, Diana was innovative and creative when it came to fashion and that was why I had been so desperate to work for her. From Hollywood A-listers to British royalty, she had dressed the best and the most elite people in the world. She’d even once refused to dress Angelina Jolie – she’d been Team Aniston, you see. Diana wasn’t called the Queen of British Fashion for nothing. I so badly wanted to learn from her but the sad truth was the only thing she seemed to be willing to teach was how to develop a bad attitude.

Lulu was squirming in my arms, growling. I looked down and shot her a look of loathing. Lulu and I aren’t friends; I’m convinced she hates me as much as Diana does. The dog is better dressed than me for a start – she has a diamond-encrusted collar which probably costs my yearly salary. And don’t get me started on her wind.

‘Paddy,’ I hissed, when he had returned from coat-hanging duty. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ I held Lulu out to him.

‘Amber,’ he said, raising a skinny eyebrow. ‘Your one job today is to hold on to Lulu and take her out for pee-pee at regular intervals. Surely even you can manage that?’

Once again, I wished that Paddy would be a bit of an ally to me. The problem was that I was the only person he was allowed to talk down to, so he made the most of it. It was never going to be a case of the two of us against Diana.

‘Welcome to the world of high fashion, darling,’ I said to Lulu as Paddy walked away.

She farted on me in response.

I was heading back inside after taking Lulu for another ‘comfort’ break, and in the fifteen minutes I’d been gone the show had finally got under way. The chaos backstage had increased and Diana’s voice was reaching heights that would shatter glass, but I couldn’t help but be infected by the excitement and buzz. I looked out at the audience, spotting A-lister after A-lister… I could see the Olsen twins, Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, Alexa Chung, and I’m pretty sure there was a Kardashian in the mix as well. A shiver of ambition went through me. I didn’t want to put up with Diana’s ridiculousness, I didn’t want to look after Lulu, and I certainly didn’t want to have to look at Paddy’s horrendously over-waxed brows any more. I wanted to be showing my collection. I knew I could do it, I just needed someone to take me seriously. I’d worked for Diana for over a year now – it was time to make her look at my sketches properly. And I’d make sure she did, as soon as London Fashion Week was over. I had to.

‘What the hell have you done?! It’s ruined!’ Diana’s screams shattered my ambitious thoughts.

‘I didn’t do anything, it just broke,’ an Eastern European voice stuttered.

‘What. Is. Your. Name?’ Diane shrieked.

‘Natasha.’ The girl was on the verge of tears. The other models, who were being ushered onto the runway, shot her sympathetic looks but weren’t able to offer anything else in the way of support. Paddy was hovering nearby, looking between the girl and Diana, a panicked expression in his eyes. I looked at Natasha. Her outfit was a one-piece designed to look like a tailored trouser suit, but her nipple was poking out from behind the lapel and the one of the trouser hems was trailing on the floor below her stacked heels. Shit. This is going to go off.

Diana was pacing back and forth, screaming incomprehensibly at whoever happened to be standing closest to her. All of the designers, plus Paddy, were running after her doing their best to placate her. No one, however, was doing anything to fix Natasha’s outfit – Diana’s bitch fit was obviously being deemed the main priority. I rolled my eyes. We had about five minutes until we had to either send Natasha onto the catwalk or pull her, which I knew would devastate the show. We didn’t have time for all this drama.

Still clutching Lulu, I retrieved my bag. I looked around and saw a man standing on the sidelines. Without thinking, I thrust Lulu at him.

‘Pet, do me a solid and hold Lulu please,’ I said quickly, throwing him a smile. ‘It’s an emergency.’ I ran over to Natasha, who was looking shell-shocked and distraught. ‘Hey, babes, don’t start crying, it’ll mess up your make-up.’ I gave her arm a squeeze. ‘We’ll fix all of this in no time.’ I pulled some tit-tape out of my bag and deftly attached some to the inside of the collar so that her exposed nipple was firmly tucked back into place. I then crouched down, grabbed my needle and cotton and sewed a couple of stitches into the hem. It wouldn’t last forever but it would do for the next ten minutes.

Natasha’s face broke into a relieved smile. ‘My God, thank you.’

‘No worries,’ I said, standing up. I gently pushed her towards Diana who had stopped frantically pacing. She looked Natasha up and down and waved her hand dismissively.

‘You’ll do,’ she said. She shoved Natasha towards the catwalk. ‘Go, go, go.’ She turned to me and fixed me with an icy glare.

‘You’re welcome,’ I said brightly, before she could say anything. Diana stared at me for a moment, then turned back to show and I was forgotten.

‘Your doggie,’ an Italian accent said behind me. I turned and saw the man I’d left Lulu with. I’d forgotten all about him and that stupid mutt.

‘Thanks for that,’ I said, taking the dog back. ‘I’m Amber Raey, by the way,’ I said, ‘Diana’s assistant. Well, one of them,’ I explained. The man was about three inches shorter than me, with a glowing tanned face, a bald head and thick black-rimmed glasses. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

‘Alessandro Rossi,’ he said, sticking his hand out toward me and raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

‘Oh shit,’ I said before I could stop myself. How had I not recognised him? I had just made the head of House of Rossi, one of the most successful fashion houses in the world, hold Diana’s smelly, arse-faced dog. I wanted to die – but I shook his hand instead. Best thing is to style it out, play it cool. You work in the same industry here. I mean, he’s practically a colleague.

‘I’m so sorry. I’m a huge fan of your work, I love it! And you! But with the chaos I just didn’t… I can’t believe I didn’t realise. I really am sorry. I feel like a right knob. I can’t believe I just said knob in front of you. And again. Oh God. I’m just going to shut up.’

Yip, cool as a cucumber in a bowler hat, Amber. Way to act cool. Bollocks. 

Alessandro smiled kindly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He gestured at Lulu. ‘Is the dog yours?’

‘No, it’s Diana’s. I’m on dog-sitting duty today.’

‘Really? It looked to me like it was your job to rescue the show.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I said. ‘But I couldn’t sit by and watch everyone else run around like distressed teenagers at a 1D concert.’

‘Is that an English saying?’ Alessandro looked perplexed.

I shook my head, laughing. ‘No, sorry. 1D, One Direction. Have you heard of them?’

‘Ah, of course,’ Alessandro said. ‘I’m not familiar with the phrase, what did you call them, 1D? But they are lovely boys.’

‘Yeah, they seem it. I like Harry, he’s dreamy.’ I said, before I could help myself. Desperately trying to move the conversation to more professional and less ‘dreamy’ territory I racked my brains for something to say.

‘So,’ I asked, ‘which part of Italy are you from?’

Well, it’s a start. 

‘Tuscany. Is very beautiful there. Have you ever been to Italy?’

‘Nope, but I’d love to one day.’

‘Maybe you can go to the Milan shows?’

‘That’s the dream,’ I said, ‘though it depends on Diana. She usually only takes one assistant with her. And I’m her second assistant so it’s not usually me.’

‘I see.’ Alessandro looked at me steadily. Do I have something on my face? I thought. ‘I admire her work,’ he went on.

‘Me t. . .