Christmas Shopaholic(92)

“Oh. Yeah. I heard.” Craig winces, and I wait for him to say, “I’m so sorry, that was highly inappropriate of her.” But instead he sucks his teeth and shakes his head ruefully.

“Yeah, Nadine wasn’t pleased. She thought Luke should have given her more time. More respect, you know?”

What? Is he for real?

“We were having a family party at the time,” I say. “And Luke doesn’t usually hold business meetings with no notice. At home. On a Sunday. On his daughter’s birthday.”

I couldn’t be more pointed, but Craig seems oblivious.

“Yeah,” he says, in the same musing tones. “Nadine was quite pissed off. And you don’t want to get on the wrong side of Nadine.” He shoots me a rueful glance. “I’m afraid Luke’s made a business enemy there.”

Luke’s made a business enemy of Nadine? Oh my God, we’re all terrified. I’m sure Luke’s quaking in his boots. I expect they’ll have a showdown across some massive board table with views over the Shard.

Not.

“What a shame,” I say. “Well, have a good Christmas.” I make to push my trolley on, but Craig puts a hand on it.

“You’re still invited to our Christmas party,” he says. “Maybe Luke and Nadine can make up there, under the mistletoe.” His eyes gleam wickedly at me, and I bristle. What’s that supposed to mean?

“I doubt it,” I say in off-putting tones. “I think we’re busy.”

“Last chance to use the hot tub before we move,” says Craig, waggling his eyebrows tantalizingly, and I stare at him in surprise.

“Move?”

“Yeah, we’re leaving. Renting another place. Bit quiet for us here. Bit nothing.” He hesitates, then adds, “Plus, Nadine’s found out where Lord Alan Sugar lives. Reckons she might get to know him.”

Oh my God, she’s even madder than I thought.

“Brilliant plan,” I say, somehow keeping my face serious. “That’s the way to do it. I’m sure she’ll be a tycoon really soon. Anytime now.”

I’m fairly sure Craig doesn’t realize I’m being sarcastic, because his face softens.

“She’s got drive, Nadine,” he says admiringly. “So much drive.”

Yes, I answer silently, and the sooner she drives herself out of Letherby, the better.

“Well, good luck with that,” I say politely. Two women are coming in through the glass doors, and I see them eyeing up Craig and nudging each other. I suddenly view him through their eyes: long hair, stubble, mesmerizing eyes. The sexiest rock god Letherby has ever seen.

And I give a wry, inward laugh. That was me, melting under his dark, smoldering gaze. What an idiot I was.

Even so, I feel a slight pang as he says, “Well, bye, then, Becky, and happy Christmas.” I may never see him again. And, after all, he was an important part of my life. (Sort of.) Plus, I have some unanswered questions.

One unanswered question, anyway.

“Wait, Craig,” I say. “Before you go, I’ve always wondered something.” I hesitate, then blurt out, “Did you ever write a song about me? Or at least…mention me? Refer to me at all?”

Craig’s slow, sexy smile creeps across his face again—then he nods.

“?‘Girl Who Broke My Heart,’?” he says succinctly, and I stare back, gripped.

“Wow. But the girl in that song is French. Was that, like, camouflage? Is it really me? Am I that girl?” My voice trembles with the drama of the moment. “Craig…did I break your heart?”

“No,” says Craig, looking amused. “And you’re not that girl. But you’re in verse three, first line. See you.”

He pushes his trolley out of the supermarket and I stare after him, transfixed, then spring to life. I hastily summon Google on my phone and search Lyrics girl who broke my heart Craig Curton. I’m in a song! I’m actually in a song! This is so cool! What does it say?

After a few seconds the lyrics appear on my screen. I breathlessly scroll down to the third verse and read the first line:

She had better hair than the one before.

For a few moments I peer blankly at the words, trying to make sense of them. Where am I in this? Did I have better hair than someone? I can’t make head nor tail of it. Typical Craig, to write something incomprehensible.

OK. Let’s start from first principles. The song is about a French girl. And “she had better hair than the one before.”

Wait. I frown as the horrible truth hits me. As in…the girl he dated before? Is that me? I’m “the one before”? With inferior hair?

I gasp in outrage. Is he saying I had bad hair? I did not have bad hair. Everyone wore their hair like that at uni. And he can talk. And who was this French girl anyway? Who says her hair was so great? I bet it was a boring old bob.

I glance out of the supermarket, half-tempted to go after him and demand furiously, “What d’you mean, bad hair?” but he’s gone. Hmph. I’m never dating a rock musician again.

I mean, obviously I’m not, I hastily add in my head.

That goes without saying.

For about the millionth time since I met Luke, I hope he can’t somehow read my mind. Because, to be frank, that would be a disaster.

Still bristling all over, I push my trolley into the next aisle. What I’m really hoping to see is a sign saying, GET YOUR VEGAN TURKEYS HERE! But it’s all reduced mince pies and Advent calendars. Hmph again.