Maybe she should talk to Nicole, ask her to make Ali see sense. Only, that would mean Nicole would have to know, and Ali didn’t want that. She wanted to sweep what had happened this week under the carpet, write it off as a festive fling. Maybe, in time, Morgan could do the same.
She slid her hands into her mum’s padded red oven gloves and opened the oven door. Heat licked her face, but the smell of roasted meat made her mouth water. She pulled out the turkey—enough to feed an army by the size of it—and moved it to the end of the island. Then she got two clean tea towels from the second drawer down and tucked them around the bird. That could rest while she got on with the rest of the dinner.
Two hours later, Morgan sat at the island with a well-earned cup of coffee, phone in hand, willing more updates from anyone. Her sister. Her mum. Ali. It was all quiet. She’d come home to spend time with her family. This was not how she’d envisioned Christmas Day.
She keyed Ali’s name into Instagram and scrolled until she found her. Her profile was private. She couldn’t stalk her there. What was Ali doing? Was she thinking about her, about last night, or was it all boxed up and done? Morgan would love to know.
She sipped the last of her coffee, then jumped off the stool and put her blue mug in the dishwasher. The dinner was in containers on the side. She put the lids on, wriggled most of it into the fridge, then got her phone, house keys, car keys and put them all in her bag. Her phone vibrated, and she dug it out.
‘Come quickly, she’s had the baby. It’s a girl!’ That was from her dad.
Morgan blinked, delight blooming in her chest. She was an aunty. How about that?
Her finger hovered over WhatsApp. The person she most wanted to share the news with was Ali. But she couldn’t. It was Christmas Day, and they’d agreed that today was off-limits. Instead, she walked through to the hallway and slipped on her coat and scarf, along with her Christmas pudding hat. Then she pulled the front door closed, and got into her mum’s bright yellow Polo, adjusting the mirrors as she gunned the engine.
She was off to meet her baby niece.
She was going to focus on that.
Not on Ali Bradford one tiny bit.
* * *
The good thingabout driving on Christmas Day was that the mid-afternoon traffic was almost non-existent. Morgan had to drive by The Rising Sun to get on the main road to the hospital, but she tried to put that out of her mind. She stabbed the radio until it spewed out a festive hit and settled back. She missed driving, but she didn’t have a car in Glasgow. Maybe she should get one. At least then, she’d never have a trip home like the one she’d just endured. Although if that hadn’t happened, she’d never have reconnected with Ali. She’d never have had some of the best orgasms of her life.
Maybe if she got a car, she could go on trips with Ali.
Only Ali was going to New York. She’d made that very clear indeed.
Morgan flicked on her indicator to turn right onto the road that housed The Rising Sun. She wasn’t going to look as she drove past. There wasn’t another car in sight.
“And now, it’s time for that well-known Christmas classic, ‘Stay Another Day’ by East 17,” said the radio announcer.
Morgan rolled her eyes. “It’s not a Christmas classic, it was just released in December and has bells in it!” she vented, then glanced down to locate the tuner button. Was it left or right? Was this the volume or the tuner button? She squinted at the radio, then stabbed one button. Nothing happened. She stabbed the one next to it. The car filled with static noise.
“Goddammit,” she muttered. Irritation scratched her skin.
When she looked up, a grey car headed straight for her.
Morgan clutched the steering wheel as fear pierced her everywhere. Where the hell had the car come from and why wasn’t the driver even looking up? Was he trying to tune his radio, too?
Everything went into slow-motion as Morgan dragged the steering wheel left to avoid the full-on collision. But the other car wasn’t moving, and it was almost upon her.
She’d spied it too late. The air in the car flickered and buzzed. Inevitability slapped her in the face.
“Fuck!” she screamed as she closed her eyes and waited for the brutal impact.
CHAPTER30
Her nephew Harrison hurtled into the lounge in his brand-new Superman costume, one arm raised up high. He climbed onto the cream sofa with his too-short, four-year-old legs, then flung himself off, shouting “I’m Superman!” When he landed in a heap on the lounge carpet, he seemed momentarily stunned. But then, as only kids do, he righted himself, narrowed his gaze, and ran through the entire process again.
On the third failed attempt to fly, Nicole reached over and grabbed him, giving him a hug to stop another flight. It distracted him for a moment. Next to her, her husband, Stuart, was studiously ignoring the noise, engrossed in his phone.
To Ali’s right, her mum hovered over the gingerbread pub, a gingerbread star in her hand.
“This pub is just the perfect gift. It almost seems a crime that we might have to eat it.” She paused. “I still can’t believe you mended the table and baked gingerbread stars with Morgan last night. A baker in this family. I barely recognise you.”
Ali puffed out her chest, as if Paul Hollywood had just given her a handshake. None of it would have been possible without Morgan. She bought the pub, broke the pub, then fixed the pub. She was the communications and solutions expert.
