It’s a Kind of Magic

  ‘Have this.’ He handed a glass of orange juice to her too. ‘I’ve never seen you drunk and I don’t really want to start tonight.’

  ‘Leo,’ she sighed. ‘You worry too much.’ She took her glass of orange juice and swapped it for a flute of champagne, fluttering her eyelashes at the waiter as she did. Seeing her with a glass in her hand like that reminded him of the night they first met on Tower Bridge – and didn’t that seem like a million lifetimes ago?

  Isobel grinned at him as she sipped it, her nose wrinkling as the bubbles tickled it. ‘Ooo. That’s nice.’

  Leo’s heart sank. ‘I don’t think I worry enough,’ he said. And then Aulden Hinley-Smythe, the oldest and most crusty partner in Thornton Jones came towards them.

  ‘Leo!’ He clapped Leo on the back even though he had never before spoken to him in his entire life. To Mr Hinley-Smythe, Leo was one of the ranks of minions at Thornton Jones – an ever-present annoyance, but no one really wanted to acknowledge their existence. A bit like cold sores or athlete’s foot.

  Leo nodded in greeting and tried to look like a responsible member of staff. Seeing as he wasn’t roaring drunk as usual this wasn’t as hard as it might have been. ‘Mr Hinley-Smythe.’

  ‘Aulden,’ he said magnanimously.

  Leo would have liked to bet that if he addressed him as that in the corridor by the coffee machine tomorrow he’d be given the order of the boot.

  ‘I hear you’ve been responsible for some pretty nifty footwork in the market recently.’ Good old Aulden tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘Er, well . . .’ Leo tried not to look at Isobel. Who had on her butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth face. ‘Teamwork.’

  ‘Modesty,’ the older man noted. ‘I like that in a man. Thornton Jones needs fearless young blood like you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Leo didn’t like to tell him that he was quaking in his boots and that if Aulden Hindley-Smythe really knew who – or what – was responsible for his clients’ good fortune then he would have been fired on the spot. Either that or they’d have kidnapped Isobel and would have held her against her will, forcing her to perform international money market miracles at their evil instruction.

  He clapped Leo on the back again – rather vigorously for an old bloke, if you asked Leo – and he coughed. ‘I’m going to be keeping an eye on you from now on, young Leo.’

  ‘Oh good,’ Leo muttered.

  Mr Hinley-Smythe gave him the wink of the ancient and lecherous and – thank heavens! – moved away.

  ‘How exactly did you manage that little market manoeuvre, Leo?’ Grant asked.

  ‘It was not entirely of my doing,’ Leo admitted.

  Then the Master of Ceremonies came to his rescue before he was pressed to explain himself. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen! Dinner is served!’

  Leo took Isobel’s arm. ‘Come on. The next part of the ordeal is about to begin.’

  As they passed yet another smiling waiter, Isobel grabbed yet another glass of champagne. Leo felt that this was going to be a rather long night.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  On the stage at the front of the ornately-decorated ballroom, one of Thornton Jones’s most obnoxious and voluble managing partners, Joshua Hartnell, was coming to the end of a rambling speech. Instead of looking round at the wonderful flower arrangements, Leo tuned in for the last few seconds.

  ‘. . . and it’s teamwork that makes Thornton Jones the company it is today. The team that plays together, stays together . . .’

  There was a smattering of assenting applause. Leo tugged at his shirt collar and noticed that Isobel was also bored to tears – there was probably not much in the way of corporate politics in the land of fairies – and, more alarmingly, she was also a bit squiffy.

  Hartnell blathered on. ‘So, raise your glass in a toast to Thornton Jones!’

  Leo picked up his orange juice and looked at it in disgust. There were times in your life when being sober was simply not appropriate. And this was one of them. They all shuffled to their feet, raising their glasses. ‘Thornton Jones!’

  Isobel raised her glass a moment too late. ‘Thornton Jones!’ she slurred loudly and then hiccoughed. Oh dear. Leo forced her back into her chair.

  Joshua Hartnell finally gave up his burgeoning stage career and sat down again. A rather middle-aged band in sombre dinner suits ambled on in his place and started to knock out a few watered-down middle-of-the-road pop standards.

  Isobel stifled a yawn. Perhaps, Leo thought, he should get her another drink and see if it would send her to sleep completely. ‘We can go home soon.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she said, forcing herself to perk up. ‘Dance?’

  ‘I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,’ he answered, hoping that fairies got irony.

  The dance floor was slowly filling with couples dancing stiffly. As well as being unable to express emotion and remember birthdays, British men were entirely incapable of dancing properly – unless, of course, they became tap dancing maestros on the Embankment in their dreams. Leo noticed that his shortlived skill had departed and they shuffled round to a couple of old, and rather inexpertly played, Abba tunes.

  Isobel yawned again. ‘Leo? Is this what it’s going to be like all night?’

  ‘Oh, yes. All of it.’

  She frowned. ‘Maybe I can liven things up a bit.’

  ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Oh no. Definitely not. This is how it always is. This is how we like it.’

  But before he could forcibly restrain her, Isobel produced her wand.

  ‘Not that thing,’ Leo begged. ‘Put it away, Isobel. Put it away now.’

  Unfortunately for Leo, Isobel’s face merely took on a mischievous expression. She waved her wand at the band – who instantly livened up. Their staid dinner suits became all sparkly and the music shifted up a tempo. Suddenly, they were all in time with each other. Everyone in the ballroom looked at them in surprise. Except for Leo.

  Instead, he glared at Isobel. ‘You promised me,’ he said, wagging his finger at her. ‘You said you’d behave. I remember it distinctly.’

  Isobel giggled wildly. Oh flip. The band started to play ‘Saturday Night Fever’. Oh very flip. ‘Isobel.’ Leo put on his stern voice. The voice that meant he would stand no nonsense. ‘I’m warning you.’

  And, of course, she zapped Leo with her wand. A jolt of electricity surged through his body and his limbs started to twitch. Against his will Leo headed towards the middle of the dance floor. ‘I mean it, Isobel,’ he heard himself say.

  The music was taking him over. Last night Leo was Fred Astaire, tonight he was clearly destined to become John Travolta. His fingers were clicking of their own volition and his legs had developed a definite strut. ‘This isn’t funny, Isobel.’

  The other dancers on the floor looked very bemused, but nevertheless parted for him. Leo wiggled his hips in the style of Travolta and he knew, instinctively, that this was going to be deeply humiliating. ‘Now I’m very cross,’ he shouted at Isobel.

  She simply laughed at him and waved her wand at the gathered crowd, who started to clap in time with his gyrations.

  ‘Oh no.’ With a series of involuntary jerks, Leo whipped off his jacket and whirled it round his head before skimming it across the dance floor. This was too embarrassing for words. ‘Now I’m very cross indeed!’

  Starting to dance, Leo strutted his stuff up and down the floor. At least he had an appreciative audience who were cheering him on. He would, however, kill Isobel when he got her alone.

  Grant and Lard were standing at the edge of the dance floor, faces fixed with expressions of utter bewilderment.

  ‘Help me,’ Leo gasped as he shimmied past them. ‘Help me. This is all Isobel’s doing.’

  Grant turned to Lard and, while he was performing a few steps from The Hustle, Leo heard him say, ‘Has Leo gone completely mad?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lard said, and they both looked at their orange juice, dumped their glasses and grabbed a bottl
e of champagne each from a passing waiter. None of which helped Leo.

  The song was – thankfully – coming to an end. Leo finished his 1970s’ disco routine with an exuberant twirl and the splits. Yes, really. The crowd cheered wildly. Even Grant and Lard clapped appreciatively. Bastards.

  Leo bowed graciously, taking leave of his adoring audience, and then marched over to Isobel to give her what-for. Grabbing her elbow, he steered her out of harm’s way. ‘You and I need to talk, young lady.’

  Isobel pouted. ‘I’m just starting to have fun.’

  ‘Yes, I know. That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  ‘Everyone else is too.’

  They glanced back at the dance floor. The band were playing Lulu’s ‘Shout’. Everyone was on the dance floor, including the stuffy old partners and, most shocking of all, Grant and Lard. They were all strutting their funky stuff. Leo had never seen such slick movers – his good self excepted.

  ‘Is this your fault too?’

  ‘I just loosened them up a little,’ she confessed.

  ‘You are a terrible woman.’

  ‘And you’re a great dancer,’ she said.

  Isobel and Leo started to laugh. ‘Come on.’ He took her by the hand. ‘I deserve a drink.’

  Much, much later and they were sitting in the corner of the room on the floor. Isobel was cuddled up against Leo and they were both swigging from a bottle of champagne as they watched the mayhem continue on the dance floor. All decorum had flown out of the window and now everyone was doing a synchronised routine to the theme tune from Men in Black. Grant and Lard were leading from the front and they were definitely bouncing with it and letting it slide. There was the neck work. And the freeze. Leo shook his head in wonderment and deposited glitter in his champagne.

  ‘I can quite categorically state, without fear of contradiction, that I’ve never been to a Thornton Jones ball quite like this.’ He hugged his fabulous fairy friend to him. ‘You’re the only person I know who’s more badly behaved than I am.’

  Isobel grinned. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  Leo tilted her chin towards him and kissed those delicious wild strawberry lips. ‘You are a lot of fun to be with, Fairy Isobel.’ He pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go home.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Leo was standing at the edge of the pavement trying to hail a cab. It wasn’t proving easy. Three had already sailed by without stopping. Another one approached. He gave his most shrill whistle. ‘Taxi!’

  It also went straight past. Leo was beginning to wonder if it was his aftershave. ‘Bugger!’

  Isobel was waiting patiently by the wrought-iron railings, fiddling with one of the huge bunches of balloons. Leo went back to her, head hung miserably, thwarted in his attempts to perform a manly task. ‘I should have ordered one before we left.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Can’t you wave your wand and get us one?’

  ‘There’s another way.’

  ‘I’m not walking,’ Leo complained. ‘It’s too far. And I’m too pissed.’

  Isobel grabbed him by the arm and started pulling him down the street. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I’m not walking.’

  She hurried him along and Leo suddenly noticed that she had liberated one of the bunches of balloons and was trailing them in her wake. There must have been thirty of them and Isobel didn’t look inconspicuous.

  ‘You can’t nick those.’ Leo was aghast. A thieving fairy! ‘Someone might notice.’

  ‘Don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud,’ she said, hustling him into a secluded side street.

  ‘I can’t believe you.’ And when Isobel started to cuddle up to him: ‘Don’t think you’re going to win me round with that old ploy.’

  ‘Put your arms round me,’ Isobel instructed.

  Leo sighed and did as he was told. ‘Did I ever tell you that you’re one of the bossiest women I know? Well, apart from Emma. Who was well known for her bossiness.’

  Isobel wasn’t listening. ‘Hold tight,’ she said.

  Obligingly, Leo held tight.

  And then he realised that he was floating. Off the ground. OFF THE GROUND! The balloons were carrying them upwards, past the windows in the ballroom where the party was still in full swing, past the roof of the building. Up, up and away.

  Leo was clinging very tightly to Isobel. He realised that all that was between him and sudden death was a few festive balloons.

  ‘This isn’t funny either,’ he said, on the point of hyperventilation.

  ‘Ssh, Leo,’ she cooed at him. ‘Relax.’

  Relax? Leo was rigid with terror. Or maybe excitement. ‘Shag me sideways on a scooter,’ he muttered under his breath.

  The wind caught them and whisked them ever higher. ‘Oh. Oh. Oh.’

  Isobel laughed gaily and they soared above the streets, above London and, to Leo’s horror, just below the stars.

  Grant and Lard came out of the party a few minutes later and – having also failed in their quest to hail a cab – started to walk along the street.

  Grant sighed heavily and flicked up the collar of his coat. It had been a strange night in many ways. ‘You know that I’ve fallen hopelessly in love?’

  ‘With me?’ Lard asked.

  ‘No. Even though you’re a very nice mover,’ Grant said. He sighed again. ‘With Emma.’

  ‘Ooo!’ Lard exclaimed. ‘That’s a very bad place to be.’

  ‘I know.’ It would have been nice to have had someone with him tonight. Someone laughing and joking with him and loving him, like Leo had.

  ‘Presumably the reason why you’re sighing so much is that you are completely and utterly invisible to her.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You have my heartfelt commiserations.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘She’s still utterly smitten with Leo?’

  ‘Got it in one.’ Grant scuffed the pavement with his shoe.

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  High in the sky, a flash of white caught their eye and they both looked up. Amid the clouds, and lit up by the brilliant moon, Leo and Isobel sailed past them, holding tightly to the strings of a bunch of helium balloons that it looked like they’d nicked from the party.

  Lard was blinking rapidly. ‘I didn’t really just see that, did I?’

  Grant blinked himself and took another look to make sure. ‘No.’

  ‘And you didn’t see it either?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Good,’ Lard said. He exhaled shakily. ‘So we didn’t see Leo flying across the sky on a bunch of balloons?’

  ‘No.’ Grant jammed his hands deep into his pockets. He didn’t think this night could get any stranger.

  Lard puffed expansively. ‘I was quite worried there for a minute.’

  Grant turned his gaze to the sky once more. Leo, legs dangling over the rooftops, was nearly out of view. ‘Me too.’

  They were still way, way too high for Leo’s liking. And he’d always thought he’d like to go on a balloon ride, but he had imagined that he would do it in a basket or something rather more substantial than this. That was, of course, until this devilish little fairy dropped into his life from who knows where. Another thing Leo was beginning to realise about Isobel was that he knew so little about her. And this was an awful admission, but he sort of felt the same about Emma. They’d spent so long together and yet he now wondered if he had really made enough effort to get to know her. Leo now felt that they had somehow glossed over the surface of a relationship, never really talking about what made each of them tick, and he was sad that he’d missed that opportunity. But Leo couldn’t dwell on it now, as he was too busy hanging onto a bunch of balloons and trying not to die. But in a bizarre way, he was actually starting to enjoy it. Floating free of all ties to the ground was a rather nice feeling. The moon was dazzling at this close proximity, the view of th
e rooftops of London like something out of Mary Poppins. Leo felt like breaking out into a corny song, but appreciated that it would completely and utterly spoil the mood.

  I don’t want to spend another night tap dancing with Leo, as wonderful as it was. Nor, even more importantly, do I want to wake up on the London Eye. So I stay up late, drink too much cheap wine and watch trashy television until my eyes roll with tiredness. I brush my teeth, snuggle into the sheep pyjamas, select my cuddly toy for the night and am just about to go to bed.

  I stare out of the window at the view, thinking, Out there, somewhere, is Leo. Leo doing things, having a life without me. Sitting on the edge of my windowsill, gazing into the clear, sharp night, I wonder where he might be. Reaching up to draw my curtains, I see Leo and Isobel float past on the breeze, clinging to a bunch of balloons. I blink. Am I asleep already? Is this another Leo-based dream? I’m sure I’m awake. Almost sure. Has an excess of wine made me hallucinate? I’ll have to cut back on the booze if this is the effect it’s going to have on me. I blink again. No. It’s definitely Leo and his new woman in the sky. High in the sky. Beneath a bunch of ballons. I shudder. This is it – I’ve lost my marbles completely. All the counselling I’ve been having is far, far too late. I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate. Drawing the curtains briskly, I pull all my soft toys off the shelf and throw them into my bed. Jumping in beside them, I tug the duvet over my head and pray for morning.

  Leo could see his flat in the distance and they were approaching it at a fair pace. The trees shivered as they passed. This had been, he had to concede, infinitely more interesting than getting a cab home. And some of the stories that cabbies told could be very amusing. They started to descend, slowly, gently and then landed on the pavement outside with not so much as a bump.

  ‘Perfect landing,’ Leo complimented his pilot and tried to ignore the surge of relief at being on terra firma once more.

  Isobel smiled at him. Then she looked a little dizzy. Leo thought that the champagne had finally caught up with her. She sagged into his arms and he noticed that all the leaves on the trees had drooped too.