One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story) by Mandy Baggot Page B

about … Jude Law.’ She waited for any immediate objections. ‘Not too old, not too young, handsome, has children …’
    ‘Mum!’
    ‘Well, if my dream was to marry Jude Law I’d have to …’
    ‘Do something with your hair,’ Angel answered.
    Hayley put a hand to her hair and opened her mouth in shock. ‘What’s wrong with my hair?’
    ‘Let’s get back to Jude Law. He’s growing on me.’
    ‘I think I want to know what’s so wrong with my hair that Jude Law wouldn’t want to marry me.’
    Angel put her fingers out, slipping them between the strands of Hayley’s brown hair.
    ‘You should get it cut,’ Angel announced. ‘Short. Like Anne Hathaway.’
    Hayley examined the ends, split, dry and in need of help. She wasn’t going to find anyone as cheap as Brenda back home, but maybe she’d try if she was a living, breathing fashion alert as her daughter seemed to be suggesting. She cleared her throat.
    ‘Back to the question.’ She took hold of Angel’s hands. ‘If my dream was to marry Jude Law, I could, theoretically, stalking laws allowing, put myself in his world. But obviously not until I’ve had my hair seen to.’
    Angel smiled. ‘But he still might not marry you.’
    ‘No, but I could do everything to make it happen. From being in the right place at the right time, to believing it was possible.’ She squeezed Angel’s hands.
    ‘But what if you don’t know where the thing you asked Father Christmas for is? Or how to find out.’
    Hayley released one hand, placing it on her daughter’s head and smoothing down her silky hair. ‘You have to trust in your wish, Angel, that’s all I’m saying.’
    All her daughter had to do was ask and she would tell her what she knew. But she sensed she wasn’t ready. Either that or she was worried what her asking would do, concerned about how it would make Hayley feel.
    ‘Lie down and close your eyes. And when I’m out of the room make your wish,’ Hayley said, standing up. She eased Angel back onto the pillow, stroking her hair.
    ‘Night, Mum,’ she said, her voice breathy as sleep started to overcome her.
    ‘Goodnight, Angel.’

12
    Drummond Global Offices, Downtown Manhattan
    T oday Oliver was untouchable . Today nothing was going to get to him. Not the chest pains, not his employees who didn’t understand the complex nature of his position and definitely not his mother’s threats about Christmas. He was going to be that business magnate all the newspapers said he was. A worthy successor to his father’s throne. Not the son who had ruined one career and was playing around with a second.
    He had a macchiato in his gloved hands and the streets weren’t too snow-ridden thanks to the constant stream of citizens ploughing through. Horns blasted and brakes squealed as a large guy trying to carry a Christmas tree swayed into the road. The flags hanging from the buildings either side of him battled against the harsh wind and two men pedalling rickshaws fought against the elements, their passengers huddled up under blankets. Oliver smiled to himself. This morning he was going to take control and get a buzz going about the Globe.
    Taking a swig from the cardboard cup with his name written on it, he pushed at the doors to his building. Standing on the matting just inside, the coffee caught in his throat.
    Right in front of his eyes, to the right of the long stainless-steel reception desk, three men in coveralls were erecting a Christmas tree. A real Christmas tree at least ten feet tall. The scent of pine and greenery whooshed up his nose uninvited. What the hell was this doing here? He blinked hard and refocussed. No, it was still there. He gritted his teeth together. This had to go. He couldn’t have that monstrosity staring at him every time he entered and exited the building. When they had it upright, it would be bedecked. Gold, red, silver bells, stars and those damn jolly Santa Clauses. It wasn’t going to happen.
    He closed his eyes. He