The Zara Stoneley Romantic Comedy Collection

My world wobbles. Coffee and cake at Lynn’s had seemed weird, but this is starting to feel like it should be happening to somebody else. ‘Why?’ The single syllable rocks me. She hasn’t tried to cram Christmas into an envelope: she’s tried to cram responsibility in, commitment. The future. She’s not just leaving me for Christmas, she’s leaving me for ever.

Oh shit. ‘You’re,’ the words are choking me, ‘you’re staying there? In Australia? Or you’re ill?’

‘Oh Sarah, don’t be ridiculous! I might be getting a bit old in the tooth, but I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not about to pop my clogs any day soon.’

‘But you’re getting rid of—’

‘I’m not getting rid of anything. In fact, this is all about giving me some time to let my hair down before it all falls out. I didn’t have time to sort out all the legalities, but I’ll do it before I go and then we’re straight for when I get back. A new year, a new us, eh?’

‘But, I can’t—’

She shifts the sheet of paper so that it’s between us on the table, then puts an arm round my shoulders. ‘This isn’t about me leaving you, Sarah. This is about sharing, about the future.’

I stare at the sheet of paper. Flatten it out with fingers that seem to have an agenda of their own. A wobbly one.

I am now – well, soon will be, joint owner of Making Memories Travel Agents. My initial 50 per cent share will rise gradually over the next five years until I take full control.

My bottom lip is now as wobbly as my fingers and I feel very stupid. ‘I thought it meant . . . Oh God, I’m sorry Auntie Lynn.’ I throw my arms round her, trying not to rub my runny nose on her shoulder. ‘This is so nice of you, so . . .’ I wipe the back of my hand across my face, and resist wiping it down my jeans like a child. There’s this massive blockage in my throat that physically hurts, but my brain can’t work out what to say next.

My eyes sting with the burning tears that are trying to explode from my eyes. But I don’t want to be all emo and pathetic, and blubbering. Though to be honest, I’m not sure what I want to be. This is massive. Giving me a job was one thing, but an actual share in the company? It’s generous, it’s kind, it’s trusting, it’s . . . madness.

I’ve never been responsible for so much as a potted plant before, let alone a business. Well actually, I’m lying. Somebody gave me a poinsettia one year and it didn’t go well. Let’s just say that by Christmas lunch it was looking even more worse for wear than I was. And that’s saying something. I think I’m more of a cactus person. Minimum nurturing and commitment. This is forever! This is bigger than a five-year plan. Callum would think it was hilarious.

Oh God, how am I going to do this? A business! Aunt Lynn’s business. Letting her down would be the worst possible thing in the world. I can’t say no or scream for help.

So, I smile. Hope it comes across as confident and not manic. I’ll work out how to handle this later, when I’m alone and can talk to myself in private.

She puts a finger under my chin, and looks me straight in the eye, like she used to do when I’d come home after a shit day at school. ‘Who else could I trust with our little business, Sarah? We set this up together, and I’ve always expected you to take over one day.’ She suddenly smiles and looks lighter than she has since I arrived. ‘Actually, you going to the Shooting Star is a fabulous idea, Sarah. I was going to suggest you started to visit some of our resorts and searched out some new ones as well. We need to shake things up a bit! Going back there is a splendid idea.’

‘It is?’ I’m glad at least one of us thinks so.

‘Oh yes. And now is the perfect time to make your peace with the past, isn’t it? Before you sail into the future.’ She waves a hand.

‘Is it?’ Making my peace with the past isn’t on my agenda. That would involve accepting things, facing up to my dad, forgiving them both for what they did. I’m not sure I will ever be ready for that.

Her voice is soft and seems to come from a long way away, ‘I think it’s the perfect time, don’t you? I think it’s something you need to do, isn’t it? Go back?’

‘I’m going to sort all the problems out, make it perfect again.’ Even I can hear the defensive note in my voice.

‘Oh Sarah, this isn’t really about the problems with the place, is it love?’ Her voice is so gentle it brings silly prickly sensations to my eyes. ‘This is about you. The past.’

‘I don’t do the past, I do the future.’ Looking back has never helped me. Just hurt me.

‘Sometimes, love, you can’t find a future until you’ve found peace with the past.’

I’ve never really got what that means. Peace with the past? I mean, how can you stop those feelings of anger? There’s no on-off switch for something like this.

How can you say, yeah, fine, it was a great idea to dump your kid and do a runner, to not come back. To cause fucking havoc in her life and mess with her head. To make her feel useless and cast aside like some coat you didn’t want any more.

Talk about a dog being for life and not just for Christmas! Just thinking about it is stirring up all the anger and resentment in my chest, all the emotion I try and keep squashed down. I don’t feel self-pity any more, I just try and block it out. And when I can’t do that, I seethe. Maybe that’s what ‘peace’ means for me.

‘I have found peace.’ I say it anyway, to reassure her, ‘I’ve got you, work, everything.’ My life works. I like it. I’m busy and the people that surround me are there because they want to be. And if I ever suspect they don’t want to be, then I move on.

I don’t let my parents mess with my head any more. They’re old news. I’m done with them and all that.

Going to the Shooting Star is about the future, not the past.

Aunt Lynn smiles and pats my hand. ‘Good, well that’s fine then. You know what you’re doing and this can be your first trip representing the agency!’

Oh God, now I’ve got added pressure. I’m not just going to shout at Will Armstrong and inspect his dusty crevices, this is my future well and truly at stake. I need to be even more professional than I was going to be.

‘And while I’m out of your hair seems like the perfect time for an adventure. I’m being a bit selfish as well: that place means a lot to me and I don’t want us to strike it off our list and walk away on a sour note.’ Her voice has regained its normal briskness.

I stare at the sheet of paper again. There is no choice now. I need to go the Shooting Star resort, this is my business at risk.

All I need now is a booking for one, all inclusive. I will experience all the horrors our clients have told us about, a frosty Will Armstrong and a draughty cabin. I will make an objective, professional judgement about whether our clients deserve somewhere better.

The moment I get back to the office that provisional booking is being confirmed.

I’d said to Sam that I’d go, sort out all the issues, confront Will Armstrong, but I hadn’t meant for Christmas. No way. I had never intended to go back for the festive season, to stir up the memories of a time that broke my heart and changed my world. Those bits of me needed to be left untouched, so that I could pick out the nice bits in my head, remember just the happiness and plaster over the hurt.

I’m not sure how this is going to work, how I’m going to feel if I relive that Christmas again. Except I know it will be different. I’ve got to prove to Lynn that I can cope with anything, and I suppose I’ve got to prove that to myself, too. And I’ve got to sort Will Armstrong out once and for all. Whatever Sam said before, this is personal now. Nobody is going to mess up my business. (I quite like the sound of that, my business.)

‘You can do it, love. I know you can.’ Lynn squeezes my hand. ‘Do you remember what it was like? That little log cabin? It was lovely, wasn’t it?’ Her wistful smile is reflected in her voice. ‘And that very nice couple who ran it then, you won’t remember them.’

‘I do. They were like Mother and Father Christmas.’ Warm, cuddly, ever smiling. I’d felt like I’d been wrapped in a blanket of love and protection, and even back then, so young and confused, I’d clung to their kindness.

‘They were sweethearts, but getting on a bit even then. They sold the place a few years ago, to two brothers. It seemed to be much the same for a long time – the younger boy, Ed he was called, was running it. I had some lovely chats with him, but then something happened and his brother took charge.’

‘Will.’ I’m not really listening to her, all I can think about is the last day I was there, at the resort. When I hadn’t wanted to walk away, because how would Mum and Dad know where to find me if I left with Auntie Lynn?

It wasn’t until later that I realised one of them would never be able to look for me, and the other didn’t care.

‘Will, that’s right. Well, he’s a totally different kettle of fish to Ed.’

‘Cold fish rather than kettle I’d say,’ I mutter, but I’m pretty sure she’s heard because she’s giving me her ‘look’. ‘And he’s ruined the place.’

‘Well, we don’t know all the facts, do we, love? And from the brief emails we’ve swapped I’d say there’s more to him than meets the eye.’

Oh God. Emails! Has he said anything to Aunt Lynn about those? Oh shit. What exactly did I say to him? What’s Auntie Lynn said to him?

‘Sarah, are you all right, love? You don’t usually gobble up my cakes like that.’

I swallow hard, and I mean hard – this pastry is quite a challenge. I hadn’t realised I’d been shoving food in my mouth as a stress-reliever. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

How do I put this, without making her snatch my early Christmas present away before it’s made legal?

‘After you saw all those horrible reviews, that made you clean the oven, I emailed the resort.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t cleaning the oven because of the reviews, love. I did it for some thinking time, to work out what to do about Christmas.’

‘Oh. But I thought . . . Well, it is important to you?’

‘Of course, it is. I’ll never forget that first Christmas, Sarah, but it’s all,’ she taps her forehead, ‘up here. I have the trinkets we brought back, and I have you.’ She smiles. ‘The biggest trinket of all. But places change, and we can’t expect a stranger to preserve our memories for us, can we?’

I shake my head.

‘But it was a lovely place, and very popular with clients, so I’m sure if you can chat to this Will and sort it out, it will be wonderful. Otherwise we’ll have to start sending people to see the Northern Lights, won’t we?’ She stands up. ‘Now, I don’t want to be rude, love, but I promised to bake some cakes for the homeless, so I’ll talk to you tomorrow, shall I?’ She’s already handing me my bag. ‘Lots to do before I go away. And I’m so pleased you’re keen to go back to the Shooting Star, Sarah. I think it means you’re ready to move on, don’t you?’

In my heart I know what she wants me to do. The thing she’s gently hinted at over the years, the thing the shrink less gently hinted at. She wants me to talk about what happened to Mum, to ask all the questions, to forgive her last actions. And she wants me to talk about Dad. To talk to Dad. To stop harbouring the hate, the mistrust; the feeling in my heart that it’s always my fault, that I can never be quite good enough. That it’s always better to move on before people find out that I’m not the person they were hoping I was and leave me.

She wants me to stop picking boyfriends that I know from the start aren’t within a million miles of being ‘the one’ and to think about the future. Live in the moment has always been my motto. I’m not sure how I’m going to deal with all this responsibility and dealing with the past shit.

If anybody else was asking, I’d be out of here. But this is Lynn. And Aunt Lynn wants me to do some adulting stuff, so I guess it’s time to try.

It’s as she pushes the door firmly shut behind me that I realise that I never got to explain to her what I actually said in my emails to Will. And she has no idea how rude and impossible Will Armstrong is, and that he thinks I’m the most unprofessional travel agent ever. She is clueless about the fact that I’m heading towards the worst Christmas ever.

And that, before I go, I have to burn another of my bridges.

Chapter 6

‘It’s blue.’ Callum is propped up on one elbow staring at me. Well, when I say me, I mean my hair. He seems to be mentally circling me, like a sheepdog.

‘Callum, are you listening?’ It’s taken me ages to work out the best way to break the news, and now he’s not even listening.

‘It’s blue!’

‘Yes, I know. I—’

‘It was blonde, shoulder-length and had pink bits last time I saw you.’ He’s frowning now and looking a bit miffed. ‘And that was only two days ago.’

‘Pink hair is so old hat.’

His text yesterday morning had made me uneasy, and then my chat with Auntie Lynn had decided it for me, even though in my heart I’d known for a while that we were running out of time.

After I’d left Lynn I’d called my friend Liz, who also happens to be my hairdresser. It was time for a change and I always find it easier to deal with moving on if I’ve done something different. It’s an outward sign of the inner feeling. Or at least, that’s what the shrink said after the teenage me had screamed ‘you’re not my mother’ once too often, and Aunt Lynn had declared we needed professional help.

‘But it’s black and blue, and . . .’ Callum leans around to see better, ‘short.’

‘Don’t you like it?’ To be honest, it doesn’t really make much difference if he does or not, because the deed has been done now and there is no going back. And I like it. But it would still be nice if he did, too.

‘Is that a green streak?’ He’s now pulling at it as though we’re monkeys having a grooming session.

‘It might be. So, you don’t like it?’ He’s obviously not going to listen to what I really need to say to him until we’re got the hair thing over with.

‘I didn’t say that. It’s er, just a shock. Hang on. I need to check if the carpet matches the drapes, don’t I?’

I put a hand out to stop him, because there is a sensible discussion we need to have, but he’s already lifting the sheet with a grin on his face, shaking his head.

Callum is my toyboy, the cocktail shaker I picked up in a bar, the guy who I love to shock and who likes to be shocked.

I grin back as he dives under the covers and wait for the yell – or shocked silence. I never quite know how he’ll react. Which is half the fun.

In a way, we’re perfect for each other. Or we were. Until that text.

Until he asked me over to his parent’s house for Christmas Day.

This means he has mentally crossed a line that I never intended going anywhere near – he’s strayed into ‘meet the family’ territory.

Meet the family is scary shit. They will see the things he’s hasn’t: that I will never be the perfect girlfriend, that I am a million miles from daughter-in-law material. I have blue hair (which was pink) and wear unsuitable clothes. I carelessly lost my parents and haven’t a clue where they went. I get over-excited. I am older than he is. I do not have a five-year (or even a five-minute) plan.

See? It’s not going to go well, is it?

Callum and I are a good fit now because he’s young and a post-grad student with a sparkling career ahead in astrophysics. One day, when he’s a bit more grown up, he will want the family I can’t give him. He will realise this and then dump me.

And if he doesn’t realise, his parents will. And they’ll tell him to dump me.

It is much better to realise that we are approaching the end of the road before we get there. While it’s still fun.

I’ve been practising in my head what to say to him, and I’m still struggling. No bloody wonder, really, when I hadn’t planned on doing this in bed. How was I to know that he’d greet me at the door stark-bollock naked with a battered gladiolus clenched between his buttocks (he said it had been a healthy specimen at the start but had been harder to hold than he’d thought and had taken several tries)?

Anyway, that was then, and this is post-then.

It’s not you, it’s me.

No, no, no. I can’t say that. Totally not. It’s so wrong on so many levels. I mean it is me, but just as it takes two to make a relationship, it takes two to break it, doesn’t it? The other person might not realise it at the time, they might not realise they’re not the perfectly fitting jigsaw piece. But when they’re told, they’ll feel like the damaged bit, the piece that the dog chewed. And Callum is not damaged, he’s just not the fit I thought he was.

Which brings me back to me.

It always starts out so well, so full of promise, and then I find I can’t live with it. Whatever it is.

Although it, in this case, is definitely linked to commitment. I mean, Christmas Day? That’s the start of the end. The start of getting serious, which always wrecks things.

We really hardly know each other. We share fun, pizza, movies, our bodies. We don’t do ‘meet the family’, and Christmas. Even thinking about it now is making me hyperventilate.

Christmas is for sharing with loved ones. And my loved one is Aunt Lynn, not some cute guy who makes me laugh and orgasm.

I could just say I have to spend the day with Aunt Lynn and leave it at that. But that wouldn’t be fair. And it would be a lie. He asked a question that is far more complicated and loaded than it appears, and now there is no un-asking.

Getting serious spoils things, doesn’t it? Everything becomes about settling down. If you’re not serious, then you can’t be horrifically dumped. I’m not ready for serious; in fact, I’m not sure I ever will be.

‘Holy Moley!’ Don’t ask where he gets language like that from, but I like it. I have a rather weird turn of phrase myself, apparently. He resurfaces, and his eyes are wide. ‘That looks more like a no entry sign than a landing strip.’

Freud would have a field day with me. And so would a masseur – I didn’t half get a crick in my neck (and a bit bog-eyed) giving ‘down there’ a makeover. ‘Callum, we need to talk.’

Callum sighs, drops the bed sheet and edges back up so that his head is at pillow level. His gaze drifts to my hair, then back to my eyes. ‘Is the whole hair change thing symbolic, then?’

Callum isn’t daft; he is a star astrophysics student. I will be insulting both our intelligences if I do the glib get-out.

I can at least try and keep it light and jokey though.

He picks the bedsheet up again, for another look, and gives a low whistle, which helps. ‘Is this because I asked you over for Christmas? You’re moving on, aren’t you?’ He doesn’t look me in the eye, he’s studying our naked bodies under the sheets, but not in a lustful way.

‘I’m going to Canada.’ I blurt it out.

‘You’re moving to Canada? Wow, that’s a bit extreme, even for you.’

‘Not moving. Just going for Christmas.’

‘Oh.’

‘And . . .’ I shake my head. Callum is sweet, and we’ve had loads of fun. He’s been up for anything, and he’s always seemed to get me – until now. ‘Well, to be totally honest,’ I need to be, ‘if Auntie Lynn had been at home, then I’d want to spend Christmas Day with her. Look Callum, you’re brilliant, but I can’t do the whole settling down, meet the parents, thing.’

‘Cool.’ He shrugs. ‘No problem, there’s plenty of time. There’s always next year.’ The grin is a bit lopsided, but totally sweet, totally Callum. ‘Or I could come to Canada? They won’t mind.’

I hate myself.

‘No, I need to go on my own, it’s work, and,’ I take a deep breath, put my hand over his and do my best to look him in the eye. ‘Who knows what I’ll be doing next year? I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready, Callum.’ I go back to studying his neat finger nails. ‘You need a nice, sweet girl you can marry, have kids with, and I’m not that person.’

He opens his mouth to object, and I put my fingers to his lips.

‘Not now, maybe, but one day. You’re wasting your time with me.’ I shrug. ‘Settling down isn’t my thing.’

I hate doing this to him. To us. I hate to chase the happiness away. But I can’t help it.

When I look up, he’s shaking his head in denial, but I can see it in his eyes. He does know. He knows me well enough. ‘You’ve already decided, haven’t you? The hair, everything. You’re not going to change your mind.’

‘I have.’

‘Sah, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.’ From the look on his face, I think I probably will. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I do love you, and you’re fab, and a total laugh, and daring but . . .’

‘But?’ It’s my turn to wait for the ‘but’.

He squeezes my hand. ‘You do need to get your shit together you know, you can’t keep running away from people.’

‘I don’t run away.’ I can hear the indignation in my voice – and the hurt – as I pull my hand away from his.

‘Forget I said it, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t – let’s drink to Canada, shall we?’ He’s already out of bed, and dragging his jeans on over his naked, toned butt, and pouring vodka shots out before I’ve even got my T-shirt over my head.

We perch on the edge of the bed and drink in silence, punctuated by awkward attempts at conversation. The link is gone. Broken. We aren’t the same any more. We aren’t a couple.

‘Hey, I do like the hair. Blue is good.’ He kisses me on the nose as we stand at his front door, both knowing our lives are about to head off in different directions. ‘But don’t forget your pink side, will you?’ His voice has a wistful edge that makes me feel like a naughty child.

‘I just needed a change.’ I run my fingers through my cropped hair.

‘One day a lucky guy will come along who you don’t mind being pink for, and,’ there’s a long pause, ‘who you want to spend Christmas with. I’ll miss you, you mad mare.’

‘I’ll miss you too, Callum.’

And then he winks and opens the door wide for me, shoves his hands in his pockets, and that is that.

Chapter 7

‘Sugar.’ Sam is pounding the keyboard of her computer frantically when I get in to work. Luckily there are no clients (or Aunt Lynn) around to witness the abuse. Although it does occur to me that the keyboard will soon be my property. My responsibility. Shit, all this responsibility could be totally weird. The nearest I’ve come to commitment before has been to book a flight more than four weeks in advance. Now I’ve got a boulder-sized slab of obligation hanging over me and I’m not quite sure how I feel. They say love and hate are close buddies, don’t they? Well, so are petrified and proud. Right now, it’s anybody’s guess which one will win the day. I’m either going to end up crushed or feeling like I’ve done Aunt Lynn proud and shown her what I’m made of.

I’m not Spiderman, though, I haven’t got great power, just responsibility. I wish I was Spiderman, actually, I’m sure he could sort this out in a jiffy. He could whizz over and truss up Mr Armstrong in a super-strong web, and he wouldn’t care a fig that the one person he loves isn’t going to spend Christmas with him.

‘You’re frowning.’ Sam has stopped pounding.

‘No, I’m not.’ I force my face into what I hope is a chilled expression. But is probably just looking down my nose pop-eyed. ‘What’s up?’

‘I just accidentally booked my mum on a non-refundable last-minute deal to Kenya.’

‘And she doesn’t want it?’ Sam’s mum is funny. She’s one of those mothers who is so well-meaning it gets embarrassing, if you know what I mean. But she is lovely, and totally means well. Like mother, like daughter.

‘Does she buggery.’ Which figures. She is more big-hat hunter than big-game hunter. ‘She wants to go to Lapland, not bloody Kenya.’ Sam goes back to abusing my assets.

‘You can’t actually undo what you’ve done just by typing fast you know.’ I sit down and push her wheelie chair, and her, to one side. You see? This is what I meant when I thought it was weird Aunt Lynn leaving Sam on her own. At least this is a family booking cock-up, and not a customer. ‘Pressing delete doesn’t work when it isn’t on the screen any more.’