Four Christmases and a Secret

You know how you go in some shops and it hits you, the warm air and soft music, the bright clothes yelling out ‘buy me’ even though you’re broke? Well, Uncle T’s shop is like that. But with books not clothes. And mulled wine and mince pies. And much, much better.

The warmth of happy people, and the sounds and smells of Christmas wrap themselves round me like an old familiar blanket.

Christmas has arrived, it’s officially here. Uncle Terence’s party marks the start of the festive season. The hum of happy people chatting away, the smell of mulled wine, holly and warm pastry assault us and it’s a bit like walking into a Christmas-past time capsule. But with cocktails and canapés.

It takes a moment to adjust to all things festive and nice, after all the chaos that’s led up to it. I’m still adjusting when I’m assaulted. By my mother. My mother is the downside to Uncle Terence’s party. I do love her. Honestly. In controlled situations (i.e. my parents’ home). In small doses. Uncle Terence’s party does not bring out the ‘small dose’ side of her though. It brings out over enthusiasm. She treats me like exhibit ‘A’ – something to be paraded and boasted about. Which was strangely apt last year, when I was working as a barista and she insisted on telling everybody very loudly and proudly that I was a barrister.

Uncle Terence, who knew better, thought it was hilarious and kept asking how the coffee bean interrogation was going, and whether I was dealing with many mug-ings, and if the serial killer liked his coffee like his victims – all ground up. That last one was a bit eurgh, but it kept him entertained all evening.

Anyway, unfortunately, I am not exactly an overachiever on the career front (unlike Ollie Cartwright – but more about that later), do not yet own ‘property’ (unlike Ollie), and am a total disappointment on the getting hitched and producing offspring side (Ollie hasn’t done that either), so Mum struggles, over exaggerates or makes things up.

Since leaving school with a crap set of exam results to my name, I’ve always left the party feeling that my card has been marked ‘could do better’. This is not a jolly start to the festive season.

‘Daisy, darling! You’re here at last! We thought you’d got lost!’ I get a quick hug, and a mwah-mwah kiss. Frankie grins over her shoulder at me. Mesmerised. I think it’s my mother’s new ‘pink rinse’ and animal print jumpsuit that has done it. Or the fact she’s already downed two cocktails.

‘Love the outfit, very on-trend.’ Frankie manages to sound genuine. She winks at me.

My mother preens. ‘Thank you, dear.’ She gives her an up-and-down who-are-you look that confuses some people but doesn’t faze Frankie at all.

‘We’re not late, Mum!’ Anybody would think I hadn’t spoken to her for months, rather than earlier today. ‘And how can I get lost? I come here all the time.’

‘Where is he, then? Where’s your young man?’ Mum peers around me, almost shoving. See, it has started. She wants to mentally measure him up for his morning suit and see how he’d look framed on the mantelpiece.

‘Stephen, isn’t it? Stephen?’ She shouts his name as though she expects him to appear like a genie.

‘Simon! He’s called Simon, but I told you he’s not coming!’

‘Not coming? Oh yes, yes, silly me, I forgot! It’s Frank now, isn’t it? I can’t keep up with you and all these men! Well, where’s Frank?’

‘Frankie not Frank!’ I point at Frankie. Luckily, she is distracted and is staring across the room so doesn’t notice my mother’s disappointment.

Mum, just to be sure Simon isn’t lurking on the pavement, or hiding behind a lamppost, pushes her way out of the door to peer up the street. Treading on Stanley’s paw (sorry, I might not have mentioned – Stanley is a dog) and trapping me against the door jamb.

‘Oh buggering, flaming …’

‘Language, darling!’

The plate of sausage rolls, which I’d very cleverly balanced in one hand, goes flying one way as the dog dives between my legs and my mother dives the other side.

‘Oh my God, who the fuck is that?’ Frankie is oblivious to flying pastry, and the blob of lightly herbed pork that has landed on her head. ‘Fuck me. Well, him, well, oh my God, I think I still believe in Father Christmas!’ She clutches her throat melodramatically with one hand, and my arm with the other. Did I mention she’s a bit hyper tonight? ‘Ditch those canapés, girl and introduce me, so I can go and hang my stocking on his tree! I need to make babies with him!’

‘Frankie!’ I laugh and forget all about Mum for a moment, because this is weird. ‘Who, where? What on earth are you going on about?’ I’m sorry, but nobody in their right mind would want to shag anybody who attends Uncle T’s party. Unless he’s smuggled in a sexy bartender this year, instead of relying just on Mabel who isn’t as young as she was.

‘There!’ She does a low wolf whistle, then blows the tips of her fingers. ‘Smoking. Hot!’ He must be, because she seems to have forgotten she still has a boyfriend.

There are never hot men here though. Ever. It is a family and friends party. In a bookshop, in our village.

I look where she is pointing. At a man who is vaguely familiar, and admittedly quite attractive, in a Robert Downey Junior earnest-with-glasses kind of way. He reminds me a bit of Ollie’s dad, Charles. He must be some distant relative I’ve never met.

He has the faintest of smiles on his face, tugging at the corner of a generous mouth. Which would be slightly effeminate if he wasn’t so definitely male. Oh yes, he is definitely all male. For the first time ever at one of these parties, I wonder if the antlers might have been a mistake.

‘Oh, that’s Oliver. Silly girl.’ Mum stops searching for my missing date and chuckles. I gasp, and the mood music in my head grounds to a halt.

‘What?’I think it came out as a screech, because the conversation nearby has a hiccup. Then they go back to talking. Luckily the sound doesn’t appear to have reached his side of the room though, that’s the advantage of a bookshop – those thick pages swallow up the sound. ‘No way. That is so not Ollie!’ The last time I saw him was at very close quarters. I was snogging him. ‘It can’t be.’ I think this comes out as a pathetic whine. Buggering hell, Ollie can’t be here. Not in person. And he can’t look like that.

This makes it even worse than normal – we’ll now be plonked side by side, like we were as toddlers and compared in real life!

I’ve not seen him for absolutely ages, thirteen years to be precise. He’s been in Africa, or America, or Coventry. Well he’s always somewhere miles away. Doing good on a global scale. Well, he’s not been at Uncle Terence’s parties anyway. Which has been a bonus. At least while Mum and Vera have been going on about his virtues, I’ve been able to imagine him in my head as a pimply, fat arsehole.

‘Of course, it is, dear. Isn’t it lovely to see him?’

Fabulous.

Kill. Me. Now.

He will pity me, not want to snog me. Or he will laugh.

‘He’s got a girlfriend, you know.’

‘Hasn’t he always?’ I say, slightly sarcastically. I can’t quite help myself. Part of Ollie’s upward trajectory is his ability to date gorgeous women. Ollie always has a girlfriend, and I always have to be told about her. Just like I’ve been told about every step of his career since he went to uni.

My mother, and therefore, I, have lived vicariously through every one of the five years at medical school, followed by his two years of placements. I have heard every ‘Oh he’s been so brave when faced with mangled people in agony, I couldn’t do it!’ from his mother Vera, and lots of ‘oh he’s so clever’ and ‘so sad you didn’t do something like that’ from my mother. I have then had to endure ‘speciality training’ (hearing about it, not doing it, but believe me it’s just as bad), and face-fanning (Vera and Mum) when she speaks about the conferences and courses he’s attended. Since he qualified it’s been worse. I haven’t seen the bloody man for thirteen years, which has suited me fine. How could being face to face with the demi-god who I can never match up to help my self-esteem?

Thirteen years is a bit scary though. That makes me old. Well at least old enough to be a responsible adult. Which I most definitely am not.

‘Wow, that’s Ollie the pompous prick?’ Frankie drags her gaze away from him for a second and stares at me. I heat up like an electric blanket, my cheeks positively glowing, and Mum frowns.

I could just go home now.

I might have called him that. Once or twice. To Frankie. ‘He’s, er, changed.’ The endless stories from my mother and his about how well he’s doing, and how many girlfriends he’s got, and when he’s going to become pope (made that bit up, but it’s close – he deserves a sainthood, apparently) have really got on my tits, and definitely made him sound like a pompous prick. And anyway, he might still be a pompous prick, just a hot one.

‘The one who felt you up when you were four?’

‘I never said that! We were six, Frankie, I said he kissed me not felt me up!’ My cheeks are burning. If I blush any harder I’ll be hotter than a chestnut roasting charcoal burner. Thank God I didn’t tell her about the drunken face-eating when we were eighteen.

‘Felt your what?’ My mother has a puzzled expression, which I ignore.

‘Well, whatever he did, he is mine! ‘Scuse me, ladies!’ Frankie steams off in pursuit of her prey and doesn’t hear my mother’s plaintive, ‘Well, actually, I think you’ll find he’s Juliet’s, dear!’

Grrr. How can Oliver Cartwright be gorgeous? Be bloody perfect in every way. He wasn’t when we were kids. He was a bit lanky, sweet and maybe a bit cute, but all arms and legs, and the odd spot, and voice that hadn’t decided how low it was going to be, and a ‘did it at home’ haircut. And bad jeans. Yeah, he had bad jeans.

Frigging hell, he had all that and was still worth some lip action? I must have been very drunk.

I am not going near the man, he will be totally insufferable.

‘You two can have a nice chat, you must have so much to talk about!’ says Mum.

It is all wrong. I’m exhausted, and the party hasn’t even started.

And now my toes are warm and damp.

I glance down. Stanley is nibbling bits of sausage roll from between them.

The last couple of days have been disastrous.

Chapter 2

The lead up to Christmas, and Uncle Terence’s party has gone like this …

9.30 p.m., 22 December

Things I have to do before Tuesday evening at Uncle Terence’s:

1 Find my red nosed reindeer Christmas jumper and antlers (urgent or will stand out like sore thumb).

2 Make Buy sausage rolls to take to buffet (can do this in my lunch break tomorrow then if M&S have run out can always go to Greggs and cut large ones into small canapé size. Added advantage of this option – can buy vegan ones which will score points).

3  Send boyfriend message about what time to arrive and tell Uncle Terence I will have a plus one!

4 Buy new festive lipstick that Sunday supplement said was ‘guaranteed to make you smile’ (v. important when spending Christmas with my family, hope have time in lunch break to do this, might have to queue jump in Greggs. Which is top priority, lipstick or sausage rolls?).

5 Find wrapping paper. And sticky tape. (Urgent – top priority!)

My mother is bound to raise my shortcomings at Uncle T’s party, but she will soon be distracted by the scandal of how young Terence’s latest girlfriend is. Even better if he’s married her by now, which he might well have done, it is very hard to keep track. He’s had so many girlfriends, and even more ex-wives, in the last ten years even I can’t remember all their names. Uncle T’s a ‘bit of a one’ according to Mum, but he seems to bring out the fun and twinkly side of Vera. I’d never say this out loud, but Ollie’s dad Charles is a bit scary. It’s hard to believe he and Terence are brothers. I can quite understand Vera needing some light relief.

Charles is a consultant. In fact, the whole family, apart from Vera (who was named after Vera Lynn), are pretty intimidating. They are total over-achievers. Ollie’s got a brother who is a barrister and a sister who is an opera singer. I think I’m the only one that has noticed that Vera has called her children after characters in Oliver Twist, they’re Oliver, Will and Nancy. I suspect she has done this on purpose and it’s her little secret joke. I’ll know for sure if they ever get a dog and name it Bull’s Eye.

I don’t know why we go to the party really, but it can be rather fun, and it is a firmly entrenched family tradition (my father’s words not mine, I don’t talk like that) which only death or marriage will excuse me from (another thing Dad said). Personally, I think getting married is a bit of a drastic solution, and I do love Uncle T, this party less so.

The only negatives to kicking off Christmas with Uncle T are (1) my mother will be there, (2) she will compare me constantly to the hugely successful and perfect Ollie Cartwright, even though luckily, he won’t be there (he never is), and (3) dodging the mistletoe can be a health hazard. Terence hangs it everywhere, as he seems to want everybody to snog everybody else. If he wasn’t so nice and jolly, I’d suspect he had some weird fetish, but instead I will believe him when he says ‘love makes the world go round’.

It was bad enough when we were eighteen. Just the thought of that drunken totally unplanned snog with Ollie is making me feel all hot and bothered.

The only good thing has been that Ollie has not turned up at a single party since our embarrassing encounter. Which is good, and bad. I mean, back then, we actually might have got on, but we live on different planets now. He has ticked every success box going, I have to look back with fond memories of beating him in a Chemistry exam. Since then my life seems to have taken a dive and whilst he lives on planet-perfect, I meanwhile inhabit a galaxy far, far away where everything is disorganised and success can be measured by how many nearly-passed-their-sell-by-date bargains you manage to grab just before the supermarket closes.

Which makes point (4) on my list – the perfect smile part – even more essential. To be used when my mother asks if I’ve changed my mind about marrying Ollie Cartwright yet (as she knows I haven’t seen him since we were students, then how on earth can she still be dreaming about our happy ever after?). I know she will ask though (probably in front of Vera), even though I will have my own, actual boyfriend with me. This is a win, this is the first time in years that I’ve had a boyfriend who has actually agreed to spend Christmas with me and my family.

7 p.m., 23 December

I have had a truly shit day. Christmas has already got off to a dismal start. I already need to strike (3) off my first list. Simon, my boyfriend, rang me at work.

‘Dais?’

‘Simon?’ This is odd. It sounds like Simon, but Simon never calls me at work. He also never calls me Dais.

‘Slight change of plan, darling.’ When he calls me ‘darling’, he’s either after sex, snacks, or is about to say something he knows I won’t like. It is one of his wheedling words. ‘Have to cancel your Christmas dinner with Mom and Pop.’

‘Why? Oh no! What’s happened, are they okay?’

I try to stop staring at the photo of a missing cat on my screen. It’s tricky, it’s got a weird squint that is hard to ignore. I fear for its safety, a cat like this would not remain missing for long – it would be impossible to ignore.

‘They’re fine. Why wouldn’t they be?’

‘Well, if we’re not …’ I blink, his words have sunk in. ‘Hang on, you said cancel my dinner?’

‘I thought you’d be pleased, far too much food in one day. I mean who can eat two Christmas dinners, ha-ha!’

‘But you’re still going?’

‘Of course, I am, they’re my parents! Look, nothing personal, it’s just there’s not enough room. Lucy,’ his little sister, ‘has made up with that boyfriend of hers, Ralph, Rafe, whatever he’s called, so he’ll be coming.’

‘But …’

‘They don’t really have enough table space for everybody, and you’d make it an odd number.’

‘Why? That’s two extra, Lucy and Rafe.’

‘And Grandmother! Cancelled her cruise cos of her dicky hip. Can’t expect Mom to turn away her aged parent, can you Daisy? Be reasonable!’

‘Of course, I don’t. I didn’t know about that!’ It’s not fair to suggest I’m being unreasonable.

‘Sorry sweets, but Mom’s all excited about a possible engagement announcement so Lucy’s man has to be there! And be fair, she knows them all far better than she knows you, they’re family!’

I’m sticking my lower lip out, I know I am. But the whole point was she would get to know me, but she obviously considers me a ‘a passing fancy’ (he doesn’t say that last bit, but I have assumed it from his tone).

‘Oh right. Fine.’ I’m not sure it is fine. ‘But you are coming to Uncle T’s party tomorrow?’ He has to come, he just has to. I’ve got to prove to Mum I can get at least something right.

‘Probs with your Christmas eve party as well now. It’s a bit awkward but Ralph—’

‘Rafe!’ He doesn’t even remember the name of the damn man who will be tucking into my Christmas dinner.

‘Lucy’s boyfriend asked me to go the local with him, got to chat to the potential brother in law, ha-ha, think he wants to discuss man stuff, proposals and all that.’

‘But you don’t know anything about proposals!’

‘Sorry and all that but didn’t think you’d be bothered.’

Bothered? I can feel my jaw tighten. I’m about to grit my teeth, which the dentist has told me not to do. ‘But I’ve got you a present!’

‘We can swap tonight. It’s only Christmas after all.’

Only Christmas? How can he say that? And how can a pub-date with a potential brother-in-law be more important than coming to Uncle Terence’s with me?

I therefore informed Simon that I no longer wish to meet him this evening as I have far too much preparation to do, and no longer wish to swap presents.

This led to full scale hostilities and him complaining about all kinds of things, including stinky Stanley (he doesn’t stink). ‘It’s me or the dog.’ Simon had actually said, in the midst of our heated conversation about Christmas lunch, when I asked if he was at least going to pop in to Mum and Dad’s for pre-dinner drinks. I’m not sure if he was being funny or not.

I no longer have a boyfriend.

Git.

I cannot believe it. I was so close to being able to stun my mother into silence. To turn up with a proper man-date, but Simon has spoiled it.

Also, just remembered other disadvantage of breaking up with Simon – I didn’t have time to shop at lunch time as I was too heartbroken to buy sausage rolls for party. Who can think of food at a time like that?

Looking on the bright side though, this year for Uncle T’s party, and Christmas dinner, I still have a plus-one. Stanley! He snores, passes wind and likes to try to stick his tongue in my mouth when I’m talking, but you know what? I love him. Sometimes a dog is a way better bet than a man.

2 p.m., 24 December

Disaster! Point 1 on my list is not looking good. I cannot find my flaming Christmas jumper anywhere, despite urgent search last night and again this morning before setting off for work.

I think Uncle Terence started the obligatory Christmas jumper tradition because he knew that we would all get hot and need to strip off at some point. When I was at junior school I thought it was funny, now I’m over thirty having a red nose adorning my boobs isn’t quite as hilarious. However, not wearing said jumper will leave me feeling naked and exposed – I will be the centre of attention, which must be avoided at all costs.

I have left it a little late to buy a new Christmas jumper. I’ve been in every supermarket and clothes shop and I am now in the pound shop. I might have to settle for a hot-chick T-shirt, or a ‘bargain buy’ Rudolf that looks like a cross-eyed donkey. Decisions, decisions. I have never been good under pressure, plus the only antlers left are the ones in the pet shop (I checked in there in case they had a jumper that would fit an Irish Wolfhound or some other giant breed, that could be modified for human use). Said antlers are more suited to a Labrador. I might have to buy some for Stanley instead.

4 p.m., 24 December

Stanley has just wolfed down half of the sausage rolls that I had home-baked (well, shop-bought from the late shop next to the beauty salon. They were a bit scuffed up which makes them look more authentically homemade, but also meant they were reduced to a bargain price). We are all expected to contribute, and in the past I have stuck to multiple bottles of bubbly and cut price stuffed dates, but this year I am rather skint. This is mainly because (1) I lent Simon the snake the money to buy his father a rather expensive bottle of malt whisky, and his mother a ridiculously expensive bottle of perfume, and (2) I bought him a gaming station. It was in the sale, but still cost way more than I’d ever spend on a toy, but I don’t think they will take it back. I see a New Year filled with trying to work out what Call of Duty is actually about, and then settling for a romp with Sonic. As I no longer have a boyfriend, snogging Sonic could be as good as it gets on New Year’s Eve.

Frankie says I’m too generous, I’ve always retorted that the giving not receiving is the best bit about Christmas. I’m beginning to think I might need to rethink that one.

So, anyway, I bought two bottles of Prosecco on offer, one as a reward for surviving Christmas, and one to take. Plus some savouries. Half of which have been scoffed.

I now don’t have time to nip down to Tesco Extra to replenish supplies, and wash and iron my hair, and get dressed, so I am going to have to cut the remaining sausage rolls into halves and pretend they are sophisticated snacks.

I’m also going to have to check for teeth marks.

Maybe a dog date isn’t a much better bet than a man?

6 p.m., 24 December

Yay! I have found my jumper and antlers! I’ve just dug out the spare Christmas gift bag that I kept in case of emergencies, and voilà! There they were. Along with some leftover stuffed dates (last year’s disaster) and some shrivelled up mistletoe.

I’ve also come up with perfect reason to keep away from fresh mistletoe! I just googled, more out of desperation than real hope, and it is poisonous to dogs, and I have Stanley. We don’t want vomiting, drooling and diarrhoea in the vicinity of Uncle Terence’s first editions, do we? I never thought I would say this, in response to those three words, but … result!

‘What the hell is that, Daisy?’ Frankie is lurking in my doorway, a drink in her hands, pointing at my list which is pinned to the wardrobe. Along with a photo of Simon with a heart shaped hole cut out of his stomach, and a big cross over the ‘sausage rolls’. She is looking very Ab Fab and is struggling to sound indignant, she’s laughing too much. She starts to pull my list off the wardrobe, then pauses and spins back round to stare at me. ‘Fuck me, you really do take this family party thing seriously! Great jumper, not so sure about the twigs growing out of your head though.’

‘Antlers!’

‘I need to come and see this!’