Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read!

Mistletoe and Mayhem

CATHERINE FERGUSON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2015

Cover design © Debbie Clement

Catherine Ferguson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © October 2015 ISBN: 9780008142223

Version 2017-11-14

For Pamela, firm friendship from ‘Rustic’ beginnings!

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Ten weeks until Christmas

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Four weeks until Christmas

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

One week until Christmas

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Three days until Christmas

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Christmas Eve

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Keep Reading

MISTLETOE AND MAYHEM

By the same author:

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Ten weeks until Christmas

CHOCOLATE VODKA

This tastes as gloriously indulgent as it sounds.

You will need:

6 standard size Mars Bars

700ml vodka (the cheapest you can find as the quality makes no difference to the final taste)

• Roughly chop the chocolate and melt gently in a bowl over a pan of simmering water, making sure the bowl is not touching the water.

• When the chocolate begins to melt, start adding the vodka little by little, stirring it until all the chocolate is dissolved and everything is mixed together. (The caramel will be the last to dissolve so be patient!)

• Set aside to cool.

• Bottle your chocolate vodka and place in the freezer for at least 24 hours. (It won’t freeze but will form a lovely, thick, cold texture.)

• Keep your chocolate vodka stored in the freezer.

Chapter One

Why is it that giving something up makes the thing you can’t have a hundred times more desirable?

When I decided to stop snacking between meals, for instance, I had this weird, recurring dream where a monster made entirely of Wotsits (Really Cheesy flavour) was terrorising my village and the only way I could stop him was to tie him down and eat him.

Tough work, but someone had to do it. Did I mention this was actually a daydream? (Joke. I’m really not that disturbed.)

But the point is, I used to love my lazy Sunday mornings. Until I met Nathan and they became a thing of the past.

And now I can only dream about them …

Ah, the luxury of surfacing naturally, without an alarm braying manically in my ear … followed by oodles of delicious ‘quality time’ with Nathan … and then a little while later, when we’re feeling totally blissed out, maybe breakfast in bed with the newspapers …

Nathan raps on the bathroom door.

‘Leaving in ten minutes, Lola,’ he calls cheerily. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

‘Er – right with you.’ I turn on the taps much too quickly and promptly drench the crotch of my hill-walking trousers.

Scrubbing at the area with a towel, I eye the waistband critically in the vast mirror above Nathan’s butler sink washbasin.

If these trousers were any tighter, I’d be waving bye-bye to my circulation.

But since my only other sports outfit is in the wash, they’ll just have to do.

I unzip the top inch and breathe out thankfully.

The trousers were a Big Mistake, bought three months ago in the excited aftermath of Nathan asking me out for the very first time.

He’d suggested a four-hour hill walk followed by a bite to eat at a local vegetarian restaurant. My best friend, Barb, raised a single eyebrow at the proposed itinerary. But I just laughed and said I thought it showed a refreshing originality on Nathan’s part. I mean, who needs predictable?

As with any thrilling first date, I decided it would be criminal not to treat myself to a new outfit.

So yes, I confess, the much-too-tight, figure-hugging khaki green trousers I’m wearing were chosen not for their hi-tech breathable and waterproof qualities. But rather with the goal of getting a second date.

The Lycra top isn’t great, either. It was a birthday gift from Nathan and it’s a little on the snug side, with my ample chest spilling out where it’s not supposed to. Wearing black with my straw-coloured hair and even paler complexion makes me look a bit peaky.

And hungover.

Which, of course, I am.

My stomach shifts queasily at the memory of the fizz we drank the night before to celebrate Nathan completing his personal trainer course.

It’s not just the alcohol making me feel a tad gross this morning. There’s also the small matter of waking at four with a raging dose of the munchies.

I tiptoed downstairs and opened the fridge. (More as habit than anything. With Nathan a strict vegetarian, verging on vegan, I’ve learned not to get overly excited.)

Once when I was rooting around in there (Nathan had popped to the shops to replenish his stock of mung beans), I managed to find an ancient packet of yogurt-covered raisins right at the back behind the alfalfa sprouts and his home-whizzed sheep’s curd spread.

Last night, no such luck.

There wasn’t any point hijacking the bread bin, either.

Nathan’s ‘bread’ tends to be full of random ingredients that really have no place at all in a nice, decent loaf – things like dried berries, wood shavings, bits of pan scourer, that kind of thing.

But then – rummaging through his cupboards, I struck lucky.

Pushed to the back was a lovely big box of Belgian chocolates.

Unopened.

I got them out, nodding approval at whoever gave Nathan those because they clearly had very good taste. I turned the box over to examine the pictorial contents.

Then I remembered it was me.

I bought them the very first time he cooked me dinner at his place – not realising, of course, that anything apart from ninety-nine per cent cocoa solids weren’t generally permitted across the threshold.

Belgian chocolates aren’t the usual food I go for to satisfy night-time cravings.

But hey ho, I thought, any port in a storm.

I ate most of the top layer then hid the rest in my bag to take home. (They’d already been there three months and would soon start turning an odd colour. It would be a shame to waste them.)

I stifle a yawn as I brush my teeth.

There was a real nip in the air before the heating clicked on at seven, and an hour later, it’s still dark outside. It feels unnatural rising before the birds on a Sunday, especially on a shivery morning in mid-October.

But there’s a definite upside to all this activity: I’ve never been so fit in my life.

With Nathan’s constant encouragement, I’ve climbed mountains, swum in freezing lakes and run thousands of miles (well, okay, probably hundreds, but it’s still more in the last three months than I have in my entire twenty-seven years on this planet).

There are days I stagger back to my own flat, collapse onto the sofa and remain in the position in which I landed until bedtime. Barb, my flatmate, thinks it’s hilarious. She says I look like a doomed beetle on its back. (Except I can’t wave my legs about. No energy left.) She’s good about bringing me food and tea top-ups during the reviving process, though.

I’m not quite sure what Nathan and I are tackling this morning, but it will undoubtedly be good for me.

What is it Nathan always says?

Variety is the spice of fitness!

And he should know.

Nathan is quite simply the sportiest, most energetic person I’ve ever met.

The man himself raps once more on the door and shouts, ‘Eight minutes.’

‘No problem,’ I call back, turning on the cold tap and splashing my face with icy water in an effort to wake up. ‘What is a climbing ball challenge, anyway?’

But he’s gone. Even over the hum of the bathroom extractor fan, I can hear him singing in a rich baritone as he gets into his workout gear.

Nathan’s great. We’ve been seeing each other since July and I continue to be amazed by his reserves of stamina and his sheer enthusiasm for life.

He’ll make a fantastic personal trainer. He’s got this knack of boosting my confidence and making me realise I can achieve far more than I ever thought I could.

I’m an admin assistant at Premier Furnishings in Pottersdale. The town is only a five-mile bus ride from Scarsby, the village in the Lake District where I live, so it’s really very handy. And the salary is okay.

I’ve been there almost two years now and, to be honest, I’ve never really had any ambitions to rise up the ranks – although Marla, my boss, keeps trying to nudge me in that direction.

But to get ahead in the workplace, you need self-confidence and the conviction that you’re worthy of success. And not everyone has that inner belief.

I’ve always felt like the plodder in the family. The very opposite of my younger brother, Rob, who heads up his own financial consultancy business and is brilliant at everything he does. His wife, Justine, is similarly driven and, until recently, was chief marketing executive of a small luxury hotel chain, based in Scotland, where she and Rob live.

And I’m nowhere near as brave as my older sister, Rosie, who flaunted convention at the age of nineteen by chucking in her university course and going to live in Spain. With a waiter called Romeo who she’d met while on holiday.

Sadly, Romeo failed to live up to his name; Rosie was his Juliet for no more than a year before he shagged an accounts clerk from Wigan (and possibly her mother too, although this was never confirmed) and declared himself far too young to settle down.

But luckily for us, by then my lovely nephew, Josh, was already on his way.

Now, Rosie and Josh live in a tiny, white-washed apartment near Malaga, where Rosie runs a water-front café with her friend, Jo, who’s also an ex-pat. She has a new man in her life now called Alejandro, but she insists it isn’t serious. They’re just having fun.

I am totally in awe of the way Rosie launches herself on life. She couldn’t give two hoots about what anyone thinks. She just goes out there and grabs it.

And me?

There are times I don’t even have the confidence to brave a communal changing room, never mind anything else. Which is probably why I still live in the Lake District, five miles from the old family home, telling myself I’m fairly content with life.

Nathan keeps saying I’m wasted where I am.

And lately, I’ve begun to think that maybe I could fly a little higher without falling flat on my face.

Sandra, our office manager, is retiring at Easter. And Marla has hinted on several occasions that if I were to apply for the post, I’d be in with a good chance of landing the job. At first, I didn’t really take her seriously. But I mentioned it to Barb and then Nathan, and I was quite surprised at their reaction. Barb told me very firmly that I could do Sandra’s job standing on my head, juggling print cartridges with one hand, while on the phone to stationery suppliers with the other. (She has great faith in my ability to organise and multi-task.)

So then I started thinking maybe I could do it.

Every time I think of being promoted, a little quiver of apprehension ripples through me. Or maybe it’s excitement?

I strike a confident, Dragons’ Den pose in Nathan’s mirror. Chin up. Eyes steely and determined. Yes, think positive. This could be the start of a whole new me.

Rubbing my face vigorously to gee up the circulation, I peer out of the window. It’s still dark outside, and overnight the first silver-white frost of autumn has carpeted the grassy area way below Nathan’s apartment.

Another rap on the door.

‘Lola? Food. You can’t do this without fuel inside you.’

My nauseous stomach perks up at the thought of its favourite hangover cure: the crispiest of bacon nestled between two slices of buttered crusty white bread with perhaps a dab or two of tomato sauce. And a big mug of builder’s strength tea…

The door opens and Nathan hands me breakfast.

I can tell instantly from the green sludge in the glass I’m holding that it’s the seaweed, avocado and linseed special.

‘Thank you.’ I raise the glass as if to say ‘cheers!’ and my stomach emits a gurgle of protest. ‘I’ll just – er – drink it when I’m finished in here.’

My eye wanders to the plughole.

‘I’m setting the dishwasher off,’ he says, beaming encouragement. ‘Knock it back and I’ll take the glass.’

My fake smile freezes.

Right.

Here goes.

I eye the sludge and glug it down the hatch.

My sneaky after-burp has a sort of fishy/foresty tang to it.

‘Lovely.’ Handing Nathan the glass, I think how lucky I am to have a boyfriend who cares so much about my health that he’s forever whipping me up all manner of exotic, super̶̶food smoothies.

It’s just a shame they taste like shite.

But Nathan is a fabulous advert for healthy living. And he wears Lycra very well indeed. (Even my flatmate, Barb, was forced to admit that and she can be extremely spiky and judgemental.)

Nathan leans over and plants a kiss on my nose. ‘Only the best for my little athlete in the making!’

‘What is a climbing ball challenge anyway?’ I ask again, when we’re in the car heading for the venue. (I’m having slightly distressing thoughts about being required to juggle all the way up a mountain.)

‘Um – not quite sure, to be honest,’ says Nathan, two rather attractive grooves appearing above his nose. ‘Just caught the end of the announcement on the radio. But it’s probably one of those things where you push a big ball up a hill. Endurance, you know?’

‘Right.’ I nod, none the wiser. ‘Because I’m hopeless at juggling.’

He grins, shaking his head at me. ‘Whatever it is, it’ll be something different, which is great because you don’t want your body getting complacent, doing the same old work-outs. After all, variety—’

‘Is the spice of fitness!’

‘Exactly.’ He turns to me in pleased surprise.

I glow happily in an ‘Aw shucks, it was nothing’ kind of way.

I really love that Nathan always wants to involve me in his sporting pursuits; it bodes well for the future, I think, this togetherness.

Sometimes I think about how we’ll be in later life. I know I probably shouldn’t, bearing in mind that in the grand scheme of things we only met five minutes ago, but I can’t help it.

Best case scenario: entering ‘veteran’ half-marathons in our eighties, bones creaking as we lurch arthritically across the finish line together.

And a marginally less fun scenario: racing each other along the high street on our mobility scooters.

Nathan will never lose his zest for life and if he wants me there with him, I’d be a fool to resist.

But relationships are a two-way process. So perhaps I should be demonstrating the same willingness to involve him in my life?

Hm, tricky one, that.

I suppose I could invite him along to one of mine and Barb’s box-set binge marathons.

Only one snag. Nathan can’t even sit still long enough to watch the late evening news, never mind lounging on the sofa for hours on end in the ‘Just one more episode? Oh, go on, then’ slump.

As we motor along the deserted high street of a nearby town, I spot something sparkly in a shop window and whiz round to look.

It’s a Christmas tree.

My nausea zips up to critical level.

It’s that time of year again.

A vision flits into my head of last Christmas, when we all gathered at my brother and sister-in-law’s house in Scotland to ‘make merry’ (ha-ha).

Justine’s control freak tendencies become rampant in December. Christmas absolutely has to be perfect. No lolling around in pyjamas, eating chocolate Brazil nuts for breakfast and admiring Bing Crosby in a Santa hat on TV. It’s all smart cocktail parties with the affluent neighbours and hand-crafted mince pies from an extortionately expensive London caterer that are so tiny you need to gobble down at least five to make one normal-sized pie.

And candles. Justine insists on candlelight everywhere at Christmas, even in the downstairs loo. (Last year, Dad was in there, catching up with the football scores, and the poor man managed to set his newspaper on fire.)

Thank God we’ll be going to Mum and Dad’s in Manchester this year.

At least there, I can escape to my own bedroom if need be.

And Mum seems to be doing better these days.

I suspect my lovely dad spares me the whole truth, but he’s definitely been sounding more optimistic lately. Apparently Mum’s having more ‘good’ days than ‘bad’. For years, her anxiety and agoraphobia have meant she can’t leave the house without Dad for support. But apparently, a few weeks ago, she went out on a shopping trip with their next-door neighbour, Ellen.

After Dad told me that, I went to my bedroom and had a little cry.

I pull down the visor mirror and check my reflection.

With no time for smoothing the kinks, my wayward blonde hair is going commando this morning, which can be quite scary, frankly. I spend an absolute fortune on potions to keep it smooth and groomed-looking.

Luckily, Nathan seems to like me just the way I am.

Settling back in my seat, I glance tenderly at his handsome profile. Dark hair cropped short, manly jawline and slightly Roman nose. (He’d like a nose job but I’m trying to talk him out of it.)

I’m just glad to be with him today, however challenging this climbing ball thingy turns out to be. My stomach turns over with vague dread.

But I tell myself that whatever happens, it’s sure to be an improvement on the Sunday we got up at stupid-o’clock and journeyed to Wales – yes, that’s right, another country – to take part in the world’s premier Bog Snorkelling Championships.

(Yes, you did read that correctly. And no, it wasn’t just an excuse for a drunken jolly. It involved actual snorkelling equipment and a real live, smelly bog.)

All great fun.

Ha-ha!

Nathan said it would be a laugh and a great workout into the bargain but he’d only do it if I took part as well. So I agreed. But only because he offered an attractive inducement. Dinner at a posh restaurant that didn’t only cater for vegetarians. Usually when we dine out, we go to Beansprouts! (That’s their exclamation mark, not mine.) Nathan can obviously take his pick from the menu there and it’s fine by me because I can always find something I like. But this place he was offering to take me had things like fillet steak on the menu and was really rather swanky.

How could I refuse?

Also, I didn’t want my wonderfully adventurous boyfriend thinking me boring for not joining in with the snorkelling shenanigans. Labelling me a stick-in-the-mud.

So I got stuck in a muddy bog instead.

And slap my thigh, but it was hilarious!

The bit in the car where I had to squeeze my chafing flesh into a too-small wetsuit (left by one of Nathan’s skinnier exes) – my, we did laugh.

Then lining up in the pouring rain with other assorted freaks dressed in snorkels and flippers – something to tell the grandkiddies!

And finally, battling along a foul-smelling trench filled with bug-infested bog water with spectators whistling and cheering us on – well, what can I say? Memories are made of this.

Nathan, of course, approached it with the same intense concentration as he would a heat in the Olympics. And he won. Naturally.

Just missing the world record by a whisker was a little disappointing, so obviously he’ll be returning next time to try to smash the winning time. (I’ve told him I have a hair appointment that day.)

Nathan’s satnav finally, after a two-hour journey, brings us to the car park of a large red-brick building in the middle of town.

I have to say, I’m confused.

What are we climbing? There’s not a hill in sight.

I glance around me. Nope. Completely flat.

So what…?

I catch sight of the sign over the main door.

‘Er, Nathan.’

I indicate the sign and he frowns as the penny drops.

‘Okay,’ he says slowly. ‘So not a climbing ball challenge. A climbing wall.’