The Perfect Christmas

I read that too. Apparently it’s called Talking Boll*

ks. Need I say more?

‘We’re not together any more,’ I say, stabbing at the carrot cake with my fork so he can’t see my face. ‘He’s with somebody else now.’

And she’s pregnant. And they’re getting married.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

‘I’m sorry, Robyn.’ Jonathan places his hand over mine, halting the destruction. ‘I didn’t mean to be nosey.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘It was nearly a year ago. I’m fine about it.’

Jonathan doesn’t move his hand. It remains covering mine, warm, strong and oddly comforting. It’s a friendly gesture.

‘It’s not easy though, is it?’ he sighs.

I slide my hand out from under his.

‘How is Anita? Is she still a … um …’

‘A biochemist?’ He pulls a face. ‘Yeah, ’fraid so.’

I’m not sure quite what a biochemist does exactly but I’m sure it’s really important and I tell him so.

‘It is important,’ he agrees, and now it’s his turn to attack the cake by mashing it with his fork.

I say nothing.

‘And I try to be understanding, really.’ I can tell he’s wrestling with something. ‘Like, last night, we had plans to catch a movie. I was making ’Nita supper when she called to cancel with some excuse to do with single-handedly revolutionising stem cell research. What could I say to that? “Well, you try resuscitating the carbohydrates in a dried-out lasagne.”’ Jonathan smiles weakly at his joke. ‘Of course I didn’t say that. Instead, I said, “OK, honey, I understand”, and then moped around feeling sorry for myself.’ Jonathan laughs, awkwardly. ‘God, sorry! I’m doing it again.’

‘We all do,’ I say. ‘I’m the world’s expert.’

By the time that I’ve finished telling Jonathan about the time Pat popped out for tea bags and ended up in Paris with a supermodel (‘Nothing happened, Robs, so it didn’t, I swear on my mammy’s life!’) Jonathan is laughing so hard that other shoppers are casting disapproving looks our way. I’m laughing too because looking back these stories are really funny. And telling them no longer hurts quite as much, so hurrah! I really am over Patrick! My Christmas wish list is right on track; just need a new man to replace him. Such a shame that it won’t be Jonathan.

‘Christ!’ Jonathan exclaims, looking at his watch. ‘It’s nearly three! I’d better be going. My secretary’s probably sent a search party out for me. At least the rain’s stopped.’

‘Oh yeah,’ I say, peering out at the sunshine which had replaced the rain in that way that only ever happens in England in spring. ‘When did that happen?’

‘No idea,’ Jonathan shrugs. ‘I was having far too much fun to notice. Thanks, Robyn, I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.’

My sides are hurting from giggling. ‘Neither can I,’ I tell him.

He smiles, and I notice that his teeth are absolutely perfect. Does this man have any flaws?

‘You’ve snapped me out of my bad mood so I owe you one. How about I come back tomorrow and sign us both up for our classes – me for Business French and you for swing dancing? If you give me your mobile number, I’ll text you to let you know it’s done.’

I would have hesitated, but Jonathan is so upfront and so genuine that I reel it off straight away.

‘Great.’ Jonathan saves my number and pockets his phone, then he leans forward and kisses me on the cheek, a kiss as soft and delicious as a buttery croissant. ‘It’s been wonderful catching up with you. I feel like I’ve made a new friend.’

I can still feel the brush of his lips and I have to sit on my hands to stop myself touching my cheek.

‘Me too,’ I nod. ‘Me too.’

‘I’ll text you,’ promises Jonathan, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and then he’s gone, a tall broad-shouldered figure striding through the crowd.

My hand slowly traces the place where his lips rested only seconds before.

Why, oh why, are the good ones always spoken for?

CHAPTER SIX

OK, Robyn, count to ten.

One … You are not going to let her wind you up.

Two … You’re thirty-four, with your own flat, your own business and your own overdraft.

Three … You do not answer to your mother!

Four … Remember that yoga course you did with Faye? Exhale stress and inhale tranquillity.

Five … And repeat slowly, ‘I will not let my mother get to me.’

Six … I’m a natural!

Or at least I am for all of seven seconds before my mother pushes her designer glasses up her nose and gives an exaggerated sigh. When she shuffles the papers and shakes her head for the fiftieth time my yogic calm is shattered.

Maybe I should have gone to more than two classes.

‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

My mother looks up from perusing my accounts. ‘Oh nothing, darling. Just ignore me.’

It would easier to ignore a herd of wildebeest rampaging through my flat.

‘It’s obviously not nothing. You’ve been groaning for the last hour. What’s up?’

‘Your overdraft limit! Perfect Day’s hardly making any profit.’

‘Mum! Perfect Day’s breaking even after its first year, which is excellent, even despite the difficult winter and the small matter of a global recession!’

‘Darling, there’s nothing coming in this month and your VAT is due. We’re coming up to the summer wedding season and you don’t have anything planned for May. I don’t see how you can even draw a wage.’

I’ve had a few sleepless nights on this score actually but there’s no way I’m telling my mother that. She’s likely to drag me kicking and screaming back to her friend, Hester Dunnaway. It’ll be paper cranes, missing grooms and misery before you can say Chihuahua. Things aren’t that bad.

Yet.

‘There are weddings in the pipeline,’ I say firmly. ‘Saffron Scott’s asked me to pitch for her wedding. I’m meeting her on Friday.’

‘The Saffron Scott? Robyn! That’s wonderful!’

‘So stop worrying,’ I say. ‘Things will be fine.’

My mother checks her Cartier watch. ‘I’ll never get through these accounts before lunch. I promised Hester we’d try the new place off Henrietta Street.’

‘Leave them, Mum.’

‘Leave them?’ Her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. ‘That’s what caused the problems! Why don’t you have an accountant?’

‘Because I can’t afford one.’ I lean over and shut the books. ‘Anyway, Gideon’s more than happy to help.’

And he’s less critical than you, I add under my breath. Mum can’t help interfering with Perfect Day. She runs her own interior design company, and she got me my first job with Hester hoping that I’d have my own business one day. Now that I’ve achieved it, she thinks it gives her the right to ‘help’. I know she means well but I could really do without it.

‘Fine,’ she huffs. ‘I thought you’d jump at the opportunity of having someone with my business experience cast an eye over the figures. But if you don’t think I’m good enough … I’ve only built up my own design empire over the last twenty-five years …’

I grit my teeth so hard my fillings rattle. ‘You are good enough, Mum.’

‘You never were a very good liar.’ She pauses. ‘Unlike your father.’

Here we go. According to my mother, Dad could knock Satan into a cocked hat for pure evil. I pretend to listen to Mum complaining about my father while I tend to the Gaggia machine that Si got me for my birthday. The way she goes on you’d think Dad had left yesterday.

‘Did I tell you he’s bought her a brand new Range Rover?’ says my mother. ‘And all those years he let us struggle with a clapped-out old banger.’

By ‘her’, Mum means Charmaine, Dad’s new wife. Actually, hardly new since they’ve been married for eleven years and have ten-year-old twins. But as far as Mum’s concerned, Charmaine is a parvenu interloper.

‘Dad did his best,’ I say, rummaging in the fridge for milk.

‘That’s right,’ she snaps. ‘Stick up for him as usual.’

‘Do you want a biscuit?’ I interrupt. I open the Marilyn Monroe barrel that I found on eBay and help myself to a couple. Hopefully munching digestives will keep her quiet for a few minutes.

‘Have you got a slice of ham?’ Mum asks. ‘I’m doing no carbs!’ She pats her stomach. ‘Hester swears by it.’

Hester is a professional food Nazi so this is no surprise. And wherever her food fads take her – from the grapefruit diet to the boiled egg plan (believe me, it was not pleasant in the office during that phase) – Mum is sure to follow.

‘Do you know how many calories are in those?’ Mum snatches the biscuit barrel from me.

‘I’m starving!’

‘You are not.’ Mum tips the contents into the bin. ‘Children in Africa are starving. Have an apple.’

‘Who eats apples rather than biscuits?’

‘A girl who’s single, childless, and over thirty,’

‘Mum! You’ve just been telling me how crap men are!’

‘Well, yes,’ she agrees. ‘But I’ve seen the sweetest hat in Philip Treacey. It’s perfect for the mother of the bride. And there was the cutest little baby’s bonnet. You know how much I want grandchildren. Time’s a ticking.’ She tapped her watch as if it was my biological clock on her wrist.

I slosh coffee into spotty Emma Bridgewater mugs. ‘It’s not even a year since Patrick and I broke up.’

Mum places a hand on her heart. ‘I still have nightmares about having to return all those presents. Great Auntie Ethel was really upset.’

Sod Auntie Ethel. I was pretty upset myself.

‘I’m not ready for a relationship yet,’ I say. But I plan to be in one by Christmas, I add silently. What could be better than holding hands with someone special while listening to carol singers and watching the snowflakes drift to earth? That’s my idea of heaven.

My mother tuts. ‘When you fall off the horse, what do you do, Robyn?’

‘Call an ambulance?’ I say with a wicked grin.

‘Darling. Do try and make an effort. You get back in the saddle, of course! And at your age, you get back asap. And refuse to sign a pre-nup. Just like I do.’

This is no exaggeration. My mother, currently Anna Dexter, has been married and divorced no less than three times. To my great relief she’s taking a break from nuptials recently, preferring to go on luxury cruises where she’s wooed by men called Luigi who have Tango tans, hairy chests, and large wallets. She’s the only person I know who finds Michael Winner attractive.

So I think I can be forgiven for not taking relationship advice from her.

For a moment, I think about meeting Jonathan Broadhead yesterday. I see again those amazing hyacinth eyes framed by inky lashes all starry with rain and feel the hard contours of his body when he pulled me beneath his raincoat. He was definitely attractive and not a hint of fake tan.

He was also married.

More proof that all the good ones really are taken.

I’m saved from discussing my love life any further by Hester Dunnaway attacking the intercom. I buzz her in without a word and my stomach seesaws as I prepare to greet my former boss.

Imagine Cruella De Vil’s meaner older sister and you’ve got a pretty good picture of Hester Dunnaway. Groomed and plucked and waxed and suctioned to within an inch of her life, she looks like a desiccated skeleton; albeit one dressed in Prada and with Chanel-tipped talons. It costs a lot of money to look this well preserved so it’s just as well Hester is one of the most successful wedding planners in the country. And luckily she always has a keen junior to do the donkey work because keeping her aging body embalmed is a full-time occupation.

I should know. I may have learned an awful lot from working with Hester but she certainly got her money’s worth. You haven’t known telephone hell until you’ve spent six hours calling every zoo in Europe to secure the services of twenty pink flamingos. Way more than a year on and I still have the strongest Pavlovian impulse to jump to my feet and grab the telephone when in her presence.

‘Hello, Robyn,’ says Hester, looking me up and down. ‘How are you?’

‘Good, thanks,’ I smile. ‘And you?’

‘Never busier. My latest wedding’s going to feature in Hello! It’s very high profile and totally secret.’

There’s a pause while she waits for me to ask whose it is. No way am I going to give her the satisfaction. I’d rather eat Poppy’s dog food.

But my mother has no such restraint. ‘Who?’

‘I really can’t divulge, darling, but suffice it to say that the budget’s hundreds of thousands.’

A poisoned arrow of envy scores a bullseye in my heart. What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of money to play with. What a fantastic wedding I could plan!

And not a flipping flamingo in sight either.

‘Any big weddings coming up?’ Hester asks me.

This is where I’d love to say that every WAG in England is beating a path to my door but she’ll know I’m fibbing.

‘Nothing huge,’ I hedge. ‘Yet.’

‘Oh dear,’ sighs Hester. ‘I did warn you. You have some lovely ideas, Robyn, but you’re hardly in the same league as Catch the Bouquet. Still, I’m sure there’s some satisfaction in helping people with tight budgets.’

‘Robyn’s really modest,’ my mother pipes up. ‘She’s meeting Saffron Scott on Friday to pitch for the job of planning her wedding.’

Hester tears her attention away from admiring her reflection in my Brabantia bin and gives me a patronising smile. ‘Oh, how sweet of them to ask you. It will be a fantastic wedding. I can hardly wait to discuss my plans with Saffron and Fergus.’

‘You’re pitching too?’ I ask, my heart sinking.

‘Of course.’ Hester is triumphant.

Oh God, how can I compete with Hester? I’ll never get the job now.

‘The pitch will be wonderful experience for you, Robyn,’ she continues. ‘But don’t get your hopes up too much. The Scotts can afford the very best.’

‘So I’ll have to convince them I’m the best,’ I say, dodging her insult.

Hester smiles. The smile of a crocodile before it gobbles you up.

‘Your ideas are sweet, darling, and I’ve taught you a lot. But don’t think you can run before you can walk. And don’t think that your ideas will be better than mine.’

I am about to stick up for myself but the discussion is over as far as she’s concerned, and Hester turns to my mother. ‘Ready, Anna? I’ve booked the table for twelve-thirty.’

I stand seething by the window long after they zoom off in Hester’s pink Mercedes. Suddenly all my ideas for Saffron’s wedding seem trite and clumsy. The mood boards are clichéd, the themes are too obvious. How can I possibly compete with someone who flies in flamingos? She’ll probably come up with some amazing winter scenario complete with an ice palace the size of Windsor Castle and Jack Frost to officiate.

But I can do better than that. I know I can.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘Two glasses of dry white wine and a packet of pork scratchings.’ Gideon deposits the spoils of his trip to the bar onto the table. ‘So what’s going on? You drag me to the Feathers on a week night, swig wine like there’s about to be a world shortage and look like shit.’

‘I thought gay men were supposed to be sensitive?’

‘Only in Sex and the City, darling. But I am sensitive enough to see something’s up. Care to share?’

‘I’m totally stuck for ideas to pitch for Saffron’s wedding,’ I sigh. ‘And, worse than that, Hester’s pitching too and she’s bound to have something incredible up her sleeve.’ I take another swig.

‘Bollocks,’ says Gideon.

‘Bollocks indeed.’

Even after chomping through an entire bar of Dairy Milk and watching two Doris Day movies I remained uninspired. I stared at my blank sketch pad until I’d gone cross-eyed before giving up and going to find Gideon. I’ve got the wedding planner’s version of writer’s block and since it’s a truth universally acknowledged that a girl who cannot be cheered up by chocolate must be in want of alcohol, I’ve dragged him out and left a message inviting Faye to join us.

‘When’s the pitch?’ asks Gideon.

‘Friday. I can’t possibly compete with Hester’s extravagant ideas.’

‘Maybe that’s the problem?’ says Gideon thoughtfully. ‘Competing, I mean. You’re not Hester Dunnaway so do something totally different. Be understated and elegant. Classy not tacky. You’ve got bags of style, darling. Not everyone wants Cinderella carriages, thrones and a hundred white doves.’

‘They were flamingos, not doves,’ I say. ‘But you’re right, Gids.’ This is where I’ve been going wrong! I’ve been trying too hard to think like Hester and come up with ideas that would make Jordan’s weddings look understated, when I should have been exploring my own ideas. ‘Gideon, you’re brilliant.’

‘It has been said,’ he says with an immodest shrug.

‘Now you’ve sorted Hester, maybe you could give me some help with my mother? She’s convinced that now I’m over thirty I am destined to be well and truly left on the shelf; alone and forever childless.’

‘Darling, brilliant as I am, I can’t perform miracles!’ laughs Gideon.

‘There you are!’ Faye weaves her way through the tables and beams at us both. ‘It was hell on the tube.’

‘Sorry,’ I say as we hug. ‘I should have met you somewhere more central.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Faye unwinds a beautiful Hermès scarf and slips out of her velvet coat. ‘This makes a great change. There are only so many themed gastro pubs a girl can take.’

‘Robyn likes it here too.’ Gideon grins. ‘Especially the bar staff!’

‘Gideon!’ I slosh him on the arm.

‘Oh!’ Faye’s eyes widen. ‘Is this where that Aussie barman works?’

‘Sure is,’ nods Gideon. ‘Mr Surf God himself.’

‘Where?’ Faye spins round to check the bar so quickly that she probably gives herself whiplash. ‘That blond guy serving? He’s the one that Robyn—’

‘Hello, guys? I am here, you know!’ I interrupt, waving a hand in front of my friends. ‘He’s called Bradley. And he’s just a friend.’

‘A friend she shags!’ says Gideon, so good at stirring he could double as a teaspoon.

Faye’s bottom jaw is almost on the table. ‘You never told me that!’

‘Some things are private,’ I say, fixing Gideon with a look that in a just world ought to lay him out on the floor. ‘And some people spend too much time spying on their tenants.’

‘Sorry,’ says Gideon, not looking anything of the sort. ‘But how could I ignore something that gorgeous wandering down the stairs?’

Note to self: when Perfect Day is floated on the stock-market, buy a very secluded house, miles away from anyone.

‘He’s lush, Robs,’ says Faye, settling next to me on a stool. ‘Good for you.’ She looks again towards the bar where Bradley is pulling a pint, his tanned forearms strong and corded with muscle. ‘And how was it?’

‘Mind your own business, Faye Harvey!’

‘Sorry,’ says Faye. ‘I’m a sad old married woman who doesn’t get out much. I have to get my excitement vicariously.’ She sneaks a look over her shoulder and winks at me. ‘And that is seriously exciting.’

‘Divine, isn’t he?’ sighs Gideon.

Bradley, sensing that he’s being talked about, catches my eye, beams a big white-toothed Aussie smile and waves. I wave back.

‘He really is just a friend,’ I say. ‘He’s been away for a couple of months too. There isn’t anything going on.’

‘Well, you’re mad not to pursue that,’ says Faye, fanning herself with a bar mat. ‘He’s like something out of Neighbours, and I don’t mean Harold!’

Maybe I should explain myself before you decide that I’m some old slapper who regularly pulls Aussie barmen and drags them home for wild sex. As if. I can probably count my sexual partners on one hand and still have spare finger; not cool these days I know, but that’s just the way I am. Before a man sees my wobbly bits I normally like to know more than his name.

Normally.

But the night I met Bradley was the exception to the rule. To be fair, the circumstances were unusual. It was about five months after Pat and I broke up, and although I was still desperately sad I was past the constant weeping stage.

Or so I’d thought.

I’d had a long day. Mother had been in a vile mood after a row with her latest sugar grandpa, a bridesmaid’s dress had been lost in the post and my computer had crashed, losing most of my files. As I’d dragged myself up the steps from the tube station and wandered down the high street, I’d wanted nothing more than to collapse onto my sofa with a big glass of wine and a trashy magazine. With this aim in mind I’d popped into the corner shop and picked up Scorching! I’d been expecting to see nothing more than the vacuous smiles of the boy band member and his new glamour model wife when a headline leapt from the glossy page and walloped me right between the eyes.

PATRICK MCNICOLAS: BRITAIN’S SEXIEST COMIC INVITES US TO HIS THAMESIDE LOVE NEST

Although I knew this was the psychological equivalent of picking a scab, I couldn’t help flicking through the magazine, gobbling up every purple paragraph and feasting on the glossy pictures of his new apartment. Pat looked so handsome and was obviously incredibly happy, lounging on big squishy sofas with Jo in his arms and clinking champagne glasses with her in a giant hot tub. ‘I’ve never been so in love!’ he bragged. ‘All we need now are the children and our joy will be complete. This is the happiest I’ve ever been.’

Thanks a million, Pat, I’d thought, shoving the magazine back onto the shelf. To have two years of my life dismissed so easily sliced through me like a hot knife through butter. And it wasn’t as though I’d said ‘no’ to the children part, was it? I’d just said ‘not yet’, not while I set up the business. Pat just hadn’t loved me enough to listen.

Blinking away tears of loss and hurt I fled the shop and stumbled into The Feathers, where I’d ordered an enormous glass of wine and downed it in one.

‘Whoa!’ the barman had exclaimed. ‘Looks like you needed that!’ And he’d fetched me another which I’d drunk in a similar fashion. To cut a long story short I’d ended up pouring out my tale of woe to my new best friend, AKA Bradley the Australian barman. Bradley listened sympathetically and told me about breaking up with his girlfriend. And then we’d bonded in that peculiar way you do when bitching about an ex. Eventually the pub closed, Bradley had cleared up and then walked me home.

And the rest you can figure out for yourself.

Anyway, he’s a nice guy and really easy to talk to. He’s not my soulmate but he’s fun and he’s taken my mind off Patrick on several occasions – and it’s not like he’s going to push me into becoming a perfect mother any time soon. There’s nothing more to it than that. Not that you’d ever convince Gideon though. As far as he’s concerned it’s only a matter of time before I book tickets with Qantas and rack off to chuck a few shrimps on the barbie with the sprogs in tow. There’s no way I’m going to mention meeting Jonathan Broadhead yesterday; Gids will die of excitement and Faye will think …

Actually, I don’t know what Faye will think.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ I say to Faye. ‘White wine?’

She nods. ‘The drier the better, please.’

‘Any excuse to see Mr Love God,’ Gideon stage whispers as I thread my way through the evening drinkers.

I roll my eyes.

I walk to the bar and lean against it, trying to catch the eye of the bar staff. Bradley is nowhere to be seen so I wait patiently until a small, tanned woman with a mane of white blonde hair serves me.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Sorry to keep you. Where are the men when you need them?’

Another Aussie! What is it with this pub?

‘I ask myself that question most days.’ I smile, counting out my money. ‘Where are all the good men?’

‘Hanging out with the tooth fairy?’ She passes the wine across the bar and takes my change. ‘They must be somewhere. Gotta live in hope.’

‘Or die in despair,’ I sigh, and, balancing drinks and crisps in my hands, rejoin my friends. It’s one thing to joke about the man famine if you’re a twenty-two-year-old gorgeous Aussie surfer babe and quite another if you’re thirty-four and pretty average on a good day, wearing control knickers and your best frock. If all the good ones really are taken then where does that leave me?