The Perfect Christmas

‘Right,’ I say, fighting the impulse to ram his head into the engine. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Besides, we’ve been called out for this car too many times and we’re within our rights to refuse to give you any more assistance.’

‘Maybe I should join the RAC instead?’

‘They’ll only tell you the same. Get rid of this monstrosity and find yourself a car that works.’

‘I love my car!’ I protest. ‘Dolly the Mercedes is a design classic!’

He snorts. ‘If you say so. But you’d be better off with a Fiesta. You’ll never get a baby seat in that contraption. You know, when the time comes.’

I roll my eyes. I’m more likely to grow another head than I am to have a baby. Call me old fashioned but I’d quite like to find a man first and that is proving easier said than done. Thirty-four, single, and with no hope of finding a decent man. It’s a problem that even Stephen Hawking couldn’t solve. Unless he knows the address of the parallel universe where they all live.

Anyway, here I am, a woman on her own at the side of the A4, and my knight of the road turns out to be the same grumpy git who’s attended Dolly the Mercedes’ previous two hissy fits. And I literally mean hissy fits. I haven’t seen this much steam since I last went to the Sanctuary Spa.

While the patrolman delves under the bonnet I fan my face and wish I had my emergency wedding kit with me: sunscreen and a bottle of Evian would be very handy right now.

My ancient Mercedes can be a little temperamental but Dolly’s over twenty years old and probably feels she’s earned the right to have a senior moment from time to time. I’d have sympathy except I wish she’d chosen a better time. A beautiful June evening like this should be spent on the Heath drinking wine, not sitting at the roadside being lectured about my car and the lack of children I have borne.

Am I some kind of bad luck magnet? This morning I had a phone call telling me the beautiful country house hotel Saffron’s had her heart set on for the wedding venue is booked for Christmas Eve, a stern letter arrived from the Inland Revenue, and then Faye cancelled lunch. Add to this realising that it’s a year to the day since Pat and I split and there you have it – a totally crap day.

If my life was a Mills & Boon novel the patrolman attending this breakdown would be some Brad Pitt lookalike, all rippling muscles and six pack under his yellow overalls, working part-time as he studies for his PhD. He’d climb from the cab and we’d take one look at each other before he’d scoop me into his arms and carry me into his low loader. Then he’ll turn out to be the love of my life and we’ll live happily ever after …

Hmm, just my luck that I live in the real world where AA men are bald and grumpy.

And gorgeous, thoughtful men like Jonathan are married.

Maybe I should look on the bright side. After all, there is one sunbeam on an otherwise gloomy horizon and a pretty impressive sunbeam it is too. I can still hardly believe that I’m going to be planning Saffron’s wedding! I’m still pinching myself because I’ve been given the green light to source fabulous designers and tasteful Christmas accessories. I haven’t seen Hester since Saffron made her decision but I know she won’t forgive me in a hurry. She’s furious that Perfect Day has won the tender and, according to Saffron, turned white with disbelief at being pipped at the post by such an amateur outfit. If it was anyone else I’d almost feel sorry for her but this is payback for all the hideous jobs she gave me, especially the time she made me clean up after three vomiting bridesmaids.

I turn my attention back to the car. I wouldn’t put it past Hester to have sabotaged it.

‘Can you fix it?’ I ask the AA man.

‘It looks like the radiator. I’ll do my best to patch it up so you can get home but you’ll probably need to replace it.’

‘Is that expensive?’

‘About two hundred quid.’

Great. My bank manager will need Valium if I go any more overdrawn this month.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ the AA man says, wiping his hands on a rag before delving into the back of his truck. ‘Worse things happen at sea.’

‘I’m not at sea. I’m on the A4,’ I point out.

When my phone buzzes, I take a look at the screen. There’s no name, but the number is ingrained into my memory from repeated and persistent use. Patrick. What do I have to do to get rid of this man?

I flip my phone open.

‘What do you want?’

‘And hello to you too,’ says Patrick cheerfully. ‘Sure, isn’t that a lovely way to greet your friends?’

‘What makes you think you’re my friend?’

Pat laughs. ‘I love your dry sense of humour, so I do.’

I’m not joking.

‘This really isn’t a good time for a social call. Dolly’s broken down.’

‘Jaysus! Not again? How many times is it now? Eight?’

‘No!’ I retort hotly. ‘Only six actually.’

‘Only six?’ Although I can’t see him, I know that Pat’s eyes will be twinkling with mirth. ‘Oh, that’s OK then. Honestly, Robs, it’s time you gave up with that old car and got yourself a newer model.’

‘Like you did?’ I nearly say, and only just stop myself in time. Instead I say, ‘You never did like Dolly, did you?’

‘Robyn, what sort of man wants to be seen in a Barbie car?’

‘Ken?’

Pat laughs. ‘A man with no dick! I rest my case. Anyways, Robs, I haven’t called just to talk dirty, fun though that is. I was wondering if you fancied coming out for lunch sometime? Maybe Wednesday?’

I’ve always known he’s tactless but this doesn’t so much take the biscuit as the entire McVities factory. Our first wedding anniversary would have been next Wednesday. What’s going on? I hope he’s not about to suggest we have sex for old time’s sake or something equally ridiculous. I wouldn’t put anything past Patrick. I barely trusted him when we were together – rightly, as it turned out – and I certainly don’t trust him now.

‘I’m really busy next week. I’ve lots of weddings.’

Weddings. Hint. Hint.

‘Ah, feck,’ Pat sighs. ‘I really wanted to see you. There’s something I need to ask you.’

‘Everything’s OK, isn’t it?’

Pat is silent.

‘Pat? You’re not ill or anything, are you?’

‘Sure, we’re fine!’ he says swiftly. ‘Especially Jo. She’s blooming. Jaysus, Robs! I’m so excited! I’ve always wanted to be a da!’

‘I know you have. You’ll be brilliant, so congratulations.’

And he will be brilliant too. Pat’s always wanted kids and he was fantastic with my half-brothers. It was something of a bone of contention that I wasn’t ready to think about children from the instant that the engagement ring was on my finger.

‘Jo’s excited too. She’s not like you. Family means everything to her.’

His implication being that family doesn’t mean very much to me. I want to be offended, but in a way he’s right. If I’m honest, the idea scared me. But it scares everyone, doesn’t it? Becoming a mother is not a decision to take lightly, so I was right to be cautious.

Or maybe I’m kidding myself.

‘We’re going to move to Ireland too,’ he adds. ‘I’m earning enough now to buy a little cottage in the country. That was always my dream, remember, Robs?’

Oh yes, I remember. Pat always had a longing for the so-called simple life and we spent many hours arguing over the pros and cons of moving to the country. Somehow I couldn’t imagine swapping Jimmy Choos for chickens, and Patrick wouldn’t compromise with a mews house in Primrose Hill. Running Perfect Day from the sticks would have been impossible, and the thought of giving up my business and being dependent on Patrick had made my skin prickle with unease.

I force a light note into my voice when I say, ‘Barefoot and pregnant. Lucky Jo!’

‘I’m pretty traditional,’ admits Pat. ‘We’re going to get married as soon as we can so that we’re Mr and Mrs McNicolas by the time the baby comes. Jaysus! Like I said, I can’t have my child being born a bastard.’

I skip the obvious joke at his expense and say, ‘Look, Pat, this is all great but I really can’t talk. I’m stuck on the A4 and about to be rear-ended.’

‘I always loved your rear end,’ says Patrick, nostalgically. ‘But that isn’t why I phoned. Well – and feel free to say no if you like – but Jo and I were wondering whether you’d consider planning our wedding?’

For a second I’m struck dumb. Did I just hear my ex-fiancé asking me to plan his wedding to the hussy he cheated on me with?

‘You’re going to say no, aren’t you?’ says my perceptive ex when I fail to whoop and screech with rapture. ‘Ah, feck. Jo said you’d say no. I should have listened to her.’

Jo obviously has more sense than I’d given her credit for.

‘She said you probably aren’t over me yet,’ Pat ploughs on.

Or maybe not!

My temper starts to bubble like lava in a volcano. Jo thinks I’m still in love with him? The cheek of it! I’ll show her just how over him I am! I’ll arrange such a fantastic celebrity wedding for my ex and his new fiancée that it’ll make Posh and Becks’ look like a budget do!

I try to laugh lightly but sound instead as though I’ve been strangled. Embarrassed, I hastily turn my laugh into a cough. Better he thinks I’m choking than incoherent with rage.

‘Jaysus, are you all right?’ Pat asks, sounding concerned.

‘Fine! There’s just a lot of pollution here by the roadside,’ I improvise wildly, throwing in a couple more coughs just for good measure. ‘That’s better. I’d love to be your wedding planner!’

‘Ah, that’s great so it is!’ Pat says warmly. ‘Now, I have to be honest. I may have led Hester to believe that she was in with a chance of getting the gig. After all, I know first-hand just how much attention to detail she pays to these things and I did have some very specific ideas!’

My eyes widen. When we were together Pat, witnessed my despair on countless occasions when Hester gave me the worst jobs imaginable. Sometimes we’d laughed when there was a funny side (I’d never forget rescuing a very famous A-lister who’d been naked and handcuffed to a bed on the night before his wedding) but more often than not, Pat had seen me in floods of tears over some awful petty task that Hester had insisted I carry out. And he hadn’t been impressed.

‘Pat, what have you done?’

‘Ah, Robs, it was only a bit of fun,’ said Pat. ‘I’m famous now, so I am, and good old Hester was all of a flutter when I called and expressed an interest in her services. I might have asked her to plan an Irish wedding complete with river dancing leprechauns, buried pot of gold and a machine that makes rainbows.

‘A machine that makes rainbows?’

Pat laughs. ‘Indeed. I was most insistent about the rainbow machine. I swore blind Elton and David used one at their last ball, and good old Hester has promised to sort me one. She’s promised that she won’t rest until she finds exactly what I want!’

What poetic justice that the demanding Hester, who once made me scrub an entire church floor with a nail brush, should now be racing around on a fool’s errand. Pat may have his faults but he’s always hated bullies and many a time had been on the brink of telling Hester exactly what he thought of her. I feel ridiculously touched even if I’m slightly alarmed that I’m now arranging the weddings of two ex lovers!

‘I’ll get Jo to ring you,’ Pat says. ‘She already has loads of ideas and she can’t wait to get started.’

‘Great,’ I say weakly. Am I really up for this?

Pat and Jo’s wedding would dredge up painful memories I’ve spent most of last year trying to bury. The question is though, can I put my feelings aside enough to be professional? Smile brightly when inside I feel like sobbing?

Right now I really don’t know.

‘I’m not sure, Patrick,’ I say. ‘August is a really busy time for me.’

‘Aw, Jaysus, Robs, go on! I’ll give you free rein with the budget and recommend you to all my celeb pals,’ carries on Patrick, who truly was born without an empathy gene. ‘Your career will skyrocket. Jaysus! Just think how that would annoy that old bat Hester – once she’s finally admitted defeat with the rainbow machine!’

I laugh in spite of my shock. ‘I must admit that idea’s very tempting! I’ll think about it and call you in a few days.’

Pat whoops and I picture him punching the air just like he used to when he got a gig at the Comedy Store. When he rings off I sigh, knowing he already considers my arranging his wedding a done deal. It’s not really that surprising. I was never very good at saying no to Patrick.

I close my eyes wearily. The traffic is still tearing past and the patrolman still muttering under Dolly’s bonnet, but I hardly register any of this. Instead Patrick’s words buzz around my brain like insistent wasps.

Part of me – the part that really did love Pat once – wants to throw my head back and scream, Why not me? Why wasn’t I good enough? And worst of all: Is this my fault?

The whole scene dips and swims alarmingly. The headlamps of passing cars shimmer and brake lights are shimmering rubies.

The patrolman stares at me in alarm.

‘Don’t cry, love! It’s only a radiator. If you really want to save this hunk of junk, it can be mended.’

But I can only shake my head. Everything’s changed. Everyone’s found their perfect match; Si, Faye, Gideon and now even Patrick.

I can fix the car, but will my heart ever be properly mended?

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