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 fa
ther 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!’
‘No, you don’t. And you haven’t got a Christmas jumper.’
‘And does this,’ she peels Simon off the door, prods her finger through the hole in his chest, then rotates him slowly, ‘mean you haven’t got a date?’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘Well, nor have I.’ She grins, wickedly. ‘I can be your date!’
‘I’m taking Stanley.’ Stanley dives under the bed.
‘Who the fuck is Stanley? Have you been two-timing Simon?’ She gives a low whistle. ‘Dark horse!’
I sigh. ‘Stanley is the dog I’ve agreed to foster over the holidays.’
‘Oh.’ She looks disappointed, then frowns. ‘How did I not know about this?’
‘I smuggled him in, I knew you’d like him once you got to know him.’ It’s her flat, and I really should have asked her, but I couldn’t risk her saying no. Stanley can’t spend Christmas in a kennel.
‘Whatever.’ Frankie suddenly smiles. ‘Well, you can take me too then! Pleeeeeeease!’
‘Where’s Tarquin?’ I look at her with suspicion. She had a night of lust planned, like you do on Christmas eve if you’re a normal person and have a boyfriend, which is why she’s glammed up.
‘I told him to fuck off.’ She downs her drink. ‘He started a sentence with ‘if you really cared about me’, and it all went downhill from there. He needs to get a life.’
She sounds a bit sulky.
‘He is trying to, Frankie, with you.’
‘I’m not ready, I’d be bored within a week and so would he. Can I come?’
I look at Stanley, who is peeking out from under the bed. He stares back, resignedly.
‘It’s full of old people, and books.’
‘You should get a career in sales, oh hang on, you have! Please, it’ll be fun. I can do old people.’
I’m sure she can. ‘You’ll have to promise to behave and not put a straw in the vat of mulled wine.’
‘Promise. I won’t.’
She probably will.
‘And not propose to Uncle T?’
‘Is he rich?’
‘Very, but he’s probably married at the moment. I can’t remember. You mustn’t try and steal him!’
‘Okay.’ She puts on her sweet and innocent smile. But I know she’s not either.
‘Come on then,’ I sigh, I haven’t got time to argue, ‘I’m taking my car and getting a taxi back.’
‘Cool. Can I wear your antlers?’
Chapter 3
7.30 p.m., 24 December
So, I have arrived at the party minus a boyfriend, and plus a dog and a flatmate. And now Ollie frigging Mr Perfect Cartwright is here.
Brilliant.
‘Oh my, how lovely to see you, Daisy, sweetheart!’ Uncle Terence manages to catch the plate (minus most of the sausage rolls), put his foot on Stanley’s lead, flick most of the pastry off my jumper with his silk handkerchief and kiss me on both cheeks without breaking into a sweat. ‘Splendid jumper, by the way!’
Stanley is so shocked he stops licking my toes, sits down and stares.
Uncle Terence is a bit of an enigma. He’s rather debonair, the only man in the village who can pull off a bowtie and is a kind of cross between a cuddly uncle and a London man about town. Yes, I know, it’s hard to imagine until you meet him. I’ve also absolutely no idea how old he is, except he’s older than me and not as old as my mother. I also know he used to run a literary agency which he thought he’d hand over to Ollie (he actually is his uncle) until Ollie’s dad persuaded his son that the medical profession was a much worthier cause.
‘Thank you! Looking forward to the party!’ I flash my new-lipstick smile, and he looks impressed – it looks like the magazine was right, it was well worth spending all that money on. I reckon it cost more than the entire contents of my make-up drawer.
‘Oh, my goodness, they look a bit pasty, don’t they?’ My mother picks up a sausage roll and eyes it suspiciously, before dropping it behind a pile of books and finally forgetting about Simon and my pompous prick comment offers her cheek for a kiss.
At least she’s been distracted from the lack of boyfriend.
‘Oh darling, what happened to your boyfriend? Tell me again!’ Bugger. Spoke too soon. Mum peers around me, as though I might actually have brought him and forgotten.
‘He had to cancel, I told you, things came up!’
‘Oh no. Such a disappointment.’ For a moment her face falls, then she chirps up. ‘Never mind, we’ll find you another nice young man. Sadie at Number 17 has a lovely son, he’s a dentist, always handy to know a good dentist! Don’t you think so, Terence?’
‘Far too boring for a bright young thing like our Daisy.’ Terence winks at me. ‘No hurry is there my dear? Get your career up and running before you go for all that nonsense, eh?’
‘Oh, my goodness, yes, we forgot to tell you.’ He’s now set Mum’s mind off in a new direction, which I’m not sure is a good thing. ‘Daisy has got another job!’ Terence raises an eyebrow. ‘She works for the Hunslip and Over Widgley Local Guardian, she’s in charge of promotions and marketing you know. They headhunted her, a proper job!’
‘Really?’ Uncle T whispers in my ear.
‘Small ads, not exactly proper.’ I whisper back, as my mother carries on regardless.
‘No?’ Uncle T studies me for a moment, then smiles. ‘Well, what is proper, my dear? What would you really like to do?’
‘I’m not quite sure yet.’ I scan the room and am quite relieved that Ollie seems to have disappeared from view. With any luck he’s gone home. It’s just so bloody embarrassing, the way my mother st
ill keeps trying to throw us together when our lives have gone in totally opposite directions. Why on earth would the hugely successful Ollie, with his glamorous girlfriends and on-track life even want to talk to me, let alone father my babies?
‘Oh, she’ll soon be editor, won’t you Daisy!’ My mother has high expectations. Terence merely raises an eyebrow.
‘You can do whatever you want my dear, you know. You’re awfully clever, you always were such a bright girl.’ He pats my hand, then hands me the end of Stanley’s lead back. ‘And who needs a date, when you’ve got a dog?’
‘Exactly!’ I told you Uncle Terence was nice. Very nice.
‘Back in a jiffy, just going to stir the mulled wine dear girl, then I’ve got a gorgeous original edition to show you. Quite a find, a real gem, and I know you of all people will appreciate it!’ He winks.
‘Fab!’ I grin back at Uncle T.
‘Ollie has a proper date, you know!’ Mum nudges me in my ribs.
‘What a surprise.’ I mutter. Ollie has a date for every occasion apparently. How does he do it? Every year, according to my mother and Vera, Ollie flaming Cartwright has a different woman in tow.
‘Vera thinks he might even marry this one!’
I frown. This raises the stakes as far as my mother is concerned.
‘Such a shame you two couldn’t get together, we were so sure you’d get on well when you were little, your first kiss!’ She’s gone a bit swoony. ‘I hope you haven’t missed your chance!’
I admit it. Ollie and I have snogged more than once, it wasn’t just that drunken fumble under the mistletoe thirteen years ago.
He kissed me when we were six years old, when he was Joseph to my Mary in the Nativity at the village hall – egged on I think by our mothers. Honestly, what kind of parents encourage that kind of behaviour in innocent children? So, I battered him with the baby Jesus. A plastic version, obviously. I hit him pretty hard, though to give him his due he didn’t cry or hit me back, but he shouldn’t have kissed me.
Four Christmases and a Secret Page 3
