by Adele Parks
Christmas lunch is Christmas lunch and there are very few variations on a theme. By 25 December I have usually drunk my way through a cellar of wine, consumed a veritable mountain of sprouts and more turkeys than I'd expect my true love to send on any day of Christmas. Not that my lover has sent me anything for Christmas. At this stage, I think a really nice meal would be an undressed green salad, washed down with a couple of glasses of Resolve. However Rose's Christmas lunch is always worth saving a bit of space for, in fact a lot of space. It is distinguished, as it is unparalleled, in its size and delicious-ness. We start with roast pumpkin soup which is dripping with melted cheese. Which, as a rule, I do prefer to frozen prawns with mayonnaise and limp lettuce. Next, Rose serves kiwi sorbet. Then a pheasant (that by the size of it has suffered an identity crisis—it thought it was a baby elephant) and pork with crackling and roast apples, seasoned delicately with thyme and parsley. No one-lump-or-two gravy disgraces Rose's table, she
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serves a citrus, rum and raisin sauce. No soggy sprouts or hard carrots; instead we gorge on sauteed caramelized fennel, spiced red cabbage with cranberries and perfect roast potatoes. Next we have mascarpone cheesecake with fruit and nuts served with creme fraiche. Just in case any one of us find ourselves stranded on a desert island for the next twenty years, with no nourishment other than the reserves that we are wearing about our person, we finish with Christmas pudding and mince pies.
I check my mobile fourteen times. I call his mobile five times.
The others bang party poppers, pull crackers and laugh at the jokes. They even wear the tacky paper hats, except for Lucy who comments that it is a common mistake to expect to increase your festive fun by wearing a ridiculous paper hat. We drink a lot, an awful lot. Champagne, sherry, mulled wine, white wine, red wine and port, which explains why we laugh at the cracker jokes.
After lunch the men and Lucy stagger to the sitting room to smoke cigars and drink brandy. Mrs. Kirk and Rose begin to clear the table, Daisy (surgically removed from Simon) continues to force chocolate mints into her mouth and I, in an effort to appear industrious, begin to drain glasses and tear up paper crackers. I forlornly look at my mobile. Mrs. Kirk notices; she is unaware of my problem so offers her blanket compensation, "Have another biscuit, or Brie? A smidgen of Brie?" She proffers a heaving tray. The combined efforts of a herd of cows and a herd of goats. It hasn't been touched. Why hasn't he called?
"Waiting for a call?" asks Daisy.
I jolt at her unexpected precision. "Errr, yes. My mum." Daisy looks sympathetic.
"You should have said. Use Rose's phone. It's hellish not talking to those you love on Christmas Day."
Why hadn't I thought of that!
I rush to the hall, ensuring I close all the doors between
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me and the game of charades. My finger hovers above the phone.
And stays there.
I have no idea where he is. He could be in East London in the health and safety infringement building he calls home. Or in Liverpool with his mother. My thoughts get blacker. Or with Andrea. And blacker. Or with her parents. Does Andrea have parents? And a hometown. And friends. And a favorite clothes shop. I've never considered it. I hurl the thought to the back of my head. This is not the time to begin.
"Have you called him?"
"Christ, Lucy. I nearly died of shock."
She sits down next to me. We both stare at the phone.
"I can't. I don't know where he is."
She laughs pitilessly. "Take a hint, Connie."
"What?" I snarl. "What do you mean by that?" I feel so miserable, I don't expect she can say anything that will make me feel worse. Lucy, I've noticed, has not once checked her mobile today, nor has she sneaked away to make any calls. She is unfeasibly cool. But then she is also more organized. I bet she's arranged to meet her lover tonight. He is probably going to have to force down a second round of turkey and sprouts, just so they can eat together.
"Do you think he is at least thinking about me?"
Lucy doesn't answer but pokes me in the ribs. Luke had just walked into the hall.
"Anyone fancy a walk?"
We fight our way into scarves, gloves, hats, boots, coats and earmuffs ensuring that we all look sufficiently like Michelin men, then we roll out onto the streets of Holland Park. It is freezing cold, which is invigorating and strangely pleasant. We walk up Aubrey Road and head to High Street Kensington and then along to Kensington Gardens. The streets are deserted, which is a refreshing change after the months of
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battling past Christmas shoppers. It takes a long time to get to the park. There is a serious chance that we won't get there before Burns Night. I walk between Mr. and Mrs. Kirk. Keeping them both upright is a challenge, even sober Mr. Kirk is not that steady on his feet. Still, it doesn't really matter how long it takes us, as we laugh and joke the walk away. After our long bracing stroll we return to Rose and Peter's for more food and a game of cards.
I curl up in bed on Christmas night and I know I should be exhausted and ecstatic. But I am exhausted and dissatisfied.
"You OK?" Luke's voice appears out of the dark, breaking my thoughts.
"Fine," I mutter and nudge further toward the edge of the bed. Christmas, then, is a series of beautiful vignettes. I've taken photo after photo. All three films say the same thing: a perfect textbook Christmas, surrounded by my friends, giving and receiving beautiful presents, eating delicious food, drinking copious amounts of alcohol, and not having a single row about returning ill-fitting gifts.
A perfect Christmas, on paper.
He hasn't rung. Not a word. And I've had my mobile on all day. If my phone were broken, it would be wonderful, because my heart wouldn't be. I've considered signal failure, poor reception, flat battery. I ruled out all these possibilities by using Rose's home phone to ring myself. The signal is clear, the battery is buoyant, the message-collecting facility is ticketyboo, ticketybloodyboo. He hasn't rung me. I know what this means. So I'm not ecstatic. I am not thrilled to my core.
"No really, are you OK?" Luke sits up and flicks the bedside light on. I try to blink away the intrusion. I consider the question. The only time my nipples have stood to attention the whole bloody Christmas is when I walked to the park in subzero temperatures. No, I'm not OK.
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"Yes. I said. I'm fine." He looks hurt and I'm ashamed. "I've drunk too much. I'm tired." I offer another lie as an explanation. We fall silent.
"Look at me, Connie." Carefully Luke rolls me over to face him and I haven't the energy to resist. "Is there something you are not telling me? Is there something worrying you? Is there something I can help you with?"
His eyes bore into me. Singeing my conscience. I'm surprised that his aim is so direct. I had thought my conscience had shriveled to such a Lilliputian blob that he'd never find it. The deception is foul, exhausting and wrong. But coming clean is unthinkable.
"There's nothing you can help with," I answer as truthfully as I can, then I spin away from him and resign myself to another night feigning sleep.
Merry Sodding Christmas.
t
he 3rd of January. My unopened e-mails number in the hundreds; I'm finding it nearly impossible to pretend that I care. My in-tray is a lighthouse, flashing warnings of impending danger and the need for immediate attention. I ignore it and settle down to the serious work. I call him, get his message box, I don't quite know what to say, so I stall for time and I send an e-mail. I know that it is hopeless to be angry or cajoling on an e-mail, so instead I opt for the casual teasing route:
Hardy,
How predictable that you failed to call me, and tedious in the extreme. Is this your new seduction technique—bore me into submission? I think your chances of getting me into bed would be much improved if you spoke to me. My New Year's Resolution this year is to remain faithful to my husband. I'm not going to sleep with you again.
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sp; Then as an afterthought I add,
but it would be nice to be asked. At the moment I have nothing serious to resist.
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I think that I've managed to hit the necessary note of casual-ness. For a week there is no reply. I justify this to myself. Maybe he is still on holiday, skiing or visiting family. I don't know and admitting that I don't know, even to myself, is humiliating. However, the alternative is intolerable; he has the mail and isn't going to answer. Oh, why didn't I think to track it? Then, at least, I would know if he'd received it. Me and my in-tray are wobbling precariously. I wonder which will collapse first. I am drained. How long can I endure wanting him this much?
On Thursday I get a reply!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Lover,
I've had a good, long, hard think about us this lunchtime and a few things came up/arose/reared their head/(etc. etc. insert (!) your own phallic reference here). Finding it very difficult to type this because ....
a—trying to keep it pithy, witty, and relevant at the same time, b—I currently have a monstrous, aching, throbbing erection, just due to the fact that I'm typing a mail to you. c—I desperately need to perform all sorts of degrading acts with you urgently! . . . immediately! . . . NOW!
Anyway, I've kept this note brief and incomprehensible so that you have to contact me for a further explanation. Will send another missive shortly—i.e. tonite.
Love,
Long John
He has written "Love." "Love, Long John." I will never need to eat again. I will never doubt him again. There! He does want me! He's going to send another note tonight. Well, there is no point in being coy. I wait a seemly minute and a half and then write back.
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Hardy,
Interesting that you should choose the term "Lover" because strictly speaking this is not an accurate form of address at the moment.
NB. I am prepared to open negotiations regarding opening my legs.
I like your naked wit (I barely remember your naked dick?) But not sure whether you are struggling with trying to mail me or nail me? I would be interested to understand what are you planning to do about desperately needing to perform all sorts of degrading acts with me? Please do not let this disintegrate into an all gob no grundies situation.
Con
My phone rings on average 35 times a day. I receive 50 to 70 e-mails. I have countless conversations. By my calculations he has roughly 135 to 220 opportunities a day to make contact with me. He has had eleven days. That is 1485 to 2420 opportunities that he's failed to take up.
Fuck him!
I wish I could.
I continue to flick through the job columns, half-heartedly.
Fuck him!
The phone rings and interrupts my lackluster attempt at instilling my life with a sense of purpose.
"Greenie?"
YEEEEESSSSSS!
It isn't easy to find a date when we are both available; things get busy at work after Christmas, especially for him. So when we do meet at the end of January, as much as I want to give him a really hard time about not calling me, I somehow never find the right opportunity. The evening is so marvelous that I don't want to ruin everything by moaning. At 6:30 P.M.
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he marches into my office, charges straight up to my desk and kisses me.
"You look bloody horny."
I am thrilled. He's on time. The fact that he has arrived without a bag, therefore doesn't have a Christmas present for me, becomes unimportant. I push my gift for him further under a pile of paper on my desk. I'd found an early edition of Kipling's poems, including "If." I don't want to give it to him now. He'll be so embarrassed. Seeing him is enough of a pressie. All the pain and sorrow of the Christmas holidays washes away. All the times I've been crucified when a message on my mobile isn't from him are forgotten. The fact that he hasn't called, visited or sent a card dissolves from my mind. My cunt is jumping again and I want him.
We go to a bar, the type of bar I like. The type where young men have stains on their trousers and the people, although not friendly, are at least beautiful. We fight our way to a small table, risking hand-to-hand combat with another couple who are jostling for a seat. We win the table by intimidating them with haughty glares. We excitedly drink a bottle of champagne in under twenty minutes, then he buys a second one.
"How was Christmas?"
"Christ, yes. Christmas. Err. Happy New Year, Greenie," he says, clinking my glass. I am so relieved. Explanation, he is too bohemian to have noticed Christmas. He finishes telling me about the gifts he received, then he says, "Funny thing happened over Christmas, Greenie."
"What was that?"
"I spent three consecutive days with Andrea. Day and night."
My heart takes residence in the toe of my leather thigh-high boots. They have been going out with each other for two years, on and off. So three consecutive days should really have been expected, yet I know this first is important. It is
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significant. I know this in my head and as my heart has moved residence, it seems she has a pretty clear idea too. But my cK pants are oblivious. They are still twitching expectantly. He's often told me how he's incapable of spending a full weekend with her. How she annoys him, irritates him, that he needs his privacy. The fact that he doesn't like her consistent presence secretly delights me. John frequently amuses me with his outrageous stories of debauchery, and his honest accounts of his exploits protect me. Other women are demystified and cease to be a threat. He has me, his casual shags and his girlfriend (a sound bird, but not "the one"). I don't care how many women he has sex with, as long as he is having sex with me. And as long as it is only sex he is having with them. And as long as he uses a condom. I have deliberately avoided asking about her. Andrea. When curiosity has reared its charming but senseless profile, I've bashed it down with a solid dose of practicality. What the heart doesn't know. There is nothing he could say that I'd want to hear. If he says she is beautiful, I'd implode with jealousy. If he denies her beauty, I'd think he was a fool or a liar. If he tells me she is fun, I'd want to know what they make jokes about. If he confirms she's dim, I'd know she is more beautiful than me. I don't want to know.
It unnerves me that he's managed to overcome his aversion to stay-overs.
It is essential that he doesn't think I am concerned.
"Really. Weren't you bored?"
"A bit, yeah," he says, looking embarrassed. "I got myself into a bit of a mess actually."
"Really?" I brighten. This will be another tale about one of his other spare-time women. A tale that proves that I still hold premier position.
"Yeah, Andrea and I are lying in bed after sex, chatting and stuff."
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So it is going to be an Andrea story, not a spare-time-woman story. Hell.
"I am flaring my nostrils . . . you know, it's a sort of postcoital joke." He flares his nostrils to demonstrate, but he needn't bother. I know about his flaring nostrils, charging bull thing. I've been on the receiving end of it. I am a bit surprised that he says he and Andrea were chatting after sex. We never even talk in bed. No, thinking about it, we did in Paris. But never since he told me about Andrea. I know that by accepting that he had a girlfriend I forfeited the courtesy of him bothering to get to know me. I'm temporarily accepting his low standards of intimacy, because I'm convinced that eventually he'll be interested enough to ask, "So what did you do today?" I shake the thought away and I try to concentrate on the story he is telling.
"Andrea is normally quite a silent lover but that night she amazed me by letting out a low moan. A deep throaty sound, gurgling up from inside of her, which refused to be suppressed. I was pleased, knowing that my performance must have been reasonably impressive. As you know, Greenie, I like to please my women."
He shoots me a fast smile, which I try and fail to return.
"The irony is that it is you who is making me feel so horny and capable."
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I am unsure whether to be flattered or furious.
"You wanting me so desperately has increased my potency and desire. I feel that I can fuck every female that I know. I feel that I should. That I owe it to myself."
"Do it," I say, and stand up to get another round in. I've often said as much to him, but I feel odd listening to his stories, sad. At the bar I breathe deeply, trying hard not to hear what I've already heard. He is not chucking me. Is he dumping me? I think he is binning me, even if he hasn't realized it himself yet. OK. OK. No need to panic. Shitfuckpiss. Sorry, God. I knock over a bottle of Moscow Mule. "Sorry, Barman."
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I return to my seat with a couple of beers. "Well, go on. So you are being this great lover and she is being a grateful, noisy lover. Doesn't sound very complex to me. It sounds commonplace."
"Ahhh, but I haven't got to the complex bit yet. Because she is being so unusually responsive, I start to get a bit carried away and introduce some of the things that we do. She really likes some of it and says so. This is the funny bit, Con, I am all frenzied and confused, you know?"
"Yes. Lust," I say, dully.
"And I say to her, 'Well, you taught me.' She stops me and grabs my head, making me look her in the eye. She says, 'No, I did not.' 'Yes, you did,' I argue. Honest to God, Greenie, for the life of me, I couldn't think who taught me. I knew you'd think it was funny."
