Miracle on Christmas Street: The most heartwarming and hilarious Christmas read of 2020

by Annie O'Neil

  Which did make Jess wonder … was it time to call Amanda?

  Tonight proved that things weren’t always as they seemed. Martha wasn’t a cranky old woman who hated noise pollution; Mr Winters wasn’t a grumpy serial killer. Nor was anyone else many of the other things people purported them to be excepting, perhaps, the hippies, who genuinely did leave clouds of patchouli and sage in their wake.

  All of which could mean that Amanda was genuinely calling to say hello.

  So why the hell not. She’d ring her. She felt confident enough about where she was to tell Amanda about her new life and her new future.

  Moving to Christmas Street was probably the best decision she’d made since she’d left St Benedict’s. She grinned, watching as hugs were exchanged. Reminders to put out the paper bins and not the bottle bins were called out. A promise to get a long-awaited bit of Tupperware back to its rightful owner was made. Drea was extracting time and any ‘incidentals’ from the couple at number 22. Ordinary exchanges that somehow, amid the light snowfall and the lingering beauty of Martha and Tyler’s song, seemed extraordinary.

  Jess looked down at the tea light flickering away in the small jam jar she’d been given. People were setting them in a little row at the edge of Martha’s porch, so she did the same. A tiny bit of limelight for the star in their midst as everyone made their way back to their own lives. Their secrets, hopes and dreams feeling just a bit warmer, a bit happier and, with any luck, a bit more peaceful.

  Jess pulled the phone back from her ear and stared at it.

  That was weird. The ringtone wasn’t like a normal one. It had the click and whirr of a foreign—

  ‘Hello? Jess?’ Amanda sounded tinny, a little bit sleepy, and horrified. Someone yawned. A familiar male voice could be heard in the background asking who was on the phone. Amanda shushed him, making the mistake of using Martin’s name as she did.

  Martin was with Amanda.

  Martin was supposed to be in the Maldives.

  Jess felt a chill run through her.

  Martin and Amanda were on her holiday in the Maldives.

  ‘Hey! Jess. So good to hear from you, babes. All right?’

  Jess’s stomach churned and for some weird reason she felt as if her nostrils were being stuffed with the scent of suntan oil and sour cocktails.

  She was tempted to hang up. A far more satisfying thing to do if she’d had Mr Winter’s old-fashioned handset that you could actually bash down onto the receiver. But … something else compelled her to stay on the line.

  Perhaps it was the stick-to-it-iveness her teachers had remarked on in her own school reports. An inability to leave jobs half-finished, no matter how many others would have walked away.

  She thought back to all of the times she and Amanda had drunkenly made up school reports for one another. Amanda had actually spat out her wine when, after a particularly voracious week of hitting the Tinder scene, Jess had come out with, Amanda shows great potential for tactical awareness and possesses an excellent ability to play well with others.

  ‘Jess?’ Amanda prompted.

  ‘Sorry, still here,’ Jess said, keeping her voice as steady as she could. ‘Umm … how’re the Maldives?’

  ‘Oh, Jess.’ Amanda’s voice sounded scratchy. ‘I tried getting in touch before to tell you everything.’

  Jess nodded, forgetting it probably would’ve been more useful to respond verbally.

  Jessica tends to withdraw in times of stress when reaching out might prove more beneficial.

  It was true. Amanda had tried to get in touch. Several times. Would knowing in advance have made it better? Easier? Finding out that her best friend from London, her supposed comrade in arms, was on her dream holiday with her ex-boyfriend and, from the looks of it, moving into the flat Martin swore he would never settle for? She wondered what types of throw cushions they would bicker over. Whether or not Martin would agree to a casually draped throw on one end of the sofa. Jess had regularly pleaded for one, making the case that watching Game of Thrones without a blanket to hand was just about impossible. Seeing as they were on holiday in the tropics together after what could have only been a few months – weeks? – together, time in which they’d fallen in love and bought a flat, perhaps they were in complete accordance with their home-decor decisions. Amanda, after all, lived as aspirationally as Martin did. In fact, the more the situation filtered into place, the more it made sense. Which, of course, made her feel even worse.

  ‘Are you staying in the place with the stilts or the place with the private beaches?’ Jess finally asked.

  ‘Stilts,’ Amanda apologetically replied. ‘Jess, listen there’s something else—’

  ‘No. No, no.’ Jess cut in. ‘This is enough for now.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’ Amanda’s voice was shaky. ‘I suppose it is a lot. Nothing happened while you two were together. I swear it. In fact … it’s only been since November. Black Friday, actually.’

  ‘Ha!’ Jess barked. ‘Good one.’

  ‘No, I’m serious.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I mean, I’ve seen him over the past year, obviously, but not in that way.’

  Jess made a noise. Fair enough. Somewhere in the part of her that wasn’t hurting right now, she knew that neither Martin nor Amanda were skulk-around-behind-your-back types of people. ‘And the flat?’ She asked, now entirely confident that everything she’d guessed about Martin’s news was tied to Amanda’s.

  ‘It’s in a new development,’ Amanda couldn’t keep the edge of pride and excitement from her voice. She started gabbling on about how she’d run into Martin in the Black Friday sales and asked him if he would come look at a flat she was eyeballing for the future and he did and they went and had a drink after and one thing led to another and the next thing she knew they were signing a mortgage on a one-bedroomed super-modern take on ‘stadium life’ with guaranteed box seats for football matches (a dream come true for Martin) and only a three-minute walk to the train station (a requirement for Amanda who, if forced to ride on public transport, refused to walk any sort of length of time to get on it). It wouldn’t be ready until the spring, but there were rooftop gardens and leases already being taken out by Waitrose and Lululemon and some juice bar Jess had never heard of, but it sounded trendy and expensive and straight up Amanda’s street.

  Jess gave a dry, peculiar-sounding laugh. ‘Floor-to-ceiling windows?’

  ‘Yup. Underfloor heating, wet room. The kitchen even has boiling hot water on—’ Amanda stopped herself. ‘Do you really want to hear any of this? I mean, it’s a bit weird, innit?’

  Despite working at the poshest of posh schools, Amanda had never bothered smoothing the edges of her vernacular. It was what had drawn Jess to her in the first place. The refusal to erase where she’d come from despite her raw, hungry ache to be part of a different scene. Or, it suddenly occurred to Jess, maybe Amanda simply liked being trendy. Perhaps it was as simple as that. There were no airs or graces about her. No obvious social climbing. So she liked a good thread count, posh restaurants and a lavishing of swish holidays. It didn’t make her a bad person. And it was hardly a reason to hate someone. Then again, there was the fact she was enjoying all of these things with Jess’s ex-boyfriend.

  ‘Jess. Say something. Please.’

  Nope.

  She wasn’t there on the wishing-them-both-well front.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Jess, no. We should talk.’

  ‘No,’ Jess countered. ‘We shouldn’t.’ And then she hung up the phone and stuffed it under the sofa cushion. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Two hours later, Jess wasn’t entirely sure her usual cure-all of comfort telly and a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream had worked. Maybe watching the ‘ordinary girl becomes a princess at Christmas’ film hadn’t been the best of choices. That and now her stomach was
over-full so she felt like a big bloated self-pitying blob of unresolved issues, just as she had when she and Martin had called it quits, St Benny’s had asked her to ‘quietly step away from the conflict’, and she had burrowed under her unicorn duvet for weeks on end.

  Jessica tends to withdraw in times of stress when …

  This was ridiculous. She couldn’t let the fact that Amanda was getting sunburnt and moving in with her ex-boyfriend destroy her.

  Did it sting?

  Definitely.

  Did it make her feel as if the rest of the world had been progressing while she’d been grasping at minuscule finger holds, digging herself out of a pit of woe she’d all but swan-dived into when things had gone so horribly wrong?

  Yes.

  But …

  Was the path Amanda and Martin were on the same one she wanted to be on?

  Teaching horrid children like Crispin Anand-Haight, boys who punched teachers and scratched their own faces to get someone who actually needed the income and loved their job fired just because they could? Dating someone who clearly wanted different things from life?

  Had she, in fact, chosen the life she genuinely wanted, right here on Christmas Street?

  Her eyes landed on the painted Christmas tree, the ornaments evidence of how far she had come since those dark days last year.

  When she unearthed her phone from under the sofa cushion she saw there were no less than twenty-seven missed calls from Amanda.

  It was late. And, a quick Google search showed, very early morning in the Maldives. The last call had been ten minutes ago.

  ‘Hey,’ Jess said.

  ‘I’m so, so, so, so, sorry,’ Amanda snuffled tearfully. She sounded genuinely upset. ‘Jess, honestly, I never would have, in a million years—’

  ‘I know.’ Jess said. ‘It sounds as if you’re happy.’

  There was a pause and a rustle while Amanda put her hand over the phone and whispered It’s all right, babes, I’m just going out to the deck. When she came back on the line Jess could hear waves. ‘I am happy. We’re happy. The only thing we wanted so that we could be – you know – perfectly happy, was to make sure it was all right with you.’

  Jess winced. They wanted her blessing?

  She thought of the life she’d lived in London and how, despite the eight years she’d lived there, she’d never entirely found her niche. Maybe a different school, a different flat, and a different boyfriend might’ve rendered a more pleasing tableau, but something about living in London inherently made striving for better, bigger, and more of everything part of the whole experience. Bigger, better and more weren’t really who she was. It was, however, exactly who Amanda and Martin were. ‘I am happy for you. For you both.’

  ‘Aww, babes,’ Amanda hiccoughed-cried. ‘Thank you. Look. I really want to talk about this more, but hashtag can’t afford the phone bill now that I’ve got a mortgage.’

  ‘No problem,’ Jess said through a weird laugh-sob of her own. One she hadn’t realised had been building in her chest. It wasn’t like they needed to make a date to, in Drea’s words, plait one another’s hair. No. There really wasn’t anything else to say apart from have fun, wear factor 50 and, if you swim with turtles please don’t tell me about it, because … well …

  It had been her dream.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Amanda.’

  ‘Happy Christmas to you, Jess. I hope you get everything you want up there, in your new life.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she whispered. ‘Me, too.’

  When she pressed the red hang-up icon it felt as if a thread had been snipped between her old life and the new one. It felt strangely freeing. That part of her life, she realised, was done and dusted.

  When she climbed the stairs and flopped down onto the still-unmade bed, she tried not to let the blues swarm into the newly created space in her heart. There were plenty of new, happy things to put there. Whether or not her email had played a role in it, Drea was getting her dream Christmas. Mr Winters looked on course to receive the best Christmas present ever, a grandson. She had a ready meal for one to buy, yet another invitation to join Martha for a drop of sherry during the Queen’s speech and, if Will’s promises were anything to go by, some cooking lessons to look forward to. And school. She could actually drum up some genuine excitement about that now. Boughton Primary Academy wasn’t a stopgap. Or a Band-Aid to put over the wound leaving St Benedict’s had created. It was a new beginning. Just like living here was.

  Yes, she thought, pulling her duvet up and around her shoulders. Her life here was the life she wanted. Now all she had to do was make sure everything stayed on track until Christmas Eve when, hopefully, everyone’s holiday dreams would come true. She would have to wait a bit longer for the same thing to happen to her, but something told her, as sleep began to tease away any tension, that she wouldn’t have to wait long. She was in the right place, at the right time, with hope in her heart. And you couldn’t ask for much more than that. Apart from someone to bring you a hot-water bottle.

  22 December

  22 December

  02:27

  To: JessGreen2000@gmail.com

  From: Spencer.Zamboni@BaldwinHaveyWilkinson.com

  Subject: Drea Zamboni UK Visit

  Dear Jessica,

  Thank you for your email which I have only just found in my junk folder. As you can appreciate, this is a family matter which I would prefer not to go into my work email. It was a kind gesture to reach out, but if you could leave it with me, I’d be grateful.

  Regards,

  Spencer Zamboni

  Attorney-at-Law

  Baldwin, Havey & Wilkinson

  This message is only for the use of the individual(s) to which it is addressed and may contain information that is privileged and confidential. You are hereby notified that if you have received this transmission in error, any review, dissemination, distribution or copying of this transmission is strictly prohibited.

  22 December

  04:59

  To: JessGreen2000@gmail.com

  From: WillWinters@TheMerryVictualler.co.uk

  Subject: RE: PIES!!!!

  Hey Jess(ica) –

  Sorry for short note. Insanely busy and yes, that was me in the van. Didn’t have time to stop and, yeah, I’m going to admit, I’m a bit nervous to meet you. Almost as much as I am to meet Arnold (Grandad) which is probably why, when he didn’t answer the door straight away, I scarpered. The act of a grown man? Not really.

  The act of a grandson whose heart practically broke in two when he found out why his father hadn’t spoken to his grandfather in thirty-five years? Pretty much. Your email put a lot of things into perspective and I feel I ought to talk to my own father before I meet Arnold in real life. My heart aches for the man. Seriously. It’s the sort of cruel blow that could knock anyone off their stride, let alone cast a shadow over, well, everything.

  Your email was quite the information overload and I think I might need more time to unravel things now that, well, now that there are actual facts and actual pain and genuine reasons for what I had decided was a silly disagreement between father and son.

  You see, the truth is … I live down here in England because of a similarly ‘silly’ disagreement. My dad and I still talk and all, but it’s not easy and most of what we tell one another is filtered through my mother. Which, of course, can’t be easy for her. The truth is, I wasn’t ever meant to be in catering. I studied engineering and after I graduated, set up an engineering business with my brother and my dad. Winters & Sons. It was my dad’s dream. It makes even more sense now knowing how badly things had gone between him and his own dad. So, like any good son, I tried to make my dad’s dream come true, in between staying up way too late figuring out how to make a tuile that wouldn’t crack, a vol-au-vent that didn’t scream 1970s, and the perfect deconstructed omelette.
(Joke. That was definitely a joke.) I wasn’t great at being an engineer. It was never my jam. My brother hated the business too, but never had the heart to say anything. He loved engineering, but had always wanted to work on those mega-high-rises out in the Middle East and Asia. The type Tom Cruise does stunts on. But we knew it was my dad’s dream that we all work together, so we ploughed on. He ended up being constantly frustrated by me when the business didn’t flourish. He kept saying families who worked together, stuck together. That we could travel the world together if I got properly stuck in, but the furthest we got was Glasgow. He kept heaping more and more pressure on me to take on bigger and bigger pitches (I was the pitch man), until, eventually, one day, when I knew my kid brother couldn’t take it anymore, I was giving a make-or-break pitch to BP – Dad’s former employer – and cocked the whole thing up. On purpose. Winters & Sons quickly went down the drain, my brother promptly took a job in Seoul and Dad pretty much had a breakdown, though his doctors are calling it a depressive episode. That’s actually why he’s out on a remote Scottish island filling up stone dykes and counting sheep. It’s good for him. He’s always worked hard and my mother often said she never saw enough of him, so in the end, my act of sabotage ended up strengthening their marriage. It sent me running south to try and prove my self-worth by setting up The (not so) Merry Victualler. Doing so, as you know, culminated in me losing everything to my girlfriend. I mean, I gave it willingly, but the feverish working my socks off to pay for the catering/deli space is actually to pay for the flat above it so that I have somewhere to live. NB: Illegal camping in one’s office isn’t strongly recommended.

  As you can see, there’s a lot to untangle from all of this new information and right now I’ve got to make about four hundred mini chocolate-and-coconut puds in the shape of snowmen, so …

  I’m really chuffed you liked the mince pies and though I know I’m being vague about our meeting up I want to thank you. Seriously. I literally clutched my heart when I read that Grandad shared them round the street. That’s a special memory. One I hope happens again and that, with any luck, I’ll get to see first hand.