by Erin Green
Now is the moment when I need a busy queue. So I can happily hurry along to the next family and repeat my practised lines. But there is no one else, given that it’s only five past three on a school day. How has Luca arrived so early?
I linger, looking beyond the party of three. Who should be following my instructions to enter the foyer but haven’t. I look around the trio but still no one else for me to welcome. Pity.
‘I see you’re a jack of all trades,’ he remarks as he continues to stare.
‘I help out where I can,’ I say, averting my eyes to avoid his gaze, again.
‘And Santa’s most grateful, I’m sure.’ He tilts his head to fall into my line of vision.
‘Mmmm.’ I can feel my cheeks getting hotter by the minute. Why can’t I ever be as cool as the svelte beauties inside the grotto? I bet they never get flustered when a good-looking guy speaks to them but me, I turn myself inside out with sheer embarrassment.
Again, I sweep my right hand aside, indicating they can go through to the grotto. Luca ignores it; the two boys are fidgeting on the end of each hand, causing his body to sway and jolt.
‘Donkey whisperer one day, Christmas tree sales expert the next and now this… Wow, if I return tomorrow what will it be?’ I know he’s trying to be sociable. I get it, but for some unknown reason this guy seems to be the catalyst for my unexpected innate reactions; I am simply out of my depth. He’s out of bounds, totally off limits and taken by the beautiful blonde so why, oh, why am I feeling this level of magnetism towards him when I know nothing about him?
‘Hopefully, I’ll be enjoying a day trip to London away from this grotto,’ I reply, but on hearing myself I cringe a little more as it sounds a tad arsey.
‘Well, Nina the elf, enjoy your day off – you’ve certainly earned it. Come on, lads, in we go.’ He gives a warm smile before tugging the boys’ hands in the right direction.
I give a sigh of relief as he passes by. A shiver runs the length of my spine as the smell of citrus cologne fills my nostrils. Davidoff’s Cool Water, if I’m not mistaken.
How ridiculous am I? A total bloody stranger and I’m quaking at the knee like some teenager over the latest boy band. What’s worse is that he can somehow sense it and keeps going out of his way to speak to me. Maybe these are his final tricks before the big day occurs? His last chance to witness the effect he once had upon females before he settles into married life.
I want out of here.
I check my watch: quarter past three.
I poke my head inside the grotto entrance. Luca is just disappearing through the silvery shimmery door ribbons to receive a warm welcome from Santa, and I grab the attention of the svelte-like elf adorning the prep area, shared with two scoffing reindeer.
‘I’m just nipping to the loo,’ I mouth.
She nods. Little does she suspect I have no intention of returning.
I dart from my grotto post and run as fast as I can, through the snow, back along the northern pathway heading for the sales yard. I sprint to the gate and hastily open and close, giving it a good bang to close the latch.
‘Oi, Nina! I like the pants,’ shouts Bram, stalling his work at the netting machine and nudging his co-worker. ‘Very fetching.’
I pull a face at his confirmation. I’ve spent hours trying to kid myself that only I can see my underwear. Bram confirms the obvious… everyone has seen my underwear today. That’s a staggering forty-eight nursery pupils, six helpers, five svelte elves, two Santas, two small boys, a yard full of work colleagues… oh, and Luca. Great!
I rush towards the snug, stomp up the steps and burst in on Kitty and Zach decorating the room in tinsel and holly garlands.
‘Hi, Nina… we’re attempting to jolly up the place… D-do you know that you can see…?’ stammers Kitty, looking instantly uncomfortable on my behalf.
‘Really? I hadn’t realised. Thanks for noticing,’ I yell as I head for the staff toilets.
‘Bloody hell, Nina, you could hardly miss ’em.’ Zach laughs, shaking his head as he fails to move a heavy sofa single-handed.
I slam the toilet door shut, slide the bolt and stand against the door. Is this really what my life has become? A daily battle to dress myself, breathe in and out while entertaining the masses and hiding my grief?
I stare round the cubicle. There’s a load of graffiti on the side wall, it’s dismal and furnished with a white porcelain toilet, yet for the first time today I can actually breathe.
Bang! Bang!
‘Nina! Can we talk about the other night?’ calls Bram.
*
Holly
‘Holly!’ my dad hollers up the staircase just after five o’clock.
‘Yeah!’
‘Phone!’
I descend the staircase two at a time. Who’d not call my mobile?
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Holly, Mr Fairbright here from the chemist…’
After a ten-second conversation, in which I say very little except for ‘yes’ numerous times, he ends the call.
I walk into the hullabaloo that is our kitchen.
‘Holly, you OK?’ asks Dad, looking up from the table where Mum’s about to dish up the evening meal.
I settle into a chair, before I speak.
‘I’ve just been sacked!’
‘What?’
‘You’re joking?’ asks Mum, pan in hand, straining carrots.
‘Seriously, that was Mr Fairbright. He said that, having given full consideration to the incident that happened at the weekend, they have very little choice but to let me go,’ I repeat his words as accurately as I can.
‘Oh, lovey,’ swoons Mum, returning her pan to the stove before stroking my hair. ‘I’m sorry, he’s obviously jumped to the wrong conclusion, as I did.’
‘Bloody ridiculous! Did he accuse you of stealing?’
‘No, he said that the police had mentioned the accusation made by the girls but that he did believe me, but even so—’
‘Even so… you’re sacked.’
I stare around the table.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘We know, babe, but these things happen and—’
‘I’ve got a good mind to go around there to speak to him,’ says Dad, bristling in his chair.
‘Steve, please.’
‘Seriously, he’s siding with those little bitches – surely he knows Holly well enough to know she would never stoop so low as to steal?’
My mum’s doing her comforting nod.
‘What am I going to do for extra money?’
‘Shhhh now, it’s not your fault… Let’s have dinner and we’ll think of somewhere you can apply to afterwards.’
*
Angie
I curl up on the sofa and listen to Nick’s phone message for the tenth time today.
‘Hi, Angie, wondering what you are doing tonight? Maybe… if you’re free we can meet up for last orders at The Rose… Let me know. It’s Nick, by the way.’
As if I don’t know.
I can’t bring myself to delete and ignore, that’s childish, and yet I could do with a night off. I glance at the clock: eight. I have two hours to make up my mind. Two hours to listen to the message a few more times before… declining? Accepting? How immature am I being?
I listen to the message again. He sounds nervous, hesitant. Does he suspect that his confession has upset me?
My mobile rings whilst in my hand. I stare at the screen: Nick.
Shit. I fight the urge to depress the accept call button. Instead, I wait.
The tiny screen illuminates, indicating another message has been left.
I quickly listen to his tired voice.
‘Angie, Nick… call me.’
Short and sweet. I re-listen.
How judgemental am I being? I can accept his errors, can’t I?
I press the recall button.
*
‘Tell me, what made you stay?’ I ask as he places my second vodka and cran
berry juice before me. Finally, I’ve plucked up the courage to ask.
‘I thought so… has it bothered you that I was so honest, last night?’
I shake my head and lie.
Nick settles beside me in the alcove facing the pub crowd.
‘I had responsibilities, didn’t I? There comes a day when you must grow up.’
‘I thought that was the day we had Alfie?’
‘It’s supposed to be but, sadly, it wasn’t. It was the day I walked away from an invitation that would have led to nothing but heartache for my young wife and child… Seriously, it was the first adult decision I ever made.’
I sip my drink to silence my tongue. A pain stabs at my chest. That confession actually hurt. He felt something for someone else other than me. And I didn’t even know.
‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’ he says, looking up from his pint.
‘Staying with us… It was more than I did.’
Nick nods.
‘I think you were simply bored, Angie… nothing more.’
‘But I didn’t walk away from temptation, did I?’ I leapt straight in and left my husband and son behind. And now, my son’s making me pay a dear price. ‘How is Alfie?’
‘Loved up to the eyeballs.’
I sit up. That wasn’t the answer I was expecting.
‘Hasn’t he said?’
‘Nothing about it being serious.’
‘Still with this Holly girl, from the estate… getting serious, if you ask me.’
‘At sixteen?’
‘Yes, at sixteen, Angie… You know what puppy love is like, all or nothing.’
I think back, as far as I can remember, and it isn’t particularly clear just how my puppy love was. Awkward – yes. Confusing – yes. True love and serious – no, obviously.
‘He spends half his time in his room texting her, or in the bathroom doing his hair to go and visit her. Literally the day revolves around Holly.’
‘Then you need to straighten him out. That’s not healthy.’
‘It’s what I did at his age.’
‘Doesn’t mean to say it is healthy. He has schoolwork to focus upon, university places to gain – he can’t go messing it up fawning over a girl.’
‘Fawning over a girl… Angie?’
‘Seriously, Nick… before we know it she’ll be getting ideas.’
‘Like what?’
‘Girls these days, Nick…’
‘Don’t kid yourself, Angie!’
‘You might want to remind him that he needs to protect himself if they… should they…’ The words hang in the air like a dirty secret. ‘You know.’
Nick shakes his head.
‘Seriously, Nick… he needs to focus on his studies, not some girl.’
‘Holly, her name is Holly, and she sounds very sensible, actually.’
‘I don’t care… if it’s the real thing she’ll wait for him.’
Nick sips his pint of Guinness and ignores my reaction.
‘Anyway, how are you fixed for dinner tomorrow night? Alfie’s staying around a friend’s house for the night so I can cook for you, if you’d like?’
That would be nice. If there was one complaint I’d had, it was that Nick never helped about the house. I understood that he was busy, I understood that he was raised to think that certain jobs were women’s work, but still… cooking could have been shared.
‘I’d like that. Anything special?’
‘Nothing fancy, just simple home-cooked food,’ he says, which sounds wonderful to me. ‘I could have a chat with Alfie… about us, beforehand.’
Eleven
Nina
Tuesday, 18 December
‘Morning, Nina,’ calls Boss Fielding over his shoulder in a cheerful voice, as I climb half asleep into the farm’s aged minibus, parked before the snug.
‘Morning,’ I mutter, unsure if five o’clock in the morning aligns itself to morning or middle of the night. My definition is the latter. ‘It’s nice to know the exact time to avoid the Christmas music.’
I tug at the seat belt before acknowledging the presence of Bram and Zach. It takes even longer for me to register that a series of seats has been removed and replaced by an array of ladders and tool boxes. I haven’t missed the twenty-foot giant Nordman fir, wrapped in plastic netting and lying supine secured with haulage strapping upon the lengthy trailer.
‘Early enough for you, is it?’ asks Bram, cocky and wide awake.
‘Not really. Am I allowed to sleep or would that be bad manners?’
A combination of, ‘Bad manners,’ and, ‘Sure, do as you wish,’ are shouted at me by the three men. I’m grateful. I’m still processing Bram’s explanation from yesterday that, ‘It was a joke, Nina,’ and, ‘Seriously, surely you know I’ve got more compassion than that for the needy.’ He wore a sheepish look throughout the explanation to which I listened. Surely, actions speak louder than words?
‘To be honest, I don’t remember volunteering for this task or trip,’ I say, folding my coat into a pillow roll.
‘You didn’t. We nominated you to come to London with us. It’s not every day you get to visit the prime minister’s pad by private invitation,’ explains Zach, touching my hand. ‘Much like you’ve been nominated to show the new girl the ropes come the weekend.’
‘What new girl?’
‘Yep, Dad thought it would ignite your festive passion,’ says Bram, pointing to his father. ‘Yesterday, young Alfie asked if his girlfriend could have some hours over Christmas.’
‘Great! He’s obviously made a lasting impression on you but I’m really not in the mood to train teenagers for part-time work, Boss,’ I chunter, as I settle against the window to sleep.
Boss Fielding shrugs as he steadily drives through the village lanes heading for the motorway.
‘It might lighten the load on the sales yard to have another teenage gofer around the sales yard,’ adds Zach.
‘It won’t help, but I appreciate the sentiment,’ I say, yawning. ‘Wake me up when we arrive in London.’
For the first time in ages, a cosy warmth envelops me and I drift off to sleep amidst the sounds of the Fielding guys bantering between themselves.
*
Never before have I undergone such a security check.
As our minibus pulls up at the black gates of Downing Street, the burly guards armed with huge machine guns swarm around the windows asking for ID.
‘We are expected,’ Boss explains, showing his business details and documents. ‘We’re delivering this year’s Christmas tree.’ Back in October our farm won the British Christmas Tree Growers’ Association ‘Grower of the Year - Champion Tree’ award, and the new wooden sign made for the entrance gate was given pride of place. The accolade entitles the winning farm to donate and deliver the Christmas tree to the prime minister’s front door.
We wait while clearance checks are made and eventually the black gates are opened for us to drive through, into the snow-cleared street. It is like entering a film set, surreal knowing that behind each polished door important state decisions are made and rubber-stamped with top-class authority. The railings are pristine, the door knockers sparkling and the carriage lamp at the entrance to Number 10’s door shines like a beacon.
‘We… are in Downing Street,’ declares Bram, from the passenger seat.
‘You see it so often on Sky News and yet look how tiny it is,’ I add, peering at the wall of photographers, three bodies deep, banked upon the one side.
‘There is nothing tiny about those protection officers.’ Zach laughs. ‘Good luck taking those guys on any time soon.’
We are beckoned towards the end of the street and instructed to park.
‘All out!’ shouts Boss, heaving his frame from the driver’s seat.
After a brief introduction from a suited and booted Downing Street official, we are allowed to unload the Christmas tree, or rather the three men do. I stand back pretending I’m busy supervising and wait
for them to stand the Nordman fir upright, soak its roots and place it carefully in a suitable display stand. A wall of camera flashes occurs the minute Larry, the official Downing Street cat, strolls over to inspect the mighty spruce with a feline sniff.
‘She’s all yours, Nina,’ cries Boss, opening a series of decoration boxes provided by Downing Street staff.
‘Me?’
‘Bloody hell, woman, you’ve got some uses with your creative flare… now, jump to it. We need to hurry up if we’re to miss the traffic on the M40,’ he continues.
Oh, great! I turn to view the throng of pavement reporters and news crews all watching the proceedings. It is one thing being creative on the sales yard but before an audience is another issue.
‘Chop chop,’ he mouths, nodding frantically. ‘We’re all having our picture taken once you’ve dressed her in some finery.’
Zach holds my ladder firm and steady, while Bram fetches and carries from the selection of boxes – symbolic given our friendship: Zach always offering support while Bram repeatedly offers me the glitz and glamour.
‘It’s comforting to know that even the prime minster and co. have some crappy ornaments that linger in the decoration box that will never see the light of day again,’ says Bram, holding up a feeble excuse for a tinsel garland.
‘Hurry up, lad… stop wasting time,’ moans his father, supervising the decoration.
*
Angie
I park my car two streets away from Nick’s house in a small cul-de-sac and walk the familiar route back to theirs, that was once ours. The snow has a dirty walked-upon look, as it lingers between snow and yellow slush.
Parking elsewhere feels strange but necessary. I don’t want to give Nick’s neighbours anything to call me about should they recognise my car. They have no reason to involve themselves, but you know what neighbours can be like – they think everything is their business over a morning coffee and a shared packet of Bourbons.
