All Wrapped Up

by Holly Smale

  There’s a pause, and then a long sigh.

  “I don’t think you quite understand the point of this story, Twinkle-face. Maybe I’ll try a simpler one.” Wilbur clears his throat. “Oh every Christmas time seven elves prepare seven stockings but oh zero of them have time to wrap more than nine gifts—”

  “Seven elves?” I interrupt again. “There are approximately two billion children in the world, Wilbur. Even with nine gifts each that wouldn’t be enough to—”

  “Oh for the love of brandy pudding,” Wilbur exhales. “Do you want this story, poppet, or do you want to spend Christmas cuddling your oversized teddy bear instead?”

  I blink. How does he know about my teddy b—

  Hang on. Oh. Seven elves. Seven snowmen.

  Oh seven seven.

  A wave of disbelief smashes over my head.

  Oh my God. Wilbur’s telling me Nick’s mobile phone number and I’m too busy correcting him to actually notice. My love life is about to go down the pan thanks to my chronic pedantry.

  I am such an accurate idiot.

  Fast as I can, I rip the back off a Christmas card. It’s from Granny Manners and it has red bows stuck all over the front of it. In fairness, it probably needed destroying eventually anyway.

  “Shoot,” I say, grabbing one of Nat’s eyeliners. “There were nine gifts, how many fingers? Or was it stockings?”

  “I’m texting it to you now,” Wilbur says in defeat. “Don’t say it came from me.”

  A rush of gratitude whooshes over me.

  “Thank you thank you, Wilbur. You’re the best.”

  “You bet your tiny jingle-bells I am,” he laughs. “Merry Christmas, my little Snow-socks. Now go get him.”

  Which is exactly what I intend to do.

  There’s just one hurdle standing between my romantic Christmas destiny and me. And she’s looming directly over me with her hands on her hips and the string tail of a mouse dangling out of her mouth.

  It’s really quite distracting.

  Nat looks exactly like our cat Victor after he’s been on a successful hunt in the garden. Except high on sugar and pink food colouring, and therefore a lot more dangerous.

  “This,” my best friend says crossly, taking a step towards me, “is exactly why I’ve been stuck to you for four days, Harriet Manners.”

  Ha. Told you that’s why she’s really here.

  “Natalie,” I say quickly, holding my phone over my head as the text received sound pings. “Did Jane Bennet just sit around, waiting for Bingley to call her? No. She went to his house, uninvited, and pretended it was to see his sisters and got the flu and stayed there for weeks, remember?”

  Nat frowns. “That’s the example you’re using? Seriously?”

  I clear my throat: OK, point made.

  “How about Lizzy Bennet?” I say, quickly tapping open my messages. “Did she just sit around, waiting for Darcy to make the move?”

  “Nope,” Nat says, taking another step. “She got on with her own life and started making out with Wickham instead.”

  Sugar cookies. Thanks to a plethora of well-made and accurate Hollywood adaptations, she’s right again.

  “Cinderella?” I say desperately, stabbing at the number Wilbur has sent me. “She went to the ball without being invited, right? Breaking the rules worked for her just fine.”

  “Harriet,” Nat says, holding her hands out. “Firstly, Cinderella’s the least cool fairy-tale heroine ever invented. Secondly, you are not a rule breaker. And thirdly, do you really want to talk to someone who doesn’t want to talk to you?”

  I stare at her in amazement.

  Of course I do. I want to talk to people who don’t want to talk to me all the time.

  My best friend clearly doesn’t know me at all.

  Besides …

  “But you’re wrong,” I say in confusion. “He’s been waiting for the right moment. And that moment is right now. Just watch.”

  With a final burst of confidence, I hit call number and beam smugly at Nat as it rings twice.

  There’s a tiny click.

  “Hello?” a familiar, warm, twangy Australian voice says. “Nick speaking.”

  And it’s like magic.

  With just three words, every gorgeous romantic moment from the last couple of weeks comes racing straight back.

  “Hey, Nick,” I say brightly as something in the middle of me starts spinning happily like a Christmas bauble, glittering all over. “It’s me.”

  Then there’s a pause long enough for me to fully register the significance of what I’ve just done.

  “Sorry,” Lion Boy says eventually, “who?”

  There are 1,025,109.8 known words currently in the English language.

  ‘Who’ was the only one I wasn’t prepared for.

  I put my name and number into Nick’s phone myself, with my own fingers. Which means that he didn’t just fail to use my details in the last four days …

  He actually deleted them?

  “It’s Harriet,” I say stupidly as Nat puts her hands over her mouth in horror. “Harriet Manners.”

  Norwegian scientists have hypothesised that Rudolph’s red nose is probably the result of a parasitic infection of the respiratory system.

  Judging by my current glow and sudden inability to breathe, I should be able to lead Santa through the night quite safely for some years to come.

  “We kissed a few days ago,” I clarify into the aching silence, and then add in a panic: “Speaking of kissing, did you know that the word mistletoe comes from the Old English word mistletan, which means poo twig, because it spreads itself through seeds in bird droppings that land on tree branches?”

  Nat’s eyes are now so round they look like they’re about to pop out and roll under a table.

  Poo twig? she mouths at me.

  “And,” I continue with a wince, turning round to rest my hot forehead on the wall, “don’t you think it’s strange that an entire romantic tradition is based around a parasitic plant that takes nutrients from another? What does that say about love, do you think?”

  Oh my God. I can’t stop talking.

  I’m going to just keep talking, and when the heat from my cheeks causes the whole house to explode into flames and crumble around me, I’ll be there: still inexplicably yabbering about parasites.

  Frankly, I’ve read a lot of romantic speeches in my life, and absolutely none of them started with faeces.

  “Although,” I add in a desperate, horrified rush, “apparently mistletoe actually comes from a Norse legend and the white berries are—”

  “Stop, Harriet,” Nick laughs. “I believe it’s you. No further evidence is necessary. Where on earth are you calling from?”

  “England. My living room.”

  I’m pretty much part of the wall now, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “Very literal.” He laughs again. There’s a crispy chomping sound. “I’m in the kitchen, eating cereal for lunch because apparently I don’t know how to fend for myself.” There’s the crunchy sound of a cornflake box being shaken. “So … is there a problem?”

  I blink, smacking my head gently on the wall. “Umm, sorry?”

  “You called me.” A second shake. “Is something wrong?”

  Oh my God. This is getting worse by the minute. Apparently my call is so unwelcome and so unexpected it’s actually a sign that the universe has gone awry.

  “No-o-o. I just …” I clear my throat. “I wanted to say hello, that’s all. Thomas Edison chose it as the word to use when greeting people on the phone. So … hello.”

  I can hear Nat make a tiny humiliated squeak behind me. Nothing says romance like poo and the man who invented the nickel-iron battery.

  “Hello to you too.” There’s a third cornflake shake, and even through my waves of shame I can’t help being surprised: exactly how much fibre does this boy need? “So are you excited about this afternoon?”

  This conversation is getting weirder and weirde
r. Am I excited about this afternoon?

  Obviously I am.

  It’s six days before Christmas. Traditionally, Nat and I spend the afternoon after we decorate the tree trying to make my dog wear a Santa outfit and attempting to encourage my dad not to.

  “Ye-e-es?” I say slowly. “You?”

  “Definitely.” A fourth shake of cornflakes. “I can’t think of a more perfect time of year for a date.”

  Here’s the final fact I know about Rudolph:

  Never mind that she’s actually female; forget the probability that she’s very sick with a potentially dangerous respiratory infection.

  Science has calculated that if she ever actually managed to get up in the air, the speed required to fly around the world on Christmas Day would mean that she’d vaporise within 4.26 seconds flat.

  I can really empathise.

  Five minutes ago, I was as high up as it was possible to get; now I’m plummeting to the ground in a big humiliated ball of flames.

  Nick is going on a date?

  Oh my God, no wonder he’s been so quiet: he deleted my number, forgot I existed and started arranging an epic festive romance with somebody else.

  This is why I should always follow rules.

  “D-date?” I finally manage. “Like, a courtship date? Or a … dried oblong fleshy fruit which is originally from northern Africa?”

  I don’t know why I said that. He obviously didn’t mean winter was a nice time to eat the fruit of a Phoenix dactylifera.

  There’s a loud laugh.

  “Courtship. That’s a word I don’t hear much. Yes, I guess I mean a throw-pebbles-at-a-window, sing-by-the-light-of-the-moon, black-and-white-movie kind of date. Is that OK with you?”

  Right, I take it back. This isn’t the most magical season at all.

  Christmas officially sucks.

  Quickly, claw back some dignity, Harriet.

  “Of course it’s OK,” I say sharply. “My big date tomorrow is going to be super romantic. There will probably be … candles. And flowers. And … umm … flowery candles. And candles with flowers on them. And in them.”

  I have clearly never been out with a boy in my entire life.

  Or seen a candle, quite possibly.

  “You have a date tomorrow?”

  He doesn’t need to sound so surprised. “Of course I do, Nicholas. It’s Christmas. The season of romance. His name is …” I look desperately round the room. My dog, Hugo, is sitting quietly in the corner under the tree, chewing on the fairy that’s supposed to go on top of it. Victor the cat is watching him with undiluted disgust. “His name is … Umm … Hugo. Victor Hugo.”

  Nat gives another horrified squeak.

  “Except not the one who wrote Les Miserables,” I clarify quickly. “A totally different and less dead one.”

  “Right.” Nick clears his throat. “Well, that’s … cool. If you want to postpone or cancel this afternoon, just let me know.”

  And a surge of fizzling anger suddenly whips through me.

  You know what? This is so typical.

  First a boy kisses you at Christmas time. Then he doesn’t contact you for four days. Then you ring him, and he tells you he’s going on a date. And then he has the audacity to try and alter your plans for the afternoon when you’ve already—

  Hang on.

  “Cancel this afternoon? Nick, what the … how the … what the sugar cookies are you talking about?”

  “Our date. Me. You. Remember?” There’s another pause. “Jeez, Harriet, I’m not feeling great about my kissing skills right now.”

  What?

  As fast as I can, I rack my brain for any conversation I might have inadvertently had with Nick over the last four days. Am I so good at dating I’ve managed to arrange one without actually being aware of it?

  “But … we haven’t spoken since I last saw you.”

  “Well no,” he says slowly. “Because you said you hate talking on the phone. But we’ve messaged a lot, and planned the whole thing out, and … you … said …”

  He slows to a stop.

  “I said what?” I’m genuinely curious. “What did I say?”

  “You wrote ROFFL a lot,” he finishes flatly. “With two Fs. And LOLZ. And you spelt later with an eight and see you as C and U. Oh my God. You were called Hunnygurl and your profile pic was a pair of pink high heels. Who the hell have I been talking to?”

  And – as if a choir of angels has burst into sudden song – everything abruptly slots into place.

  My hands must have been so sweaty and excited after my first ever kiss, they managed to slip and put a complete stranger’s number into his phone. Because that is exactly the kind of idiotic thing I would do.

  Obviously supermodel Nick has an amazing profile photo: I don’t even blame them for giving it a shot.

  The biggest Christmas tree in the world is in Rio de Janeiro. It is 278 feet tall, and floats on the Rodrigo de Freitas Lagoon.

  As I turn slowly to face Nat again, I think I could now give that tree a run for its money.

  I am considerably shinier and floatier.

  “So I’m seeing you this afternoon?” I clarify as Nat starts jumping up and down as silently as possible with her hands in the air.

  “Hopefully,” Nick laughs. “And possibly a third, unknown, person with painful feet and a tendency to abbreviate. You in?”

  Nat and I give each other the quietest high-five ever achieved in the history of high-fives, and then she starts dancing around the living room.

  I turn back to the phone with all 3.3 million of my internal fairy lights burning.

  “Definitely. It’s a date.”

  Here are a few examples of how Christmas is celebrated around the world:

  I think that last one is an excellent idea.

  In fact, on days like this I think maybe we should introduce it.

  And I’d happily forgo the presents.

  “Harriet,” my father says as I race with Nat up the stairs as fast as our legs will carry us, “why did Santa’s helper go to see the doctor?”

  Without a word, Nat opens my wardrobe and starts pulling out clothes in a panic.

  “Why, Dad?” I say distractedly as he follows us into my room. Nat holds up a reindeer jumper and then inexplicably makes a sick face and throws it on the floor.

  “Because he had low elf-esteem.” Dad crinkles up with laughter. “And, Harriet?”

  Nat drops to the ground like a soldier and starts rummaging round on the floor through my selection of trainers and flip-flops.

  “What, Dad?”

  “Harriet, how do snowmen get around?”

  I’m urgently tugging out of a drawer every single pair of trousers I own: jeans, culottes, shorts, leggings. The bottom half of a furry koala-bear outfit I made in Year Eight that still rather worryingly fits.

  “I don’t know,” I say as Nat pointedly puts the koala back in the wardrobe.

  “By icicle,” Dad declares, chortling even harder. “And, Harriet, why does Santa have three—”

  “Dad.” Seriously. From the moment December hits, my father turns into a one-man cracker joke. It’s like the worst metamorphosis in the history of transformations. “I’m kind of busy right now.”

  According to the new countdown on my stopwatch, I have fifty-three minutes before I have to leave for my First Ever Date.

  As befits school holidays, I haven’t taken my penguin pyjamas off for days, I’m covered in dog hair from all the extra Hugo cuddle-time and there are mince-pie crumbs in my hair.

  Plus, I realise as I glance quickly in the mirror, I still have icing sugar in my eyebrows from the biscuits I made yesterday.

  You can talk about my natural elegance as much as you like – although nobody ever does – but I’m slowly turning into one of The Twits. I clearly have a lot of work to do.

  And fast.

  “But, Harriet,” Dad says, head still poking through my bedroom doorway, “I really need to know what Santa’s favourite pi
zza is. Do you think it’s deep and crisp and ev—”

  “What’s happening?” Annabel says as I finish Dad’s sentence by putting my hand on his chest and physically pushing him out of the room. “Richard, that book of jokes is going in the bin. You’re ruining Christmas for everyone.”

  Then my stepmother leans curiously in through the doorway. Her little round pregnant belly is definitely protruding now. We’ve had a lot of festive fun, making her laugh and then comparing it to a bowl full of jelly.

  She’s taken it very well, considering.

  “Harriet,” she says calmly, resting her head on the doorframe, “why are you dismantling your bedroom? And hello, Natalie. You did a great job with the tree – it looks very traditional. There’s a distinct lack of handmade cardboard hippos, so I suspect you did the majority.”

  “Thanks, Annabel.” Nat pauses rummaging to study a piece of paper. “I’d give you a hug, but we’ve got so much to do.”

  Frankly, I don’t have time to worry about this slight to my decorating skills. After Nick and I said goodbye, Nat and I hopped straight on the internet and Googled How do you date?

  My best friend may be the coolest person I know, but this is uncharted territory for both of us: we might as well have landed on Pluto.

  If Pluto was a planet with apparently rigid rules about what shade of lipstick to wear so you don’t look too available, obviously.

  Apparently it’s a very long list.

  “Do for what?” Annabel says, frowning. “Where are you two going in such a hurry?”

  “Well,” I say, glancing pointedly at my best friend. At pivotal times like this, it’s lucky we work so perfectly together. Like holly and ivy, or brandy and butter, or Brussels sprouts and the bin. “We just thought we’d go to the cinem—”

  “Harriet has a date!” Nat yells jubilantly, throwing my purple sock in the air like some kind of celebratory firecracker. “A real date! With a real boy! A living one! One that breathes! This afternoon! In London! Whoop whoop!”

  Then she triumphantly holds her hand up to high-five me again. I shake my head at it sadly.

  Because as my lovely but super-strict stepmother frowns and grabs the list out of my best friend’s overexcited grip, I’m not sure there’s much point in getting dressed after all.