Perfect Christmas: The Perfect Disaster Series

by Aimee Horton

  Aimee Horton

  Published by Velvet Morning Press

  Copyright © 2015, 2016 Aimee Horton

  Previously published as Survival of the Christmas Spirit in 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Ellen Meyer and Vicki Lesage

  Table of Contents

  Christmas Eve

  Christmas Day

  A Note from Aimee Horton

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Christmas Eve

  I stand in the dining room doorway and give a happy sigh of pride. Pulling my phone out of my pocket I snap a couple of pictures and upload them to Facebook, into my already bulging Christmas album. Now that the tables are all set for tomorrow’s big dinner, I am finally starting to feel in control of everything. It looks better than I ever imagined; you can’t even tell there are three different tables. What’s more, unless you look really closely, you can’t even tell that two of them are plastic outside furniture.

  That’s right, my dining room is filled with our normal dining table, two white plastic patio sets borrowed from my friend Jane and a last minute buy from eBay. If I’m honest, it didn’t look great to begin with, but after much searching, the Internet came up trumps. Not only did I find a beautiful Christmas tablecloth that covered all three tables, but chair covers to match.

  Leaning forward, I adjust the position of a tea-light holder, and faff a pile of sequins shaped like holly out a bit more.

  Perfect.

  I’m so excited. It’s my first ever time hosting Christmas, and I’m feeding eleven people. There’s my mum and dad. My brother, Oscar, his wife, Laura, and their teenage daughter, Lexi. Then there’s Henry’s mum, Maria, and her third husband… Charles, I think. I can’t keep up, to be honest. Finally there’s us four. I’ve never cooked a Sunday roast for more than us lot let alone Christmas dinner, and somehow, eleven people are coming to witness it. But luckily it won’t be a disaster; I’ve built a spreadsheet.

  The kids have spent the day in front of the TV eating chocolates, and I’ve spent the day peeling veg and wrapping pigs in blankets. I’ve even had time to make an amazing chocolate log from scratch. All I need to do tomorrow is put things in the oven at the right times, and we’re onto a winner. Even the presents are wrapped—usually we’re still wrapping at nearly midnight. I can’t believe how organised I am.

  All that’s left is for Henry to bring the turkey home tonight. Then we all snuggle up and read Christmas stories before putting the kids to bed, ready for Santa to come. While we’re waiting, Henry and I are going to have wine and order in a pizza.

  Not sure I can wait until tonight for something to eat though.

  Suddenly, after all my hard work, I’m starving. I head into the lounge to grab a handful of Christmas chocolates, planning to crash out on the sofa with the kids for half an hour before I start cooking their tea.

  Just as I’m unwrapping a green-foil-wrapped triangle of chocolate and deciding what topping to have on my pizza, my phone bings from inside my pocket.

  Pulling it out, I try not to acknowledge how snug my jeans are, and instead look at the message on the screen. NO WAY—I can’t believe it. I close my eyes for a few seconds.

  Why does my mother always make life difficult for me?

  Opening my eyes again, I glare at my phone and re-read the message.

  AUNT V UNCLE R HOUSE FLOODED. THEM MANDA JAMES AND TWINS COMING WITH US TO YOURS STOP. LOL MUM XXX

  It used to take me ages to decipher my mum’s text messages, but this one is as clear as day. At four p.m. on Christmas Eve, my mum has added six extra people—two of those toddlers—to the eleven I already have to feed. Oh, and she thinks LOL means lots of love, not laugh out loud—which would actually be more appropriate given the circumstances.

  Two extra toddlers. That means three toddlers will be trashing my house while I’m cooking Christmas dinner.

  Last time we had a toddler play date, all three had taken their nappies off and stuffed them down the toilet, nearly flooding the bathroom.

  Dottie—focus. There are bigger problems than two additional toddlers.

  There’s not enough food.

  Even though the turkey Henry is picking up is massive, there is nowhere near enough food for Uncle Rob’s appetite. I’ve seen him devour a Sunday roast quicker than I can neck a gin and tonic.

  I’m going to have to go shopping.

  I can’t imagine anything worse than the supermarkets on Christmas Eve but I have no other choice. After shoving a handful of kids’ snacks into my handbag, I chivvy the children out the front door, through the pouring rain and into the car, tripping over the next door neighbour’s cat.

  Blooming thing is always getting under my feet.

  The rain is rattling on my windscreen like Lego blocks on my old glass coffee table—the one that had to go after Mabel head-butted it and bled all over the white carpet that we’d managed to keep clean all the way through the Arthur toddler years. I peer through the windscreen wipers, and in a last ditch attempt to avoid the supermarket, I head for a cluster of local shops around the corner, and pull into the disabled parking space right outside the butchers. Leaving the kids in the car, I leg it inside. The bell jingles as I enter the nearly empty shop, and a woman in a striped apron looks up from behind the counter. The smell of meat hits me, and I feel bile rising in my throat.

  “Turkey?” is all I can manage to pant, looking hopeful. The woman laughs and shakes her head, so I turn and race back outside, calling “Thank you anyway!” as I go. I stand outside for a second, breathing in the fresh air before clambering back into the car, my damp hair stuck to my face.

  “There’s nothing for it,” I say as I buckle my seatbelt. “I have to go to the supermarket.” I head to the nearest. It’s small, but hopefully that will work to my advantage.

  Judging by the amount of cars in the car park, I can tell it hasn’t. After coaxing the children out of the car with the promise of sweets, I walk through the automatic door, take one look at the line at the tills snaking its way around the store, and then turn around, narrowly missing bumping into a woman with a heavy dose of coral lipstick.

  “I wouldn’t bother!” I say jokingly, smiling at her as I usher the children back outside, already promising they can have two packets of sweets at the next shop.

  The woman grunts at me, and carries on into the shop, just as a man dressed in a royal blue polo-shirt with the shop logo on it walks out and deposits a sign reading “NO TURKEY OR PARSNIPS LEFT” onto the pavement next to the trollies.

  I hope she was looking for turkey or parsnips the mardy moo.

  “Come on, monkeys, let’s go. We still need to find that turkey and get those sweets,” I sing to my grumpy children as we run back across the car park.

  Next stop ASDA.

  I let out a low groan. I know it’s going to be packed. It always is, but hopefully they’ll be on top of stock control.

  I don’t even bother heading towards the parent and child spaces. I abandon my car in what feels like the furthest space, near the petrol station and car wash. Wit
h a child on each hip, I run as fast as I can towards the store. There don’t seem to be any trolleys available, so dragging the children behind me, I head to the fridges. No turkeys. We head to the freezer.

  Nothing.

  There are, however, some really cute looking mini pigs in blankets, so I pick those up, along with a couple of packets of sweets and two bottles of prosecco that are on offer.

  Practically a saving.

  The children are getting impatient, and I don’t blame them. The queues go nearly as far back as the store does, and the kids have eaten two packets of sweets each before we’ve even made it to the till.

  Glancing at my watch, I realise it’s already past their dinner time. “You guys are being soooo good,” I say, squatting down to wrap my arms around them, wincing at the wee smell coming from Mabel’s nappy. “So so good!”

  They grunt, not bothered by compliments. “Are you guys hungry?” I ask, and just as I catch their attention, the line moves forward. “We have another shop to go to.” I see them beginning to wilt, so I hurry on, desperate to win them over. “So how about we stop off at McDonald’s and pick up dinner?” I sing-song. The kids respond by jumping up and down and clapping. Relieved, I ease myself up, my knees creaking as I do. Suddenly though, I find myself sprawled out on my front, my two bottles of prosecco rolling across the aisle.

  What the actual…?

  “The line’s moved,” says a voice behind me. Turning round, I look up to see the woman with the coral lipstick from the last shop. Her trolley sits exactly where I had been crouched moments before.

  “I can see that,” I say, smiling as politely as I can, picking myself up off the floor. I send Artie off to retrieve the bottles. Just then, the woman in front of me realises she’s forgotten kitchen roll and leaves the queue, meaning I’m next. We shuffle forward again, and before I know it, we’ve paid and are already back in the car driving towards McDonald’s, knowing full well where we have to go next. The Superstore.

  Eurgh.

  I go through the drive-thru, and place the Happy Meal boxes on the front seat next to me, knowing that saving them until we’re in the superstore is the only way to avoid a meltdown. A meltdown I can hardly blame them for.

  Driving through the rain, still recovering from the woman with the awful coral lipstick actually knocking me down with her trolley, I wonder just how busy the superstore is going to be.

  I snap to as the imposing blue, red and white sign of the supermarket looms over the road in front of me. Taking a deep breath, I turn into the car park.

  I’ve never seen it so busy. I crawl along looking for a space, and as I move into my third lap, I spot one. Suddenly, as I also spot a sports car headed my way, driven by somebody who looks suspiciously like the woman with coral lipstick, realisation dawns. If everyone is coming with my mum and dad, that means they’re staying at my house too. In my two-bedroom house.

  Bugger.

  Zooming haphazardly between the white lines, narrowly missing the convertible as it tried to nab the space first, I park wonkily and turn off the engine. HA. Pulling out my phone, I text Jane.

  Mother strikes again. Can I borrow your airbed and sleeping bags? I send, before quickly sending another: Buying extra turkey, will be around after that.

  Shoving the phone in my pocket, I climb out of the car and grab a nearby abandoned trolley, fighting against the suddenly gale-force wind. Unplugging both kids, I lift them into the trolley, iPads, game consoles and Happy Meals included. They complain as the rain lands on their screens, but I make a mad dash across the car park, and we are inside before any of us gets too soaked. Trying not to notice the carnage of the last-minute shoppers packed into every square inch of the store, I can’t help but spot my enemy following me in. I square my shoulders.

  Right. Turkey.

  Without stopping to browse the homeware section like I normally would—although do we need extra wine glasses?—I push the trolley determinedly towards the fridges at the back of the store. With the exception of a lone chicken, the shelves are empty. I turn, bashing a few buggies and an old man on a mobility scooter out of the way (don’t look at me like that, I’m pretending not to notice what I did), and head to the frozen aisle.

  As I approach, I see there is one turkey left. The coral lipstick lady is coming towards it from the opposite direction. I look at her. She’s about my mother’s age, but more spritely. Abandoning my trolley and the children in the middle of the aisle, I race over and grab at it. Our hands lock around the ice-cold bird at the same time. I look at her. She stares at me. I swear she’s gritting her teeth. I open my mouth, about to explain my predicament, sure she’ll understand.

  However, she’s on a mission. This woman, with her stupid lipstick, and her Marks and Spencer leather gloves. This woman, who has already knocked me over once. She yanks the turkey so hard I have to let go. I fall back into the aisle, landing inside the trolley containing my two small children.

  “Excuse me!” I call, clambering out in a rather un-lady-like fashion. “Excuse me, I really need that! I have four extra adults and two toddlers coming for dinner at the last minute… Their kitchen is flooded!” I totter after her as she marches down the aisle in the opposite direction. “Please!” I say as I rub my sore back and bruised calves. She doesn’t even turn around, and I realise it’s a dead loss.

  No Christmas Spirit there then.

  Standing in the middle of the frozen aisle, I try to decide what to do. Another supermarket is going to be just the same. There’s only one thing for it: sundries. Slowly, I turn around and head back towards the fridges and the tiny chicken, grabbing boxes of powdered gravy and stuffing as I head to homewares. Only new wineglasses can save us now.

  ~~~~

  Arriving home, I’m pleased to see Henry opening the front door as I park the car. Kissing my head, he opens the boot stuffed with sleeping bags and pillows from the ever-reliable Jane.

  I plop the children directly in front of the television. The batteries on their electrical devices died at the till in the supermarket, but after a slight incident with a nearly stolen bag of brioche, the reminder that Santa is on extra-special watch while he’s packing his sleigh was enough to keep them both quiet.

  I’m unpacking the shopping when Henry brings in the last load. He drops it in the hall and circles his arms around my waist. I lean back and give him a kiss.

  “I’ve done something… I hope you don’t mind,” he begins, standing in the door of our dining room. My stomach fills with panic. I hate it when he makes executive decisions.

  “Okayyy?” I say, bracing myself, but not wanting to look worried.

  Stepping aside, Henry waves his arm towards the dining room, which leads into the conservatory. The conservatory door is open, and the little table from Artie and Mabel’s bedroom is now taking pride of place. It has a tablecloth and a variety of toddler-proofed table decorations, including electric tea-lights.

  “How did you… ?” I begin, and notice the main table has been shuffled around as well. It looks amazing and accommodates everyone.

  “Cut up a spare chair cover.” Henry beams with pride.

  I feel a wave of emotion and burst into tears. Sobbing, I run into my bewildered husband’s arms and cry for what feels like forever.

  “Sorry,” I murmur into his shirt when I’m finally done. “I just thought we’d never fix it, and I have a stupid small chicken and hardly any food, so I didn’t know what was going to happen, then you do this, which is lovely.” Then I start crying all over again.

  Henry smooths my hair and pushes me to arm’s length, probably to save his shirt rather than to check if I’m OK.

  “The turkey is huge, the chicken will be fine. Kids hardly eat anything, and as long as you have extra Yorkshire puddings, you’ll be set.” He smiles that smile he does to reassure me. “Now,” he says, checking his watch. “Let’s shove some food down the kids and get them into bed so we can open that new gin my boss gave me.”

 
“No need to feed them, I got them McDonald’s.” I beam, not only pleased at my own forward planning, but at the opportunity to inhale half of their Happy Meals.

  Bolstered by the thought of the gin in the snazzy bottle, we get the children bathed and dressed in record time.

  Well, when I say “we,” I mean “Henry.” I stay in the kitchen, making some last-minute alterations to the timetable for tomorrow.

  There weren’t that many alterations to make really, just add “put chicken in oven” half way down the timetable. But I really couldn’t be arsed with the bath-time meltdown I knew would happen with an overtired Mabel and an over-excited Artie.

  After tweaking the timetable, I rummage in the cupboard and pull out a bag of kettle chips. The strong salt and vinegar ups my energy level, and as I hear the water gurgle out of the bath, I take a deep breath and make my way slowly up the stairs in time to see Henry dressing both children in their matching Christmas pyjamas.

  I grin. I always like them at the end of the day, when it’s nearly time for them to go to sleep.

  “Let’s read on Mummy and Daddy’s bed tonight!” I say, and together we all bundle under the quilt and read The Night Before Christmas. Mabel snuggles in close to me, sucking her thumb, her eyelids already drooping, while Artie on the other hand can barely sit still.

  He’s going to be trouble.

  As we close the book, Henry scoops Mabel into his arms and takes her across the hall, leaving me with a hyper Arthur.

  Sneaky sod.

  “When is Santa coming?” he asks, bouncing up and down on my bed. “I’m going to see him, you know! Will he come in my room? Where’s my stocking? If I put it under my window, he’ll wake me up if he takes it out to fill it up.” He fires off the questions in quick succession, making me regret leaving the bowl of chocolates in front of the CBeebies Pantomime.

  I don’t even begin to answer. Instead, I pick him up and cuddle him, carrying him into his bedroom, hoping that once he’s in there, with an already fast-asleep Mabel, he will be quiet. “Shhh now, nah night, I love you.” I lean forward, stroking his head.