‘Well, come to mine, then,’ I hear myself say. ‘Mum always does it. It’s high time I took a turn.’
‘Really, love?’ Dad sounds doubtful.
His uncertainty just makes me even more determined to show him I can manage it. I’m turning my life around. I’m going for promotion.
I’m becoming a proper grown-up at last.
‘Yes, really. It’ll be fun.’
‘We-e-e-e-ll …’
Come on, Dad. I’ll make it the best Christmas ever.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Oh God, Lola, that would be great!’
His relief is so obvious, I can tell it’s been a real load on his shoulders. And I’m so glad I can relieve him of the worry.
I hang up and start tackling the smoothie stain.
As I scrub away, I think about Mum. Is she really improving? Or is Dad just doing his usual thing of putting a positive spin on a dismal situation? We’ve never been great, in our family, at talking about the emotional stuff. Letting it all hang out, if you like. But when something happens that’s almost too painful to bear, you have a choice. You can talk about it openly and risk scratching at the open wound and making it worse. Or you can keep it all inside, paper over the cracks and get on with life as cheerfully as you can.
In my family, we’ve got papering over the cracks down to a fine art. Mainly for Mum’s sake.
We chat about the weather and the state of the world, while resolutely ignoring the elephant in the room.
It’s just the way we cope.
The fly in the ointment is my sister-in-law. She talks without thinking and is always putting her foot in it without realising what she’s said.
Lately, she’s seemed more controlling and moody than ever.
I only hope she and Mum will rub along okay at Christmas …
Hang on.
I stop rubbing and stare at the vaguely orange patch on the carpet.
They’re all coming to me for Christmas!
Oh my God.
What on earth was I thinking? It’s just not possible.
There’s absolutely no room for them in my flat.
The place is almost too small for Barb and me, without having four other people staying over for five consecutive days, fighting over the one bathroom. Every wardrobe and drawer is full to overflowing. Even the ‘shoe tidy’ in the hallway makes the place look cluttered.
If Dad knew what our flat was really like, he’d never have jumped so eagerly at my offer to host Christmas. But none of the family has seen it yet.
It’s not that I feel ashamed of 5 Rustic Place exactly. Actually, I rather like it. It’s cosy.
It’s just that Rob and Justine live in this huge five-bedroom house on a prestigious gated development near Edinburgh. It’s called The Gables and it’s as grand as it sounds. They each have a study, and there’s even a library and a room dedicated to working out, with a rowing machine, treadmill and other hi-tech machinery. Not that either of them have time to use it much.
The point is, they’re real grown-ups. They do useful things with their lives.
Whereas at the age of twenty-seven, I sometimes feel like a teenager, wondering what I’m going to do with my life.
When Justine sees our Rustic Place flat, her brows will disappear under her glossy fringe, perhaps never to return.
She has a dressing-room in her house, for God’s sake.
While we barely have room to get dressed …
The flat door opens, startling me back to the present.
‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ calls Nathan in a cute American accent. (He’s from Wigan.)
Shit! Is it that time already?
It usually takes well over an hour to do our regular ten-mile run on Sundays. But then, Nathan hasn’t got me slowing him up today, so no wonder he’s back sooner.
I drag the sofa over the mark, planning to head straight for the Stain Devils as soon as I hear the shower running. Then I dash for the mini gym in the next room, leap on the cross-trainer and get started.
Nathan pops his head round the door a second later.
‘Ah, well done. We’ll make a little Ellen Hoog of you yet.’ He gives me a cheery wink and heads for the bedroom.
I slow down to a stop.
Ellen Hoog?
Who the hell is Ellen Hoog?
I leap off the machine and dive into the kitchen, emerging with several sprays which I hope will be up to the challenge. Thankfully, the rest of the stain comes away fairly easily with plenty of toxic chemicals.
I cross-train for another few minutes to work up a bit of a sweat then decide to join Nathan, who’s all lathered up in the shower.
‘Hey, sexy.’ He grins lazily, watching me strip off. I step in, he pulls me against him and I abandon myself to the steamy heat and Nathan’s lovely, slithery caresses. And I wonder for about the ninety-fifth time what on earth this glorious specimen of manhood sees in averagely attractive me.
He manoeuvres me out of the shower and onto the bed and, at that point, my brain ceases to wonder about anything at all.
Later, while Nathan’s in the kitchen throwing together hummus wraps and a mixed bean salad with crunchy seaweed topping, I sneak away and Google Ellen Hoog.
Apparently she’s a member of the Netherlands field hockey team that won gold in the 2012 Olympics.
She’s also a luscious-lipped blonde who wouldn’t look out of place on a New York catwalk.
I peer intently at the photo. Very sleek hair.
Hah!
I bet she has to use heaps of product to get it that smooth.
Chapter Three
I met Nathan when Barb dragged me along to join the local gym.
Barb had split up with her long-term boyfriend, Frank, in January and, as part of the grieving process, we’d got into a comforting routine of staying in every night, watching TV and ordering takeaways.
Six months later, our ever-expanding waistlines finally forced us to take stock.
‘We need to join a gym,’ Barb yelled to me from the living room one night. ‘But in the meantime, is there any of that Four Seasons pizza left? The one with the double cheese topping?’
‘Why do we need a gym?’ I walked back in with laden plates. ‘I’m allergic to that kind of huffing and puffing. Can’t we just do some power walking?’
But Barb was firm. In between mouthfuls of banoffee pie with whipped cream, she said the only way we’d ever be disciplined enough to take regular exercise was if we’d shelled out good money to do so.
She had a point.
So the next night, straight after work, we turned up at Trim ’n’ Tone for our induction.
Waiting in line at reception, Barb joked that the only gym she’d ever enjoyed was Jim Pratt from Coventry, who she’d met years ago on holiday in Corfu.
I was laughing, about to demand details, when the queue shuffled forwards and I got a clear view of the girl talking to the receptionist.
A bolt of shock ripped through me.
Talk about a horrible blast from the past.
Crystal ‘Tank’ Watson was in my class at school.
She didn’t look like a Crystal. Not then, anyway. She had greasy brown hair, piggy eyes and was built like a barn door.
And she was mean.
Very mean.
When I was ten, I became the focus of her bullying for a while.
Coincidentally, it was also the year my fairly ordinary but happy family life was shattered beyond repair.
That wasn’t Crystal’s fault, of course.
But in my mind, Crystal Tank Watson and her bullying was forever linked with that heartbreaking time. It was just one of life’s horrible ironies. You hit rock bottom and think things can’t get any worse – and then, hey presto, they actually do.
Crystal was my ‘even worse’.
And now there she was again. A member of this gym Barb was expecting me to join. Except no one could call her Tank any more. She’d gone down
at least five dress sizes and looked trim and toned in her pink Lycra. Gone were the oily rats’ tails. Her hair now fell gleaming and golden down her back.
My hand shook as I signed the monthly direct debit form and I ended up making a complete mess of it. The receptionist looked down her nose and flourished a fresh form at me.
I couldn’t believe how shaken I felt.
One look at Crystal and all the memories from that terrible time came flooding right back. I clutched the counter for support, terrified I was about to slide down and land in a heap on the floor, which would give the frosty-faced receptionist even more to be scathing about.
‘You all right?’ Barb hissed. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Fine.’ I took a deep breath to calm myself. ‘I’m just a bit – er – hungry.’
Barb pulled half a blueberry muffin out of her bag and commanded me to eat.
I shook my head.
She shrugged and wolfed it down herself. Then she grabbed my arm and shepherded me to the changing room.
My head was still whirling with shock.
But by the time we’d changed into our gym gear and Barb had tried to convince me that meeting a hunky guy was not the reason she’d joined the gym, I’d calmed down and rationalised the whole incident.
It had been horrible to see my old tormentor. Kids could be so nasty. But we weren’t at school any more. We no longer had teenage hormones rampaging round our systems, thank goodness. We were adults.
When I saw her again, I’d smile to show her I’d forgotten all about the past and maybe we could move on. By the look of her slim figure she was probably heading for a spin class or something equally horrific.
Barb headed for her fitness assessment but I was booked in later, so I decided to check out the treadmills and cross-trainers. I’d been on a treadmill at a hotel spa once and, as far as I could remember, it was easy enough to operate.
I pushed open the door and stared in shock. The treadmills and cross-trainers were lined up in ranks like an army of soldiers, row upon row, all facing the big screen TVs on the far wall. The place was packed to the rafters with a hundred sweaty bodies going for gold and the high-octane music was deafening.
Still clinging onto the door, I peered around for a vacant cross-trainer and eventually spotted one. Unfortunately right at the front.
A man in green Lycra, pounding a nearby treadmill, turned and stared accusingly at me, sweat dripping from his face to the floor. Hurriedly, I shut the door behind me and headed for the cross-trainer, trying my best to look cool and nonchalant, even when I accidentally tripped over my own feet.
After casually throwing my towel over the front of the machine, I studied the control panel. Numbers and words swam before my eyes in an indecipherable mess. Oh shit, how the hell did I make it start? I glanced at my neighbours but both were far too ‘in the zone’ to bother with my stupid questions.
Then over to my left, among the weights machines, I suddenly spotted a face I knew.
Crystal.
She was talking to a tall guy with dark hair and well-toned muscles, and she kept laughing and twirling her hair flirtatiously.
My first instinct was to run out of there before she saw me, because all those horrible feelings had started to flood right back again.
But I made myself stop and take a slug of water.
I reminded myself we weren’t kids any more. We were mature adults now, our schooldays long behind us, and if I was going to be a regular visitor here, it would hardly be practical if I had to leg it every time I spotted Crystal looming on the horizon.
This was the perfect opportunity to build bridges and put the past behind us.
I still hung back, though, not sure if I should interrupt her chat with the dark-haired guy. But then he walked off to a nearby machine.
Right. Excellent.
I’d go over and ask Crystal for help working the cross-trainer, we’d get talking like proper grown-ups and hey presto. Nasty past banished!
As I approached with my plastered-on smile, she narrowed her eyes as if trying to place me.
‘Hi, Crystal. Sorry to disturb. We were at Highfield Primary together? But maybe you don’t remember.’ I laughed nervously. ‘Let’s face it, who the hell in their right mind actually wants to remember their school days?’
She stopped, with a weight in each hand, and I couldn’t help noticing her impressively toned arms.
‘Anyway, I’ve just joined the gym,’ I rushed on, ‘and I was trying to work out how to operate the cross-trainer. Always been useless at stuff like that. Wondered if you could help?’
Her eyes widened with sudden recognition.
‘Well, well, well,’ she said, slowly. ‘It’s Lola. Lola Plumpton.’ She smiled. A thin, tight smile. ‘Or Lola Plump-Arse as some of those nightmare kids used to call you.’
She shook her head at the sheer cheek of them.
‘Er, yes, that’s me.’ I smiled brightly. ‘Anyway, could you just—?’
‘You’ve lost weight.’ She scanned me from head to foot. ‘Unless it’s the black gym gear, of course. Black always hides a multitude of lumps and bumps.’
‘Absolutely.’ I was determined to remain upbeat. ‘And now that I’m a member of this place, there’ll be no stopping me. Elle McPherson look out!’
‘Right, well, there’s always hope.’ She smiled. Actually, it was more like a sneer.
‘So, could you help…?’ I pointed at the machines.
‘Sure. I just need to hydrate.’ She pressed my arm. ‘Great to see you, Lola, after all this time. Really great.’
She sounded genuine and I relaxed slightly. ‘You, too, Crystal.’
‘Could you hold these a minute?’
‘No problem.’ Without thinking, I reached for the dumb-bells. She dumped them into my hand and headed for the water cooler.
I wasn’t prepared for the dead weight.
Roughly ten kilos tumbled instantly through my hand and plummeted to the floor, smacking against my ankle bone on the way.
Tears pricked my eyes.
I doubled over and slowly mimed an agonised scream as the pain gradually subsided to a dull pulse. Then I sat down on the floor to inspect the damage.
Crystal’s unconcerned laughter drifted over from the water station, where she was hanging around, chatting to some gym buddy. She’d seen me, I knew.
I rubbed my throbbing ankle.
So she hadn’t changed at all.
Mind you, now I thought about it, the piggy eyes hadn’t changed either. Her body might be a babe’s but sadly for Crystal, her eyes would always be reminiscent of an altogether different Babe.
‘You’re going to have a nasty bruise there,’ said a voice above me.
I looked up to find the dark-haired man – the one Crystal had been flirting with – smiling down at me.
‘I saw what happened,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘Do you want me to have a look? I’m studying sports injuries with a view to becoming a personal trainer, so I know what I’m doing.’
‘Er, yes, that would be great, thanks,’ I said, blushing.
He dropped down beside me and bent over my foot.
I tried not to stare at his thick dark hair, well-defined forearms and the strong, capable hands that were probing my foot oh-so-gently. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Crystal practically dislocating her neck to get a better view.
My handsome saviour delivered his verdict. ‘Nothing broken. But you could probably do with an ice pack on that. I’m Nathan, by the way.’
He held out his hand and helped me to my feet.
Crystal was speeding over.
‘Are you all right?’ she gasped, full of concern that might have been touching had it been genuine.
I beamed at her. ‘Oh yes, I’m sure I’ll survive.’ Especially with Nathan still holding my hand.
‘Come on,’ he murmured, leading me to the door. ‘Let’s get you seen to.’ He raised his free hand. ‘Bye, Cry
s.’
He managed to procure an ice pack from somewhere and we sat in the café, my foot up on a stool.
‘Can I buy you a coffee as a thank you?’ I asked.
‘Do you know what that stuff does to your body? Pure evil.’ He gave me a heart-flipping smile. ‘A mineral water would be great, though.’
So we sat and chatted about our lives. Nathan was assistant manager at a local supermarket – the one where I usually shopped – but his big dream was to set up in business as a personal trainer.
I listened, fascinated, as he talked about his passion for health and fitness. Every single thing he said made total sense to me. Well, everything I actually heard. (I’d challenge anyone not to be distracted by those warm brown eyes and that incredibly white smile.)
Before long, I was declaring it was high time I turned my life around and got fit.
I’d said it before, of course, but this time I really meant it.
After that, Nathan made a point of coming up and chatting to me at the gym. And my visits were a lot more regular than they otherwise would have been.
Barb tailed off after the first enthusiastic month, blaming long hours at work, while I kept on going. But I never thought anything would happen between Nathan and me. We were good friends. That was all.
Then one night, we were having a laugh at the water cooler. Well, actually, I was trying hard not to laugh as Nathan did a wicked impersonation of someone on a nearby treadmill. The poor woman had set her machine far too fast and was having to march incredibly quickly to prevent herself conveyor-belting off the back. Her face was brick red with the effort.
‘Stop it. You’re terrible,’ I admonished him.
Then he said it. ‘Let’s go out for a drink on Saturday night.’
At first, I thought maybe he meant a crowd of us from the gym.
But when he pulled me behind a pillar, I realised he meant just us.
‘Well?’ He grinned. ‘What about it?’
Heart hammering from being kissed so thoroughly, I tried to act cool and pretend I wasn’t bothered either way. But he wasn’t fooled.
‘Pick you up at eight?’
I smiled, loving the confident glint in his eye and the feel of his hands round my waist.
On our date, I learned a lot more about his ambition to be a personal trainer. And we talked at length about my plan to get fit.
Mistletoe and Mayhem Page 3
