Mistletoe and Mayhem

by Catherine Ferguson

  But it had all been a mirage.

  I’d seen personal trainers on TV boosting their clients’ self-esteem and motivation by talking them up, telling them how fantastic they were and what an incredible amount they’d already achieved.

  That’s what Nathan was doing with me. And stupidly, I’d thought it meant he loved me.

  I swallow on the painful lump in my throat.

  Clock Patience.

  Where are the playing cards?

  I rake through my bedroom drawers. Not there.

  But there’s sure to be a pack in our chaotic, walk-in cupboard off the kitchen (also known as the Crap Closet). I clamber past the Hoover and the ironing board and step over a bucket containing used paint tins and stiffened brushes – and finally, I find the brown cardboard box I’m looking for.

  Yes, there they are, nestled among an assortment of belongings I haven’t bothered to unpack since I moved in. I draw the cards out of their carton. They’re a little tatty but perfectly useable.

  I haven’t played for a long time.

  Back in my room, I sit on the bed and shuffle them carefully, enjoying the feel and the sound of the cards sliding together. Then I begin the game, turning them over, one by one, placing them carefully in the shape of a clock face.

  And after a while, a familiar sense of calm settles over me.

  I play game after game.

  There’s a comfort in the rhythm of laying down the cards, and while I’m concentrating on the game, everything else drifts away.

  When I hear Barb’s key in the lock, I feel oddly disorientated.

  It’s grown dark outside and, glancing at my watch, I see to my surprise that it’s almost six-thirty.

  I’ve been playing Clock Patience for nearly three hours.

  Barb knocks softly on the door. ‘Can I come in?’

  I blow my nose and open the door.

  Her face falls when she sees the state of me. ‘That horrible bastard,’ she mutters angrily and my heart sinks. The last thing I want to do right now is go over it all again.

  ‘I’m really tired,’ I tell her truthfully. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’

  She peers at me. ‘Talking helps. You shouldn’t just bottle it all up.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  She shrugs but doesn’t object when I gently close the door and get back to my card game.

  Five minutes later, she’s back.

  ‘Lola?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve made your favourite. Peanut butter and jam on crusty white.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, thanks.’ It’s the truth.

  ‘Why won’t you come out?’ she calls despairingly.

  I slap down a two of hearts and a six of spades.

  ‘Erm, because there’s an unexploded bomb in my pants and if I move, the whole place goes up.’

  ‘Okay, look, I won’t pester you to talk about it.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Honestly, I won’t.’ A pause. ‘We can watch Bargain Hunt on catch-up?’

  I slap down the final king.

  Damn, damn, damn! That’s the eighth failed game in a row.

  I gather up the cards and start shuffling them together, but somehow they slip out of my hands and fan out, some face up, some face down, all over the laminate flooring.

  I stare at them with blurry eyes.

  If Nathan were here, he’d say I should work through my feelings with some physical exercise. Get out for a long run. Whip up something healthy because we are what we eat.

  Bloody frigging Nathan! He’s probably pumping weights and laughing about me with the hideous Crystal right this minute. Bet she loved my complete humiliation in Freshfoods. Well, she’s welcome to him. Sheep’s curd spread and all.

  Hope the killer chandelier falls on her.

  ‘Lola, you’ve got to eat.’

  I laugh bitterly. ‘Well, apparently I don’t. Because my arse is ginormous according to Nathan. And everyone at Freshfoods knows about it.’

  ‘He didn’t say that. Did he say that?’

  ‘No, but he was thinking it.’

  Actually, I couldn’t care less what Nathan thinks of my arse. Because he’s clearly a massive arse himself who deserves no space in my head whatsoever.

  Tears blur my eyes.

  Trouble is, he keeps sneaking in there, with his killer smile, marathon-toned body and great way with a shoulder massage. And his fantastic apartment, where I was going to be entertaining my family at Christmas, but which obviously won’t now be available to me.

  On top of everything else, this feels like the very last straw. Dad will be so disappointed when I tell him Christmas at mine is cancelled.

  I give my nose a good old blow then call out to Barb, ‘Is it crunchy or smooth?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The peanut butter.’

  ‘Er … crunchy?’

  Slowly, I get to my feet. My legs are stiff from sitting on the bed playing Clock Patience for hours.

  Three wins in a row used to be my target. Bloody didn’t manage it. But I suppose there’s always tomorrow.

  In the living room, Barb ushers me with a flourish to the comfiest armchair and throws over the softest cushions. And Bargain Hunt is the best escapism ever. (I keep telling Barb we should go on it, but she’s not keen.) I even manage a bite or two of peanut butter and jam on crusty white.

  We drink tea and slag off the contestants, and it all feels comfortingly normal.

  (‘Why the hell did they pay that much for a horrible brown vase?’

  ‘Ridiculous! It’s even got a chip in it. They’ll never get their money back.’

  ‘We’d do much better than them. We should go on it, Barb.’)

  By the time Bargain Hunt finishes, I’m surprised to find I’ve eaten the whole sandwich.

  Barb puts on the first part of a darkly brooding Scandinavian whodunnit and we’re riveted to the screen for the next hour.

  The credits roll and she glances across. ‘Next episode?’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  For distraction purposes, this is even better than Clock Patience.

  After number three, Barb yawns and gets up. ‘Right. Meeting with old Randy-Pants at nine. Better hit the hay.’

  Randy-Pants, aka Peter Randiman, is the big boss at Premier Furnishings. He’s the sort who takes a woman’s cleavage far more seriously than her views. I worry that one day Barb will give him a piece of her mind and end up being sacked for insubordination.

  I grin. ‘At least there’s one reason I’m glad not to be going into work tomorrow. Old Randy-Pants.’

  Barb smiles sadly. ‘It’ll be fine, you know. You’ll get another job. And another boyfriend.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘And you don’t have to cancel Christmas just because Knob Head’s apartment isn’t on offer any more.’

  ‘Well, I can’t do it here, can I?’ Gloomily, I gaze around me at the cosy but cramped flat.

  ‘Of course you can,’ says Barb. ‘I’ll be at Mum’s, so you can use my room.’

  I smile feebly. ‘Thanks. But Justine would actually die if she had to stay here and I don’t want to be jailed for murder along with everything else. Plus, I’ve no money.’

  Barb shrugs. ‘You don’t need loads of cash to have a lovely Christmas.’

  I shake my head. ‘Sorry, Barb, but that’s a terrible cliché.’

  ‘No, it’s not. My mum made all the decorations when we were little.’

  ‘Really?’ I’m dubious, to say the least.

  ‘Yeah. She stopped short of knitting a tree. But everything else was home-made. And my childhood Christmases were always fabulous.’

  ‘Yes, but you were ten,’ I point out. ‘Justine’s thirty-five. And she thinks no Christmas morning is complete without smoked salmon and caviar, and the best champagne.’

  Barb makes a face. ‘Well, tell her your Christmas morning isn’t complete without a chocolate orange and a two litre bottle of IRN-BRU.’


  I smile for the first time in days.

  ‘Nathan’s an A* twat,’ calls Barb reassuringly, as I head for bed. ‘He’s proof that evolution can most definitely go in reverse.’

  Chapter Seven

  I lie around the flat for the next week, trying to shake off my gloom.

  It feels weird waving Barb off to work every morning.

  She gets this sheepishly apologetic look on her face at having a job to go to, which to be honest just makes me feel worse.

  The Scandinavian box set we started watching becomes part of my daily routine.

  Every morning, I stand at the door as Barb leaves and call something vaguely motivational as I wave her off. As in: ‘Well, must get down to the jobcentre!’ Or: ‘Hey, it’s jobs day in the Gazette today!’

  A sly curtain twitch to check she’s actually driven off. Then it’s into the kitchen for a bowl of muesli (old habits die hard) with a generous squirt of aerosol cream on top and a heap of nicely crushed-up Twirl (up yours, Nathan).

  Then it’s into the shady living room (daylight is truly the work of the devil) for a non-stop murder-fest of gruesome proportions. Blood and gore? Dissected brains? Innards tumbling out onto the slab? Bring it on!

  Half-way through the third day, though, niggles start creeping in.

  I need to look for a job. Otherwise I’ll be penniless by about March.

  And if I carry on eating all the carbs in the world, partly to spite Nathan but mainly because it’s so wonderfully numbing, I truly will have the ginormous arse I’m famed for.

  Speaking of which, I’ve developed this weird pain in my right buttock. I keep having to wriggle around, trying different positions to ease it. It was on and off to start with. But it’s growing more persistent.

  I know my ex is a massive pain in the backside but it can’t have manifested into a physical ailment, can it?

  Tonight, when Barb wants to catch up with all the brooding, Danish drama, I’ve got to pretend it’s all new to me.

  It’s all going well until a really gruesome bit comes up in episode nine (which I watched the day before yesterday) when I know for sure someone’s about to get a vital part of their body forcibly removed.

  ‘Ugh, can’t watch this bit.’ I leap up and head for the kitchen, rubbing my buttock. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

  When I come back in, Barb narrows her eyes at me. ‘Have you watched it all, then?’

  ‘No!’ Indignantly, I plonk down a mug and a chocolate biscuit on her side table.

  Barb grins. ‘Which episode are you up to?’

  ‘Um … eighteen,’ I tell her, a touch defiantly. ‘But from tomorrow, it stops. Apart from anything else, I’ve developed this really weird pain in my right buttock.’

  She studies me as I wriggle about in my chair to find a comfy position. Then she says, ‘You know what that is, of course?’

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘It’s a very serious medical condition.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  She snorts. ‘It’s called Box-Set Bum!’

  ‘Oh, ha-flippin’-ha,’ I say grumpily.

  ‘Or, to use the layman’s term for it: Killer Arse!’

  She goes off into hysterics, spilling her tea and wiping her eyes, while I stare at her mutinously. It’s really not very funny.

  ‘I’ll buy you one of those blow-up rings people sit on when they’ve got painful haemorrhoids,’ she gasps, between snorts. ‘What colour would you like?’

  ‘Black to match my mood,’ I growl. ‘But I’d rather have a vodka and cranberry to numb the pain.’

  Barb obliges and the alcohol definitely helps. Pretty soon, even I’m seeing the funny side of my killer arse.

  Next morning, I’m up early, showered and dressed even before Barb leaves for work.

  ‘I’m going to re-do my CV today,’ I announce. ‘Absolutely no lounging in front of the TV. Those days are over.’

  Barb smiles. ‘Good for you. A lot of folk would go to pieces if they’d gone through what you have. It takes determination to get out there again.’

  ‘Well, you watch, I’ll have landed a job by tea-time,’ I say, sounding a great deal more jovial than I feel inside.

  I’d say the main thing that got me out of bed this morning wasn’t determination, as Barb seems to think, but fear.

  Stark, stomach-churning terror at the thought of ending up penniless. It’s been rising steadily inside me – like water in a punctured life raft – ever since my world came crashing down. I’ve been doggedly ignoring it. But you can’t bury your head in the sand forever. Eventually, the nasty stuff must be faced.

  ‘I’m asking around,’ says Barb, on her way out of the door. ‘Seeing if anyone knows of any vacancies.’

  After she’s gone, I make myself another coffee and settle down at the kitchen table with my laptop.

  A second later, there’s a mammoth crash right outside the flat that makes my heart leap into my mouth. Followed five minutes later by a series of loud scrapes coming from the building’s communal hall.

  This is grim.

  Someone is clearly trying to drag a dead body wrapped in a blanket up the stairs. (Watching blood-thirsty Scandinavian drama 24/7 will do that to your brain.)

  I peer out of the window. There’s a large white van parked right outside with its back doors open. There’s no one about but, clearly, whatever was in the van is currently being manoeuvred up the stairs.

  Right on cue there’s another loud grating noise, as if something heavy or awkward is scraping along a wall then being set down on the concrete stairs.

  I put my head round the door.

  Just in time to see a pair of long male legs in skinny jeans mounting the stairs. The owner of the legs is labouring slightly under the weight of a large black box.

  He glances back at the sound of the door opening, gives me a fleeting grin and says, ‘Hi there. Apologies for the commotion. But I think we’re done now.’

  I raise my hand, embarrassed at being caught nosing. ‘Hey, don’t worry. Didn’t hear a thing.’

  I watch his legs disappear, all prepared to make a hasty retreat if he comes back down.

  As I linger, curious, there’s a thud and a foreboding crashing sound followed by a series of passionate expletives. I screw up my face. Whatever was in that box – crockery? – is clearly no longer in one piece.

  ‘Has someone moved into the flat above?’ I ask Barb on her return that evening.

  She disappears into her room. ‘You mean Jasper?’ she calls. ‘Yes, he moved in last month.’

  ‘Oh? What’s he like?’

  ‘Bit of a div but harmless enough, I suppose. He’s locked himself out of his car twice since he got here. And he’s always in a tearing hurry, like he’s constantly late for something.’

  She pops her head round the door. ‘I did tell you someone had moved in but you must have forgotten. But of course you haven’t been here much recently, what with spending so much time at …’ She tails off, embarrassed at having referred to He-Who-Mustn’t-Be-Mentioned, and retreats back into her room.

  My stomach plummets.

  Every time I think I’m over Nathan, yet another pesky reminder parachutes in and knocks the breath right out of me.

  Mostly, though, I’m doing okay.

  It helps to know that the relationship would never have worked.

  Nathan needs Iron Woman in his life and I could never be that, however much I trained and sweated. His constant preoccupation with fitness would have driven me barmy within a year. In fact, for the first time ever, I actually find myself feeling sorry for Crystal (on the days I’m not fantasising about tampering with her treadmill so she goes flying off the end). She’ll never be able to keep up with him.

  I call out to Barb, ‘Do you know him well, then?’

  ‘Who? Nathan?’ she asks, coming into the living room.

  ‘The guy upstairs. Jasper?’

  ‘Oh.’ Then after a pause: ‘Not really.’

  ‘Have
you met him?’

  ‘Yeah, a couple of times. He’s a bit weird, though.’

  ‘Weird?’

  ‘Scatter-brained. He’s always losing his keys and getting me to buzz him into the building. And, last week, he left his violin out in the rain overnight.’

  ‘Really? Was it ruined?’

  ‘No, apparently it was in its case so it was fine. But, honestly, what a dipstick.’

  I remember Jasper’s warm, friendly smile that extended to his rather nice brown eyes. He’d seemed really nice to me. But then, I’d only had a ten-second conversation, mainly with his back.

  Barb disappears and comes back with her bag of knitting. She slumps down on the sofa. ‘Christ. I know I probably shouldn’t complain. Lucky to have a job and all that bollocks. But that place might possibly be the death of me.’

  ‘Over-worked and under-paid?’ I frown in sympathy.

  She nods. ‘We’re short-staffed after all the redundancies. It’s a nightmare. You’re actually lucky to be out of it.’

  I smile, although ‘lucky’ is the very last thing I feel.

  I applied for two jobs this afternoon and signed up with a temping agency. But people keep saying this is the worst time of year to be job-hunting because everyone’s more interested in sorting out their Christmas plans and office parties than doing actual work.

  ‘What are you making?’ I nod at the bundle of red wool and needles she’s bringing out of the bag.

  ‘Christmas tree decorations.’

  ‘Mm. Lovely.’

  Barb frowns. ‘Yes, I know. Hilarious. But they’ll look great, I promise you.’

  I nod in reluctant agreement. Barb is heavily into crafting. She says it’s her way of relaxing and I have to admit, most of the stuff she creates is pretty amazing. She started making her Christmas cards last weekend. The design – a single bauble with rows of red and gold sequins – is beautifully simple but effective.

  It’s my turn to make dinner so I wander through to the kitchen and start chopping onions and peppers for the chilli. I’m just putting the rice on when I hear the unmistakeable sound of Oklahoma! starting up in the living room on Barb’s iPod. She starts singing along to ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’.