Mistletoe and Mayhem

by Catherine Ferguson

  There’s something oddly familiar about him, but I can’t quite get there.

  Is he famous in films? A stunt body double? The bloke who brings the pizza?

  He dangles a key in the air. ‘It was in the door. I thought you should know.’

  ‘Oh, right, thanks.’ I must have left it in the lock when I came back from the post box.

  I grab the key but the stupid thing slips from my grasp onto the doormat.

  We both dive to pick it up and clash heads.

  ‘Sorry.’ He grins ruefully, giving me the benefit of two rows of white teeth, and rubs his forehead. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Then it hits me.

  I flush instantly and comprehensively, from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair.

  I knew I recognised his deep rumble. He’s asked me if I’m all right once before – on that excruciatingly embarrassing day in the supermarket.

  It’s Mr Newspaper Lurker.

  The Hulk.

  Oh, God.

  Not only did he witness my public dumping by Nathan, but I was very rude to him in my desperation to get out of that supermarket.

  He hands me my key. ‘You don’t want to run the risk of a strange man finding it.’

  I laugh politely, my face glowing so brightly I’d probably be spotted from outer space. ‘Well, thanks very much.’

  He raises a hand and takes the stairs three at a time.

  I close the door and lean back against it, feeling thoroughly unsettled.

  Thank God he didn’t recognise me …

  Chapter Nine

  I’m on the verge of chickening out of choir practice. But Barb seems determined I should go.

  One of my dear friend’s less attractive character traits is that once she gets an idea in her head, she bangs on about it until one of two things happens: she convinces you she’s right or you lose the will to live and cave in.

  Either way, she tends to win.

  ‘You need to stop moping at home and widen your social circle,’ she reminds me for the forty-seventh time, on her way out of the house on Thursday morning.

  ‘Broken record,’ I drone. ‘What other gems do you have for me? There’s plenty more fish in the sea? When one door closes, a window of opportunity opens? Never dip your wick in the office ink?’

  She shrugs. ‘What about car maintenance classes, then? I’ll sign you up tonight.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Please don’t. I’ll go to bloody choir practice if it means so much to you.’

  Actually, I think she’s right. I do need to shake up my life. And spending more time with Jasper is bound to be a good thing. He’s got such lovely, positive energy and it’s sure to rub off.

  I take some time deciding what to wear in my new vocation of songstress, and in the end I plump for plain black trousers, black patent leather heels, a white shirt tucked in and a slender metallic belt.

  At the last minute I change into sensible loafers.

  I need to take this seriously. I don’t want to look like I’m after a date with the choir master.

  Because I’m not.

  I really am not.

  Jasper is nice and attractive and everything – but I’m widening my social circle here. Nothing else.

  At seven-thirty prompt, Jasper – like a handsome but dishevelled whirlwind – bangs on the door, gives my outfit an appreciative wink and dashes out to the car, saying he’ll wait for me there.

  I slick on some extra lip gloss and call cheerio to Barb, who’s engaged in some weird craft thing in the kitchen, involving lots of paper and glue.

  ‘Sing your heart out,’ she calls. ‘Or on second thoughts, don’t.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I grab my bag and head for the door.

  ‘More Scandinavian bloodshed when you get back?’

  ‘Yeah, great.’

  I rush out and dive round to the passenger side.

  And stop dead in my tracks.

  Oh God, it’s him again.

  Seb From Upstairs.

  I slip in the back seat with a breezy, ‘Hi!’

  ‘Okay?’ Jasper turns and grins at me. ‘I was just saying to Seb, I bet you’ve got a lovely voice.’

  The smile freezes on my face.

  Jasper laughs. ‘Hey, don’t look so worried. Everyone’s nervous the first time they sing alone in front of a crowd.’

  I gulp.

  What does he mean, alone in front of a crowd?

  Don’t say I’m going to have to audition?

  Seb turns and grins at me. ‘Bet you can’t wait to show us that fine voice of yours.’

  I throw him a daggers look, while my stomach turns over in panic.

  Luckily, Jasper’s too busy checking his pockets for his wallet to pick up on his flatmate’s sarcasm.

  I stare venomously at the back of Seb’s head.

  What the hell is he doing going to choir practice, anyway?

  He doesn’t look the type. If there is a type. (I’m probably being choir-ist here.)

  Can he hold a tune?

  He can probably hold practically anything else, bearing in mind those muscly arms. But I really can’t imagine him doing justice to ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’.

  He turns at that moment and catches me glaring.

  ‘So what kind of music do you like, Lola?’

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ I say airily.

  I hate it when people ask me that. It’s like a test to see how cool you are.

  ‘What about musicals?’

  ‘What about them?’ If I sound a tad defensive, it’s because I have a horrible feeling I know where this is going. And the last thing I need is Seb telling Jasper about my yodelling.

  Seb shrugs his expansive shoulders. ‘Can’t see what all the fuss is about, personally. Cats. Mamma Mia. The Sound of Music. But people seem to like them.’

  I swallow.

  ‘Well, I prefer classical music,’ I announce, in a desperate effort to derail this steam train.

  The car moves off and Jasper glances interestedly at me in his rear view mirror. ‘Oh, yes? What in particular?’

  ‘Erm…’ I stare pensively out of the window as if I’m giving great thought to the question. To be truthful, my only brush with classical was listening to Dad trying to master one of Chopin’s nocturnes on our old piano when I was a kid.

  ‘Piano!’ I blurt out. ‘I love piano music.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Jasper smiles. ‘Nothing like listening to a pianist in concert. My father actually heard the great Ashkenazy perform at a London venue back in the seventies.’

  ‘Oh wow. How marvellous!’ My eyebrows shoot up in appreciation. ‘Ash Kenazy. Yes, he was great, wasn’t he?’

  I’ve never heard of this Mr Kenazy but I can tell from Jasper’s voice, he was clearly a genius.

  ‘He still is, actually,’ Seb murmurs drily.

  The flame in my cheeks could rival an Olympic torch. ‘Well, yes, I know that. Obviously. I just meant he doesn’t – er – play as much these days, being a ripe old age and all.’

  Jasper nods. ‘That’s true.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief and uncross my fingers.

  Why the hell did I allow Barb to badger me into this? I’m obviously completely out of my depth here.

  There must be easier ways to make new friends. In fact, do I actually need new friends? Oh God, why is life so bloody complicated? I could be home right now watching a box set. No, no, no! That’s the whole point of this exercise. To wean me off the box sets …

  The community centre room, where we’re rehearsing, is quite spacious, with a galley kitchen off one end. It’s clearly used for a playgroup because there are lots of colourful, splodgy paintings decorating the walls. There’s a huge oak table at one end, surrounded by a mish-mash of plastic and wooden chairs, and a well-worn piano at the other.

  Half a dozen or so women are sitting around the table and, when the three of us walk in, one of them – a t
iny girl with bleached blonde pixie hair – rises to her feet and comes over.

  ‘Hello, Jasper. Shall I make some tea?’ She’s got a lovely, broad Yorkshire accent. ‘Or shall we just get stuck in, so to speak?’

  ‘Trudy. Hi.’ Jasper glances at his watch. ‘We’re running a bit late. So let’s run through what we did last time. Then we can take a break, okay?’

  He introduces Seb and me, and Trudy shakes our hands. Then she leans over and nudges me. ‘Welcome to our merry little band of carollers. Eeh, I love Christmas, don’t you?’

  The question takes me completely by surprise.

  Actually, I don’t love Christmas at all. In fact, I usually can’t wait to see the back of it.

  But since she’s being so warm and friendly, I return her wide smile and say, ‘Oh, yes. Adore it.’ My mouth is open, all ready to start singing, ‘It’s the most wonderful time of the year!’ when I suddenly remember I’m not here to sing.

  Not if I want to be allowed to stay, at any rate.

  I close my mouth and smile instead.

  ‘Everyone, this is Lola. She’s going to be joining us,’ says Jasper. ‘And Seb will be filming us, as I mentioned.’

  Seb and I smile and raise our hands in greeting, and Jasper goes off into a little ante-room, next to the kitchen, leaving everyone to introduce themselves properly.

  There’s a group of five older women in their sixties, who are apparently all called Marjorie. (Well, two of them are. But I’m hopeless at remembering people’s names and promptly forget the others.) They’re keen to know if I’ve been in a choir before and whether I play a musical instrument. I tell them I’m not terribly musical but I love Christmas carols and I’m looking forward to joining in.

  Then there’s a shy-looking teenager called Rosa, who’s apparently a newcomer, like me. (There the similarity ends, however, because, presumably, Rosa can actually sing.) She looks terrified, though, as if she’d like to run away, and she’s trying desperately to hide behind her long, dark hair.

  When Jasper comes back in, it’s as if a light has gone on in the room. Everyone turns and smiles at him for direction. And I remember why I’m there.

  ‘Right.’ He rubs his hands together and takes his seat at the piano. ‘Rosa, how about we hear you first? What about “O Little Town of Bethlehem”?’

  My insides give a huge lurch.

  Poor Rosa blanches and steps back onto someone’s foot. It belongs to one of the Marjories and she gives a little involuntary yelp, which only makes me even more tense.

  So my worst nightmare is coming true. I’m going to have to sing in front of everyone.

  On my own.

  I’ll have nowhere to hide.

  I’d hoped it was going to be a jolly sing-song, nothing serious, just lots of carols I’ve known since school days and all in aid of charity. But no such luck.

  Suddenly, I’m firmly in the Rosa camp. I really want to run away but I can’t because my legs feel like water.

  I put a hand out to steady myself on a chair back. Seb notices and takes my arm.

  ‘Waaaaay. Steady there,’ he murmurs. ‘Not nervous, are you?’ His green eyes are full of knowing laughter.

  Noticing Trudy watching us, I flush hotly and snatch my arm away.

  ‘Of course I’m not nervous.’ I bark out a laugh and several people turn round. ‘Why would I be nervous?’

  Seb folds his arms and points to Rosa, obviously suggesting I should be quiet and listen.

  I fume quietly.

  Rosa, bless her, is so anxious she can barely get the words out. She keeps pausing to clear her throat and everyone is looking awkwardly at the floor.

  Then Jasper suggests she turn away from us, her audience, and pretend she’s singing only to her family. And, after some encouragement, she does just that. She still sounds shaky but you can hear beneath the nerves that she has a really good voice.

  We all applaud when she finishes.

  Then everyone turns and looks expectantly at me.

  My palms are sweating but my mouth is suddenly dry as sawdust.

  ‘Do you want to do the same, Lola?’ asks Jasper. ‘Or would you prefer a different carol? “Silent Night” perhaps?’

  I clear my throat and attempt a smile but my lips are quivering so badly, I probably look as if I’m constipated.

  The only ‘silent night’ I’m up for is issuing everyone with heavy-duty earplugs.

  I clear my throat again and swallow hard.

  My heart is crashing so loudly in my ears, it’s practically rendering me deaf.

  ‘Eeh, Jasper, sorry to interrupt but Lola’s got a really sore throat,’ pipes up Trudy. ‘I were actually just going to get her one of my lozenges.’ She points in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, really?’ says Jasper, looking concerned.

  I glance at Trudy. Sore throat? What …?

  She winks discreetly and I catch on.

  ‘Eeh, yes, I have. It’s quite sore, really,’ I say, aware that I’ve adopted Trudy’s Yorkshire accent for some strange reason.

  Behind me, Seb snorts and turns it into a cough.

  ‘You should have told me, Lola,’ says Jasper. ‘Can’t have you singing in that condition. Can you sort her out, Trudy?’

  ‘Aye, no problem. Come on, Lola.’

  Relief flooding through me, I follow her into the kitchen, admiring her very stylish outfit. She’s wearing skinny black jeans, lace-up boots and a fitted red tartan top with billowing chiffon sleeves.

  In the kitchen, she leans back against the sink, folds her arms and grins at me. ‘So what are you doing joining Jas’s choir if you can’t actually sing?’

  ‘Who told you that?’ I’m so happy at being spared the audition, when I laugh it borders on hysterical.

  ‘No one,’ says Trudy. ‘I could tell you were terrified by the constipated look on your face. I thought you were going to keel over when Jasper asked what you wanted to sing.’

  ‘But Rosa was terrified, too, and she could sing.’

  ‘Yes, but she was scared because she’s painfully shy. You’re not. So there had to be another reason.’

  ‘Well, thank you for rescuing me. I’m eternally in your debt.’

  She grins. ‘You can start by telling me what brought you here. That must be one intriguing story.’

  I’m a bit taken aback by her directness, but I reckon I owe her big time. So I tell her all about Nathan and the break-up and how I was descending into box-set lethargy and needed to shake up my life.

  ‘I feel stupid now,’ I admit. ‘I thought I could just get lost in the crowd and mime. But Jasper’s obviously a real musician.’

  She nods. ‘He’s a genius. Plays all sorts of instruments. But he’s rubbish at the admin side. Organising venues, getting posters done, that sort of thing.’ Her eyes light up. ‘Hey, maybe you could put yourself forward as choir secretary. We definitely need one. And that way…’ She shrugs.

  ‘I wouldn’t have to sing. Brilliant.’

  ‘We’d better get back in there. Look ill, for God’s sake.’

  I cough loudly and grasp my throat.

  ‘Is he your boyfriend by the way?’ she murmurs.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That hunk who’s taking the photos.’

  ‘What, Seb? No!’

  She gives me one of her probing looks and I turn as pink as candyfloss.

  Then Jasper calls her over to the piano and I get my second reprieve of the night.

  I stand at a slight distance, listening to the choir’s lovely rendition of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ followed by ‘Good King Wenceslas’. I can pick out Rosa’s beautiful voice. She’s smiling and seems to be enjoying herself now.

  Seb is prowling around the room, shooting the whole thing. I worry that he might accidentally capture me on film so I retreat hastily to the back of the room and slump down in a tiny plastic chair, wondering how the hell I’m going to explain to Jasper that I can’t sing but that I’d like to be c
hoir secretary.

  He’ll think I’m totally barmy.

  I feel like I’m walking on shifting sands the whole time these days, wishing I had something solid and reliable to grab on to.

  It’s not very comfortable.

  And neither is this chair. I’m sort of wedged in it and it feels like it might collapse at any minute under my weight. Then I realise it’s obviously meant for a child at the playgroup. Oh well, too bad.

  Tonight was supposed to give me a boost. But to be honest, I feel more deflated than ever. Because whichever way you look at it, I’m a fake.

  I bend the truth about my life because compared to my brother, I feel like a failure. And I lied about who I was to Nathan. I pretended to like the running and the working out because I wanted to please him. I’ve done that with other boyfriends, too. There was a guy called Rufus who was heavily into saving the environment and I stopped using aerosols and my tumble dryer, purely to accommodate his way of living. Then he buggered off with an environmentally friendly blonde from Clacton-on-Sea.

  And now I’ve got myself into yet another dodgy situation, by pretending I can sing.

  Faking it all over again.

  Well, enough is enough.

  I’m going to Manchester at the weekend to see Mum and Dad, and I’ve decided I’m going to be completely honest about the Christmas situation. I’ll just tell them the flat is way too small to accommodate them all and we’ll have to make alternative arrangements.

  Seb wanders over. ‘How’s the throat?’

  ‘It’s getting better.’ I glare at him and, to my total irritation, he responds by raising his camera and snapping me.

  I snap right back. ‘Thanks a bunch.’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t I get your best side?’

  ‘Ha flipping ha. So is this what you do, then?’

  ‘Photography? No. I’m in retail.’ He grins. ‘Speaking of which, I don’t suppose Freshfoods will be on your Christmas card list this year.’

  Heat rises up my cheeks. So he did recognise me from that horrible day.

  Well, of course he did. Honestly, I’m such a bloody idiot. I shouted at him in Freshfoods and all he was doing was buying a newspaper. Did I really imagine he wouldn’t remember me?

  And now the choir’s singing ‘Little Donkey’, which I absolutely love and hate all at the same time.