Barb laughs. ‘You haven’t even got a first mortgage.’
‘Well, precisely.’ I sigh with frustration. ‘What am I going to do, Barb? Where will they all sleep for starters?’
‘I’ve already said you can make use of my room. I’ll be at Mum and Dad’s anyway, so your parents can sleep in there, Rob and Justine can use your room and you can sleep on the sofa bed in the living room.’ She beams at me. ‘Sorted!’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
She laughs. ‘Of course not. I mean, I’ll obviously be locking my diamond tiara away and I’ll really have to insist they obey my “no sex” rule because those Egyptian cotton sheets cost an absolute fortune—’
‘Oh, yuk! Barb!’ I yell, covering my ears. ‘You can’t mention sex and my parents in the same sentence.’
She snorts.
‘Stop laughing. This is serious. It will all go horribly wrong if I can’t work out how to keep them smiling. For five whole days.’
She breathes out sharply. ‘Lola, why do you always feel so bloody responsible for everyone’s happiness?’
‘I don’t.’
‘You do. Let them come and if they don’t enjoy themselves, that’s their look-out.’
‘That’s easy to say, Barb. But you don’t know my sister-in-law. If Justine’s unhappy, she’ll make sure everyone else is miserable, too.’
Brab shrugs. ‘Well, let’s make sure they have a Christmas they’ll never forget.’
‘There’ll not be much festive sparkle on a budget of three pounds fifty.’
‘Now, that’s where you’re wrong. There’s loads of things we can do on the cheap to conjure up some Christmas magic.’ She leaps to her feet, a strange gleam in her eyes. ‘Come on. I want to show you something.’
She leads me out of the living room and into her bedroom.
‘I haven’t been entirely idle when it comes to Operation Christmas.’ She grins and throws out her arms. ‘Ta-da!’
I stand there, gawping in amazement. I’m not quite sure what I’m looking at, but it’s like an eerie scene from a sci-fi movie.
In one corner, suspended from the ceiling by string, are about a dozen white globes, all slightly larger than a ping-pong ball. It’s like a mini solar system with identical planets. The two nearest the door swing slightly in the sudden draught.
I walk over and stand underneath them, staring upwards. ‘What the hell…? Is that Blu-tack?’
‘Yeah, genius, eh? I’ve stuck them to the ceiling on string so they’ll dry out. What do you think? They should be ready to be spray-painted by tomorrow night.’
‘And these will save Christmas?’ I ask doubtfully.
‘They’ll look brilliant. Trust me. You’ll never touch a shop-bought bauble again after you’ve seen these babies on your tree!’
I smile and nod, wanting to look excited because Barb’s gone to so much trouble, but feeling only mild despair.
I can just imagine Justine’s face when she realises the decorations are home-made.
Justine’s trees (there’s always one in the hall and one in the living room) are immaculately decked out in the stylish colour schemes of the season. Orange and pink. Lilac and silver. Turquoise and chocolate brown. With not a tacky bit of tinsel or a Blue Peter-inspired, sticky-backed plastic job in sight.
I love Barb for trying to help.
But to be honest, those sad, dangly balls make me feel even less hopeful of a merry Christmas than I was before.
Four weeks until Christmas
FRUITY CHRISTMAS TREE DECORATIONS
These pretty tree decorations will bring the scent of Christmas to your room.
You will need:
2 oranges
Ribbon or string
•Heat your oven to 140 oC/120 oC fan/gas mark 1.
•Line several baking trays with baking parchment.
•Cut your oranges very thinly and arrange the slices on the trays.
•Bake for 45 mins–1 hour, until the oranges are completely dried out, turning them over half-way through.
•Leave them to cool.
•Thread ribbon or string through the centres of the orange slices then tie a knot to secure and hang on your tree.
Chapter Twelve
It’s the following Wednesday, which means Thursday night choir practice is rolling around again.
I’ve been sort of dodging Jasper for days, just in case we get talking and he asks me about the ‘very important things’ that kept me from attending choir practice last week.
Mind you, I doubt if he’d even have time to stop and chat.
He’s always so incredibly busy, dashing out to his car then forgetting something and having to race back upstairs for it, before roaring off in his ancient Subaru. (Not that I deliberately spy on him from the living room window. No, no, it just so happens the light is best for reading in that chair. And in between the job hunting, I do have an awful lot of time on my hands these days…)
‘Penny for them?’ asks Barb.
I grin at her. ‘You don’t want to know.’
We’re watching Coronation Street, but, to be honest, I haven’t heard a word. I’m too busy agonising about Jasper and the choir, in between casually ruminating on whether anyone ever steals Christmas trees from forests (they must do, surely, but I guess you’d need a big saw) and wondering if it’s possible to freeze Brussels sprouts (so I can buy them cheaply when they’re marked down and thaw them on Christmas Eve).
‘By the way, I bumped into Seb today,’ Barb says in the adverts. ‘What a laugh! That guy is so funny when he gets started. We talked about you, actually, among other things.’
‘Me?’ I gaze at her suspiciously. ‘What about me?’
‘Oh, I was just saying you had your family coming for Christmas and you’d just lost your job and you were wondering how on earth you’d manage—’
‘Gee, thanks, Barb. Just tell the whole world, why don’t you!’
She looks stricken. For all of three seconds. ‘Well, it’s not a secret, is it? And anyway, he came up with a really good suggestion.’
‘Oh yes?’
She nods. ‘He said he was at the garden centre the other day and he noticed they were advertising for extra staff on Sundays in the run-up to Christmas. He thought you should give them a ring.’
I pull a non-committal face.
‘What do you think?’ she asks. ‘It might pay for Christmas at least.’
I shrug and Barb gives me a funny look.
It’s irrational, I know, but I hate the thought of Seb feeling sorry for me.
‘I’ll phone them,’ I concede.
She smiles. ‘Seb’s great. We chatted for ages. Caused a bit of a blockage on the High Street, actually.’
‘I can imagine,’ I say drily, thinking of the sheer bulk of the man.
‘Don’t you like him, then?’ Barb looks surprised. ‘Because I think he’s funny and really quite sexy.’
I pull a face. ‘If you like the muscle-bound, so-laid-back-he-should-have-a-sun-lounger-strapped-to-his-back type.’
Barb turns in her chair. ‘Muscle-bound? That would suggest he looks like a weightlifter. But he doesn’t. He’s just got muscles in all the right places.’
Shrugging, I say, ‘Well, I prefer Jasper.’
‘Oh, do you, now?’
‘No, not like that,’ I protest. ‘He’s just a lovely, friendly, straight up guy, that’s all.’
Barb frowns. ‘He’s nice enough, I suppose. But he’s got no pizzazz! Plus I get the feeling he doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. He dropped his keys down the drain last week.’
‘So? Anyone could do that.’
She rolls her eyes.
‘Actually,’ I inform her, ‘what you probably don’t know is he’s a bit of a musical genius. And a genius is allowed to be vague about practical stuff.’
Barb gives me a big, knowing wink and opens her mouth to comment.
‘Sh!’ I point at the screen where
the ad break is ending.
Saved by the Coronation Street theme tune!
Next morning, I’m returning from a fruitless visit to the jobcentre and fumbling for my keys to the main entrance when Jasper appears.
‘Here. Let me.’ He opens the door and holds it wide for me with one of his big, twinkly smiles. ‘How are you? Seb said you’ve got a lot on your plate at the moment?’
I laugh. ‘Yes, tons to do. Seem to be chasing my tail the whole time.’
He groans. ‘Tell me about it. But you’re not too busy to come to choir practice tonight?’
He sees my hesitation.
‘Come on. We’re relying on you. The more the merrier!’
‘Oh, well, I suppose I could. I mean, if you really want me to.’
He winks. ‘I really want you to.’
‘Okay, then.’
Aaaargh! I’ve done it again!
But I defy anyone to resist those chocolate brown puppy dog eyes.
‘Great! I’ll see you later.’
He’s turning to go.
I take a deep breath. ‘Jasper?’
‘Yes?’
‘There’s something you need to know. I – er - can’t actually sing.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone can sing.’
‘No, really. I’m rubbish. I crack mirrors. I’d be the novelty act on The X Factor.’ I shrug. ‘I’m told it’s bad.’
‘Oh.’ He frowns. ‘That’s a shame because I know everyone was keen to see you again. Trudy in particular was wondering where you were last week.’
‘Really? That’s nice.’ I can’t help feeling touched.
Then I remember Trudy’s idea. ‘Do you need help with stuff behind the scenes? I could phone round and get us some gigs. Put a poster together. That sort of thing.’
‘Brilliant idea.’ He nods enthusiastically. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? You can get us organised.’
He glances at his watch. ‘Gotta go just now. Talk later.’
I stand back to let the whirlwind through.
‘Welcome on-board, Lola!’ he calls as the door slams after him.
With only three weeks left till Christmas and still no luck on the jobs front, I decide to phone the garden centre.
I speak to someone called Sally and, as soon as she hears my query and my name, she says, ‘Right, love, can you come in this Sunday?’
I’m slightly taken aback. ‘You mean for an interview?’
‘Er…yes, if you like. Just ask for me when you arrive. See you then!’
I hang up, amazed.
For ages, I’ve been doggedly applying for jobs, filling out long, detailed application forms and drafting letter after letter proclaiming how perfect I’d be for the post.
And so far, nothing.
But in the space of a ten-second telephone call, I appear to have landed a job interview!
Okay, it’s an interview for a temporary, seasonal job that probably pays peanuts. But it’s a job nonetheless. And it might mean we can have actual turkey for Christmas lunch instead of spam fritters.
Perhaps my luck is changing.
Later, I get ready for choir practice, feeling quite cheerful.
I’ve been working on some ideas for a poster so I push the designs into a folder, slick on more lip gloss and climb the stairs to Jasper’s flat.
He’s on the phone but he gives me a big smile and a thumbs-up, and beckons me in. I stand in the living room, while he talks, trying hard to keep my eyes fixed on the coffee table and not veering with hungry curiosity all over this bachelor-inhabited space with its black leather seating and dramatic modern art on the walls. My nose twitches. An appetising, garlicky aroma hangs in the air and I’m getting the occasional whiff of a delicious, ozone-based man spray.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, Seb, I saw the message you left,’ Jasper’s saying. He picks up a sticky memo note from the coffee table and slaps it on the desk diary he’s holding. ‘I’ll phone him. No, I will. Gotta go now, though. Lola’s here.’
Seb clearly hasn’t finished.
‘Yes, mate. No, mate. I will!’ He throws me a bemused smile. ‘Yes, now. I’ll call him now.’
He hangs up and slips the phone in his pocket.
‘Do it,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t mind waiting.’
‘No, no, we’ll be late. I’ll call him as soon as we get there. Quite important, actually. Some music producer wanting to set up a meeting.’
‘Wow, that’s exciting!’
He nods vaguely. ‘Where the hell are my bloody car keys?’
I extract them from a side table that’s loaded with newspapers and empty coffee mugs, and dangle them with a smile.
‘Well done. Let’s go.’ He gives me his wide, boyish grin, grabs the keys and heads for the door, only pausing to glance briefly in the hall mirror and flatten down his hair (totally redundant, since the dark curls spring right back up).
‘Looking gorgeous, by the way, Miss Lola.’ He opens the door to let me through and gives me an appreciative look that makes me blush to the roots of my own, smoothed-with-product hair.
I pull my stomach in and give silent thanks to Nathan for getting me into the walking habit. I’ve been along to my bench by the lake practically every day this week and the exercise is obviously doing me good. After a brief ballooning period, post-Nathan, when I developed a prolonged craving for pastries, I’m now back into my skinny jeans and it feels good.
In the car, Jasper hands me the desk diary and we chat about the venues I’ve already got lined up for the choir.
‘Seb not wielding his camera tonight?’ I enquire.
Jasper shakes his head. ‘Out partying tonight. Can’t recall where or who with.’ He chuckles. ‘Mind you, it’s probably something to do with work. That’s all he seems to do these days.’
I’m about to ask what it is Seb actually does in retail, when I realise we’ve arrived at the community centre.
Trudy bounds over. ‘Ee, Lola, you’ve come back!’ She beams at me and Jasper in turn. (And instantly, I’m wondering what’s going through that razor-sharp mind of hers.)
‘Hi, Trude.’ Jasper makes for the office.
‘Have we got time for a cuppa before we start?’ she calls after him.
‘Yeah, go on then.’
‘Jasper?’
He turns at the door.
‘Your flies are undone.’ She does an exaggerated point with both hands and there’s a ripple of laughter from the Marjories.
‘He’s lovely, isn’t he?’ says Trudy. ‘And so talented.’
I watch as Jasper looks down, does the hurried zip thing then disappears into the office.
I grin at her. ‘Jasper’s great, yes. Look, I’ll make the tea. That’s my job now. I’m here to help out.’
‘Oh, okay.’ She gives me a little knowing smile and follows me into the kitchen.
‘It’s nice that you live in the same building, you and Jasper,’ she comments as I fill the kettle.
‘Mm, yes, isn’t it?’
‘And of course Seb as well.’
‘Yes. Trudy, where are the biscuits kept?’ I ask sweetly, on the basis that if I show I’m irritated by her questions, she’ll just read something into it.
We take in the tea and I make sure there are ten chairs around the wooden table, enough for everyone. And we sit and chat about venues. One of the Marjories is keen we should visit the care home where her mother is looked after, so I make a note to call them. I bring out my folder of poster suggestions and we decide on our favourite.
Then I get to sit back and listen to the rehearsal.
They start off with a trio of beautiful carols: ‘Silent Night’, ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ and ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. The pace picks up with a medley of classics, including ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’. Then there’s a simple but achingly beautiful rendition of ‘Away In a Manger’ that catches me off guard completely. When they start on ‘Little Donkey’, my eyes brim
with tears and I decide it’s time to tidy up the kitchen before I make a total fool of myself.
Afterwards, I call the care home.
The manager answers and she seems thrilled when I ask her if she’d like us to come in and sing for the residents the week before Christmas. ‘Oh, they’ll absolutely love that,’ she says. ‘Doesn’t matter how old and cynical you get, those classic carols are magical, aren’t they?’
‘Brilliant! We’ll be in touch to organise a date,’ I tell her.
‘Bless you, love.’
I end the call, feeling suddenly filled to the brim with Christmas spirit, all thanks to Jasper and his wonderful idea to bring a little magic into people’s lives. He’s doing it all in his own time, too. Trudy’s right. He is amazing.
Then I catch sight of his diary with Seb’s memo stuck to the front.
He still hasn’t phoned that guy, despite being prompted repeatedly by Seb on the phone earlier.
If Jasper’s not careful, he’ll end up wasting what could be a fantastic career opportunity. I look at the number and the name beside it. It wouldn’t hurt for me to give this Mike person a call, would it? Just to show him that Jasper’s definitely interested.
I dither for a while as the choir starts up with ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’.
Then I escape to the kitchen for some quiet and make the call.
The guy, Mike, picks up almost immediately, so I introduce myself as Jasper’s secretary, thank him for his call and tell him Jasper is very keen to get a date in the diary to meet up.
I come off the phone with a choice of dates and times for Jasper to choose from.
I’m a bit nervous about Jasper’s reaction. But when I tell him, he beams at me. ‘Bloody brilliant!’
‘No problem. Which date suits you and I’ll call him right back?’ I know if I don’t prompt him, it’s unlikely to happen.
We decide on a day and Jasper says, ‘Thanks so much, Lola. Can I buy you a drink after this?’
‘Oh, you don’t have to—’
‘I know, but I want to.’
I can feel Trudy’s beady eyes on us. But, to be honest, I don’t even care. This is the best I’ve felt in a long time and Trudy can think what she likes.
Mistletoe and Mayhem Page 11
