Mistletoe and Mayhem

by Catherine Ferguson

  I still get a serious wobble on at one point, though.

  But I am not disheartened.

  On Sunday morning, I’ll be totally sober and in control.

  Four miles is nothing to a seasoned cyclist. And best of all, it’s free transport!

  ‘Garden centres are great for Chrish decos,’ mumbles Barb when we’re back in the flat.

  ‘Can’t afford it,’ I say automatically.

  ‘No, no, no.’ She does such an emphatic shake of the head, she nearly topples over. ‘I mean for insh – inshp - inshpishation.’

  I collapse onto the sofa, giggling. ‘You mean inspiration?’

  ‘That’s the fella!’ She points at me, eyes vaguely crossed.

  ‘You mean make more stuff? What do you think I am, an ex-Blue Peter presenter?’

  She falls back into a chair, looking mildly offended. ‘The baublesh good.’

  ‘The baubles are very good,’ I translate, thoughtfully. ‘And actually, I’m thinking a garden centre staff discount on a Christmas tree might be very good, too.’

  Sunday dawns.

  It’s a bitingly cold day in early December, but, thankfully, the roads aren’t icy.

  I start work at ten but I’m leaving early in case of a minor mishap en route.

  Like falling off the bike and ending up at A & E with a broken leg and my head in blood-soaked bandages. (No, of course I’m not nervous and anticipating the worst.)

  This will be an absolute doddle, I tell myself firmly, trying to ignore the trembling in my legs as I mount the bike and wobble away.

  At least the roads are deathly quiet this early on a Sunday morning, so my wobbles are unlikely to cause a major pile-up.

  I’m dressed for an arctic winter in bulky layers and a very long multi-coloured scarf, knitted by Barb after her break-up with Frank. She got a bit carried away. It’s endless enough to cordon off a minor crime scene. (Barb said she needed something to do with her hands, otherwise there was no telling what they’d end up doing to her ex).

  Even the humungous scarf doesn’t stop the nasty, chill wind whipping at my ears.

  I cycle through the village, thankful the streets are practically deserted. After a brief incline, which warms me up no end, there’s a lovely downhill stretch where I can practically freewheel. This is great, I think, whizzing along. I’ll be at the garden centre in no time. Ten out of ten for punctuality!

  Of course the problem with freewheeling is there’s usually a price to pay afterwards.

  Five minutes later, I’m puffing up a hill that seems to have the gradient of a kid’s garden slide.

  I’m gasping for air and my face must be brick red. And typically, just up ahead, there are two early morning joggers who look as if they’re running faster than I am cycling.

  I grit my teeth and renew my efforts, concentrating on the brow of the hill. One big push and I’ll be there and then I can freewheel down the other side.

  I’m almost drawing level with the runners, a man and a woman.

  The man, in black Lycra, is flying along with the ease of an athlete. The woman is almost keeping pace with him, a few yards behind, but her head is down and it looks more of an effort.

  Memories of Sunday morning runs with Nathan flash into my head and my heart goes out to her. I bet she didn’t really want to haul herself out of bed this early …

  Come to think of it, don’t I recognise the man’s back view?

  My heart does a giant thud.

  Dark hair, sleek with sweat; long, wiry legs with over-developed calf muscles; slash of green on the shorts …

  Oh fuck, it is Nathan!

  And Crystal!

  Strength drains from my legs like water down a plughole.

  Oh, bloody, buggery bollocks!

  A wave of nausea washes through me.

  Perhaps I should pull in to the side of the road for a bit and let them run on.

  A second later, I think, Bugger them! I’m not going to let bloody Nathan and That Crystal Cow make me late for work!

  I will get there on time.

  So I put my head down and push on, finally drawing level with them.

  Oh God, they’re going to see it’s me.

  A flash of inspiration hits.

  I jerk the scarf loose and – with a heart-stopping wobble in the process – manage to pull it up over my nose and mouth to form a sort of mask disguise.

  Ha! Cunning.

  Now there’s no way they’ll ever recognise –

  ‘Lola? Is that you?’

  I try to pedal faster but my legs are in such extreme agony, I feel like I’m pushing against the tide.

  Nathan sprints level with me. ‘You need to watch that scarf. It’s trailing dangerously near your spokes.’

  I hunch my shoulders and plough on, ignoring him.

  My painful gasps rocket to a whole new level of agony.

  ‘For God’s sake, Lola,’ he yells. ‘Didn’t I teach you anything?’

  I grit my teeth crossly.

  Bloody typical of him, shouting helpful bloody instructions like he’s my frigging personal trainer or something. Which, of course, was precisely how he saw himself.

  A personal trainer. With benefits. (And I’m not talking about the pension and the company share scheme.)

  The bastard isn’t even out of breath.

  How is that fair?

  Well, I’m bloody not stopping for him—

  Next second, there’s a sharp tug at my throat, a force nine gales blasts my bare face and neck and the bike grinds to a sudden halt. (I’d have been over the handlebars if I wasn’t moving slower than a tortoise with a bad hangover.)

  Shocked, I freeze in mid-air for a millisecond before the bike goes crashing to the ground. With me on top of it.

  I lie there, face down and winded, aware of a nasty, throbbing pain in my left knee which took the brunt of my fall.

  ‘Oh dear, are you all right, Lola?’ calls Crystal.

  I growl.

  Nathan takes a careful hold of me and helps me to get clear, moving me and the bike onto the verge. I sit down on the grass and prod my knee gingerly.

  Nathan crouches down in front of me. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’

  ‘No!’ I shout in his face and he looks startled.

  The knob head! Of course I’m bloody hurting. But I’m damned if I’m going to give him the satisfaction of trying out his newly-honed sports injury skills.

  ‘Just help me up,’ I order, reaching for his hand.

  ‘Do you think we should get her checked out, darling?’ trills Crystal in a cutsie voice that’s loaded with fake concern.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I snap.

  My teeth are gritted with pain and humiliation in equal measure.

  Crystal loops her arm round Nathan’s waist and smiles. Her smug look says: I win, you lose: he’s mine! And what’s more I am model-slim in my Lycra and you look like shit.

  I want the grass verge to gobble me up.

  For cringe-worthiness, this is right up there with the time I was watching a tennis tournament with Nathan and I asked him why the fella in charge kept shouting for juice but never actually got any.

  Nathan had to patiently explain that the umpire was calling ‘deuce’, not requesting refreshment.

  He releases Barb’s woolly scarf, which has got completely entwined in the front wheel spokes. He hands it back to me and I mutter my thanks and sling the scarf round my neck.

  Obviously, with my knee stinging like crazy, I’m going to have to wheel the bike to the top of the hill.

  Nathan starts walking beside me, offering to help. And suddenly, I remember how caring and thoughtful he could be when we were together. Once he ran all the way home to bring me my flats when I was in danger of ruining my gorgeous new heels in a rainstorm.

  He was my hero that day.

  He’s no doubt running candlelit baths for Crystal now, sitting on the side, telling her funny stories about his day …

  A painful lump for
ms in my throat.

  ‘I can manage,’ I mutter, keeping my tear-filled eyes firmly on the ground.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks doubtfully, resting a hand lightly on my back.

  ‘I’m sure. Now go!’

  ‘Okay. Well, bye then.’

  The lovers jog off, arms slung loosely around one other, chatting as they go.

  Crystal turns and glances over her shoulder at me and I pretend I haven’t noticed.

  No doubt they’re having a grand time discussing how much I’ve let myself go in my bag-lady clothes and feeling oh-so-thankful that they found each other.

  I’d throw up if I could find the energy.

  They’re just opening up as I finally limp through the gates of the Sunflower Garden Centre.

  It’s four minutes to ten. I’m hot and flustered and my hair is all over the place. Not a good look but I’ve got a change of clothes in my backpack.

  I dive into the ladies’ and do a quick mop-up job, blotting my shiny nose and rinsing my underarms. My knee is in a bad state, all bloody beneath my sweat pants, and easing on my black trousers is a bit of a nightmare.

  Sally greets me with a big smile.

  ‘Hi, Lola. You came back, then!’ she jokes. ‘Brilliant! Come through to the stock room. You’ll be working in there this morning. With Charlotte.’

  I follow her through to a cavernous room with floor to ceiling shelves lining the walls and a big workbench in the middle.

  Charlotte is standing at the bench, using scissors to slash open a large cardboard box.

  ‘Lola!’ she squeaks delightedly, beaming from ear to ear. ‘I’ve got so much to tell you. You just won’t believe it. We’ve made such amazing progress on the wedding favours. You know how I couldn’t decide between the personalised love hearts and A Little Bag of Happiness? Well, I went to a wedding fayre and I found the perfect favour. I’ll show you later and you can tell me what you think.’

  Oh, God! Not favours!

  I’m desperate to ask her if she’d do me a favour (but not the love heart sort) and stop talking about bloody weddings.

  But it would be like shooting a deer. I couldn’t do it. She’s so sweet with those dimples and all that happy optimism. She’d be so hurt.

  So I resign myself to an intense monologue on favours – plus a tension headache. At one point, she cocks her head and says, ‘Have you done anything nice this weekend, Lola?’

  This would be my opportunity to get the conversation off weddings. But I fail miserably.

  Tidied my sock drawer, drank some disgusting Cherry B and got my bike out of the shed?

  ‘Just a quiet night in, really.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she sighs. ‘You can’t beat a quiet night in. That’s what Brian and I did.’

  I’m secretly hoping Brian is a nerdy wimp. But when he comes to collect Charlotte to take her out for lunch, it turns out he’s not wimpish in the slightest. He’s tall with nice eyes and a lovely, friendly manner. And it’s clear he worships the ground Charlotte walks on.

  I wave them off, grateful to be alone. My head is banging, my knee is pulsing painfully and tears are lurking far too near the surface for comfort. I’m a bit of an emotional wreck, if I’m honest. I haven’t felt this wobbly since the day Nathan dumped me. Seeing him and Crystal together has brought all those bad feelings surging back.

  I’m surrounded by the gorgeous trappings of Christmas – fairy lights, glitter-sparkled snow globes and stunning angels for the top of the tree. Everything you could want for a really magical festive season.

  But I just want to weep.

  Sally comes in and asks me if I’ll take Santa a cup of tea and a scone in the grotto, and I scurry off before she has a chance to notice I’m in a state.

  Outside the sparkly grotto, there’s a line of children waiting with their mums to see Santa. It’s a lovely, traditional scene that instantly evokes memories of how magical Christmas is when you’re a kid.

  My roller-coaster emotions take yet another hit.

  The sight of that little group of hopeful kids with their excited smiles and innocent faces makes me want to lie down on the floor and sob my heart out.

  But Santa needs his snack.

  I draw a deep, shaky breath.

  The sign’s back outside the grotto: Santa will be back at 1pm. After he has fed the reindeer.

  A sour-faced elf guards the entrance. ‘Who are you?’ she demands, folding her arms defensively.

  ‘Er, Lola. Lola Plumpton. I’ve – um – brought Santa a cuppa.’

  She looks at me archly. ‘Oh, so you’re the favoured one.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I stare at her, baffled.

  Some frantic snorting noises distract our attention. It sounds like a pen-full of pigs has suddenly broken loose over in the Christmas card section. The sour-faced elf looks as if she might explode. ‘Those bloody kids. They should not be playing with the merchandise. That noise drives me mad!’

  With murder in her eyes, the sourest Santa’s helper I’ve ever met charges over to separate the kids from whatever toy it is that’s making the detested snorting noise.

  I slip into the grotto.

  The great man himself is sitting on a stool, looking like a scene from a child’s picture book in his scarlet robes and long white beard. He raises a hand when I present him with his tea.

  ‘Like a seat?’ he rumbles in his deep Santa voice.

  ‘No, thank you. I’d better get back.’ I swallow hard, trying to control the wobble in my voice. ‘It’s only my second day in the job.’

  ‘A bad day?’ His eyes beneath the big, shaggy brows and abundance of white hair are full of warmth and sympathy. His kindness is the final straw. I nod, helpless to stop the tears from slipping down my cheeks.

  He half-rises and pats the seat opposite

  I sink down, feeling mortified. ‘Sorry. If I could just sit here for a minute.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ he growls. ‘Take your time.’

  He’s such a lovely man. Perfect to play Santa. Sally said he was in his seventies. But despite all the facial hair and fake bushy brows, he doesn’t seem old at all. I suppose that’s his gentle, caring personality shining through.

  I look into those infinitely kind, crinkly eyes and, suddenly, I can’t help it. It all starts pouring out. Losing Nathan, losing my job, and my worry that I’ll let my family down at Christmas.

  I know the beard is fake, but this Santa reminds me of my Grandad Lennie, who I adored and who we lost a few years ago. It feels like I’m ten again, crying on my grandad’s shoulder, knowing he’s sure to make things better.

  Santa places a comforting hand on my arm and produces a tissue, and I dab at my face, trying to pull myself together to go back to work.

  ‘Listen, Lola, you’ll move on from this. And you don’t need to spend a fortune to have a great Christmas.’

  I stare at him, puzzled that he knows my name.

  Something else is bothering me. When he slipped out of ‘Santa mode’, his voice was that of a much younger man – and I was sure I recognised it.

  ‘It’s me. Seb,’ he murmurs under his breath. ‘I fill in for our regular Santa on his day off.’

  I stare at him in horror.

  ‘I can’t unmask myself in front of these kids,’ he adds, ‘or I’ll end up scarring them for life.’

  I am unable to speak. This is unbelievable.

  So I haven’t been pouring out my troubles to a kindly, grandfather-type figure at all. I’ve been blurting out all my woes to Jasper’s beefy bloody flatmate! Can this day possibly get any worse?

  I start desperately racking my brains, trying to remember exactly what I said to him. Far too much, that’s for sure.

  I lurch to my feet, knocking over the chair and stumble out of the grotto. When he shouts out my name, it only makes me quicken my step…

  Chapter Fourteen

  I scurry back to the stock room, desperately hoping Charlotte’s still away at lunch. If I have to listen to
another run-down of her table plan, I’ll probably end up stabbing her with the pointy end of a Christmas star.

  She’s not there, so I nip out to the loo and peer at myself in the mirror.

  It’s bad. Pure white face with greyish mascara tracks.

  So many questions are running through my mind.

  What was I thinking of, unburdening myself to ‘Santa’ like that? Just because he reminded me of Grandad Lennie. And why the hell didn’t Seb let me know it was him? Before I made a complete and utter idiot of myself?

  And what on earth is he doing playing Santa anyway? He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who needs a second job to keep the wolf from the door.

  I blow my nose and do my best with some loo roll and the acrid-smelling dispenser soap to repair the damage. Then I slope back to the stock room.

  I’m so deep in thought, when I walk in, I get the fright of my life.

  Santa is perched on the worktop.

  He’s removed his hat and beard, which makes the big, bushy, snow white eyebrows look ridiculously out of context and his lion’s mane hair is sticking up at all angles.

  ‘Lola,’ he growls, leaping down. ‘I was worried about you.’ He grins. ‘Force of habit,’ he says, ditching his fake Santa voice. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Why didn’t you say it was you?’ I demand, my heart pounding furiously at finding Seb here, on top of everything else that’s happened.

  ‘You seemed so upset. I thought it would do you good to get it off your chest.’ He runs his hands through his hair, making it stick up even more.

  ‘Well, you could have let me know.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He looks genuinely chastened. Then he grins. ‘We could have a signal next time. How about if I mention Rudolph’s considering nasal surgery? Then you’ll know the Santa is me?’

  I frown at him. ‘Not funny.’

  ‘You’re telling me it’s not. How would you feel if all anyone ever talked about was your red nose?’

  In spite of myself, I can’t help a little smile.

  ‘That’s better,’ he murmurs, taking my arms and looking into my face. ‘You’ve obviously had a horrible time of it. So go home and relax. I’ll tell Sally.’

  His green eyes are locked on mine and my heart rate quickens. ‘I can’t just go home.’

  ‘Why not?’