by Lynda Renham
‘I did put a tree by for you,’ he smiles. ‘I thought you weren’t collecting until after six.’
‘Early finish,’ I lie.
‘That’s nice of your boss,’ he grins.
‘Oh yes, he’s all heart,’ I say through gritted teeth.
I pay for the tree and schlep it, with great difficulty, to the car, cursing bloody Christmas the whole time. My eye is so red I look like Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator, without the muscles of course. It is seriously horrific. I almost expect my eyeball to burst out along with an unexpected alien. I lift the bags of fruit into the boot and blow onto my hands. Snow begins to sprinkle and I pull my scarf tighter around me.
‘Merry Christmas,’ says a passing lady with a white poodle who cocks its leg up against my tyre. I try to tell myself it is good luck, you know, like when the bird shits on your head and everyone says,
‘That means you’re going to have good luck.’
I don’t imagine the good luck started with the bird actually shitting on your head did it? Because that is the shittiest kind of luck ever isn’t it? I want to ask her what is so merry about it, but of course I don’t bother. I smile, wish her one too and drive the short journey home with the Christmas tree poking out of the passenger side window. It’s only four o’clock and Oliver’s car is there already. Maybe he got let off early too. Christ, I hope he didn’t lose his job as well. I heave the Christmas tree from the car and drag it to the front of our block. The doorman rushes out and relieves me of its burden.
‘Merry Christmas Miss Grayson,’ he smiles.
Why is it at Christmas no one greets you with Good afternoon or Good evening? Only bloody Merry Christmas? God, I’m becoming a real bah humbug.
‘Hi Taylor. How are you?’
‘Very well,’ he says gawping at my eye. God, the eyeball hasn’t gone and popped out has it? Heaven knows I can’t see bugger all.
‘What happened to your eye Miss Grayson?’
‘Christmas tree attack. There’s a lot of it about this time of year.’
‘You should get that seen to,’ he says walking to my car. ‘I’ll bring your bags up shall I?’
I nod. I so love my flat and all that goes with it. I hit the lift button and fall against the wall, grateful for the blast of hot air that blows from the vents. Oh well, at least the needle in the eye thing means I no longer have to fear the dreaded third catastrophe. I get to the flat and fling open the door. The hot air from the heating system hits me. The windows are steamed up and I make a mental note to open one as soon as I have showered.
‘I’m home. Let out for good behaviour,’ I call, throwing my bag and scarf onto our new John Lewis couch and kicking a parrot underneath it. Not a real one, obviously. I’m not that cruel.
No reply. I hear a scuffling sound from the bedroom and the faint sound of music. He must be in the shower. There is a light tap on the front door. I open it to let Taylor in with the bags and tree.
‘Merry Christmas,’ I smile, giving him a twenty-pound note from the brown envelope. I must remember to get that back from Oliver later.
‘Thank you, Miss Grayson and a good one to you and Mr Weber too,’ he grins.
I close the door and stroll to the bedroom.
‘You’re bloody quiet, what the hell are you up to? Wrapping my very expensive present I hope,’ I say flinging open the door.
What was that I said about a third thing? No one ever mentioned a fourth. I stand frozen in the doorway. In front of me, in my, no our bed, is Oliver and some woman I don’t recognise. Mind you I’m only looking at her huge brown nipples which are bouncing up and down. I don’t normally recognise people by their nipples. Oh God, what am I thinking? What the hell is happening? Why do I suddenly feel guilty, like I’ve walked in on my parents having sex? I feel the words ‘I’m sorry,’ forming on my lips and nearly turn back but instead …
‘What the fuck,’ I utter in a disbelieving voice.
Oliver throws the woman off him so roughly that she almost tumbles off the bed, our bed. I can’t bear this. I’ve never felt so humiliated. Maybe I’m seeing things; it’s this bloody alienated eye, that’s what it is. But no, I’m not seeing things. That really is Oliver’s penis, rapidly diminishing admittedly, but his nevertheless. I don’t believe this. Please God, Jesus and Santa say this isn’t happening, please don’t tell me Oliver is giving the bitch her Christmas bonus? Oliver attempts to stand but gets caught in the sheets, our sheets. Oh my God. He falls from the bed and I’m left staring at her. Her long black hair hangs sensually around her face. She looks vaguely familiar but I can’t remember from where. I can never achieve that kind of look, in or out of bed. She’s extremely pretty and looks stunning. I suddenly feel ancient. I’ve always wanted hair like that but I’ve been blessed with fine wispy honey-blonde hair instead. This certainly proves the saying blondes have all the fun is totally crap. Her make-up is flawless and her lashes are long and thick. I need three coats of mascara to get that look. If there was a knife close by I swear I would kill her and all because she looks so good.
‘Binki,’ Oliver says, crawling pitifully towards me, and dragging our Laura Ashley throw behind him like a wedding train.
‘How could you?’ I say kicking at him.
I turn to the door. My legs feel like jelly. Damn it.
‘Binki, it didn’t mean anything. It’s just because it’s Christmas,’ he says, a pained expression on his face. What the fuck has Christmas got to do with it? Bloody Christmas, I fucking hate it. He stands in the doorway with the sheet wrapped around him like a Roman emperor and looks pleadingly at me. I feel my heart melt.
‘You look bloody stupid,’ I say, feeling tears running down my cheeks. ‘And you are bloody stupid. How could you do this to us?’
‘I had too much to drink at work. I didn’t know what I was doing. Come on Binki, please.’
He lurches towards me. I quickly sidestep and he stumbles.
‘You knew enough to bring her to our flat when you thought I was at work,’ I yell.
‘It isn’t what you think and …’ says Brown Nipples.
‘And you can shut it,’ I snap, grabbing the tissues from the bed and wiping my snotty nose. The soft smell of her fragrance wafts across and I feel suddenly sick.
‘Come on Binki, don’t throw everything away just because of a little Christmas indiscretion,’ Oliver says while grabbing my arm.
‘I didn’t throw it away. You did.’
Why is everyone allowed a little Christmas indiscretion is what I want to know? First Ben Newman and now Oliver. I mean, what the hell? If this is Christmas then you can stick it. That is of course if you haven’t already.
Chapter Four
Too upset to drive my little Kandy I decide to take a taxi. I wave at the first black cab I see and it stops. I nearly pass out on the spot. Christ Almighty, when does that ever happen? I can only imagine I have one tit hanging out, or my skirt has got stuck in my knickers and half my arse is on show. I never get a cab that quick at the best of times and on Christmas Eve it is unheard of. Maybe I look distraught, that must be it. Then again, when has a London cabbie given a shit about a distraught woman? Let’s face it they are always the first to drive past aren’t they?
‘Are you free?’ I ask, not quite believing my luck.
‘No not even at Christmas. You still have to pay,’ he quips.
‘I meant, are you for hire?’
‘Not really, but if you don’t mind sharing with Bradley Cooper,’ he says sarcastically.
Honestly, don’t you just hate cab drivers with a sense of humour? I mean, it’s not natural is it?
‘Where to then darling?’
Tower Bridge seems a good idea. I could throw myself off. After all, no one would give a shit. I’d just be one more Christmas statistic. There is probably a queue there already and I’ll most likely find a ticket system set up to make us wait until our number lights up before we can jump. Yes, that’s about my luck at the moment
.
‘You do want to go somewhere don’t you love?’ he asks irritably.
‘No, I just fancied a sit down,’ I snap.
I sigh and look back at my apartment block, and oh God, is that Oliver running out in his pants and T shirt?
‘Westbourne Grove and make it snappy,’ I say, feeling my heart race.
‘What do you think this is, a movie take?’ says the cabbie.
Bloody hell, I’m paying aren’t I? And most likely at some exorbitant Christmas Eve rate.
‘Yes, so could we have some sodding action here,’ I say averting my eyes from the embarrassing sight of Oliver. I can’t believe I was hoping this man would propose to me over Christmas. Oliver I mean, obviously not the taxi driver. After all, I barely know him. I suppose that won’t happen now will it? The cab shoots off leaving a waving Oliver hanging onto his loose underpants. It’s not a pleasant sight. I fumble in my bag for some tissues and pull them out along with the stupid parking ticket.
‘Got done?’ asks the driver.
Oh God, yes I’ve been done all right.
‘The bastards love to get you at Christmas,’ he says with a snarl.
‘Well they all got me,’ I say hiccupping. ‘All the bastards got me.’
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Yeah, well don’t let it ruin your Christmas,’ he smiles, tinkering with a Saint Christopher lucky charm. ‘Worse things happen. You could have lost your job.’
‘I did lose my job,’ I mumble, before popping a handful of M&Ms into my mouth.
He sniffs and goes quiet. Why me? I look out into the snow-dusted streets of London where happy couples are walking hand in hand. I don’t understand it. I did everything right. Well, I thought I did everything right. I can just hear my mother’s words. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Bloody stupid saying that is. Damn, we were driving down to my parents tomorrow. That means I’ve now got to face the M4 in a filthy mood which will inevitably result in road rage and missing the bloody exit. I hate driving at Christmas. Oliver never seems to mind. Honestly of all of the times to shag someone else he has to do it the day before visiting my parents. I find myself wondering if he was telling the truth. What if this wasn’t the first time? What if he’s been shagging her for weeks? No, mustn’t think about it. It probably was just a Christmas thing. God, I’m excusing it now. Like that makes it perfectly okay if it was just a Christmas thing. But in our bed of all places, I mean, he could have used the couch, or the floor. Oh do shut up Binki, you know he could never do it on the couch with his back. Christ, the whole thing has turned my head. Why the hell am I thinking of his sodding back. Hopefully he’ll be crippled by the morning. That will teach him.
‘Where in Westbourne Grove do you want me to stop love?’
I see Muffy’s street approaching.
‘Here will be fine,’ I say.
I climb out reluctantly. The last thing I want to do is tell my closest friend that the love of my life has just cheated on me with some huge brown-nippled woman on Christmas Eve. Maybe I won’t. Perhaps I’ll just say I was passing and thought I’d drop in for coffee. I pay the exorbitant fare out of my brown envelope. Blimey, that little bonus didn’t last long did it? He stares at the notes like they’re Scottish currency or something. I’m not giving him a bloody tip if that’s what he’s waiting for.
‘Thanks very much,’ I say, slamming the door. ‘The quickie with Bradley Cooper made all the difference.’
‘And a Merry Christmas to you too,’ he says before shooting off.
Don’t you just hate people who wish you a Merry Christmas with attitude? It’s obvious they are really wishing you the worst one possible. He got in a bit late didn’t he? Let’s face it; my Christmas couldn’t get less merry if it tried. I trundle down the steps to Muffy’s basement flat and put on a brave face. She opens the door, takes one look at me and the tell-tale M&Ms in my hand and says,
‘Don’t tell me. You found the bugger in bed with some tart from work.’
*
‘What a bastard thing to do at Christmas,’ says Muffy, crashing about in the kitchen.
What a bastard thing to do, period. I’m stretched out on her couch with a cold compress on my head and two aspirin fizzing away in a glass of water. I’ve got a box of tissues in one hand and my mobile in the other, although I’m ignoring every call from Oliver, and there have been seven so far. I can’t even bring myself to listen to his voicemail messages.
‘What is it with bloody men and Christmas?’ She yells. ‘They always seem to end up naked with a bimbo balanced on their balls. Christ, if we did that, can you imagine?’
I sigh.
‘No I can’t imagine balancing a bimbo on my balls,’ I say stupidly.
‘What was she like anyway,’ she asks curiously, popping her head around the kitchen door.
‘Oh, you know, young, with massive nipples, gorgeous hair and a voluptuous body. Everything I don’t have,’ I say miserably. ‘The perfect balls-balancing woman I suppose.’
‘Christ,’ she mumbles, putting a plate of mince pies on the table beside me. ‘Don’t you start feeling bad about yourself? Did you read the Robin Norwood book I gave you?’
Oh God, not the one about women who love too much. It was so bloody depressing. Muffy is my closest girlfriend and staunch feminist, who thinks all men are dysfunctional little shits and who will finally let you down one way or the other. I’m slowly coming round to her way of thinking.
‘I tried,’ I mumble.
‘I give up with you,’ she groans.
It seems everyone gives up on me. I so wish I was like Muffy. She is so comfortable with herself although not so comfortable with men mind you. I think she hates them. Muffy has a brilliant job in public relations and always looks terrific whether she has just stepped out of bed or at the end of a stressful day. Men fall at her feet, seriously, and she just walks all over them. If I didn’t love her so much I would have to kill her. I swallow the last M&M and say,
‘I can’t eat a thing.’
‘Don’t let the bugger put you off your food. He’s the one who’s always nagged you about losing weight isn’t he? Well sod him.’
She’s quite right of course, and I do feel a bit peckish. I can’t help wondering if it was my fault. Maybe I did give Ben Newman the come on without realising it. I can’t imagine what I did mind you, unless he finds being totally ignored most of the week a sexual turn on. Perhaps I didn’t meet Oliver’s sexual needs enough. Not that he ever was that demanding you understand. We made love three times a week, that’s average isn’t it? Well it was always enough for me, I never complained.
‘If you ask me, he doesn’t want to commit. It’s easier for him if you leave, that makes more sense. He probably feels you’re too good for him. You’ve over loved you see,’ says Muffy with an authoritative tone of someone who knows what she’s talking about.
I don’t see in the least. In fact, I’m having great difficultly seeing altogether with my blood engorged eye that stings like mad. I’m sure it is deteriorating by the second. It must be the stress. Surely if Oliver didn’t want to commit he wouldn’t be looking at rings in Hatton Garden would he? Suddenly a terrible thought enters my head. What if he wasn’t looking at rings at all? Oh, my God, he was most likely looking for some very expensive jewellery for Miss Brown Nipples. Oh how could he?
‘You’re stereotypical, that’s your problem,’ continues Muffy.
Great, at least there is a name for someone like me.
‘Can you take a pill for that?’ I ask cynically.
‘You’re blaming yourself already aren’t you?’ fumes Muffy, launching into her favourite topic, the complex dipstick male mind. ‘He’ll do anything to wriggle out of …’
She stops and stares at my eye.
‘Jesus Christ, how did that happen?’
‘A Christmas tree,’ I say flatly.
She jumps up and slaps her thigh.
‘God,’ she thund
ers. ‘He went at you with a bloody Christmas tree. What a sodding brute. You should report it Binki, like now,’ she thrusts a mobile at me. I point out I’m already holding one.
‘I got a needle in my eye from the tree I brought home. Oliver could barely untangle himself from the sheets let alone go at me with a tree. He’s got a bad back remember?’
She scoffs.
‘That didn’t stop him humping some bimbo did it?’
‘I’m surprised she didn’t send it into spasm. You should have seen the size of her tits.’
Don’t think about her tits Binki. Think about something else, anything else, but not tits.
‘Pity he didn’t go into anaphylactic shock, swallow his tongue and die,’ says Muffy evilly.
I gawp at her, blimey that’s a bit harsh. Death by tongue swallowing, even I wouldn’t wish that on Oliver, and I’m feeling worse by the minute. It’s Christmas Eve and it has been a day of award-winning horror, definitely worthy of a film. Maybe Carey Mulligan could play me.
‘You need to change your pattern of thinking. You still believe being in love means being in pain. You were expecting him to propose weren’t you? Instead you find him balls deep with some floozy from work,’ she says nonchalantly, biting into a mince pie.
‘You were the one who told me he was in Hatton Garden,’ I say defensively.
‘It all stems from problems in your childhood,’ Muffy spouts, cracking open a walnut.
I knew my mother was to blame for something.
‘Did you see yourself as a co-dependent?’ asks Muffy, looking at me intently.
‘Only on M&Ms,’ I answer honestly.
I feel like I’m having a therapist’s session. I wonder if this has something to do with the fishnet tights and suspenders. Oliver has a fetish for them, that and pirate outfits, but I always felt stupid with them on. I struggle to remember if Brown Nipples was wearing anything pirate related. No, I feel quite sure she was wearing absolutely nothing and feel the mince pie lurch up my diaphragm. I must put the whole thing out of my mind. Oh God, all the presents we were taking to my parents are back at the flat, as of course are my clothes.
