by Lynda Renham
‘You’ll have to go back and get my clothes,’ I blurt out, ‘and the Christmas presents.’
Her mouth drops open.
‘I can’t go there, what if … Well you know, what if she is still there?’
God, I don’t believe this.
‘Tell her to bugger off if she is.’
I shudder at the memory of Oliver’s pained expression.
‘Who does this sort of thing at Christmas,’ I say with a little sob. ‘It’s so cruel.’
‘Half the male population if you ask me. Little shits,’ she snarls. ‘If I go round there I’m likely to give him a knuckle sandwich.’
‘Can you get my chocolate teapot,’ I say, the thought of it comforting me. ‘You can’t pop round now can you?’
She tsks at me.
‘I’m stressed,’ I urge.
‘Yes, and you’ll eat the whole pot. Honestly you and your M&Ms. Has it ever occurred to you that most women don’t hide sweets in teapots just so their boyfriend won’t nag them?’
I sigh.
‘His parents were coming on Boxing Day,’ I say stupidly. ‘I bought ham on the bone and tons of salad. The fridge is bulging. I nearly bought a whole turkey. I never buy that much food.’
I grab another mince pie.
‘You don’t have cream do you?’ I say miserably.
‘Don’t comfort eat or you’ll end up huge.’
I so need my chocolate teapot.
‘I don’t care. I never want to look at another man. Food is my best friend and lover now,’ I say with a boldness I really don’t feel.
‘I’m never making myself nice for a man again. I shall end up like that woman in the film Monster and become a lesbian.’
Muffy steps back slightly.
‘Christ Binki, don’t do anything extreme.’
That reminds me.
‘Ah, too late. I threw my job in too, so it couldn’t get any worse could it?’
Muffy stares at me.
‘Why on earth did you throw your job in? Are you out of your mind? Have you been drinking?’
That’s great isn’t it? My best friend thinks I can only do something drastic when intoxicated.
‘No, I just kind of had an epiphany. There I was waiting in the queue for my morning cappuccino and I thought I’m going to chuck my job in today. Of course I hadn’t been drinking,’ I snap. ‘Ben Newman tried to thrill drill me over the office desk and that just kind of clinched it,’ I add scornfully.
I stuff a mince pie into my mouth. Muffy stands over me with a carton of single cream. I’m wondering if she needs me to tip my mouth up so she can pour some in. She places the carton onto the coffee table with shaking hands. That’s the only good thing about your boyfriend balancing a bimbo on his balls isn’t it? It’s the one excuse to eat exactly what and as much as you like, and no one likes to tell you off. After all, if you can’t stuff your face at a time like this then when can you?
‘Ben Newman tried to give you one?’ she says wide-eyed.
I nod.
‘And we’re not talking bonus. You’d never believe it possible would you? At the same time my boyfriend was …’ It’s no good I can’t say it. I hate men, I really do. I’m giving them up. No more men for me.
‘While he was, you know with her, my boss was also trying to have me over his desk. On Christmas Eve, can you believe it? He was all fired up to give me his thrill drill. So I bluntly told him where to stuff his thrill drill. He then kind of blackmailed me so I had no choice but to leave. I was stupidly hoping Oliver would give him a black eye.’
Her mouth gapes open and tiny pieces of mince pie drop out. I look at her in disgust as she grabs a tissue.
‘Ben Newman?’ she says aghast. ‘Ben Newman with the wart on his nose tried to have you over the desk? Ben Newman?’ she repeats like a parrot. I think we’ve now established my boss’s name is Ben Newman.
‘Don’t look that bloody shocked. I still have some pulling power. I’m not twenty stone yet you know,’ I say trying to hide my hurt feelings.
‘I suppose you should be grateful he didn’t ask for a blow job,’ sniffs Muffy. ‘Then again, I suppose you wouldn’t have had to look at the wart.’
I stare at her.
‘Okay, just a thought,’ she mumbles.
‘Christ Muffy, I’m eating,’ I groan.
Her phone erupts and we both jump. I stare at it in horror.
‘Don’t answer it,’ I scream. ‘It’s Oliver.’
Muffy gives the phone a despairing look.
‘No it isn’t. No one calls the landline except my mother.’
I watch her stroll towards it. If this was a Hollywood film then I am sure this would be one of those No-o-o-o-o moments with her moving in slow motion.
‘But what if it is him?’ I say, my heart hammering in my chest.
She shakes her head and picks up the phone. ‘It won’t be.’
‘Oh Oliver, hello,’ she says meekly, and mouths cock it to me.
Great, why does no one ever listen to me? I hear the murmur of Oliver’s voice and feel myself turn to jelly.
‘She is very upset Oliver,’ she says angrily.
Oh no. Now he knows where I am. She holds the phone towards me.
‘It’s Oliver,’ she says.
I’d never have guessed. I hiccup my way to the phone and take it with shaking hands.
‘Binki, I’m really sorry baby. Please come home so we can talk.’
Huh, talk about what?
‘How could you Oliver? How could you do this to us?’
‘I’m sorry baby. I didn’t know you were coming home early. I …’
What the fuck?
‘So it’s my fault now is it? It’s my fault for coming home early?’ I say fighting back a sob.
‘No, I didn’t mean …’
‘What did you mean then?’
‘I don’t know … I’m not sure,’ he says stupidly.
‘Oh Oliver, you’re such a prick,’ I say and hang up.
‘It wasn’t your mother,’ I snap at Muffy.
She jumps up and rushes to the kitchen, returning with half a loaf of bread, olives and a cheese board.
‘Down with men,’ she declares. ‘I’m sick of going without bread and cheese and all the best things in life. Let’s get bloated and then I’ll fetch your stuff. Bastards. We don’t need them. We have equal rights now.’
Crikey, I’m lost for words. What do you say to the woman who thinks bread and cheese are the best things in life?
‘To giving up men,’ she declares holding up a piece of Hovis. I follow suit.
‘Amen to that.’
‘To Emily Pankhurst,’ I say stuffing my mouth full of olives.
Chapter Five
Dad opens the door wearing a red and green apron with the words It’s All About The Cock Not The Cook splashed across it. No doubt a Christmas present from my mother who I hear shouting in the kitchen.
‘Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas,’ he shouts. ‘Bella, she’s here. Your mother’s on her mobile,’ he adds, ushering in Muffy. ‘Probably phoning the mortuary, you do know we were expecting you over an hour ago?’
I can’t take my eyes off the apron. God, I hope they haven’t got friends coming. I hate it when my parent’s friends look at me with pity.
‘Yes sorry, we took the wrong exit,’ Muffy says, averting her eyes from the apron.
‘Junction ten was it? It’s a bugger that one.’
‘Cool apron,’ I say, quickly closing the door before their 80-year-old neighbour spots it through her binoculars.
‘Oh yes, your mother didn’t want the new shirt she bought me ruined.’
‘Right,’ I say, handing him the carrier bag full of presents. ‘I think a ruined shirt may be preferable.’
He looks behind me.
‘Where’s Oliver?’
I can’t very well say balancing a floozy on his balls can I? Although I imagine his balls are pretty tired by now.
&nb
sp; ‘Erm, he’s not coming. There’s something I need to tell you and Mum.’
‘Oh dear,’ he says adjusting his glasses.
I stroll into the lounge where the tree lights are flashing like crazy. It’s enough to give you an epileptic fit.
‘It’s the middle red one that keeps doing it. I’ll have another look in a minute,’ says Dad, sighing.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ smiles Muffy. ‘We’ll just all convulse after dinner, much more fun than charades.’
I stroll into the kitchen, which is hotter than India and steamier than a Turkish bath. Mother is leaning out of a window with a finger jammed in one ear and a mobile phone glued to the other while a saucepan of Brussels sprouts bubbles over. My God, what is she wearing? It looks like The Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat. I’d have brought my sunglasses if I’d known. The table is covered in stuffing balls and tiny sausages rolled up in bacon. I feel my stomach rumble and dive into the biscuit bin for a Rich Tea.
‘Hello Sylvie, are you still there? Just bring wine. No, white would be good. Hello, are you there? Oh, I thought I’d lost you. Yes, that will be great. Shit, buggery phone, you’re cutting out again. Are you still … Bugger it. Shall … bugger.’
She turns, sees me and drops the phone.
‘Darling,’ she cries, opening her arms and like a child I fall straight into them. ‘I thought you and Oliver had run off to elope.’
If only. What a different Christmas I’d be having. I smell her Estee Lauder perfume and feel immediately comforted.
‘I tried your mobile but you know what this one is like,’ she says releasing me and pointing to the Nokia. ‘Bloody thing, I said to your father we should take it back. I’ve got to be in the bloody shed before anyone can hear me. I sometimes think that was his plan you know.’
She looks at me closely.
‘What’s the matter, something’s happened I can feel it?’
I turn the sprouts down.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I say. ‘Well kind of.’
She flings open the back door to let the steam out.
‘I knew it,’ she says falling onto a kitchen stool. ‘Is it your breasts?’
What have my breasts got to do with anything?
‘No, I …’
‘You do check them don’t you? What is it then?’
I dip in the biscuit barrel again.
‘It’s Oliver …’
‘Oh God, it’s his prostrate isn’t it? I had a feeling.’
I wish he was bloody prostrate.
‘Mum, it has nothing to do with body parts, at least nothing to do with parts gone wrong or not working.’
I sound like Jeremy Clarkson talking about cars.
‘And it’s prostate, not prostrate.’
‘Well, it’s all the same.’
Her face lights up.
‘He’s proposed hasn’t he? Oh and at Christmas, that’s marvellous news.’
I really don’t know how my mother manages to go from my breasts and Oliver’s prostate problems to us getting married, all in the space of twenty seconds and still manages to get it all wrong.
‘Not quite,’ I say softly.
Her face darkens.
‘Oh dear, I’m not sure I want to hear this. Is he in the lounge with your father? I hope he can fix those lights. It’s like a nightclub in there. I can’t imagine what the neighbours think we’re up to in the evenings.’
‘Binki darling, have a drink,’ says my dad.
I see Muffy is already holding a glass with yellow liquid in it.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure,’ she says looking at it curiously. ‘Something with egg in it.’
‘It’s eleven in the morning,’ I protest.
‘I could make tea,’ says Mum, sniffing the top of a milk bottle. I so wish she wouldn’t do that.
‘It’s Christmas,’ Dad laughs. ‘We don’t want tea at Christmas.’
Oh of course, stupid me. It’s Christmas, so that explains why my dad is wearing an apron with the word COCK splashed all over it. I mean, for goodness’ sake, what is it about Christmas that makes people think everything is acceptable? Oh, you can bang your boss up against the desk, after all it is Christmas. I can almost hear my mother telling me not to be so silly about Oliver giving his colleague one. It is Christmas after all and if you can’t get your leg over at Christmas when can you. Only at the festive season is it acceptable to knock back the cocktails at nine in the morning and not be called a lush.
‘Do you want eggnog?’ asks Dad, pulling me into the lounge where Mariah Carey is singing. I feel like smashing the hi-fi and telling Mariah that I couldn’t give a toss what she wants for Christmas.
‘Ah yes, that’s what it’s called,’ pipes up Muffy, taking another sip.
That’s another thing. When does anyone ever drink something as obnoxious as eggnog except at Christmas? I mean who seriously goes to the pub after work and says Mine’s an eggnog? Well you don’t do you? I fall onto the couch and bury myself in the overabundance of cushions and throw back half a glass of eggnog. Well it is Christmas after all. All I want to do is climb into my fleecy pyjamas and pig out in front of the telly. I grab Dad’s bumper issue of the Radio Times and study the Christmas Day schedule. Oh lovely, they have an omnibus edition of Coronation Street. There is bound to be something in that to match my misery. I’ll overindulge on the Turkish Delight and eggnog, and feel very sorry for myself.
‘She found Oliver at it in their bed with some tart from work,’ announces Muffy, helping herself to a handful of peanuts.
There is a deafening silence broken only by Muffy’s crunching.
‘And on Christmas Eve,’ she adds for extra impact. I want to hide behind the cushions. ‘How shitty was that?’
My mother falls onto the couch beside me.
‘I see what you mean about his prostrate being okay,’ she mumbles.
‘Prostate,’ I correct.
‘Well whatever, it doesn’t really matter. His thingy is in working order then. What a little arse.’
‘Bella,’ admonishes Dad.
‘Well at Christmas, it really isn’t on is it Bernard? Stella’s husband Rupert was at it too,’ she says, lowering her voice. ‘She said Rupert pretty much always had a dolly bird sitting on his balls at Christmas. So you’re not alone.’
‘Amazingly that isn’t much of a comfort,’ I say.
‘No, of course not darling,’ she says hugging me.
‘For God’s sake Bella,’ says Dad, topping up my glass. ‘Do we have to hear all the gruesome details?’
‘I haven’t told you them yet, I’m only relaying the story. They were her words. It seems men do this sort of thing at Christmas. No bloody control, that’s their problem.’
‘Little shits,’ agrees Muffy.
‘Well, I’ve never had a bimbo on my balls at Christmas, or at any other time come to that, either at work or home,’ says Dad with a sigh. ‘And I don’t see what makes it acceptable at Christmas.’
‘Nor do I,’ says Muffy pouring more eggnog into her glass. ‘This is nice isn’t it Binki?’
What’s nice? Discussing my horrendous Christmas, or the eggnog?
‘I should hope you haven’t Bernard. And do fix those lights before they give me a headache.’
I’m trying hard not to cry. I was so looking forward to Christmas with Oliver. I had bought him some CDs, a new shirt and the Pirates of the Caribbean DVD box set as he is so into his pirate stuff. I’d also splashed out on one of those red letter day experience gifts. I saw it and thought Oliver would love to race a car around Brands Hatch. Now all I can think about is him crashing the car at Brands Hatch. I know, it’s cruel of me, but do you blame me? I’ll never get my money back. There was me stupidly thinking he was going to propose over the holiday season. I’d even bought a sexy lacy top and undies from Ann Summers. One of those split open tops where you simply untie the bow and your tits pop out. I remember thinking that will turn Oliver on
. I’m such a fool. Obviously huge brown nipples turn him on and I’m not blessed with huge tits. I’ve always been a bit flat-chested, I so hate my breasts. I’m never getting involved with a man again, not ever.
‘She’s also lost her job. Well, she chucked it in actually,’ says Muffy.
I’m sure she’s just trying to help break the bad news but Christ, has she never heard of sensitivity?
‘Her boss tried to shag her over the desk. Perverted little shit. I hate bosses that think they can do that,’ she finishes, opening a box of Thorntons.
God Almighty, talk about staggering the bad news. Dad flops into a chair and his apron crinkles into It’s All About The Cock. It sure is. Don’t you just love Christmas?
‘I’ve heard nothing like it,’ he mutters.
There is silence as we all sip our eggnog.
‘I bought your favourite perfume,’ says Mum. ‘That Lizzy Malarkey one’
‘Issey Miyake,’ I correct.
‘Yes, well the same thing,’ mumbles Mum.
More silence and Dad tops up our glasses.
‘Your Great Aunty Vera died,’ says Dad, adding to the gloom.
We all nod solemnly like that’s about right. Christmas is not all it is cracked up to be. Roll on bloody Boxing Day.
Chapter Six
Two weeks have passed. Christmas has been and gone and I’ve moved in with Muffy, and I’m going slowly insane. Christmas means that everywhere has been closed like forever. I haven’t had one reply from the job agencies, not that I am in any fit state for an interview. I spend my days in my pyjamas and sit on Muffy’s couch with my computer on my lap and the chocolate teapot beside me. It’s not a teapot made of chocolate, just in case you thought it was. It wouldn’t have lasted this long if it had been I can assure you. I bought it when Oliver and I holidayed in St Ives last year. It’s a lovely white teapot with red polka dots. Of course, the thing with teapots is that you never use them do you? It’s far easier to throw a teabag into a mug isn’t it? So when Oliver started nagging me about my addiction, I decided the teapot was the best place to hide my stash. Chocolate that is, not cocaine just in case you were wondering. Although I’m beginning to think at the rate I’m going through M&Ms that cocaine may be cheaper and carry far less calories. I’ve hardly been out of the flat. Well, I went out once to get some supplies and even then with my coat over my pyjamas. It was freezing, but any hope I had of dying from pneumonia never materialised. I just ended up with a filthy cold. I haven’t stopped eating, mostly popcorn, marmite sandwiches and cheese crackers. My keyboard is covered in crumbs and the ‘F’ key keeps sticking. Just as well. I keep looking at Oliver’s Facebook page but his profile gives nothing away except for a daily update on the state of his bad back. Well, if he will get his leg over Brown Nipples what does he expect? Muffy says he puts on a pained look when she pops round and says things like Tell her I’m okay. She needn’t worry. Ha, as if I do. I wonder if he has seen her again, not that I’m interested of course. I’m totally over him, I mean I really am. As for Muffy, well she soon let the side down. As soon as Christmas was over she was back on the Ryvita and tuna salad. She’s so boring. Still, at least she has a flat and a job. I’ve got neither. She’s also got plenty of food. I promised to join her at the gym today, and I was intending to but you know what it’s like. So I’ve stuck a Rosemary Conley DVD on instead and I will make an effort to Salsa with her. Just as soon as I’ve finished this fried egg sandwich, I really will. Oliver has given up phoning me. I had hoped he would offer me the flat but oh no, the bugger is still there, living in luxury while I just fade away. Muffy gets my post on the way home from work each day and a pile of unopened letters sits on the coffee table. I stare at it thinking I really should check them. I lean forward and drag the pile towards me and begin the painful process of going through the post. The first one is a glitzy Christmas card with a little note inside. Don’t you hate those round robin things? I think the post office should supply sick bags when they deliver them. I unfold the note as I pop another cheese cracker in my mouth. From Ruth and Greg, do I even know a Ruth and Greg? Well, obviously we don’t see each other often do we else they wouldn’t have seen fit to send me an A4 sheet with their life story printed on it. Oh well, might as well read it now, after all I’ve got sod all else to do with my time.
