A Beginner's Guide To Christmas: A festive romantic comedy short story

by Jennifer Joyce

  A Beginner’s Guide To Christmas

  Jennifer Joyce

  About The Author

  Jennifer Joyce is a writer of romantic comedies. She's been scribbling down bits of stories for as long as she can remember, graduating from a pen to a typewriter and then an electronic typewriter. And she felt like the bee's knees typing on THAT. She now writes her books on a laptop (which has a proper delete button and everything).

  Jennifer lives in Oldham, Greater Manchester with her husband Chris and their two daughters, Rianne and Isobel, plus their bunny Cinnamon and Jack Russell Luna.

  Find out more about Jennifer and her books at

  Blog: www.jenniferjoycewrites.co.uk

  Twitter/Instagram: @writer_jenn

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/jenniferjoycewrites

  Newsletter: http://www.jenniferjoycewrites.co.uk/p/newsletter.html

  Also by Jennifer Joyce

  A Beginner’s Guide To Saying I Do

  The Little Bed & Breakfast by the Sea

  The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

  The Wedding Date

  The Mince Pie Mix-Up

  Everything Changes But You

  A Beginner’s Guide To Salad

  CONTENTS

  About The Author

  The Unofficial Office Party

  Last-Minute Shopping – Part I

  Baking

  Christmas Is (Unfortunately) All About The Kids – Part I

  Last-Minute Shopping – Part II

  Shit! The Presents!

  Christmas Is (Unfortunately) All About The Kids – Part II

  Turkey

  Homemade Crackers

  Christmas Is (Unfortunately) All About The Kids – Part III

  The Boxing Day Buffet

  Guests

  Extract: A Beginner’s Guide To Salad

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  CHRISTMAS EVE EVE:

  The Unofficial Office Party

  We’d already had our official Christmas party three weeks ago, but this felt like the real thing, the chance to let our hair down and get pissed before Santa dropped down the chimney. It helped that the party was ‘impromptu’ (though I don’t know how you can label a party that happens at the same time every year as impromptu) so partners weren’t invited. The workers of H Wood Vehicles all downed tools at five on the dot on the day before Christmas Eve and gathered in the rotting cave that was The Bonnie Dundee, a grimy pub on the outskirts of the business park where we worked. The plan was to get hammered and the wisest amongst us had booked Christmas Eve off long ago so our reckless drinking would have little consequence.

  ‘Is that all you’re drinking?’ My friend – and also the receptionist at H. Woods – was drinking what appeared to be orange juice. At a party! And she wasn’t even pregnant.

  ‘Alex booked the day off before me so I have to cover reception all day.’ Quinn pulled a face as she took a sip of the child’s drink.

  Rookie mistake. I’d fallen for that the first year I’d worked at H. Woods, before I knew of the infamous Unofficial Office Party. As a long-suffering member of H. Woods, Quinn should have known better.

  ‘Make sure you book Christmas Eve off for next year. Do it as soon as you’re back in after Christmas.’ That’s what I did. That way Kelvin Shuttleworth, my pain in the arse boss, would have no excuse not to authorise the holiday.

  Lesson 1: Book Christmas Eve off on 2nd January. Do it quick, before you’ve even removed your jacket.

  ‘Ladies!’ Phil Gunner, Production Manager and owner of the tightest jeans known to man, approached us, bellowing over Wizzard’s ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I’m okay, thank you.’ He was clearly talking to Quinn – and trying to have an ogle down her top, filthy beggar – but I answered anyway.

  ‘Quinn?’ Phil leant in towards her, sloshing his pint over her shoes. Quinn stepped back, shaking her foot and examining the damage.

  Lessons 2 & 3: Pace yourself and never wear your best shoes to office Christmas parties. If beer doesn’t ruin them, vomit probably will.

  ‘I’m alright, Phil. But thanks anyway.’ Quinn flashed a tight smile before stomping off towards the ladies to try and salvage her suede boots. I was about to follow – not necessarily because I wanted to help but more to get away from Phil and his skin-tight jeans – when the sight of an approaching slutty Mrs Claus stopped me in my tracks. Angelina Littleman tottered towards Phil in what I guessed was a child’s costume, her gusset practically on view below the white fur trim of the so-called skirt. She whispered in Phil’s ear and he responded by grabbing her arse – in full view of the entire pub – while Angelina giggled and bit her glossy red lip. They disappeared out of the pub together, Phil’s jeans now even tighter at the front.

  Lesson 4: Don’t let your partner go to a Christmas office party alone if Angelina Littleman will be there. Yes, Mrs Gunner, I’m talking to you.

  Alone now, I fought my way to the bar before going in search of my best friend, Erin. I’d last seen her flirting with the guys from the IT department for sport, but they were now sat in a corner, probably discussing hard drives and video games, without her. I may be stereotyping here but I’m only speaking from experience, having lived with a couple of IT guys for years.

  Pushing my way through the crowds, I passed the buffet table and grabbed a couple of sausage rolls and a handful of crisps – well, it was Christmas so why not? – before continuing my search. I checked the ladies but Erin wasn’t there.

  ‘Have you seen the state of these?’ Quinn thrust her boot, which was in her hand and not still on her foot, in my face before resuming her attempt to scrub off the alcohol. I left her to it and pushed my way back out into the pub, checking the bar, the buffet again (goodbye, pork pie) before finally finding Erin tucked away in a dark recess, snogging the face off Stuart from Accounts. Honestly, she was my best friend and everything but Erin was as bad as Angelina at times. Still, at least Stuart from Accounts wasn’t married.

  I left them to it – they hadn’t noticed me gawping at them anyway – and returned to the buffet. I’d just stuffed half an egg and cress sandwich into my gob when, typically, my phone started to vibrate in my handbag. Chomping quickly, I rummaged in my bag and grabbed it, spotting ‘Mum – mobile’ on the display. I assumed she’d be checking what time I’d be arriving at her house the following day. If only.

  ‘Ruthie, can you hear me?’

  ‘Just a minute, Mum. I’m in the pub. I’ll go outside.’

  I fought my way through the pack, phone held up in the air as though the sight of it would part the crowds, and eventually made it to the doors. A wall of freezing cold air hit me as soon as I stepped outside and I fought the urge to hop back inside and tell Mum I’d phone her back later.

  ‘Right, I’m outside. What is it?’ I turned away as I spotted Angelina and Phil Gunner going at it against some poor sod’s car, Angelina’s Santa hat jingling with each thrust.

  Lesson 5: Don’t eat too many sausage rolls at your office Christmas party. You’ll probably end up seeing them again later.

  ‘I’m at the hospital, love.’

  I’d been hunched over in the cold but I stood up straighter. ‘Are you okay? Of course you’re not okay. You’re at the hospital. Or is it Dad?’

  Mum barked out a laugh. ‘It should be your bloody father. It’s his fault I’m in here.’ Cripes, what had he done? ‘You know he’s been converting the loft into a bedroom?’ Yes, I’d heard about it many times.
Mum never shut up about it, griping as though Dad was being a complete bastard by converting the dusty old loft into a useful space. ‘The daft sod left his tool box in the hall, right outside the bathroom door. I only went flying over it after my bath.’

  I tried not to laugh. It wasn’t funny. Not at all.

  ‘Luckily my wrist’s not broken. I’ve had it x-rayed and everything. It’s just a bad sprain and I’ve got a great big graze on my shin.’

  ‘That’s good then.’ Well, compared with broken bones.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. The thing is, I won’t be able to cook Christmas lunch this year. I’m all bandaged up and will be for a few days at least. So you’ll have to do it.’

  CHRISTMAS EVE:

  Last-Minute Shopping – Part I

  Lesson 6 should be never ever leave Christmas shopping until the last minute, but everybody knows this (and yet still does it) so I won’t waste a lesson on that. Instead, I’ll ignore my own advice year after year and grumble about the crowds and end up buying crap in a panic five minutes before the shops close.

  I don’t shop in Manchester very often, usually sticking to Woodgate town centre, but as I was on my way to Mum and Dad’s and I’d have to pass through anyway, it made sense to make a dash into The Arndale.

  The Real Lesson 6: You can’t dash anywhere on Christmas Eve. The crowds are so dense, you have no choice but to go with the flow, even if the flow is in the wrong bloody direction.

  ‘Why do we do this every year?’ I asked Erin as we were pushed and shoved in every direction but the one we needed to go in. ‘Next year, I’m going to start my Christmas shopping in June.’

  Erin grinned at me, which was a feat considering her raging hangover. ‘No you won’t. We’ll be here again next year. And the year after that.’

  ‘I know. Oh, look! The Body Shop. I want to get Mum and Aubrey some smellies.’

  Erin grasped my arm and yanked me out of the flowing crowd and into the relative sanctuary of the shop. It was still packed but at least I could breathe a little. I bought hampers for my mum and sister-in-law and then the reprieve was over and we had to join the crowds once more. We somehow managed to complete our shopping trip unscathed and headed back out to Piccadilly Gardens where we would part ways, Erin going back to Woodgate while I caught the bus to Oldham.

  ‘Have a brilliant Christmas and I want to hear everything about Stuart from Accounts when I get back.’ I gave Erin a hug, our shopping bags clashing and tangling in the process.

  ‘I promise not to spare any details,’ Erin replied and I believed her. Erin wasn’t one for shying away. ‘Have fun and give that handsome brother of yours a kiss from me.’ Erin gave a wink while I gagged.

  By some miracle, the bus wasn’t too packed and I was granted half of the back seat to myself, which I made use of by spreading out my array of shopping bags. Getting on the bus had been quite easy but I wasn’t so fortunate when it came to getting back off again. My bags seemed to have doubled during the twenty-minute journey and they almost took a little old lady’s head off as I raced down the aisle of the bus, afraid the driver wouldn’t see the mass of bags jostling his way and set off again.

  ‘Sorry, excuse me, Oh, God, I’m so sorry. Sorry, excuse me. Thank you.’ I stumbled off the bus and, after untangling the jumble of shopping bags that were cutting off the circulation to my fingers, I made my way to Mum and Dad’s house, teeth chattering in the cold.

  ‘Ruthie, love. You’re here.’ Mum sounded surprised when she opened the door and found me on the doorstep and I couldn’t blame her. I’d been far from impressed when she’d informed me I’d have to sort out Christmas lunch that year and had considered not turning up at all.

  ‘But I can’t cook. I’ll poison us or something,’ I’d wailed down the phone to the soundtrack of Angelina and Phil Gunner having a jolly old time.

  ‘Don’t be daft. I’ll get your dad to write out some instructions for you. It’s the least he can do. And you won’t be on your own. Stephen, Aubrey and Gideon can all chip in too.’

  Ha! I’d pay to see Gideon in a kitchen. At least I attempted to cook, even if the results were inedible. Gideon was just plain lazy.

  ‘Of course I’m here.’ Mum stepped aside while I squeezed into the hallway with my bags. Where else would I be? At home with a tin of beans? Gosh, that was a tempting thought. ‘Are Stephen and Aubrey here yet?’

  ‘No, not yet. Their flight’s been delayed but they should be here by about three o clock. Gideon not with you?’

  I dumped the bags on the hallway floor and shrugged off my coat. ‘He was working until lunchtime but he should be here soon.’

  ‘Grand.’ Mum smiled but I could take a wild guess that she thought the appearance of my boyfriend was anything but grand. I thought Gideon being there was anything but grand.

  ‘Dad up in the loft then?’ I looked up at the ceiling, where the thumping was drowning out the Christmas songs Mum had on in the sitting room. If I strained my ears enough, I could just about make out Michael Bublé.

  Mum narrowed her eyes and stroked her bandaged wrist. ‘Yes, unfortunately. Do you think you could take him a cup of tea up before you start the baking?’

  ‘Yeah, course – wait a minute. Start the what?’ I’d started to follow Mum through to the kitchen but stopped as her words dawned on me. I couldn’t cook – beans on toast was a task – and I certainly didn’t bake. Not even Paul Hollywood’s sparkling blue eyes could entice me into the kitchen.

  ‘I was planning on making gingerbread snowmen for the kids. So you’ll have to do it. If you get started now, they’ll be ready by the time they get here.’

  ‘But I can’t bake.’ I wanted to wail and you can’t make me but I wasn’t sure that was true.

  ‘Course you can. Come on. I got your dad to cut a recipe out of a magazine and it looks easy enough.’

  I trudged through to the kitchen and shuddered when I saw the array of ingredients and equipment lying in wait on the counter.

  ‘I thought you could help the kids decorate them later, but don’t worry, I’ve bought some of the pre-made icing in tubes and they can stick Smarties on.’ Hadn’t Mum thought to buy some pre-made gingerbread men too? ‘You’d better hurry though. They’ll be landing soon and the biscuits will need time to cool.’ Mum handed me an apron and made to leave the room.

  ‘Aren’t you going to supervise?’

  ‘No, love. I’m not. I’ve spent the last thirty years running around after you kids at Christmas. This year, thanks to your dad, I’m going to sit back and relax.’ Mum saw my aghast face and laughed. ‘I’m sure even you can manage a bit of gingerbread.’

  I wish I had Mum’s confidence.

  Baking

  Trying not to slosh Dad’s tea over my hand, I climbed the stairs and gazed up at the black hole that was the loft. A ladder was propped up against the opening and the sounds of DIY could be heard from within. I prayed Dad wouldn’t ask me to help – I was more use in the kitchen than I was at hammering and stuff.

  ‘Dad? There’s a cup of tea here for you.’

  The banging ceased and Dad peered down at me, his face grimy with sweat and dust. ‘Ruth, love. I didn’t know you were here. Gideon with you? I could do with a hand up here.’

  Ha! Keep dreaming, Dad. ‘He’ll be here in a bit.’ But I doubted very much he’d get stuck in. It wasn’t in his nature to be helpful. ‘Shall I pass this up to you?’ My eyes followed the rungs of the ladder up to the loft and I swayed slightly, feeling dizzy.

  ‘Wait there, love. I’ll come down. About time I had a break anyway.’

  ‘You don’t fancy doing a bit of baking, do you?’

  Dad chuckled as he descended the ladder. It had been worth a shot, however slim.

  Leaving Dad to slurp his tea, I returned to the kitchen, pausing on the threshold as I took in the ingredients and equipment once again. Mum had left the recipe on the counter and I edged towards it as though it were an unexploded bomb and not an innocent page
torn out of a magazine. I didn’t dare pick it up as I scanned the instructions.

  Oh. It actually looked simple enough. I was being ridiculous. I was baking a few biscuits, not the royal wedding cake.

  Lesson 7: Never underestimate a recipe, no matter how basic it appears.

  ‘Oh, bollocks.’

  I was wearing Mum’s union jack apron, my sleeves were rolled up and my fingers were full of clumps of flour and butter. Gloopy golden syrup had pooled on the counter and I’d spilled half a bottle of ground cinnamon, but at least the kitchen had a real Christmassy smell.

  And then there was the bag of sugar, untouched as I’d forgotten to add it.

  Lesson 8: Read recipes really carefully and don’t skip any steps.

  Did it really matter? How important was the sugar and would anybody really notice if it was missing?

  ‘How’s it going in here?’

  I jumped in front of the counter, shielding the mess I’d made as Mum appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Yeah, fine. Good actually. It’s easy, this baking malarkey, isn’t it?’ I laughed but turned away as it morphed into a whimper. Of course the sugar was important.

  ‘Good, because Stephen’s just phoned. They’ve landed and will be here soon.’

  Yes! At least I’d have someone to share the burden of Christmas with now.

  Mum left me to work out how to get the sugar into the mixture when I’d already kneaded it into a ball of dough. I didn’t have the time or inclination to start again so I weighed the sugar, dumped it into the bowl and resumed kneading, hoping the sugar would be incorporated in the process. By some miracle, most of it ended up in the dough and I referred to the recipe once more.