A Mistletoe Moment

by Natasha West

  A Mistletoe Moment

  By

  Natasha West

  Copyright © 2016 by Natasha West

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  One

  21st December

  ‘You can sit there as long as you like, I don’t care. Meter’s running.’

  The cabbie’s voice startled Sam Henry out of her inner monologue. It had been so loud; she’d forgotten that it was costing her by the minute. It had been chanting one thing. I’m not sure if I’m up to this.

  ‘No, that’s fine, I’m going. Just tell me the damage?’

  ‘Twenty-five quid and sixty pence, love. Merry Christmas.’

  Sam snorted derisively and handed over the cash.

  ‘Same to you’ she said in an equal spirit of sarcasm and jumped out. The cab sped off into the night, no doubt ready to take more people on overpriced journeys to Christmas parties that they didn’t really want to go to.

  And on that thought, Sam entered the large bar and restaurant, The Brass Lantern, where her own corporate celebration was to be held, slapping a smile on her face and making sure her slightly-too-little-black-dress wasn’t riding up to show her knickers to everyone she worked with. She half wished she’d bought another outfit, but she’d had her current one for years and despite its shrinking hemline, it was familiar and reliable. She needed the emotional fortification it provided as she walked through the bar, looking for the function room. But it was quiet. The party was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Looking for the Pound Saver Christmas party?’

  Sam turned, surprised, to an angry looking barman who’d spoken. Did she really scream corporate drone so obviously?

  ‘Yes, is it, err..?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  Sam turned to the door the man pointed at and trudged through it, climbing the stairs.

  The sounds of laughter came from above. But it was too loud. Was it forced or simply drunk? At eight in the evening, it was more likely the former, although the latter couldn’t be entirely discounted. But whatever the reason behind it, Sam didn’t feel comforted to hear the apparent merriment. She was going in cold. Everyone in the room had clearly had warm up time. She’d have to get on the same page pretty quickly.

  She pushed the door open and the laughter mixed with other sounds. The clink of glasses, the low rumble of conversation and Slade’s I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day hit Sam like a slap.

  It was a party and it was meant to be fun. And if it had been filled with people Sam knew from any other area than the professional, it might have had half a shot.

  But this was a work function. And Sam knew that anyone who forgot that would pay a price, small or large. It wouldn’t be her; she knew that much. Orange juice was all she’d consume tonight. And if anyone asked, she’d lie and say there was vodka in it. So unless anyone grabbed her drink and sniffed it, no one had to feel threatened by her sobriety. In fact, if they had any sense, they’d all be pulling the same trick.

  Imagine that. An entire room of people pretending to be drunk for each other.

  It was a surreal concept. But in the landmine-ridden room she’d just entered, it was possible.

  But it wasn’t as cut throat as all that, Sam reminded herself. She wasn’t working for some high flying fortune five hundred. They were simply the corporate arm of a chain of shops that sold things that cost a pound, no more, no less. In her office, the job was to source those things to maximise the profit margin. Her normal workday tended to find her on the phone to some warehouse that had ten thousand off-brand iPhone chargers, trying to negotiate the lowest price that the warehouse wouldn’t consider daylight robbery.

  In effect, she was a middleman, moving the tide of cheap goods from manufacturer to the public, through other layers of people like her, just trying to cut a slight profit off of utter crap.

  But Sam didn’t want to think about the ridiculousness of her job. Because she was inches away from being more than a middleman. She was up for management. And that’s why she had to have her game face on tonight. The final interview was in five days. Being that it fell on Christmas Eve, the result would determine how pleasant her Christmas would be. But the previous manager had apparently left without notice, allegedly headhunted out of the company, so they were in a bind. The interview had to be held now.

  Still, an opportunity is an opportunity. And despite the ugly timing, Sam was pleased to be up for the job. Or at least, she wasn’t un-pleased. It had all happened rather quickly. She hadn’t had much time for processing of feelings. There had only been one clear thought when she’d gotten shortlisted. It’s forward motion. And I need to move forward.

  ‘Sam!’

  Sam turned around, surprised again by another shout across a room to see with relief that it was actually someone she was pleased to see. It was Imogen, who sat opposite her in the office. She was oddly posh for the kind of company they worked for, but as she always said, downward mobility was harder than it looked.

  ‘You look gorgeous’ she said, pressing her lips to both of Sam’s cheeks. It wasn’t really done in Sam’s circles, they were strictly one-cheek kissers, if at all, but it was obviously a hangover from Imogen’s fancy origins, so Sam bore it. She liked Imogen. She wasn’t the ice-voiced bitch most people took her for. Sam liked being one of the few people Imogen revealed that to.

  ‘I look a state. Stop it’ Sam refuted.

  ‘You stop it. I’m not in the mood for any false modesty nonsense.’

  ‘So if I told you that you look amazing, you’d just accept that then?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  And Sam knew she meant it. But it wasn’t that she was perfect looking. Imogen had poise and that trumped her charmingly quirky face. Sam admired that about her and she could see why it was attractive. All things considered, Sam was grateful that she didn’t have some kind of horrible crush on her extremely heterosexual friend. But luckily, it had never happened.

  Not that it stopped Imogen making jokes about it. ‘Eyes up here’ was a common one when Sam’s glance might chance on Imogen’s cleavage. But Sam would always fling back a ‘Dream on. I like them much bigger’ and they’d laugh, knowing there was no misdirected hormones afoot.

  They were unlikely friends, but somehow, friends anyway.

  ‘Look, don’t freak out…’ Imogen muttered as she glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘What?’ Sam said, eyes already round with panic. No good thing ever started with Don’t freak out. No one ever said Don’t freak out, but there’s a free bar tonight. This was something that needed to have its impact cushioned.

  ‘Lara’s here’ Imogen finished.

  ‘What? Why? Where?!’ Sam asked. She’d been afraid of this but she’d half convinced herself that Lara wouldn’t show up, that she’d have better things to do.

  ‘Which one do you want me to answer first?’ Imogen replied mildly.

  ‘Start with ‘Where’.

  ‘Over there’ Imogen nodded toward the bar. ‘Talking to the chief exec.’

  Sam tilted her head, with as much subtlety as she could manage, which wasn’t a lot, toward the bar.

  And there she was. L
ara Walsh. The pouty mouth, the cheekbones, the icy blue eyes, all wrapped in a package of coiffed perfection. Lara Walsh was put together very nicely. And she knew it.

  Sam felt about sixteen separate emotions at once at the sight of Lara. But if she had to pin it down to just a couple, they were anger and lust. Yes, despite everything that had happened, Lara still looked like sex on a stick. Sam hated admitting it to herself but there it was. You can lie to yourself all you want about how you feel about a person, but the contents of your underwear won’t let you slide on that particular truth.

  ‘How are you going to play this?’ Imogen asked, shaking Sam out of what she realised was a full-on gape. Thank god Lara hadn’t turned around to see it.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How are you going to stake out your territory?’

  ‘Are you telling me to take a piss in the corner of the room?’ Sam asked, confused.

  Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘Sam, I’m just saying, if you go over and say hello right now, act like it’s no big deal, you’ll get the upper hand. Otherwise you’ll have to scuttle about the party, trying to avoid her all night.’

  Sam knew that smacked of good sense. But still, it wasn’t the most enticing prospect.

  'I don’t know if I’m up to that.’

  ‘She’s just a human being. A mega-bitch in perfect shoes, to be sure. But still, only a woman.’

  ‘A mega-bitch? Don’t you think that’s a bit strong?’

  ‘Speaking as the reigning mega-bitch of our office, no. I don’t.’

  Sam shook her head. ‘You don’t fool me. You’re a pussy cat.’

  ‘And if you tell anyone, I’ll scratch your eyes out. Now, go! Get her on the back foot.’

  Sam sighed and pulled her dress down a few millimetres. This was going to be awful.

  She walked over to the bar, as though to the gallows, positioning herself a few feet away from Lara, still engaged in her corporate arse kissing with the big boss. She hadn’t seen Sam yet. It wasn’t too late to walk away, Sam thought. But one glance in Imogen’s direction and she knew her friend would be on her arse if she didn’t follow through. She loved Imogen most of the time, but her ‘support’ was currently making her life quite difficult.

  While Sam stood behind Lara’s back, she had time to strategise. Sam thought it was probably best to pretend she was going to order a drink and had simply happened upon Lara. Thinking about what she might order, the plan to let no alcohol touch her lips tonight was now laughable. Lara’s presence had ruined her plan to stay sober in a matter of seconds. She needed Dutch courage. Or Russian, to be more precise.

  ‘Vodka and orange’ she said to the barman.

  Lara turned then, as the chief exec, Bob Carstairs, excused himself and left her at the bar. As Sam was handed her drink, Lara’s eyes fell upon her.

  ‘Sam, hi’ Lara said, as though pleasantly surprised.

  The effortlessness of the greeting was like icicle stabbing into Sam’s chest. How is this so easy for you?

  ‘Lara! Hi. Hello’ she said, realising that was two different ways to say the same thing. One sentence in and she was already losing. Imogen’s plan had failed at the first hurdle. Lara had won the battle of the party just by saying her name. ‘How are you?’ Sam added, trying to recover.

  Lara closed the gap between them and they stood there awkwardly for a second, not really sure how to greet one another. How quickly it changes, Sam mused. One minute you’re wandering through my flat in your underwear, and the next we’re here and you’re a stranger. It was absurd.

  ‘I’m doing alright’ Lara said. ‘Settling in well at Head Office.’

  ‘Right. Head Office.’

  There was a chilly silence after that.

  ‘How about you? How’s the old place?’ Lara asked.

  The Old Place, after only three months. Sam supposed that made her The Old Girlfriend.

  ‘You know, ticking on. I’m up for Adam’s job, actually.’

  ‘Yes, I heard’ Lara said, smiling. ‘You and Graham, isn’t it? And a few external candidates.’

  Sam nodded but inside she was livid. Not even the element of surprise on the job thing. How did Lara always manage to get two steps ahead?

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Actually, I might be sitting on the panel. Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sam said evenly. She resisted the urge to grab onto the bar so she didn’t fall over.

  ‘Yeah. But don’t worry. I’ll try not to throw you any awful curve balls. But knowing you, you’ll be completely prepared for it even if I do.’

  Sam opened her mouth to reply but then she realised she had no idea what to say. This was probably why people advised not shagging your boss. Because one day, you’d be at the biggest job interview of your life and you’d have to answer questions on your skillset and experience while you tried not to remember what one of the interviewers looked like in the throes of orgasm.

  All things considered, this was not going as Sam had hoped.

  ‘Well, I think I can see Imogen waving me over so I’ll see you later’ Sam said and walked away, in what she hoped was a straight line.

  Imogen turned eagerly as Sam reached her at the food table, mince pie in hand. ‘How did it go?’ Imogen asked once she was sure Lara was out of earshot. ‘Did you have her on the ropes?’

  ‘Not exactly’ Sam sighed and took a long, deep drink of her cocktail.

  Two

  Tilda Banks wanted to slap the manager of The Brass Lantern. He’d been asking for it all night. Storming about the bar, barking at the staff, undermining people every chance he got. Tilda had really had enough. It was the kind of thought she usually had shortly before she handed in her notice. But for now, she was simply picturing smacking Dave around the face.

  Actually, a slap was too mild. On consideration, she decided she’d like to water board him under the beer tap. That had a more poetic ring to it. She could throw a tea towel over his face and then push him onto the floor, pinning him with her knees while she poured cold beer onto his stupid face, watching him struggle. It wouldn’t kill him, but he’d be sputtering and panicking. Maybe he’d even beg for his life.

  It was a satisfying image.

  ‘Tilda!’ - the man whose near drowning she was picturing - yelled at her across the bar.

  ‘Dave, if you speak to me at a normal decibel level, I’ll still hear you.’

  ‘Then hear this. You need to go upstairs.’

  ‘What? No! I hate doing the functions. They all get too drunk. And then they start asking for my number.’

  ‘Tough. It’s dead down here. And we need one more up there. Jenna called in sick.’

  ‘Smart woman’ Tilda muttered as she walked out from behind the bar, headed for the stairs.

  ‘And no free drinks for the pretty faces! I know what you’re like’ he belted across the room.

  Tilda turned to see that a few sleepy patrons and staff had turned at the loud warning Dave had just delivered. All eyes were on Tilda. He was trying to embarrass her. But Tilda was tougher than that.

  ‘No chance of me ever giving you a free drink then, Dave’ she said as she climbed the stairs.

  ‘What?’ Dave shouted, annoyed. Had she just insulted him? But Tilda was already gone, heading into the function.

  Before she opened the door, she checked her watch. It was coming up to nine. They wouldn’t be slaughtered yet, but they’d be well on the way. She sighed and opened the door.

  Mikey, a skinny young guy with a wispy beard, waved desperately at her from behind the packed bar. Tilda wound her way through the throng, sliding behind the bar next to him.

  ‘Thank god!’ he said as he pumped a Guinness. ‘You have no idea how glad I am to see you.’

  Tilda ruffled Mikey’s hair. ‘I know it’s batshit up here but it’s not without its benefits. That tip jar is gonna be fit to burst by the end of the night’ she said with a nod to the large glass container on the bar. That seemed to cheer Mi
key up and Tilda went to the till, checking what had been ordered on the readout. She began pouring at speed, passing drinks to Mikey so he could match them with the patron.

  After ten minutes, they had things back in order and the crowd began to thin out. Mikey leaned against the bar, taking a breath while he could.

  ‘Christ, I was going under there.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it gets easier’ she assured him. The poor guy had only been on the job for two weeks and it was his very first one to boot. Tilda couldn’t believe the sadism Dave had shown in shoving him up here alone. At eighteen, no one should have to do a corporate party. He was a sheep amongst the lions.