Never Propose on Christmas Day

by Alice Ross

  ‘Thanks. I’m coming back to see for myself.’

  ‘There’s no need. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘It might be, but I won’t. Not unless I get away from here.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘A burst pipe?’ gasps Ellie, when I bring her up to speed with the embellished state of the kitchen sink.

  ‘Yep. Thank God Kyle found it,’ I reply with exaggerated relief.

  All this embellishment and exaggeration seems to baffle her. ‘Well, can’t he fix it? Or call someone out?’

  I shake my head. ‘No chance. He’s in such a state about Ingrid kicking him out, that he’s not thinking straight. And the chances of finding a willing professional on Christmas Eve are slim to none. Even our landlord can’t help. He’s sunning himself in Tenerife. No, there’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to go back and sort it out myself.’

  ‘But you’re not supposed to drive.’

  At my probably-soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend’s earnest expression, I almost break into a round of applause. Behind that concerned veneer I imagine she’s battling the urge to jump up and down with relief at not having to suffer my company for the next few days. ‘The doctor’s orders were not to drive for twenty-four hours, which are now up,’ I inform her. ‘And my head feels fine.’ Ha! If only. As well as a continuous ache, my cerebral space is currently on the point of bursting, rammed as it is with all manner of depressing thoughts, which I’m doing my utmost not to reveal.

  Ellie’s bottom lip gives an almost imperceptible wobble. ‘But it’s… it’s Christmas Day tomorrow.’

  Blimey. She could be in the running for a BAFTA at this rate. She’s even managed to inject precisely the right amount of remorsefulness into her voice and look all teary again.

  ‘Exactly,’ I reply, employing a monumental effort to keep my own voice level. Not easy when experiencing the sensation of a herd of elephants stampeding over my heart. In all my thirty-one years, the only gift I’ve ever wanted is to wake up with Ellie on Christmas morning. But, for both our sakes, I must forego that pleasure this year – despite it crippling me. So, continuing with the inflated tale of the burst pipe, I add, ‘Which is why I can’t leave Kyle on his own tomorrow. Not in his current state. I’d feel terrible.’

  ‘Why don’t you bring him back here with you?’ chips in Diana. ‘The more the merrier.’

  Oh God! I hadn’t thought of that. Much to my amazement, however, a sensible reply trips off my tongue: ‘Given how cut up he is, I don’t think that adage would apply, Diana. He’s not really up to facing people.’

  ‘Oh dear. I don’t suppose he will be. The poor love. I can’t think of anything worse than having your heart broken on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘No, I definitely wouldn’t recommend it,’ I almost add, my own heart splintering.

  ‘Still, at least he has good friends like you to take care of him, Adam,’ Diana continues. ‘And to make sure you don’t both starve, I’m going to pack a little food hamper for you to take back. I’m sure Kyle would love a few of Ellie’s gingerbread men.’

  As the woman starts beetling about the kitchen, Ellie’s heavenly green watery eyes wheel round to me.

  ‘I could come with you,’ she offers, maintaining her regretful demeanour. ‘We haven’t spent Christmas apart in the three years we’ve been together.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say… there’s a first time for everything.’ The forced jollity in my tone adds an unintended tinge of sarcasm to the words. An occurrence which, by the sweep of surprise that wafts over Ellie’s countenance, catches her off-guard too.

  ‘Oh. Right,’ she mutters, sounding decidedly miffed.

  Which is a good thing, I assure myself. If she thinks I’m not bothered about us spending Christmas apart, then it’ll make it easier for her to break the whole thing off in January.

  Gazing at her lovely, anxious face, though, my heart squeezes still further. She looks terrible – this whole love triangle thing is obviously cutting her up big time. Yet, for all she’s been getting up to lord knows what with Calum, I can’t bring myself to hate her. I could never hate her.

  ‘You stay here,’ I say, softening my tone so much, my voice comes out as little more than a whisper. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to spend Christmas Day listening to Kyle droning on about Ingrid.’

  ‘It might be preferable to listening to Dominic droning on about Dominic,’ she says, mustering a weak smile. One that sends an enormous wrecking ball crashing through my pathetic defences.

  ‘It’s a tough call but I think I have the edge this time,’ I quip, kissing the top of her gorgeous head and drinking in the scent of her.

  During the dark and dismal drive back to Newcastle, I try to commit Ellie’s scent to memory. Along with the mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and the sound of her throaty chuckle - both of which have been sadly missing of late. And now I knew the reason for their absence, namely Calum’s reappearance in her life, and that it would soon be he who would breathe in her scent every day, catch her twinkle and hear her chuckle, sadness began swirling through me faster than the flakes of snow twirling in the dark sky. I’d stupidly assumed those things would be constants in my life. But how wrong I’d been. And how typical for me to discover that fact this week. Quite obviously, Christmas and I were destined never to get along. And for all the sprouts, talc, dodgy underpants and Generation Game episodes of the past, this one would eternally be referred to as The Worst Ever.

  ‘Thought you might need a drink,’ says Kyle, when he pulls open the flat door to me a short while later and thrusts an open can of Bud into my hand.

  Given my maudlin state, I immediately slug down two mouthfuls, deciding that, painkillers or not, a drink is absolutely what I need.

  ‘The problem with women,’ slurs Kyle, a couple of hours – and multiple cans of Bud – later, ‘is that they just don’t appreciate a good doner when they taste one. I mean, there’s no way anyone in Sweden could serve up a kebab better than Yusuf’s down the road.’

  ‘That’s because Yusuf makes the best kebabs in the whole wide world,’ I slur back. ‘And anyway, doners weren’t meant to be served in Sweden. It’s too bloody cold.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Kyle snaps a leg off his third gingerbread man with his teeth. ‘Who wants to spend six months of the year in thermals without a decent kebab? Not me. Which is why I’m staying here.’

  I attempt a reassuring nod, but as my head feels far too heavy, resort to Plan B and waggle my eyebrows a couple of times instead. To what avail, I’m not quite sure. Nor is Kyle, judging by the strange look that comes my way. I ignore it and carry on. ‘I bet Ingrid was a bit naffed off when you told her about the doners though.’ I follow this remark with a snigger, which causes me to slide a tad further down the sofa.

  Kyle stuffs the remainder of the dissected confectionery into his mouth. ‘Naffed off goes nowhere near covering it. She went completely mental. Between me and you, she can be a bit—’

  ‘Lacking in humour?’

  ‘No. Well, sometimes, I suppose. But she can also be a bit—’

  ‘Up herself?’

  ‘Nah. Although, on second thoughts, she probably can. No, what I’m trying to say is that she’s occasionally a bit—’

  ‘Anal?’

  He blinks. ‘Why am I getting the feeling you don’t like her?’

  I waggle my eyebrows again. ‘I do like her. Sort of. But you must admit, she is a bit—’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Ah ha.’

  ‘And a pain in the arse?’

  ‘A monumental one. Ellie called her the Terrifying Turnip.’

  Kyle’s eyebrows now join the party, rocketing up his glacially smooth, fake-tanned forehead. ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘She did,’ I titter. Then, laughter intensifying, ‘And on the way home from the pub on Friday nights, we used to take the mick out of her by making up all sorts of stupid Swedish names for things based on the Ikea catalogue.’ I collapse into guffaws. Kyle doesn’t
join in.

  In fact, he doesn’t appear to detect any humour in my humorous revelation.

  ‘Oh. Right,’ he murmurs pensively.

  Making me wonder if I’ve overstepped the mark; said too much; forgotten that it’s fine for the dumpee to slag off the dumper, but not for anyone else to pass derogatory comments. Particularly when the pair might kiss and make up and be reunited again tomorrow.

  As I root about for my mental sat nav to search for a road down which I can backtrack, Kyle suddenly bursts into convulsing laughter.

  I join in – mainly from relief. I’ve completely forgotten what we’re laughing at, but I don’t care. A few minutes later, though, I find I’m no longer laughing, but emitting a strange wailing sound – much like Barnaby’s trumpet. ‘Who am I going to make stupid Swedish names up with when Ellie dumps me properly?’ I howl.

  The question brings an abrupt end to all merriment.

  Kyle selects a mince pie from Diana’s food parcel. ‘You don’t know for certain that she is going to dump you,’ he points out, before sinking laser-whitened teeth into the golden pastry.

  ‘I do. Why would she want to spend the rest of her life with a no-hoper like me?’

  He shrugs. ‘Some women like no-hopers. They see them as a project. Somebody they can transform into a hoper. Makes the relationship a bit more interesting, I suppose.’

  I gape. ‘Er, I think you were supposed to say something along the lines of I’m not actually a no-hoper; that I have a good-ish job; and that I’m generally an all round decent bloke.’

  Kyle’s tongue juts out, flipping a stray raisin from his finger into his mouth in a manoeuvre worthy of any NFL basketball player. ‘Oh. Right. Yeah. Well, all of that as well, of course. What did she say to this Alan in her emails?’

  ‘It’s Calum, not Alan. And I have no idea. I couldn’t bring myself to read them. But I bet you a tenner they were all about how they never should have split up in the first place.’

  ‘Why did they split up?’

  ‘Don’t know. Ellie never gave me a reason. Said she didn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Kyle gives one of his knowing nods, which, given he’s not the brightest denture in the palate, generally means he doesn’t know at all. ‘In that case, it sounds very much like he dumped her.’

  Despite his usual lack of perception, this time I agree with him. ‘Which is why she probably can’t wait to get back with him. And who can blame her? Not only does the guy look like the male equivalent of Ingrid, but he’s a bloody pilot.’

  ‘And probably wouldn’t be seen dead in a traffic cone outfit,’ Kyle points out – rather unnecessarily in my opinion. ‘Anyway, you need to put it all behind you. Start January afresh. Like me - a sworn singleton. In fact, my New Year resolution is never to have anything to do with the opposite sex ever again.’

  The doorbell rings.

  ‘That’ll be the pizza delivery,’ Kyle’s obviously-sharper-than-usual-this-evening deduction skills deduce. ‘The stuff Diana’s sent through is all very well, but if you can’t have a doner, the next best thing is a Meat Feast Pizza. You going to answer it?’

  I waggle my eyebrows. ‘Sorry. Can’t. Not sure I can stand up.’

  ‘Lightweight,’ he snorts, heaving himself to his feet from the leather armchair in which he’s been ensconced for the last few hours. Then promptly toppling back into it.

  Another round of raucous laughter ensues from us both, interspersed with several more rings of the doorbell, before Kyle eventually succeeds in remaining upright long enough to stumble into the hall and reach the door.

  By the time he lurches back into the room, pizza on the verge of escaping its box, I’ve just about nodded off.

  ‘What took you so long?’ I drunkenly enquire.

  ‘Delivery girl was tastier than the food. Only gone and hooked myself up with a hot date for the day after Boxing Day.’

  ‘But I thought you’d sworn off women forever.’

  ‘Not until the first of Jan. Which is all the more reason to make the most of the next few days.’

  I’m still trying to fathom the logic in this strategy when I lose the battle with my closing eyelids, tumble into a deep painkillers-mixed-with-alcohol sleep, and slide completely off the sofa into a heap on the floor.

  I have no idea how long I’m unconscious, but when I awake it’s to a clinical smell, a plethora of bright lights, and the faint sound of a choir warbling God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.

  ‘Merry Christmas, mate,’ chirps a male voice.

  Unable to raise my head from what appears to be a mound of pillows, I swivel my eyes around to find Kyle peering at me.

  ‘You’re in hospital.’

  Hospital? The observation sends my thought processes into overdrive. Why am I in hospital? What happened? How did I get—?

  ‘You passed out. And I totally freaked. Didn’t know how many painkillers you’d knocked back or anything. So I rang the paramedics and they brought you in for observation.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I mutter, eyes scanning the rest of the six-bed ward. Noting genuinely sick individuals there, I feel thoroughly ashamed of myself. ‘I can’t stay here. It’s Christmas. They might need the bed. And—’

  ‘You’re going nowhere,’ announces a nurse, popping up at the foot of my bed. ‘None of us are. It’s snowing so hard, all the roads are blocked.’

  ‘It’s not all bad,’ soothes Kyle, as the woman scuttles off and my features contort in dismay. ‘There are a couple of really hot nurses on the ward. And we’re going to get a full Christmas dinner. Stuffing and everything.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I huff, the irony of my situation beginning to dawn on me. This was supposed to be the best Christmas Day ever. The one where I popped The Question to the love of my life. The day Ellie and I formalised our union and began making plans for the rest of our lives.

  Instead, I find myself wasting NHS money yet again; there’s no chance of me catching so much as a glimpse of my beloved – who would soon be banishing me from her life altogether; and I was snowed in with Kyle – who looked so rough it was a wonder the nurses hadn’t offered him a bed. Although on second thoughts, if they’d caught a whiff of his Casanova reputation, perhaps that wasn’t such a wonder after all.

  Anyway, in depressing conclusion, the whole package exceeded the all-day Christmas toga party in Lanzarote for festive awfulness. A major achievement indeed.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ enquires Kyle. ‘And don’t say Bud because they’ve ran out.’

  He follows what is evidently meant to be a joke, with a hearty laugh.

  My lips remain firmly cemented in a straight, unimpressed line. In my mortified-at-being-in-hospital-at-all, miserable, hungover state, all I want to do is burrow under the covers and hide away until everything’s back to normal. Only everything won’t ever be back to normal, because Ellie is about to break up with me. Thereby bringing about the end of my entire world.

  ‘I could bring you a coffee,’ Kyle prattles, evidently desperate to bring me something. No doubt because the task will take him in the vicinity of the aforementioned hot nurses.

  ‘OK. Thanks,’ I utter, if nothing else, to savour a few lone moments in which to compose myself.

  As he darts off, I’m about to take refuge under the bedcovers, when I spot someone marching towards me.

  Someone bearing an uncanny resemblance to… Ellie.

  Chapter Eight

  But Ellie can’t possibly be at the hospital. For one thing, there’s no way she could have driven here from Northumberland. Not in all the snow. And for another, why would she bother even if the roads were clear?

  Unless, of course, Kyle has informed her of our drunken shenanigans and my subsequent abusing of the NHS, and she’s pounced on the disgraceful incident as the perfect excuse to terminate our partnership.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, coming to a stop at the bedside.

  I blink. Blimey. It really is Ellie.

  I scrabble some
words together. ‘How did you—?’

  ‘Mr Lyons, the farmer next door to Mum and Dad. He’s driven the tractor down with a snow plough on the front and I followed in the car.’

  I furrow my still sore forehead. ‘But that must have taken you—’

  ‘Ages. It did. But it doesn’t matter. I’m here. That’s the main thing.’ She reaches out and takes my hand. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Terrible,’ I sigh. ‘Mainly because I’m so embarrassed about being here among properly sick people.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not the first to be here through an alcohol-related incident,’ she replies through a tentative smile. ‘And it’s not like you make a habit of it.’

  Oh God. Why is she being so nice? This polite preamble must be killing her. Just as it’s killing me, it forming the precursor to the main event of me being dumped. I decide to cut to the chase. ‘Why… why are you here?’ I stammer, heart pounding at a rate that would likely whip up all the resident medics into an excited flurry.

  Ellie looks at me like I’ve just asked her if we should go out and sunbathe. ‘Well, because Kyle phoned me and told me what had happened. And because that’s what couples do. When one is in hospital, the other usually visits.’

  As her smile widens, my racing heart skips a couple of beats. ‘But I… I thought you didn’t want to be a couple anymore.’

  Her nose wrinkles. ‘Why on earth would you think that?’

  I shrug, dropping my gaze to the bedcovers. ‘Because I saw all the emails from Calum. Your inbox was open the day I sat at your dad’s desk.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ She grimaces. ‘So you know all about it then?’

  I nod, nausea roiling through me. ‘And I don’t blame you,’ I say, raising my eyes again and meeting her gaze. ‘I mean, he can offer you all sorts of things I can’t. And he’s probably already on the property ladd-’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The property ladder. Calum’s probably halfway up it by now. A nice designer pad with en suites and bifold doors. Unlike me, who’s still renting at the grand old age of—’