This year, have father-plus-own-bed in situ. Will go nowhere, fetch no-one, watch whatever I damn well please, drink myself to oblivion, at very least. Reflect that the cloud of twenty-four hour exposure to paternal foibles/eccentricities has a small silver lining after all. I feel suddenly in a decidedly Christmassy mood, and almost burst into a verse of Oh Little Town of Bethlehem for the toll booth man, but desist on grounds of being considered a nit.
I do, however, take advantage of a change of tape manoeuvre to impart my revised festive arrangements to Ben.
‘And how about next weekend,’ I enthuse, ‘you and me heading up to that Christmas tree farm near Brecon and getting ourselves a really mega tree? You could bring Francesca, if you like. And we could drive out somewhere nice for lunch. We could -’
‘Do we have to?’
‘I just thought it would be nice if you came with me for once. But if you don’t want to - I mean, if you’ve got something else you’d rather be -’
Ben turns and looks at me, then slaps his Discman shut and shrugs.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says. ‘Okay. Whatever.’
Almost everything in my Christmas garden lovely, lovely, lovely.
Only when I return to the (heart-stoppingly fetid after our three day absence) house, does googly ball (or whatever) hit my jolly mood and smash it into the boundary.
‘Ah! Yon travellers! Ho!’ says my father, hands astride hips, a cluster of jars steaming gently behind him. He has clearly been watching something in costume on TV. ‘Hold fast, good fellows!’ he then urges, with much flamboyant gesturing, before striding from the room.
He backs in, seconds later, carrying what looks perplexingly like some sort of children’s party attire. It is only when he turns and I note the trio of plastic feet that sprout from the bottom that the unbridled horror of the situation engulfs me. What my father actually holds is a tree. A Christmas tree. A four foot Christmas tree made out of tinsel. In silver.
‘But -’ I begin, rendered speechless by shock and by the ramifications of this distressing error of paternal judgement. Have twenty years of my seven foot, monster-girthed, living, breathing (transpiring in fact), pungent, glorious, heart stopping, real Christmas trees not registered anywhere in my father’s consciousness?
‘Ten pounds, all in. What do you say to that?’
Consider ‘aaarrrghhhh!’. Consider ‘infidel!’ Consider ‘All in what? The worst possible taste?’ But instead I just say;
‘Um. Yes. Great. But –’ again.
‘No problem,’ he adds, jiggling the top as he speaks. The tree, as if caught on the hop, jiggles back, causing flecks of tinsel to strew themselves beguilingly all over the kitchen floor. Look at me! says the tree. Look how I glisten and twinkle! How dare you cast scorn on my small silvery frame!
‘Thought you’d be pleased,’ continues my father, beaming. ‘No needles, no mess, no fuss, no nothing. And what with Dan being off now, and you always so busy, it was least I could do. My contribution, if you like.’
‘Great,’ I say weakly. I am not beguiled. ‘Now, ho hum, must unpack. And email Dan, before I forget. And make sure Ben has a clean shirt for tomorrow, and -’
I leave the sentence gaping at its open end and flee to the sanctuary of the study, terrified lest I am followed by a job lot of flashing Santa’s band musical light sets, or worse.
Note; I must brush up on proper psychology.
(As opposed to psychology as practiced by father: i.e. best thing to cheer up daughter would be to buy diminutive silver tinsel Christmas tree as probably shagged out by decades of humping huge real one home and spending hours and hours persuading it into upright position in bucket, and getting needle rash up arms, eyes gouged out etc. and probably only too glad to have opportunity to spend pre-Christmas run up making jams, chutneys and novelty stuffings instead.)
Oh no oh no oh no. Am owner of four foot tinsel Christmas tree. In silver.
I sit in front of the computer and consider my options. The best option is to swallow my feelings of horror and make the four foot silver tinsel Christmas tree the focal point in a retro seventies style kitsch living room, along with plastic poinsettias, colours of the rainbow plastic baubles, metallic inverted fountain-spray two foot dangling ceiling decorations, plastic flock-covered Rudolph with flashing light red nose, plastic bass-relief wall hangings of Santa, jolly snowman, elfin helpers etc., plus plastic ‘Joy to the World!’ frieze cum Christmas card holder. Best option as this will not hurt my father’s feelings.
The other option would be to set fire to the Christmas tree (in freak jam boiling accident?) but this would be logistically difficult to achieve/extremely dangerous. But, if the ends justify the means etc....hmmm.
The other option would be to pretend I have already paid a large sum of cash for a seven foot, monster-girthed etc., Christmas tree and that it is awaiting collection, and that I’ve not actually mentioned as yet only as I wanted to try and extract a refund etc., and that I have failed to obtain a refund and that, regrettably, as I have paid such a large sum of money for it I have no choice but to bring it home, and that the silver Christmas tree can act as an additional festive icon in another location (say, toilet/hall) and - yes! very good! Has potential! Can see myself explaining it to father now. Except. Hmm. Suppose father says oh, well, we can always use seven foot, monster-girthed etc tree as an additional festive icon in toilet - no, but hall/porch etc., or, worse, that we can donate the seven foot, monster- girthed etc. tree to Cefn Melin community hall, deprived person or eastern block charity convoy? Uurgh! Can see father saying exactly that. And to argue would expose my real motive and thus hurt his feelings.
Other option would be to go straight to father now, and say,
‘Dad, that was really sweet of you, and I know ten pounds is a lot of money, but having a seven foot, monster- girthed etc. Christmas tree is one of those things that I really look forward to at Christmas, and lovely though your tree undoubtedly is, Christmas just won’t seem the same if I don’t have one. I know I’m a silly billy, but you do understand, don’t you?’
And so on. So simple. But so difficult to do.
I decide to shelve the tedious moral maze dilemma for the moment and instead switch computer on to email Dan as arranged.
Compose thoughtful missive;
Dear Daniel,
It was lovely to see you, and absolutely horrible to meet Jack (as she calls herself.) She seems opinionated, arrogant, obnoxious and snotty, and so full of herself that she’s surely due to explode sometime soon (indeed, her eyes look as if they’re on the way already). And I’m so cross that you’re going to her house for Christmas. It’s not fair! I want you to come home! I suppose the only good thing about ‘her people’ (yeuch!) having invited you for Christmas is that I won’t be forced to invite her to us. Wish I could fathom quite what it is you see in her, but, sadly, I’m groping for a reason. I can only assume she’s good in bed, but, frankly, that’s the last thing I want to think about.
Guess Ben had a brilliant time - he is mute and looks vaguely catatonic. Decided not to enquire, for my own benefit. What I don’t know etc...!! Miss you more than you can possibly imagine, but also happy beyond measure that you’ve grown into such a lovely, outgoing, confident, urbane, well-rounded young man (if with dubious taste in women so far, which I’m quite sure you will grow out of - and soon, God willing).
Tons and tons and tons of love and kisses and hugs,
Mummyxxxxxxxxxxx
PS Perhaps you could let her know that I am perfectly fluent in restaurant punjabi etc., thank you very much. Indeed, I was eating peshwari naans while she was still sucking on rusks.
And delete. Send;
Dear Daniel,
It was lovely to see you. Missing you again already. Hope you weren’t too embarrassed about the bag of underwear!
Thanks so much for having Ben to stay - he talked about his weekend all the way home (Just the edited highlights, I presume!). And sorry that we weren’
t able to hang around long enough to say goodbye to Jack. (She seems like a very nice girl, by the way.) Say hello to her for me, won’t you.
It was good to see you looking so well and happy. I’m disappointed, of course, that you won’t be home for Christmas itself, but look forward to seeing you on the fifteenth. Are you going to be here for New Year? (No pressure. Just wondered!)
Anyway, all home, safe and sound. Grandad has just presented me with a silver tinsel Christmas tree which he picked up at a boot sale this morning. Can’t begin to think what to say to him. You know what I’m like about my trees, don’t you? Any ideas?!!!!
Love Mumxx
Log on to the internet to get Dan’s email off, and consider again Rose’s suggestion to email Adam about his mountaineering friend. I don’t know if it’s Rose, or Dad, or this whole Adam business, but suddenly, more than ever before, I realise just how much seeing Everest really means to me.
Why does a person fall in love with a mountain? What is it about that monolith of snow gilded rock that exerts such a powerful effect? Is it beauty? Is it power? Is it sheer awesome scale? I pick up my much-thumbed Trekking in Nepal and scan its fact-packed, earnest pages. Monasteries, Buddhas, flat-faced smiling people, the strange, lunar lanscape; those breathtaking peaks.
So perhaps I should email him. Get the ball rolling. Back seats, as Rose said, are not the place for dreams. But then again, why don’t I simply forget it? After all, useful though it undoubtedly would be, it’s not as if I really need any help. I can do this on my own. And what I don’t need right now is to keep the Adam thing going. There are dreams and there are dreams, after all.
Needless to say, it’s just while I’m having a very stern conversation with myself about all the reasons why it would be a particularly stupid course of action to email Adam (even for a Simpson) when pop! there’s the message. That I have some new post. And yes, it’s from him. I curse briefly at the small, hot (you see, Simpson? That’s exactly why you shouldn’t take that course of action) explosion in my stomach, then take a slow, deep breath and click tremulously on it.
[email protected]
Hello Charlie,
I know you don’t want me to email you any more, but I was watching a programme about earthquakes earlier and I remembered I was going to put you in touch with my friend Rhys. (Or had you , as I originally hoped you would?!) Obviously, I don’t want you to mention it if I see you, and obviously, I’d be grateful if you’d keep it to yourself (!), but I decided what the hell and had a word with him about you, and he said he’d be happy to help if he can. You can either call him at home, or if no luck (he’s not in much!) you can get him at the General (he’s a Consultant Gynaecologist there), in which case, dial the switchboard and ask them to bleep him.
Hope everything in your life is okay. (Though sounds like work’s fairly stressful right now.) And really hope the trip takes shape.
Take care of yourself,
Adam.
Scribbling down the telephone numbers, I realise that we have both had the same thing on our minds at same time. That just as I was pondering the propriety of emailing Adam, Adam was doing the exact same thing about me. I realise also that I have adrenalin surge in progress; that I am having a definite physiological response to his email. Also that I am feeling a familiar cocktail of diverse emotions. That, despite my best efforts, I am failing to consign my (ridiculous, inappropriate yet horribly potent) feelings for Adam to my virtual bin.
I hit the ‘reply’ icon and stare at the blinking cursor. Then type,
[email protected]
Dear Adam,
Thank you so much. That’s really kind of you. I’m saving hard and of course I hadn’t . Why on earth would you imagine I’d forget? I just wasn’t sure if it appropriate to ask, that was all. (Obviously!)
I will call Dr Hazelton (Mr Hazelton?) as soon as I get a minute tomorrow (though not on Willie JJ time, of course..).
Thanks again. I’m beginning to feel quite excited about it all.
With very best wishes,
Charlie.
As soon as I press ‘send’, of course, I regret it. Very much.
I click ‘ok’ to ‘your email has been sent’ message, and spend a distracted five minutes staring at the screen saver (this week FS4BS4FS4BS4FS4BS4FS recurring) and experiencing specific regret over the italics in ‘why on earth would you imagine I’d forget?’. They could, and should, be construed as a reference to the fact that my trip is a big thing on the horizon at present, but could also, and might, be construed as a reference to the fact that thinking about Adam Jones is a big thing on the horizon (indeed, foreground) at present. As both are patently true, I must expect rogue construing all round. Also regret ‘(Obviously!)’, as confirmation that I understood the significance of griffith’s own ‘obviously’s; therefore my tacit agreement that our cyber relationship is something to feel guilty about in the first place. As the only thing I have to feel guilty about is the size of my phone bill (and evening emailing is cheap rate anyway) then my guilt (our tacitly agreed guilt) must be about our relationship situation, even if it is only a cyber-relationship situation. Oh, God.
Regret mainly that I discovered a charming, witty, attractive, loveable virtual stranger before discovering his identity was Adam Griffith Jones.
Chapter 11
Monday evening.
I can’t help but wonder if a series of guilt ridden ‘obviously’s’ have been transmitted, osmosis fashion, into Davina’s psyche. She has behaved in an altogether un-Davina-like manner for most of morning. Though has to be said, un-Davina-like in all, not just Charlotte Simpson related matters.
For a start she has brought the wretched Ianthe in with her, and they’ve spent much of the morning re-arranging the desks. They’ve moved mine, for example, to the back of the office, where Chi energy will, so they tell me, give me ambition, direction,
financial success, and (my own interpretation) a bloody great draught up my back. They have also all over the place. Weird upon weird, and distinctly unsettling. What next? Much relieved when Ianthe pushed off.
And then a highly curious episode with Hugh in the staff room. This involved much muffled earnest-sounding conversation, plus scrapings and bangings of unidentifiable origin; if were not for my firm opinion re. Hugh’s sexual orientation, I would have concluded that Davina and Hugh were having sex over the side of the armchair. But I am becoming paranoid. I am living in a constant state of fight or flight arousal and am consequently overly sensitive. But I am at least losing weight.
And work, on the whole, is looking infinitely more bearable, as I have had not one but three requests for details of Cherry Ditchling, following its appearance in the Homes of Character slot in the local paper. Perhaps the Cherry Ditchling sale fatwa is now inexplicably lifted, and I will be able to make a vast commission and be in good books all round. Which is especially important as I have decided Hugh Chatsworth is making worrisome and somewhat unethical inroads into becoming the Willie JJ resident teacher’s pet. Will arrange viewings, if possible, at back to back half hourly intervals in order to whip up a feeding-frenzy of enthusiasm and competitive spirit. Perhaps there is something to Feng Shui after all.
Anyway, I’ve done it. I have arranged to meet the mountaineering gynaecologist, Rhys Hazelton, after work, in the hyper-trendy ‘Q’ bar in the centre of the city. And at his suggestion. He is obviously a hip, happening guy. Personally, I would never have considered the ‘Q’ bar as being the type of venue middle aged gynaecologists would frequent. (Would never consider it a place I’d frequent either, as it is almost exclusively the stamping ground of pre-pubescents with multiple piercings.)
But evidently I am wrong. The doorman greets him warmly. And he I.
‘Well, hell-o, Mrs Simpson!’
‘Charlie. Please.’
‘Indeed!’ His note of celebration has heads turning already. Though they soon turn back upon realisation that I am neither famous nor youthful.
‘So, what’ll it be, Charlie? Better press on into the scrum, so to speak.’
Rhys Hazelton is a giant of a man. He has arms like legs of lamb and enormous brown hands with little blonde curls on the backs of the fingers. I cannot stop looking at them. I cannot help but remember that he’s probably spent much of today using them to ferret around between women’s legs and wave a speculum about.
He addresses his pint with one of them, once we’re seated. The fingers curl around it like a laboratory clamp. But he is rather handsome. He has tanned skin and pale hair and the sort of long limbed athleticism that probably passes for normal among cartoon superheroes. He is, in short, rugged. I can picture him wrestling a crocodile or lion.
‘Well,’ he says, ploughing his head of corn coloured commas with the other hand. ‘Isn’t this a turn up for the book?’ My questioning face has him shaking his head. He leans closer. ‘Adam neglected to tell me his intrepid friend was female, Charlie. It was only when you called that the penny dropped.’
‘Oh,’ I reply, and not wishing to invite any further speculation, add, ‘Charlie’s short for Charlotte, and...well...here I am.’
‘And on a quest, I understand, to head up a mountain sometime soon. Done much climbing?’
‘None,’ I say. ‘I have absolutely no mountaineering skills at all. I just have a big thing about rocks and mountains and plate tectonics and...well, I just want to, you know - be there. Actually see it for myself . Actually feel...’ I can feel my face growing warm. As always, laid bare like this, seeing Everest sounds such a twitty, half baked idea that I’m almost too embarrassed to talk about it. So I stop, and offer him a shrug instead.
Virtual Strangers Page 11
