Christmas Every Day

by Beth Moran

  ‘Can you give me a minute?’ I said after queuing to check out.

  Mack tapped me on the shoulder with the complimentary newspaper. ‘Take as long as you need. Should you require Mr Macintyre, he’ll be leaning against this pillar looking protectively menacing.’

  I rolled my eyes, smothered my smile and did my best to stride confidently yet casually up to Zara, gliding towards the library. It felt as if two massive hands were in my chest, squeezing the life out of each lung. The closer I got, the harder they squeezed.

  She ignored my faint, ‘Hello,’ and, ‘Good morning,’ forcing me to sort of fling myself in front of her before she reached the library door.

  ‘Oops. Sorry,’ I wheezed. She shook her head slightly, eyes on the doorway, lips pursed as if confronted with a hideous reeking troll and not a freshly showered relative. Determined not to be dissuaded, I planted myself firmly in her way. ‘I just wanted to say—’

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ she snapped, speaking over me. ‘It’s bad enough you showed up here at all. I’m not interested in anything you might have to say.’

  ‘Mum didn’t speak to you?’

  ‘Yes, she spoke to me. And I told her what I’ll tell you. I’m. Not. Interested. I gave you a home, a job, a life. For six years I let you wear my clothes. Stood up for you in the office when people moaned about what an irritating wuss you are. Tolerated your weird infatuation with my housekeeper. Which, by the way, was not only embarrassing but totally destroyed any respect she had for my authority. And you maimed and humiliated me, in front of Dougal and Duff. Virtually ruined my chance of making partner, which you know full well is the only thing I’ve ever wanted besides a date on Simon Cowell’s yacht. Someone left an application form for Judge Rinder on my desk! And now you show up at my WEDDING! Why? Why are you here? Haven’t you done enough?’

  ‘I’m here because Richard invited me,’ I said. ‘And I wanted to see Mum, and to wish you well. You’re my sister, whether we like it or not, so I’m here for you, if ever you need someone. Otherwise, I hope you get what you want from life and can finally be happy.’

  Zara’s nose sneered close to snapping point. ‘I will never need you,’ she said, laughing in disbelief. ‘I won, Jenny. Slam-dunk. Clean sheet. Anything I wanted or needed from you, I’ve already taken.’

  ‘A kidney?’ I muttered, walking away. ‘How to get a hug from our mum? Your first real friend?’

  I dozed most of the way home, while the sound of Mack’s Proclaimers playlist wafted in and out of hazy dreams. Still half asleep, once I’d stumbled to my door it took a moment longer than it should have to realise it was already open an inch.

  ‘Oh, no.’ My stomach lurched. My kitchen, my pretty, precious, tidy kitchen, had been trashed. Jamie’s portable oven had gone. Cupboards stood wide open, their plates and bowls and the two vases carefully chosen from the Hoard in pieces on the lino below. The bin lay on its side, contents strewn across the floor. I dropped my bags and ran through to the living room. The old, blocky television had been smashed. The sofa cushions slashed, bookcase tipped over.

  The rest of the house was the same. The boxes waiting for the car boot or charity shop emptied, their contents scattered. The small selection of Charlotte’s jewellery I’d kept had been taken, as had the old record player and crate of LPs. Mostly, it was the mess that got to me. I shuddered at the thought of grubby fingers pawing through my carefully sorted, cleaned, tidied future. My arm hair bristled as I took in the carnage, vicious damage inflicted on mirrors and curtains, the lovely duvet from Mack shredded, books ripped open. This wasn’t someone simply looking for items to flog. This was meant to intimidate, upset and frighten me. If I’d been at all in doubt, my un-stolen laptop sitting on a chair placed in the centre of my bedroom was proof enough. When I flicked it on, the screen went straight to a website selling houses.

  Shit.

  I blinked, hard, clenched my jaw tight and started scooping the clothes tossed about my bedroom into the laundry basket, anger and horror pumping like lava through my veins. Marching out to take it to the washing machine, it was only then I noticed Diana, and the message rang loud and clear.

  Mack found me a few minutes later, a huddled heap at my plastic housemate’s feet, scrabbling to piece back together the shards of my shattered courage.

  ‘Months of hard grind,’ I said, voice strained. ‘I’d worked so hard. It was starting to look okay. Like a home was emerging from the mess and the dirt. I’m not sure I have the energy to start again.’

  ‘That’s exactly what they want you to think.’ Sarah, grim-faced, poured a rare second glass of wine and handed it to me, slouched on her sofa. ‘You can’t let them win.’

  ‘Why not?’ I said, ignoring the wine. ‘Why not take up Fisher’s offer of a flat with no electrical problems, or plumbing disasters? Brand-new appliances and freshly -painted walls that probably aren’t even mouldy. If they don’t win this time, what will they do next?’ I thought of Mannequin Diana, and shivered. Decided on a gulp of wine after all.

  ‘Once Jamie’s back, he’ll find whoever this is and string them up. Like, literally. He’ll find a nice big tree and let them swing. Don’t give up, Jenny. Think positive.’

  ‘Urgh. I just don’t want to think about it at all any more. How are things with you? Any progress with that guy you liked? What was his username – HeartBaker? Did he finally agree to a date?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked down at her empty plate. ‘But I wish he hadn’t. He stood me up. Who does that? At least those others turned up. Even if I wished they hadn’t.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Another dud.’

  ‘I dunno.’ Sarah shrugged mournfully. ‘It was sort of my fault. I pushed him into it, after he’d asked to take things slow. Told him it was now or never. But he could have chosen never – he didn’t have to arrange to meet me in Scarlett’s and then leave me hanging.’

  ‘That sucks.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So that’s it with him?’

  Sarah turned pink. ‘I’m so pathetic. I messaged him three times last night. And then I got worried, that maybe something had happened. Like he’d had a car crash, or his house burned to the ground with his phone and computer inside. So, this morning I called him.’

  ‘Oh, dear. He answered?’

  ‘Yeah, so unfortunately neither he nor his phone are dead. Or seriously injured.’

  ‘What did he say? What did you say?’ I shuddered to think.

  ‘Well, the line was really bad so it was a lot of me yelling about what a waster he was, and telling him to go shove his compliments and his promises and his sweet little jokes up his own app. While he crackled and hissed, and said stuff like, “I’m sorry, something came up,” and, “Please let me explain,” and, “I’ll make it up to you.” I told him, if he’s so keen to make it up to me, why am I the one phoning to see if he’s all right?’

  Sarah opened the freezer and pulled out a giant tub of caramel ice cream. ‘So that’s it. I am officially over it. This particular story did not have a happy ending.’ She scooped out two enormous bowlfuls. ‘I mean, if a Zac Efron lookalike happens to start calling into the café and we get chatting, and after a decade or two he doesn’t seem like a dud, I might have a coffee with him. But I’m done being disappointed.’

  I watched her shovel in a mountain of ice cream. ‘What about Jamie?’

  ‘Really?’ she mumbled, before swallowing her mouthful. ‘Are you still going on about that? He’s been hanging around in the café for weeks now, and not made a move. So, I’m guessing he’s either not interested or not man enough. And we both know there’s nothing Jamie’s not man enough for.’

  I ate my ice cream and said nothing. If Jamie wasn’t brave or decisive enough to act on his feelings, maybe he wasn’t strong enough to take Sarah on.

  The next morning, Ashley tumbled into my kitchen. ‘I made gingerbread,’ she announced, with great significance. ‘To cheer you up.’

  She placed a
plastic tub on my table, keeping hold of a pretty tin decorated with butterflies.

  ‘Thanks, Ashley. That’s really kind of you. I could do with a break before I start clearing up the wreckage in the dining room. Do you want tea?’

  ‘Ye-e-e-e-s-s-s,’ she replied, eyes darting about. ‘But I have this other cake for next door. Seeing as they got burgled, too. They might want to talk things over with a glass of lemonade.’

  And then I remembered.

  The phone call. Made in a storm cloud of anger and offence, for reasons now seeming petty. Hillary West had made me feel stupid and pathetic and a failure. Feelings that had a lifetime’s worth of painful memories associated with them. Feelings I’d been working my backside off to move on from, and thought I had finally succeeded at.

  I was impressed Ashley had held off this long. Maybe it wasn’t going to be as bad as I feared.

  ‘Mack is a really private guy,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but he’s not going to want to talk to you. Or have you help him clear up his three possessions. I can drop the cake round, though. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.’

  ‘Jenny, it’s gingerbread. It’s not for Mack.’

  I knew the cake wasn’t for Mack, but it was only when she waggled her eyebrows at me that I remembered the Hillary West book, The Gingerbread House.

  ‘Right. Let’s go, then.’ I didn’t bother telling her Hillary West might not live up to the imaginary novelist she’d created in her head. Hillary could burst Ashley’s bubble herself.

  Mack answered the door. Hanging back behind Ashley still didn’t stop my stomach flipping over. I couldn’t handle his face so exposed, so there. He really needed to grow that beard back for his, and my, protection.

  Ashley introduced herself, reciting the words like an actress on one of those local adverts for car dealerships. ‘Is your wife in, at all? I’ve made her gingerbread. Not a house – I mean, I thought that might be a bit much. I didn’t want her to think I was weird! Ha! Ha!’

  Mack swivelled his eyes to me. A little tiny explosion went off in my chest with a sad whistle. ‘No. You can leave the cake here, though. She’ll be back at the weekend.’

  ‘Oh. Well.’ Ashley’s whole body drooped. ‘I very much wanted to give it to her myself. I’m such a big fan. Like, about as big a fan as you can get without being sinister. I’ve written to her dozens of times. But I’ve never invaded her personal privacy! I’ve always respected her wish to remain out of the limelight. It’s just, well, when Jenny mentioned she lived so amazingly close, I had to come and tell her in person how she has totally, completely, changed my life. I’m only brave enough to be here because of her.’ Her voice faded to a mumble. ‘I promise I’ll leave her alone after that. If she wants to. I mean, if she wanted to go for a drink or bounce any ideas off her biggest fan, of course, I’d be more than willing to—’

  ‘Okay!’ Mack said. ‘Bring the cake round on Saturday.’

  ‘I just would so love to meet her before she moves. I can’t believe she’s been this close all this time and now it’s nearly too late!’

  ‘I said it’s okay.’

  ‘I promise I won’t mention her writer’s block!’

  Mack’s face clouded over faster than a hurricane. He shut the door, growling something about gossip and rights to privacy and peace.

  While indignantly huffing her way through helping me straighten my dining room, Ashley suddenly sprang bolt upright, her jaw hanging open.

  ‘What?’ I glanced outside, in case she’d mistaken the postwoman for a bestselling author.

  ‘I’ve had the most brilliant idea.’

  ‘What could that possibly be to do with?’ I stuck my hands on my hips.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you what it is because you’ll only try and talk me out of it. But it’s perfect!’

  On consideration, I decided I didn’t want to know AT ALL.

  ‘Okay, I won’t interfere if you promise it isn’t illegal or stalkerish and doesn’t involve me or my house.’

  ‘It’s definitely not illegal and you and your lovely house don’t feature in the plan one bit. I promise.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Oh, phooey,’ she puffed. ‘It’s not stalkerish if you only do it once.’

  38

  I was flopping about on Saturday morning, half-heartedly looking at paint colours on my phone, when it pinged with an email. Still a rare enough occurrence to warrant my immediate attention – I took a look.

  I recognised the Hickleton Press logo straight away, thanks to the Hillary hunt. My first thought was one of panic, wondering what on earth Ashley had dragged me into this time, and whether the second person in under a year had taken out a restraining order against me.

  But this was nothing to do with Hillary. I skimmed down, had to go back to the top three times to check I was reading it right.

  Hickleton Press loved Squash Harris.

  As in, enough to want to include it in their top children’s magazine. Enough to make an offer that made my ears pop. Not that the money mattered, but the faith in Squash Harris it implied did. A lot.

  I knew that comic was bleepin’ brilliant.

  I called Ellen.

  ‘’Ello?’

  ‘Hamish, is that you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Hamish, it’s Jenny. Can I speak to Mummy? Is she there?’

  ‘Not Hamish.’

  ‘Okay… well, whoever it is, please give the phone to Mummy.’

  ‘You have to guess.’ I could hear him wriggling with glee.

  ‘Is it… Superman? Batman? Admiral Nelson?’

  ‘No-o-o-o-o!’ Hamish squealed.

  ‘Well, then, you have to give me a clue.’

  ‘I once ate a whole camel ’cos I was hungry and then floated down a river and was looking for treasure and there was a big hole in the ground like a giant long slide that went down, down, down to an underground cave with a dragon what breathed ice instead of fire inside and… Oh, Mummy’s shouting I have to get my shoes on. Bye, Jenny.’

  The phone beeped off.

  I’d call round later. It would be nicer to give the great news in person, and Ellen might need help looking for her phone.

  I was rereading the email for the ten-thousandth time and musing over how Mack had played down the fact that his ‘contacts’ who could help with the comic included a wife who wrote bestsellers for a giant publishing company, when two cars pulled up in the clearing. I’d done a sterling job of ignoring the slamming doors and clacking heels the night before, but this time I peeped out to see the estate agent climb out of one car. And then Ashley emerged from the other.

  If her grin had been any bigger it would’ve swallowed the clearing up whole.

  My heart sank even as my mouth let out a bark of nervous, guilty laughter. Ashley had been right – it was a cunning plan. Then, as I watched through the window, two more cars screeched up, doors flinging open to let half the members of the book club spill out, followed by what seemed to be an impossible number of small children.

  Ellen and her youngest four, Kiko with Lily, balancing Hannah on one hip. Sarah with Edison and Lucille with her eight-year-old son, Toronto. I careened out of the back door and round to the front without even thinking about putting some shoes on first.

  The adults were now assembled in front of the bewildered estate agent, while the kids clustered round the bottom of a tree, watching Toronto dangle from one of the branches.

  The estate agent was protesting. ‘The appointment was made with Naomi Brook. Nobody else is allowed in. It’s policy.’

  There were nudges and rolled eyes. Naomi Brook was the main character in The Gingerbread House.

  ‘We are not letting her loose in that house alone,’ Ellen muttered, out of the agent’s earshot.

  ‘That can’t be true,’ Kiko, straightening her newfound backbone, said. ‘What if we all want to buy the house together, as a rental property?’

  ‘Then you should have told me in advance. The owner
s have asked for particular discretion in this case. And I can’t possibly allow children inside. I’m sorry.’

  By this point, the owners had come to investigate. Hillary pushed her sunglasses up past her perfect fringe, frowning. ‘Is there a problem here?’

  The estate agent whirled around. ‘No!’ she simpered. ‘It’s handled. I’ve explained that viewings are by named appointments only. The others will have to arrange something for another time. This isn’t an open house, after all! Now, Naomi, would you like to come this way?’

  Naomi Brook appeared to be frozen to the spot. The only thing indicating she remained alive was her continuously changing complexion, like a lava lamp, fading from white to pink, through to green then back to white again.

  Sarah, never one to wait and see what happened when she could instead prod someone into action, did precisely that, with a good hard poke in the ribs. ‘Urgh,’ Naomi/Ashley groaned, then sucked in an enormous, gasping breath as though she had literally forgotten to breathe for a few minutes.

  She stammered. ‘I… I love you.’

  ‘Right.’ Hillary rolled her eyes. ‘Mack, keep an eye on her. And I don’t see why everyone can’t look round. The kids can stay outside. Julie can watch them. Maybe we’ll get a little bidding war going.’ She tossed her head at the estate agent. ‘If you’d been doing your job properly, you’d have thought of that. Now, are you showing them or do you need me to do that too?’

  ‘Wait,’ Mack said, sounding more than a little resigned.