If We're Not Married by Thirty

by Anna Bell

  ‘I know, they’re so impressive. It’s going to be a hard theme to top next year. What do you reckon Tracey’ll pick?’

  I’m trying to keep her talking to gauge how drunk she is.

  ‘Maybe Fifty Shades of Grey.’

  She’s turned back to stare at the GQ model again and I can tell exactly what’s on her mind.

  ‘We could have chains hanging from the ceilings, and whips and riding crops as props.’

  ‘Hmm, perhaps,’ I say realising she’s further gone than I thought.

  Kylie’s version of ‘Santa Baby’ starts playing through the speakers, proving to me once again that Christmas music is the only part that doesn’t gel with the party theme. I’m about to say this to Helen, when I realise that she’s got her leg draped around one of the giant candy canes and she’s about to swing round it like it’s a stripper pole.

  ‘Helen,’ I say, catching her after the candy cane begins to bend. Of all the things I risk assessed it for, having a woman try to hang off it with her thighs hadn’t been one of them.

  The real Willy Wonka breezes past us on stilts, ushering the guests to the dining room. He’s swaying slightly and it’s hard to know whether that’s just because he’s so high up or whether he’s been affected by the cocktails too. I’m hoping it’s the former as right now I’ve got enough to deal with looking after Helen.

  ‘I guess that’s our cue to check everyone’s in position,’ I say to her loudly, in an attempt to remind her that she’s supposed to be working. She just smiles blindly back at me. ‘Do you want to take the acrobats and I’ll take the catering staff?’

  She nods, but not before she thrusts her phone at me and tells me to take a photo. She slips her arm round the GQ model and grabs one of the photo booth props. Of course she picks the giant #LivingMyBestLife sign.

  I take a photo of them grinning wildly and drag her away from the man, nudging her in the direction of the acrobats. I watch her walk away – she’s doing an over-the-top swagger as if she’s trying very hard to walk normally. I can only hope she sobers up.

  *

  I needn’t have worried about the caterers; as this is the last party of the season it’s the fifteenth time they’ve done this menu, so they’ve got it down pat. They’ve just started clearing the main-course plates and I’ve got time to find Helen. I hurry along, weaving my way through the giant candy statues, wondering if she’ll be back to her normal self.

  As soon as I go out of the back of the tent I get my answer: a big fat giant resounding no. She’s currently waving the acrobats’ long ribbons whilst spinning around and trying to make them fly out.

  ‘Helen,’ I say, rushing over and holding her up as her body tries to move in time with her spinning head.

  ‘Lydia, are there two of you or am I just seeing double?’

  She laughs as if it’s the funniest thing she’s heard, and I know then that we’re in trouble. She was slurring a little before, but now it’s unmistakeable.

  ‘Are you OK, Helen?’

  ‘Totally, totally fine.’

  She is definitely not fine. What am I going to do?

  The radio crackles in our ears. ‘We have a situation with the chocolate river,’ comes Tracey’s voice.

  I see Helen going to press the button on her lapel and I make a lunge for it and knock her onto her bottom.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she says, giggling.

  ‘I’ll get the chocolate river. You stay here and play with your ribbons.’

  Her face lights up and she starts spinning around again, reminding me of a dog chasing its own tail.

  I slide back through the door to the main tent and see a waiter carrying coffee.

  ‘Hey, Angus,’ I say, waving him over, ‘can you give me a really strong cup of that, please?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, pouring me one. ‘Long night?’

  ‘Something like that. Thanks.’

  I quickly deliver it to Helen and tell her in no uncertain terms to stay put and make sure it’s all drunk by the time I get back.

  I practically run to the chocolate river where I find Tracey standing over it, a pint glass in her hand.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I ask, slightly red-faced and out of breath.

  ‘I think someone’s been sick in it.’

  I look at it and there are definite lumps. My stomach lurches at the thought.

  ‘And you want help clearing it?’ I say, looking at the pint glass that she’s handing to me. I’m assuming she wants it to be scooped out.

  ‘I’d do it, but I’ve just had my nails done for Christmas.’

  I look down at my own glossy maroon talons. I hadn’t planned to redo them before Christmas either, but I guess they’re not as intricate as Tracey’s, which have little snowmen painted on them.

  I approach the chocolate river and have a quick check to make sure there are no guests around.

  ‘Let me know if anyone comes,’ I say, finding a switch behind a fake hill. I flick it and the chocolate river looks like normal water again. I’m relieved to see that the sick is in fact just a selection of Dolly Mixtures that someone’s dropped in there. I scoop them out with the pint glass and pop it on a nearby return station for the catering team to deal with.

  ‘Sorry about that, Lydia,’ says Tracey as I flip the switch back on, ‘we probably could have left them there. I just didn’t want anyone to see the lumps and feel queasy.’

  Now she tells me.

  ‘Where are they up to with the dinner?’ she asks.

  ‘They’re just starting to serve coffees and the desserts with follow shortly,‘ I say, hoping that Helen’s drunk hers.

  She looks at her watch and nods approvingly. ‘Everything’s running like clockwork. Excellent. Looks like you and Helen are doing a great job as per usual.’

  I can’t help glowing with pride that she included me in that too, even though this is Helen’s baby. It’s nice to be appreciated. Before this job I worked for an events company in London for six months whose ethos was the polar opposite of here. It was a culture which thrived on snarking, shouting and belittling. So whenever I get a work compliment I appreciate it all the more.

  ‘I’ll probably be heading off soon,’ she says.

  Spurred on by the compliment I figure that I should ask her about my latest idea. I’ve been trying, unsuccessfully, to make the transition from events coordinator to events manager for the last year and I’ve come up with a plan. And who knows, if it goes right, I might be able to be #LivingMyBestLife in no time.

  ‘Um, Tracey, I was just wondering if you’d had a chance to look into the proms proposal I sent over?’ I’m holding my breath in anticipation.

  ‘Ah, yes, as a matter of fact I did. I think it could be quite a lucrative new market. Thank you for suggesting it.’

  ‘Great. So should I look into it in the New Year?’

  ‘Actually, I thought I’d put Helen onto it. Hopefully, we’ll have enough time to get some ideas in the planning before schools and colleges book them up.’

  My heart sinks. I’m about to accept it and skulk away when I stop myself.

  ‘Actually, Tracey, I had hoped that this would be my project and that I’d get to plan the events from start to finish. I’ve got some ideas for packages and . . . ’

  ‘Lydia, don’t get me wrong, you’re a fantastic events coordinator and we could not be more grateful for the work that you do in the support role. There is nobody that does an event risk assessment as well as you. Which is why I don’t think we should add to your responsibilities.’

  ‘But I could always research proms on top of my current workload.’

  ‘I have no doubt that you could. It’s just that Helen is such an experienced manager and she’s the one who always has the creative ideas – the crazy ones, the kooky ones. Perhaps, with her being younger than you, she’s got a bit more lust for life. You know? She’ll tap right into that youth market.’

  ‘Um, Helen’s five years older than me,’ I
say, desperately trying not to take it personally that my boss has basically just called me boring.

  ‘Is she? Well, look at her,’ says Tracey, pointing. I follow her finger and gasp in horror. Helen is currently in the bright purple zorb ball rolling around a pen doing her best Violet Beauregarde impression. ‘Have you been in the zorb ball, Lydia?’

  I look over at it before looking back down at my pencil skirt. I mentally risk assess zorbing in this outfit: 1) risk of flashing my pants; 2) greater risk of splitting my skirt; and 3) knowing how uncoordinated I am there’s a high risk I’d probably roll right over the pen boundary and knock the giant candy canes over like skittles.

  I don’t point out that the only reason that Helen is in it is that she’s drunk as a skunk.

  ‘You’re a great asset to the team, Lydia, but I think it’s important to stick to what we’re good at.’

  She gives me a firm look as if to indicate that the subject is now well and truly closed.

  I start to feel tears welling up behind my eyes and I try and blink them back, wishing that I hadn’t put quite so many layers of mascara on tonight.

  ‘Oh dear, I think there’s something going on over in that bed,’ she says, nodding towards the double bed where people can pretend that they’re Willy Wonka’s grandparents sleeping top to toe. Only the two people in it seem to be recreating quite a different scene. Something you definitely wouldn’t expect to find in children’s fiction. I glance over at Helen, who’s still zorbing around and decide she’ll be OK where she is for another few minutes.

  ‘I’ll sort it out,’ I say, relieved to have a reason to leave before I start sobbing in front of my boss.

  I slump off blinking back the tears. It’s not that I mind my job. I’m good at what I do and I enjoy it, which I know is the important thing, but I’m desperate for a promotion. I’d worked so hard to think of a new revenue stream and now Tracey’s giving it to Helen because I’m too boring.

  I almost take a glass of champagne from a passing waitress, figuring that if you can’t beat them, join them, but then I remember that someone’s got to be the responsible one. And I guess, as per usual, that’ll be me.

  ‘Um, excuse me,’ I say, as I gingerly approach the bed, trying not to notice that only one of them has now got their head out of the cover, ‘would you like me to call you a taxi so that you can go to a hotel? The dinner’s about to end and there are going to be a lot of people heading this way – including your bosses, I imagine.’

  A woman’s head pops out from the other end of the bed and she gets out without saying a word. She pats down her dress and slides into the heels that she’d left by the side of the bed. She doesn’t even acknowledge me as she pulls out a make-up compact and reapplies her lippy as she goes.

  ‘Amy,’ calls the guy as she totters off to the toilets. ‘Her name was Amy, wasn’t it? Or was it Emma?’

  I hear a crash over on the other side of the room and I leave lover boy and head off to the zorbing. Helen’s knocked over one of the chocolate trees. From the looks of it, no one was hurt and thankfully Tracey’s nowhere to be seen.

  I sigh as I cross the room. Boring Lydia to the rescue. Thank goodness this is my last day at work before the holidays, as at this rate I’m going to need a couple of weeks at home to get over it.

  Chapter Two

  Dear Scrooge, I know you hate Christmas and that you will have no decorations up, so here’s one to melt that icy heart of yours during the most wonderful time of the year. Bet you never thought you’d see Santa giving Mrs Klaus a present like that, huh?

  Parcel containing a naughty Christmas decoration;

  Lydia to Danny, December 2010

  It’s Christmas Eve and I feel like I should be running round in a festive frenzy but instead I’ve cocooned myself in a blanket on the sofa and I’ve barely moved all day. The work Christmas dos I’ve been working at have turned me into the Grinch, and I’ve spent the day watching alternative Christmas movies: Die Hard, Gremlins, When Harry Met Sally.

  I’m exhausted after last night’s event, I didn’t get into bed until well after 1 a.m. Tracey buggered off at 10 p.m. and I put Helen to sleep in Charlie’s grandparents’ bed, which meant that I managed the rest of the party by myself.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me that I’m trying to prove to Tracey that I’m capable of running events, and yet I spent the whole night trying to pretend I wasn’t running that one as I didn’t want to drop Helen in it. Poor old Helen, though. I don’t know what got into her; it’s so out of character. I had a text from her this morning apologising and saying she’d make it up to me. Hopefully she was just suffering from the holiday blues.

  I hear a knock on the door to my flat and I groan before I heave myself off the sofa.

  I roll my eyes as I answer the door. There, standing on the other side, is my best friend Lucy who’s dressed in an elf costume.

  ‘Why aren’t you ready? We’re already late for the party,’ says Lucy, looking me up and down.

  The party. I’d been trying to forget. Our friend Rob is having his annual Christmas Eve shindig. They were originally just for the five of us who used to live together: me, Lucy, Ross, Caroline and Rob. Then it evolved over time into this big party. This year will be strange for me as it’s the first year that I won’t be going with Ross as my boyfriend.

  ‘Have you even showered yet?’

  ‘I was going to get in the bath later.’

  Lucy shakes her head at me and goes straight over to the tiny kitchenette in the corner of my lounge. She wastes no time pulling out glasses and mixing us drinks.

  ‘Not the same and you know it. Nothing says let’s get ready to go out more than a hot shower. Go on, off you trot.’

  ‘Do we really have to go?’ I say pleading. I’d hoped that Lucy might have wanted to snuggle up on the sofa with her fiancé tonight instead.

  ‘Of course we do. It’s tradition. As is the costume. I got you the same one as me.’

  I stare at her hard. Horizontal red and white striped tights are no one’s friend – except, of course, Lucy, who seems to be able to pull anything off.

  ‘Just kidding. But you’ve got to at least put on something glittery so I don’t feel too much like a dick.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to see Ed tonight? I wouldn’t mind, I’ve got this book that’s getting to the good bit and it’s a Christmas one so it’d be good to finish it before—’

  ‘Bath, book, bed routines are for toddlers. Besides, Ed is coming to the party later on, after he sees his friends. Now, get your arse in that shower and let’s get this on.’

  ‘We could stay in and watch Elf.’ It may go against the anti-Christmas films I’ve been viewing today but I know that it’s one of Lucy’s weaknesses.

  I can tell she’s tempted by the twitch in her eye.

  ‘Nice try, Toots. Get in that shower and get those sparkles on. It’s Christmas Eve, baby,’ she says, shaking her head and causing the little bell on her hat to ring.

  I give her a Grinch-like growl as I head towards the bathroom.

  ‘What is this?’ shouts Lucy. ‘It’s hideous.’

  She’s standing at the Christmas tree and she’s found my latest decoration.

  ‘Squeeze its body,’ I say, already laughing. It’s a skiing penguin and it’s one of the tackiest things I’ve ever seen.

  A tinny version of Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ rings out and Lucy screams with joy.

  ‘Oh my God, where did you find it? I have to have one.’

  ‘Danny sent it to me.’

  She looks from the decoration to me, her eyebrow raising. ‘Oh Danny boy,’ she says in a husky Marilyn Monroe voice.

  ‘He always sends me a decoration with his Christmas card.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she says, nodding. ‘I don’t get you two. Why don’t you go and see him? You can’t use the excuse that he’s too far away now that he’s back living in the UK. If I had some hot guy that wrote me letters and sent me presents
, I’d have got off my arse to travel up to the Lake District to see him. Plus, you’re single now.’

  I’ve noticed that since I broke up with Ross five months ago she’s been trying to matchmake me. Her criteria are very straightforward: male, under fifty, single, pulse.

  I kick the floor with my slippers. If only it were that easy. I’ve always had a thing for Danny, but the trouble is, he doesn’t feel the same way. I make do with the letter writing and the occasional meet up, although, to be honest, I try not to see him very often as it always reminds me of what I can’t have.

  ‘He’s got some girlfriend. Diane or Diana or something.’

  I know her name’s Diana. I’ve seen her tagged in Facebook photos. Diana something posh sounding.

  ‘I wouldn’t like that,’ she says, pressing the penguin again. ‘If my Ed was sending letters and parcels to some woman.’

  ‘It’s not like that. We’ve just always done it. We’re friends – nothing more.’

  She gives me the look she always gives me when we talk about this, the one that suggests that I’m deluding myself. But it’s true. I heard it with my own ears, years back when I went to London not long after he’d come back from travelling, she’s just a friend and that’s all she’ll ever be.

  ‘I just don’t know why you don’t at least try to be together. You always talk about that kiss being magical.’

  ‘It was, but I think it was just in the moment. You know, weddings do that to people, don’t they?’ I say sighing at the memory. ‘I guess we both just enjoy having a pen pal.’

  Lucy rolls her eyes at me and squeezes the penguin again.

  ‘It’s probably a good job; imagine how tacky your house would be if you lived together.’

  I smile; she’s got a point.

  ‘Go, on. Get your Christmas things on, we’ve got a party to get to!’

  *

  There’s a collective shriek as Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas’ blasts out of the sound bar and there’s a rush to the make-do dance floor in the lounge.

  I’ve been sandwiched between Rob and Gavin on the sofa for the last twenty minutes, but I’m forced up as they propel themselves off the sofa. I let out a small groan. Bloody work. I used to love all the Christmas songs, but my job has ruined them for me. Hearing them on a loop as I watch a fresh bunch of sparkly, drunk people at Christmas dos night after night for six weeks has ruined any magic the season used to hold. I feel very bah humbug as I leave the lounge and head towards the kitchen.