‘Did you get your mum something for Christmas?’ I ask, swirling around the chocolate dregs at the bottom of my cup.
‘No,’ he replies. ‘She says she only needs hugs. They’re free.’
‘Hugs are good,’ I respond, ‘but I’m pretty sure we could team up and get her something cool from you to open on Christmas morning. What do you think she’d like?’
Alfie’s eyes light up. ‘She likes sausages!’
Dammit, why are you only four? I have about a million inappropriate jokes here. I bite my tongue.
‘Hmm, they might go off by Christmas morning. Anything else?’
He thinks. ‘Mum stuff. Candles, flowers, photos of me.’
My brain immediately springs into action. There’s a passport photo booth beside the toilets and a stall where you can get photos made into key rings, mugs, T-shirts, etc. I stand up and hold out my hand.
‘You ready to make your mum the best present ever? It’s a super-secret mission though.’
‘Yeah!’
I can’t help but smile as I feel him slip his little hand into mine. I hope this works.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Being born so close to Christmas must have been a real pisser for your parents,’ I tell Matt as he pours some crisps into a bowl. ‘I mean, the sheer cost of double presents alone. Kids are so expensive.’
He snorts. ‘Listen to you, Supernanny. A few babysitting gigs and now you’re an expert?’
I laugh. ‘Well, that, and the fact that I’ve met about three hundred kids who want eighty-pound talking bears for Christmas.’
Matt checks his watch. ‘Shit, everyone’s due in twenty minutes. You sure we have enough beer? Maybe I should get more.’
Matt does this every year on his birthday: panics that there’s not enough booze for his party guests, even though everyone brings at least two bottles with them. This year he seems a little more anxious than usual. I know why.
‘We’re good,’ I reply, watching him open and close the fridge nervously. ‘You worried about everyone meeting Sarah?’
‘No more worried than you are about seeing your old colleagues . . .’
‘Fair point.’
I’m dreading it. I’ve barely seen anyone since I was fired. There are going to be questions. Where have I been hiding? What happened with Angela? Where am I working now?
‘I swear, Matt, if you’ve told anyone that I’m Santa, you won’t live to see thirty-two.’
He puts down the mixers and holds up his hands. ‘I haven’t. I promise. I’m the only one allowed to make fun of you. Well, and Sarah.’
‘Sarah . . . shit, if she tells anyone about how she met me—’
‘We’ll say we came into her coffee shop. Bloody hell, mate, relax. I have to deal with everyone making jokes about my shady love life. I haven’t exactly been forthcoming about my past. She’s going to think I’m a player.’
The buzzer rings. Who the hell comes early to a house party? I open the door with my now sweaty hands and let the wolves in.
An hour later, all guests are present and correct, including Sarah who has been carefully briefed on the whole Santa situation, much to her amusement.
‘Why do you give a fuck what anyone thinks?’ she asks. ‘I thought these people were your friends?’
I pass her a wine and look around. She has a good point. Apart from Greta and Harriet, my so-called friends haven’t exactly been blowing up my phone to see how I’m doing.
‘I’m telling everyone I’m working privately for a Dubai-based investor. Confidentiality means I don’t have to go into detail.’
She playfully kicks me with her foot. ‘I think your real job sounds far more fun.’
The leg attached to that foot is perfect. So is the other one. I have a flashback to her standing in the kitchen in Matt’s T-shirt. Whoa, Jesus, Nick, what the hell is wrong with you? I set down my beer and reach for a can of Coke.
Sarah is looking incredible. I’m not the only one who has noticed either. I keep making awkward eye contact with Matt’s friend Kevin, who blushes furiously every time I catch him looking at Sarah’s arse.
‘Well, um—’
‘Sarah, have you met Gabby?’ Matt shouts from the kitchen, gesturing for her to join him. ‘Gabby, this is Sarah . . . my . . . eh, my girlfriend.’
Wow. That’s the first time I’ve heard him use the G-word with her. And I was thinking about her arse until he interrupted. I need to get it together and sober the fuck up.
Sarah smiles, but I don’t like the way it makes me feel. As she leaves to join them, I force myself to chat with everyone else in the vain hope that it might stop me thinking about how hot she looks. I’m obviously having some sort of early mid-life crisis.
I spy Noel sitting at the kitchen table and scurry across. A married man with a baby on the way is exactly what I need to get rid of this burgeoning horn.
‘How are you?’ I ask. ‘Shame Harriet couldn’t make it, is she holding up alright?’
He nods. ‘She still has the old morning sickness. They said it should only last about ten weeks, yet she’s still gagging into her handbag, all hours of the day. I’m not staying long, I just wanted to see the birthday boy and grab a beer.’
‘Where the hell is Harry?!’
I turn to see Matt behind me, obviously three sheets to the wind and with no intention of stopping anytime soon.
‘She’s sick, mate,’ Noel informs him. ‘But she sends her love. Are you having a nice birthday?’
‘I am!’ he replies, reaching into the ice bucket for his next beer. ‘I think it’s time to crank up the music though. It’s my birthday, not a fucking wake!’
We laugh as he staggers back to his other well-wishers. Thankfully, I’ve managed to bullshit almost everyone to the point where they’ve stopped asking me about my life, except for Kara, my bitchy old colleague who takes great pleasure in showing me an Instagram photo of Angela and some footballer with his hand on her arse. I guess things didn’t work out with Pete from Love Island.
‘These types go where the money is,’ she slurs. ‘You were a bit out of your league there, Nick. She’d never have settled for you.’
Settled for me? I take a long swig of my beer. ‘Thanks for that, Kara. Say hi to your investment banker for me . . . and his wife . . .’
As I walk back into the living room, I hear her exclaim, ‘HE’S LEAVING HER AFTER CHRISTMAS,’ but she’s soon drowned out by the music. I’m so done with this party, but, given that it’s my flat, I can’t leave. I could hide though.
Looking around to see whether I could slip into my room unnoticed, I spot Matt in the kitchen with Greta and Phillip something-or-other who joined the firm two days before I was sacked. Greta beckons me over and hands me an envelope.
‘Thought I’d drop in your wedding invitation while I was here. March 21st. No excuses!’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ I say, kissing her on the cheek.
‘Same goes for Matt. I want you both there, and his girlfriend if she hasn’t dumped him by then.’
I laugh and look for Sarah, who’s chatting to two women I met briefly earlier. Sarah looks like she’s holding her own, but I can spot her fake smile a mile off. I excuse myself and make my way over.
‘Sarah,’ I say, rudely interrupting them. ‘You promised me a dance.’
She excuses herself immediately and allows me to lead her to the living room floor, where ninety per cent of the party are currently losing their shit to David Guetta.
‘Thanks,’ Sarah says, ‘I was drowning there. Some of the people here . . . well . . .’
‘No problem,’ I reply. ‘I’ve just been shown a pic of my ex with another guy’s hand on her arse, so I’m ready for a break from the people here too.’
‘Ouch,’ she responds. ‘That’s not good. You OK?’
/> ‘Totally fine,’ I lie. ‘We’ll just have to dance my troubles away. Though I haven’t seen you dance yet, come to think of it . . . I’ve seen Alfie, and he’s like the Michael Flatley of four-year-olds, but it might not run in the family. I mean, I can’t let my best mate date someone with no rhythm.’
She laughs and moves herself into the middle of the floor and begins drunk dancing like she’s been uncaged. It’s the greatest thing I’ve ever seen. I move in beside her and we spend the rest of the evening there, Soul Train-ing ourselves up and down the living room, along with everyone else. I try not to notice Sarah looking for Matt, and I try not to get annoyed at Matt for not spending every second he can with this amazing woman. She has no pretention, no self-conscious swagger, she’s just her funny, beautiful self.
By the time my head hits the pillow at 4 am, I’m buzzing. I can’t remember ever having so much fun with any of the women I’ve dated, or even my mates. Sarah makes me feel like everything will work out. Like everything will be OK . . . but how can it be? Right now, my head is full of images on loop – Sarah in the grotto, scooping up Alfie; Sarah in the black dress; Sarah squealing as she skids around the ice rink; Sarah in Matt’s T-shirt in my kitchen; Sarah smiling and holding my gaze for just a second too long over lunch; Sarah grinning and laughing as she dances rings around me in the living room. The woman I can’t stop thinking about is in bed right now, asleep next to my best friend. This is all very fucking far from being OK.
Chapter Sixteen
I reluctantly surface at nine, to the sounds of Matt and Sarah giggling in the kitchen like teenagers. They must have had sex, there is no other scenario which explains why anyone would be this happy first thing. Thank God I slept through any humping noises. She’s also wearing Matt’s shirt again and if I were him, I’d never let her take it off.
‘Morning, sunshine,’ Matt says as I slump on to the couch. ‘I was just about to wake you.’
I groan. ‘Why the hell would you want to do that? I feel like death. Grotto doesn’t open until twelve. Let me die in peace, please.’
‘Breakfast,’ Sarah chirps, like a woman who’s impervious to alcohol. ‘I have to pick Alfie up from his sleepover at half ten; I thought it would be nice if we all had breakfast first.’
I bury my head into the back of the couch. I’m not in the mood for this. I don’t need someone to make me eggs Benedict when I can just have toast like a normal person. God, eggs. I feel like I might throw up.
‘Come on,’ Matt insists, hitting me with a pillow. ‘I’m buying.’
I grunt in agreement and trudge to the bathroom to wash my face. Being the hungover third wheel was not part of my Sunday plan.
We end up at The Bridge Bar and Grill, thankfully a short walk from our flat and the only place around here that doesn’t have a menu filled with hand-raised avocados and free-range cutlery.
I settle for a double bacon bap and free coffee refills while Matt and Sarah order a breakfast platter to share. If they start feeding each other, I’m leaving.
‘You’re looking less green,’ Sarah remarks as she dips a hash brown in ketchup. ‘Feeling better?’
I nod. Maybe breakfast wasn’t the worst idea in the world. It’s amazing what a bit of grease can do.
‘I’ll survive. At least it’s better than those breakfast monstrosities your excuse for a coffee shop sells.’
Sarah laughs. ‘The breakfast wraps? I thought you liked them! Fine, next time I’ll just bring you one of those weird bran muffin things.’
I make a face. ‘Christ, no, the last thing Santa needs is flatulence.’
Matt’s looking a tad lost. ‘You guys have breakfast together?’
‘I throw him a freebie every now and again,’ Sarah replies, laughing. ‘In exchange for his employee discount at the food court. To be honest, it’s nice to have someone to hang out with.’
Matt smiles and continues eating his breakfast, but I can tell he’s not exactly comfortable with the whole thing. Personally, I’d have played down our little meetups a bit more, but Sarah isn’t secretly pining for me, so why should she?
‘Did you see Greta’s wedding invitation?’ I ask, steering the conversation away. ‘I left it on the hall table.’
He nods. ‘She cornered me last night. Sarah’s coming as my plus-one.’
‘Too right,’ Sarah asserts. ‘It’s at Claridge’s. I can’t even afford to have lunch there . . .’
‘At least you have a plus-one!’ I exclaim. ‘I’m going to be that weird, solo guy who gets pity looks from the rest of the guests.’
‘Angela still not returning your texts?’
I scowl at Matt. ‘No, and I think that arse-grabbing photo means she’s not likely to anytime this century.’
‘So, find someone else,’ Sarah suggests. ‘You must know someone, Matt.’
Matt pauses chewing and gives me a subtle look of abject hopelessness. The only women he knows are either our good friends, the wives of friends, or women he’s banged after too many sambucas.
‘I’m sure Nick doesn’t need my help to get a date,’ he says. ‘A haircut might help his case, though.’
‘Nonsense,’ Sarah declares, watching me self-consciously touch my locks. ‘That mop of black hair is endearing as hell. It’s very appealing.’
‘Appalling, maybe,’ Matt mumbles, appearing slightly miffed at her comment. Sarah also has very nice hair. I love the way her fringe falls to the side when she wears it up and how—
‘Oh bollocks, I need to run,’ she says, jolting me back to reality. ‘Alfie’s not that used to sleepovers yet, so I don’t want to be late. Text me if I need to bring anything for Christmas dinner on Wednesday!’
She kisses Matt goodbye and waves at me as she dashes out the door.
Matt is quiet for a moment, casually sipping his coffee, but I can tell it’s coming.
‘So . . .’
‘Yes?’
Here it comes.
‘You guys hang out a lot then. You never said.’
I sigh. ‘I totally have, you obviously haven’t been listening.’
This is technically true. I did tell him that Sarah brought me a coffee. Once.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask. ‘I know you’re not threatened by your best mate and part-time Santa Claus . . .’
He shakes his head and puts down his cup. ‘Of course not, God, you’re the reason we met. I just . . . well, I think I really like her. I just hope she feels the same. Is that weird?’
‘Not weird, but you sound like a total virgin.’
He laughs. ‘Fuck you, you wish you had a girlfriend as hot as Sarah.’
I laugh, a little uneasily, because he has no idea how right he is. ‘So much hotter than you deserve.’
Matt stops laughing and sits silently for a second, looking a little glum.
‘Christ, you’re not pining already. She’s probably not even in the Uber yet!’
‘It’s not that,’ he replies. ‘It’s just . . .’
‘What?’
‘The wallet.’
‘What about it?’
‘It reminds me of the one Karen gave me and now I feel like shit for spending half of last night thinking about her.’
‘Matt, she broke up with you years ago. Get a grip,’ I respond, now thinking that I should be shot for suggesting the wallet.
‘I know, I know . . . it’s so stupid. Sarah is great.’
‘Totally,’ I concur.
‘Perfect, really.’
‘So, don’t fuck it up. It’s just a wallet.’
He bobs his head in agreement and motions for the bill.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Matt, if I knew you could cook Christmas dinner this well, I’d have insisted you make this at least twice a week. Can’t believe you’ve kept this talent hidden all these years.’
Our early Christmas dinner is off to a flying start. Alfie has already pulled all the crackers and the Greatest Christmas Songs Ever Volume 2 plays merrily throughout the flat, which for once isn’t festively decorated like two uncoordinated, lazy men live there. Presents have been exchanged, we have a tinsel-covered tree, a laughing, animated Santa and a small boy who is loving every second of it. He whispered earlier that he’d hidden the photo key ring we bought under his mattress ready for Christmas morning. It’s funny how that’s instinctively the place boys choose to hide things from their mothers. I remind him to make sure he brings it to his grandparents’ house.
Matt beams proudly before brushing it off as ‘nothing’, when in reality, he’s outdone himself trying to impress his new girlfriend with his culinary skills. I think he even made his own damn gravy.
‘So good,’ Sarah agrees through a mouthful of glazed parsnips. ‘I won’t have to eat for a week!’
‘Leave room for dessert,’ Matt insists. ‘I’m not the only chef in attendance this evening.’
‘Chef is a bit of a reach,’ I reply. ‘It’s just a trifle. Nothing fancy.’
‘Trifle is Alfie’s favourite pudding,’ Sarah informs me while he nods enthusiastically.
‘Then I think Alfie should get the first bowl.’
I take some dirty plates to the kitchen and open the fridge. Then I close the fridge.
‘Alfie?’
‘Yes?’
‘What’s your second favourite pudding?’
Seconds later everyone is in the kitchen, staring at my trifle. My soupy, unappetising, horror show of a trifle.
‘Did you drop it?’ Matt asks, poking the runny cream with a spoon. A lump of pineapple floats to the surface like a dead body. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Sarah peers into the bowl for closer inspection. ‘Let me guess . . . squirty canned cream and all of the juice from the canned fruit?’
I nod, watching Alfie disappointedly return to the living room in search of more crackers.
She grins. ‘I’ve fucked up a few trifles in my time.’
All I Want for Christmas: a hilarious and heart-warming romance Page 9
