Matt laughs and flings the stick again for an impatient Harvey. ‘Your luck will change, mate. Maybe you should try Tinder or something?’ he suggests. ‘Meet someone who isn’t a shirt-stealing sociopath, or a part-time elf.’
‘Tinder? Not only no – hell no!’ I reply, taking over stick duties. ‘Don’t you remember the girl with the neck tattoo? It was literally prison ink – and I was genuinely scared for my life. She asked if I wanted to see her knife collection. And then there was the one who tried to mount me at the cinema. I was asked to leave halfway through John Wick because she wouldn’t get off my lap. And those were just the ones I met up with. There were the hundreds who rudely ignored my carefully crafted openers. Like what was so off-putting about my face that they couldn’t spare a “Hey”? Online dating is way too brutal. How people actually manage to sort through the psychos and the hookers and find relationship material on Tinder will never fail to astonish me. But, I’m not even that bothered right now. I need to focus first on getting a job sorted, now that my reign as Saint Nick is over.’
‘I was just talking about a shag, not a full-blown relationship, mate. I think all that babysitting and Santa shit has killed your mojo. Your right hand must be knackered. You need to get back out there.’
Rather than remind him that my mojo is still very much alive and creating havoc – between fraternising with horny ice-skating instructors and dodging overly friendly elves, it’s been an eventful month – I just tell him he’s probably right and that I’ll look into it, knowing full well that I absolutely won’t. My brain won’t stop taunting me with thoughts of Sarah – her mouth, her smile, the way it felt when she hugged me at Christmas dinner. He’s right about my hand though – if I’m not careful I’ll get a repetitive strain injury. That would make for an incredibly awkward doctor’s appointment.
When we return to Nick’s parents’ house, they’ve prepared a huge breakfast which is very welcome. Countryside walking always makes me ravenous, like that feeling I used to get as a kid after swimming. Fortunately, every meal at Matt’s house is like a Hogwarts banquet.
‘I haven’t put ketchup on your rolls, sweetheart,’ Maureen tells Matt as she places an enormous plate of pastries on the table beside the towering stack of bacon and vat of scrambled eggs. ‘I know how particular you are. Nice walk, Nick?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ I reply. ‘I’d forgotten what fresh air smelled like. It’s cold out there though, I think my face is frozen.’
‘Oh, that reminds me,’ Matt’s mum informs us, ‘Lionel and Kitty are coming over at two and Kitty has had a little too much Botox—’
‘She looks like she’s had a stroke,’ Matt’s dad interjects. ‘I’d avoid mentioning it.’
‘Oh, it’s not that bad, James,’ Maureen protests. ‘She just looks like she’s had a dental block. Hopefully it will have settled by the time we go on our cruise.’
‘When are you off?’ I ask through a mouthful of bacon roll. God, I love being here.
‘Twenty-ninth. Just a little jaunt round the Canary Islands for New Year.’
‘Who’s taking the dog?’ I ask, watching Matt carefully move his mushrooms away from his scrambled eggs.
‘My sister Yvonne,’ she replies. ‘If she spoils him as much as she spoils those foxes, he’ll have a ball.’
‘She has pet foxes?’
‘No, she just feeds every animal that ventures into her garden. It’s like a bloody Hitchcock film with the amount of bird feeders she has.’
‘We have to get back after breakfast, I’m afraid, Mum,’ Matt advises her. ‘I’m working tomorrow, need to return the car . . . lots to do.’
‘Aw, shame,’ she replies. ‘It’s been so lovely to see you both. Maybe next year I’ll be laying a couple of extra places . . .’ She winks at me and raises her eyebrows at Matt.
Matt gives a little chuckle. ‘We’ll see, we’ll see . . .’
I leave the Buckley house armed with a new dressing gown and slippers set, some toiletries and as much leftover food as we can carry. It feels weird knowing that I have nowhere to be tomorrow. No kids to enthral, no Izzy to appease and, unfortunately, no Sarah to eat lunch with. Thankfully it also means I won’t have to see Laura ever again.
The Boxing Day traffic is quiet but steady, the motion of the car making me sleepy enough to nod off briefly. Matt notifies me that this is unacceptable car companion behaviour by rolling down the window my head is resting on. He finds this far more hilarious than I do.
‘What are you doing for New Year?’ he asks as I attempt to get comfortable again. ‘Basement is having their annual party – some roaring twenties-themed event. Might be alright?’
‘Maybe,’ I reply, ‘though no one else will be there. Greta is away visiting her fiancé’s family at their McMansion, Harriet is busy growing a human, no one from work remembers that I exist, and Sarah won’t be back from her parents’ house. I might just stay home.’
I’ve been working hard to ignore any thoughts of Sarah and although I’ve been somewhat successful, random musings or memories of her still pop up like hiccups when I least expect it. She texted me to thank me for her Christmas present, saying she’ll treasure it forever. I know she means the key ring photo of Alfie’s hot chocolate-covered face, but I like the thought that, maybe, there’s a one per cent chance she’ll treasure it because of me too.
‘You of all people should be pumped for New Year’s Eve!’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘New Year’s Eve is the biggest let-down since the invention of Kinder Eggs. It’s all wrapped up nice and shiny on the outside, but inside it’s just full of disappointing shite.’
‘Because it’s a chance to say goodbye to this shitshow of a year!’ he replies. ‘Honestly mate, I see big things in your future. Next year is going to be ace for you. Start like you mean to go on!’
‘What, alone, skint and hungover?’
‘God, you’re depressing when you’re tired. You’re going. End of story.’
‘Ugh, fine . . . but you’re buying the tickets.’
‘Deal.’
I smile and close my eyes again. Maybe he’s right. Maybe next year will be ace. It certainly can’t be any worse than this year.
Chapter Twenty
‘I’m still not feeling this party,’ I announce, fastening my braces. ‘It’s cold outside. I could get pissed and throw up here for free.’
‘You could,’ Matt agrees, ‘but there’s zero chance of you getting a shag here. Unless you get creative.’
‘I’m dressed like a fucking reject from Bugsy Malone. Besides, there’s more to life than sex, mate,’ I reply and then we both laugh because that’s utter bullshit. ‘Just promise me you won’t try and get me pity-shagged. I’m perfectly capable of doing that on my own.’
We head off at 10pm, navigating the freezing cold in ill-fitting three-piece suits from the retro charity shop on Primrose Hill. Three years ago, Matt, Harriet and I dressed up as Charlie’s Angels for a Halloween party and won free drinks all night. That outfit was far more flattering than this is. Totally worth the chaffing. Also, the added bonus of keeping a phone in your bra – much more secure than a pocket.
Inside the venue, it seems that other people have decided to mix it up a little. I’ve never seen so many flappers with full beards and women in sexy Gatsby get-ups. The place is heaving so Matt and I both head to the bar and get two drinks each, knowing that soon, the battle to get to the bar will make the Games of Thrones final showdown look tame in comparison.
We find two seats at a table near the smaller dance floor, which is playing remixed dance versions of classic twenties songs. I’ve never heard ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’ with a disco beat, but I’m not hating it. This night might be more fun than I first thought, despite the seam of these size-too-small trousers aggravating my balls.
Four drinks down and Matt goes to get another round. It
’s an hour before the bells and the place is officially jumping. I’m glad I decided to come tonight; it feels like I haven’t been properly out in ages. Thankfully the teenagers sitting beside us are in the minority and everyone else here looks like they’ve definitely gone to IKEA willingly at some point. I laugh as I watch a short man in an even shorter skirt dance like his feet are on fire. Everyone is getting increasingly drunk, increasingly bold and increasingly sweaty.
Matt returns with four shots and a face like a cartoon baddie.
‘Don’t look!’ he says, taking his seat. ‘You’ll never guess who’s here . . .’
‘Why can’t I look? Who is it?’
‘Just guess.’
‘Um . . . Jodie Comer?’
‘From Killing Eve? No. You need to stop watching that shit. Guess again.’
‘Gimme a clue. Is it someone off the telly?’
‘Yes . . . kind of . . . do not say Sandra Oh.’
‘Fuck, I dunno. Someone off EastEnders? Claudia Winkleman?’
‘Angela.’
My eyes begin panic-scanning the room, until I spot her at the bar. She’s standing in the middle of a gaggle of girls and she’s staring right at me.
‘Oh shit.’
‘Yep,’ he replies. ‘I told you not to look.’
I watch her slink over towards me, drink in hand. She has decided to stick to convention and is wearing a red, fringed dress complete with a feathery headpiece. I really wish she didn’t look so good.
‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she remarks. ‘Wouldn’t have thought this was your kind of place. No reindeers.’
‘I was here last year,’ I reply, with a sigh. ‘But you know that, considering you were with me.’
‘Oh yeah,’ she responds, shrugging. ‘Must have slipped my mind. How are you, Matthew?’
‘Still going by Matt,’ he answers frostily.
‘Fabulous . . . enjoy your evening, boys.’
I don’t respond; there’s no point. She’s already walking away.
‘You alright?’ Matt asks, passing me a shot. ‘Honestly, Nick, you’re well rid.’
The throat burn from my tequila makes me wince, but I manage to force a smile.
‘I’m fine,’ I reply. ‘It’s just weird that one minute you’re with someone and the next they’re acting like they barely know you. You’ve got a good one with Sarah, mate. Hang on to her.’
Matt slides another shot across the table. ‘The night is young, my friend. Here’s to being rid of Angela, getting drunk and getting pizza on the way home.’
I cheers him and let the tequila do its worst.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Nick, Nicholas . . . you need to go.’
That voice makes one eye shoot open and I immediately wish I was dead. You have got to be shitting me.
After my fourth tequila, the rest of my New Year’s Eve is a bit of a blur. I remember dancing to a house version of ‘I Got Rhythm’ with a very tall woman. I remember trading my hat with a bald man for his cigarette holder, and I remember not being able to find Matt after the bells. However, I do not remember the events leading up to this moment.
‘Angela? How the hell—’
She hits me with a pillow, trying to speed up my revival. ‘Get up!’
I bolt upright, my head spinning. All I can taste is booze. Angela paces beside me in her yellow dressing gown like an agitated lemon.
I feel underneath the duvet. No underwear. Fuck, this is bad.
‘You have to go now, and this never happened,’ she insists. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. Why do I drink vodka? Nothing good ever happens when I drink vodka.’
I rub my hands over my face. ‘Jesus, fine. I get it. Where are my clothes?’
‘Probably in the hall where you left them, just hurry up.’
‘What’s the bloody rush?’ I ask. ‘I could use a coffee, at least. Some food? I feel like garbage.’
‘Nick, I am having people over this afternoon. They cannot see you here.’
I climb out of bed butt naked and walk into the hall, grabbing my crumpled clothes.
‘By “people”, I take it you mean your new boyfriend? I saw the Instagram posts.’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes. Didn’t take you long to move on, did it?’
‘For your information, Dale is not my boyfriend, he’s just a friend.’
‘Dale?’ I start to snigger. ‘Jesus, that’s not even a proper name, it’s a landform.’
She watches me pull on my trousers and sighs. ‘Nick, I don’t know if you were hoping for some sort of reunion here but—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, a reunion?’ I exclaim. ‘I was just hoping for a bit of toast. You really do flatter yourself, Ange; the amount I had to drink, you could have been anyone.’
‘Like Sarah?’
I stop fastening my trousers. ‘What?’
‘Sarah. You mumbled the shit out of her name in your sleep.’
I feel my cheeks burn. Thank God I wasn’t passed out anywhere near Matt.
‘She’s just a friend,’ I mutter, lifting my phone out of one of my shoes. My braces are missing in action.
‘I didn’t ask who she was,’ Angela informs me, ‘I just wanted to make it clear that nothing between us has changed. I’m glad we’ve both found new friends, though.’
‘God, you’re infuriating,’ I reply. ‘Please be nicer to your next pushover.’
‘OH, I WILL! Wait. He’s not—’
‘Bye, Angela.’
Uber ordered; Angela practically drop-kicks me out of her flat, shoes in hand. On New Year’s Day, rides are limited so I’m forced to hang out in a freezing cold hallway for forty minutes before it eventually arrives. A tiny part of me wants Dale to show up and see me here, but in my current condition I’m in no state for any kind of confrontation. I just want to get home and forget this ever happened – but not before I kill Matt for not dragging me away from her the moment the tequila kicked in.
As I do my walk of shame from the Uber to the flat, Matt’s already holding the flat door open for me, grinning.
‘Mate . . .’ he begins, his laughter already bubbling over.
‘Don’t!’ I reply, pushing past him towards the bathroom. ‘Just get the kettle on.’
I throw my clothes on to the floor and run the water, hoping to wash away any remnants of last night’s blurry hook-up. God, is that lipstick on my—
‘Can’t believe you did that!’ I hear him yell from the hall. ‘There must have been at least a thousand other women there.’
‘The real question here is how could you let me?’ I yell from the shower, his laughter still showing no signs of subsiding. ‘Ugh, I feel violated.’
‘Dude, I couldn’t find you for the last hour and then I saw your face glued to hers in the taxi queue. You looked completely into it. I wouldn’t cock-block my best mate.’
The words ‘best mate’ make me wince a little knowing that I’ve been sleep-talking about his girlfriend. It’s making me feel like even more of a shithead. Sarah will be back in a couple of days and hopefully she will have grown tentacles and had a personality bypass because I need something to turn me off.
Matt makes some French toast while I dry off, informing me that Dale is a footballer whose track record with blondes is worse than his.
‘According to his Twitter he was in Soho last night. There’s a photo of him at some homelessness charity event.’
‘So, if they’re not dating, why did she want rid of me so quickly?’ I ask, walking into the living room. I’ve never been so glad to get into my dressing gown in my life.
‘Maybe she wants to date him but thought if he saw you there it would scupper her chances.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘
Why do you care?’ Matt asks, handing me a plate of slightly singed French toast. ‘You don’t want her back, do you?’
I throw my towel over the back of the chair and sit. ‘Hell no. I think she’s just given my ego a kicking for the second time. I’m more annoyed with myself than with her.’
‘She needs attention,’ Matt says, pouring some maple syrup on to the side of his plate. ‘She doesn’t care where it comes from. She’s also a gold-digger. No offence, but to someone like her, without your salary, you’re not worth the fake tan.’
‘God, that’s depressing. I hope Dale sees through her quicker than I did.’
Matt continues scrolling through Twitter as we eat, making sure he gets even amounts of syrup on each piece of French toast. Then he suddenly stops, mid-bite.
‘Mate. You’re going to want to see this.’
‘What?’
Matt hands me the phone to reveal a photo of Angela and me kissing outside the club.
‘If Angela was looking to keep this quiet from Dale, she’s fucked up big time.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
By the time Sarah and Alfie return from her parents’ house, Angela has called me forty-seven times and left me over twenty voicemails. The picture of us has been feverishly retweeted by people who give a shit about that kind of thing and I’m mortified. I didn’t like being pictured with her when we were dating, and I hate it even more now.
‘She’s attractive,’ Sarah remarks, looking at her photos. She’s brought Alfie over so she and Matt can have their first cinema date of the new year. ‘Good hair . . . strong eyebrow game.’
Matt laughs as she hands him back his phone. ‘She’s desperate to get Nick to publicly announce that they’re not back together and that it was just a friendly, platonic kiss.’
‘I’m not getting involved,’ I interject. ‘She can sort out her own mess.’
‘Dale’s already been seen hanging out with some woman who was on The Voice,’ Matt continues. ‘I think she’s flogging a dead horse now.’
Sarah and I glance at each other before laughing. ‘Is celebrity gossip just a hobby or a real passion, Matt?’ she asks. ‘What’s Harry Styles up to these days? Or Adele?’
All I Want for Christmas: a hilarious and heart-warming romance Page 12
