All I Want for Christmas: a hilarious and heart-warming romance

by Joanna Bolouri

  I look over at her office and see Sophia standing at her window watching the floor. I wonder if she can hear us.

  ‘Got it. Thanks.’

  Kim grunts and hands me a key to the locked drawer on my desk. ‘So, now that’s out of the way, I want you to go to Starbucks and grab a strong coffee for yourself and a Diet Coke for me, while I set up your logins and email. When you get back, I have a breach of contract case for you to get started on.’

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ I reply, grabbing my coat from my chair. ‘Won’t be long.’

  She walks me to the lift, and I step inside, pressing the ground floor button. I hate this place already.

  ‘Jesus, I thought you’d run off,’ Matt says from the kitchen as I enter the living room and throw myself down on to the couch face first. ‘You want a beer?’

  I give him a muffled yes, please in response, my entire body beyond grateful to be home. It’s gone 11pm and I haven’t even had dinner.

  The clink of the beer bottles makes me pull myself up into a slouching position which I intend to stay in for as long as possible.

  ‘So?’ Matt asks. ‘How was your first day?’

  I stare blankly ahead as I take a long swig from my Budweiser.

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  I take a second swig and place my bottle on the coffee table with a thunk. ‘If Satan ran a law firm, it would be this one.’

  Matt doesn’t look surprised at this news in the slightest. ‘Yeah, I’d heard they can be a tad merciless. Their billing hours are notoriously high but—’

  ‘Information that might have been useful before today, mate . . .’

  ‘But they’re successful!’ he insists, trying to make me feel better. ‘Remember Felix Thingamajig who started with us at Kensington? He worked there before he went solo. Made more in bonuses than he did on salary.’

  ‘Didn’t he get disbarred?’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘Well, temps don’t get bonuses,’ I inform him. ‘I’m only contracted to work 9am–6pm but apparently showing initiative and going the extra mile goes a long way towards not being quickly replaced by someone else.’

  Matt scrunches up his face but remains silent. We both understand that this a terrible working practice, but we also know that this is the world we chose to work in. At Kensington, we’d pull all-nighters, competing with other associates in order to get head pats from senior staff.

  ‘Fuck it,’ I say, attacking my beer again. ‘I’ll tell Greta to keep looking for other opportunities, maybe something better will come up.’

  ‘I hear Build-A-Bear are hiring . . .’

  ‘Up yours,’ I reply, while secretly thinking that it’s not a bad idea. ‘Anyway, I’m off to bed.’

  Matt says goodnight while I slump off to the bathroom to wash the very long day off. If I can survive working with screaming children, I’m almost certain I can handle a few cantankerous lawyers.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Is this dress too “meh” for a wedding? Or is it too weird? Maybe it’s too weird. I don’t want people to be all “hey, there’s Matt’s girlfriend, the thrift shop weirdo”.’

  I laugh as Sarah stands in front of the mirror, pinching at the fabric on her bluey-green dress. I personally think she looks beautiful. Classy, even. Hot. I remove my gaze and continue knotting my tie.

  Matt’s girlfriend. Not yours. You don’t care how she looks. Play it down.

  ‘It’s definitely a look,’ I tell her. ‘You remind me of a retro peacock.’

  She looks appalled.

  ‘No, I mean the colours! And the way the skirt poofs out. You look fine!’

  ‘I should change.’

  ‘No time. We should have left twenty minutes ago. Greta will end me if I’m late.’

  As neither of us are particularly flush we choose to get the Underground, feeling decidedly overdressed as we take a seat in a carriage filled with Adidas and skinny-jean wearers. Sarah sits beside me and begins smoothing down her hair. I quietly chuckle.

  ‘Flyaway hairs are nothing to laugh at,’ she informs me, grinning. ‘My ability to frizz at any given moment is legendary.’

  ‘I wasn’t laughing at you!’ I reply. ‘You just remind me of a woman who works in my office, Kim. She gently pets the top of her head constantly like it’s a show dog.’

  ‘I feel her pain. How’s work going, anyway? Matt says they’re all savages in that place.’

  I laugh. ‘In our industry, it’s widespread, not just in my office. Let’s just say, I’ve quickly become reacclimatised to finding loopholes and making rich people’s lives easier. Kensington Fox wasn’t any more virtuous; it just had more natural light.’

  ‘I still think you’re meant for greater things,’ Sarah says, rummaging through her bag. She brings out her phone and checks the screen. ‘I should probably text Brandon’s mum, shouldn’t I? Make sure Alfie’s OK.’

  ‘You only dropped him off a couple of hours ago! I’m sure she would text you if he wasn’t. Besides, the signal is non-existent down here. You’d have more luck just yelling.’

  She makes a face and puts her phone back in her bag, before clutching it anxiously.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ I say supportively. ‘He’s done sleepovers before.’

  This is the one part of parenting that makes me nervous about having kids. Worrying about someone else twenty-four seven must be exhausting.

  We arrive at Bond Street and make the short walk to Claridge’s, where Sarah finally caves and sends a short message to Brandon’s mum before we go inside. Thankfully she responds almost immediately, reassuring Sarah that Alfie’s playing in the garden with Brandon and can be heard giggling as she types. Sarah returns her phone to her bag looking marginally less worried.

  ‘Sorry, I just—’

  ‘No need,’ I interject. ‘You ready?’

  With one final dress adjustment, the doorman ushers us in and Sarah follows behind.

  Knowing Greta’s intolerance for organised religion, I wasn’t in the least bit surprised that she chose not to have a church ceremony – however, this was far grander than the basic, yet tastefully unfussy, civil ceremony I had pictured in my mind. Maybe because the last wedding I had attended was Harriet and Noel’s registry-office and pub-crawl extravaganza, where everyone put in a kitty and we all ended up eating fish and chips in the middle of Camden at three in the morning. I’m grateful it isn’t a church, however. I haven’t stepped in one since Mum’s funeral and I have no great longing to do so anytime soon.

  Sarah and I are led into a pink and white, champagne-filled reception area, complete with dignified pianist and at least one hundred close friends and family. White roses seem to be the flower du jour, arranged in glass vases all over the room, and I’m handed one for my lapel, as I appear to be the only boutonnière-lacking male at the party.

  ‘Christ, this is like another world,’ Sarah says quietly as she straightens my flower. ‘That woman’s shoes cost twice my monthly salary.’

  I follow her eyes towards the feet of a woman wearing blingy-looking sandals with a white feather hanging off the front. Sarah is wearing red shoes with a thin purple heel.

  ‘Yours are nicer,’ I reply. ‘I mean . . . what’s with the feather? It looks like she kicked a bird on her way in.’

  Sarah laughs and looks away.

  ‘Anyway, her toes look weird,’ I continue. ‘Are they meant to cross over like that?’

  ‘The price women pay for fashion,’ she says, sipping her champagne. ‘I have hobbit feet hidden inside these bad boys; I can’t judge anyone.’

  A server in a crisp white shirt offers us smoked salmon canapés which I gratefully devour, having missed breakfast in favour of getting an extra hour in bed. With Matt in Washington, I’ve enjoyed having the flat to myself, but I usually rely on him to feed me. R
emembering that dinner isn’t until five, I chase the server down and grab some more.

  ‘You scrub up very well,’ Sarah informs me. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you in evening wear before.’

  I smile. ‘Ah yes, you’ve only seen me in casual attire. This must be quite the treat for you. Like hanging out with a real-life Littlewoods catalogue.’

  She laughs heartily. ‘You forgot the festive, jolly-old-man-wear, but I can’t really talk. I feel like I’ve come in fancy dress.’

  The more I look around the room, the more I’m certain that Sarah chose exactly the right dress to wear today. As gorgeous as the women here are, they all look the same – like they’re all painted by the same numbers in marginally different shades. Sarah looks exactly like she is – beautiful, colourful and completely original.

  ‘Shall we take a selfie for Matt?’ she suggests. ‘I feel bad that he’s missing this!’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply. I feel bad that he’s barely crossed my mind at all – but of course, he’s still clearly on Sarah’s. I take out my phone and we cheese, before WhatsApping the photo to his phone, which is currently somewhere over the Atlantic.

  ‘So, if this is the preshow party, where are they having the main event?’ Sarah asks. We don’t have to wait long to find out. The doors on the left-hand side swing open to reveal another larger room and we’re cordially invited to take our seats for the ceremony. It’s so bloody classy, I can’t help but be impressed.

  ‘Wow,’ Sarah exclaims, admiring the pristine white and gold décor. ‘This is beautiful.’

  God, she’s adorable. She’s literally enchanted by everything she sees here and it’s completely genuine.

  We’re directed towards the bride’s side of the room, where I spot Greta’s mum and older sister Imogen, sporting giant hats, along with the groom who’s looking surprisingly relaxed for a man about to marry Greta. She’s at least worth a light sweat. I wave politely at them all as Sarah and I take our seats.

  I recognise a few faces from their engagement party, but it seems to be mainly family and friends from outside our little uni circle. Harriet must be so pissed off she’s missing this. She lives for a good knees-up. I surreptitiously send her a copy of our photo and send my love before turning off my phone.

  Before long, a hush comes over the room and two violinists, along with the pianist, begin to play the wedding march. As the doors open, I see two little dark-haired flower girls, dressed in yellow, commence the procession, followed by Greta with her dad. I instantly get goosebumps all over. She looks exactly like I thought she would: tight-fitting white lace gown, her hair delicately curled, and a glow that radiates beyond the walls of this magnificent function room. I beam with pride as she walks slowly past, smiling unabashedly, until a hand clasping mine grabs my attention.

  A single tear rolls down Sarah’s cheek as she squeezes my hand and then lets it go. My momentary confusion soon subsides when it dawns on me that she’s thinking of her wedding, and her late husband. Shit. I never even considered this might be tough for her.

  ‘You alright?’ I whisper, leaning in. ‘If it’s too—’

  She swiftly wipes her cheek and shakes her head. ‘I’m fine. Just wobbled. She looks so happy.’

  Greta reaches the top of the aisle and kisses her dad, who then steps aside to let Will take his place. As he looks at her like she’s the only woman alive, a lump appears in my throat. Good for you, Greta, I think to myself. Matt was right. Our girl did well.

  ‘Dear friends and family. We have come together today to celebrate the love of Greta and William, who have decided to live their lives together as husband and wife . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  After a whirlwind of cheering, group photos, mingling and drinking, we make our way to the next part of the wedding, where Greta and Dr William Cashflow have hired out the ballroom for the meal. We’re greeted in the ballroom reception area by a harpist, more champagne, and the cerise pink-clad mother of the bride who looks like she’s about to implode with joy.

  ‘Well, you look splendid, Mrs Lang!’ I say as she hugs me. ‘It was such a nice ceremony.’

  ‘Wonderful, wasn’t it, Nick? I’m so glad you could come! I hear Matthew is otherwise engaged; such a pity, really.’

  ‘I know; he’s gutted not to be here. This is Sarah, by the way. Sarah, this is Greta’s mum.’

  ‘Ivy,’ she informs her. ‘Pleased to meet you, dear, your dress is wonderful. Grab a drink, seating chart is just inside the door.’

  We enter the ballroom, scooping up champagne flutes as we go, and are met with a sea of white linen tablecloths, fresh flowers and a black starlit dance floor which has probably been installed by God himself.

  ‘This just gets better and better,’ Sarah remarks as she gazes in wonder. ‘My reception was nowhere near as grand as this – but then again, we were twenty-five and skint. Where are we sitting?’

  I wonder what Sarah looked like in a wedding dress, imagining her walking up the aisle towards me. Gathering myself, I scan the list of twelve tables, eventually finding our names.

  ‘Table four,’ I inform her. ‘You ready for some scintillating small talk?’

  ‘Always,’ she replies. ‘And by always, I mean never.’

  We find our place cards, nodding politely to the other couples already seated at the table, vaguely recognising two of them as Will’s guests at the engagement party. ‘Nick,’ I say, introducing myself. ‘This my friend Sarah.’

  Sarah gives them a little wave and takes her seat.

  ‘Kelvin,’ replies the man wearing a far nicer suit than mine, ‘and my wife, Shondra.’

  The other couples are both from Will’s side of the family: cousin James and his wife Lynne plus his Gen-Z niece Emma with her boyfriend Louis. Without a doubt one of them has a YouTube channel.

  ‘Have you seen Greta yet?’ I ask, scanning the room again. ‘I wanted to say hello before she gets swamped by everyone. I barely got a chance to say hi during the photos.’

  ‘They’ll probably do the grand entrance in a moment,’ Shondra replies. ‘We couldn’t make it to the ceremony so I’m dying to see her dress.’

  Sarah quietly sips her champagne, taking it all in. I’ve been a plus-one to several weddings, and it’s always awkward as hell at first, but I get the feeling she’s still a little upset after the ceremony.

  ‘You sure you’re alright with all of this?’ I ask quietly. ‘I mean . . . at the ceremony you seemed . . .’

  She smiles warmly. ‘I am . . . I haven’t been to a wedding since, well, my own. It all kind of just . . . hit me . . . y’know?’

  I nod. I’m more than aware of how grief can just blitz-attack when you least expect it.

  ‘Ah, of course. Listen, if it’s too much we don’t have to—’

  ‘I’m good,’ she interrupts, placing her hand on mine. ‘But it’s kind of you to offer. I’m not overly sad, just maybe a little sentimental.’

  ‘Understandable,’ I reply, secretly hoping she will just leave her hand on mine for the rest of the evening. ‘Sometimes life is just a great big boot in the balls. Weddings remind me that I’m probably the only single man on earth.’

  ‘Jesus, now who’s being glum. You need to cheer up, Nick; who knows, your future wife might be here tonight, but she is hardly going to approach you if you’re the weirdo crying in the corner!’

  Her eyes dart around the room while my gaze stays firmly on her.

  A hush comes over the room as the arrival of the bride and groom is announced, and Greta and Will enter to a rapturous applause, taking their seats at the top table beside their immediate family. As happy as I am for Greta, it all reminds me of how far behind everyone else I am. No immediate family, no spouse, no girlfriend, no kids. Jesus, I need to get a move on.

  Dinner is outstanding as expected; I chose the lobster risotto to start,
followed by lamb with barley and parsnips, then a chocolate fondant to finish. Sarah went with the same dessert but had scallops with caviar to start and an inventive-looking duck dish with grilled pears for her main course. I google the wine, feeling my eyebrows shoot up into my hairline when I see the price tag. Sarah and I both pull faces at how bloody delicious everything is. It’s perfection, even down to the waiting staff, who are all trained with military precision, expertly placing and clearing plates like stealthy catering ninjas.

  Will’s niece Emma seems to have taken quite the shine to Sarah, quizzing her on her dress and something involving coffin nails which I’m sure is less morbid than it sounds. The rest of the table are chatty enough, but it’s not a patch on the riot I would have had with Harriet and Matt here too. As the coffee arrives at the tables, I hear the sharp feedback from a speaker as the bride’s father Mike is introduced to give the first speech.

  ‘First of all, I want to welcome you all and thank you for joining us on this very special day,’ he begins. ‘I know that some of Will’s family have travelled from as far as Australia to be here and it means the world to all of us.’

  A small collective cheer from the Australians in the room makes everyone smile, while Greta’s dad wipes his leathery forehead with a napkin and sips his wine.

  ‘Now, being an MP, I’m not entirely averse to public speaking, however, Greta has asked me to keep this short – probably because we have a lot of speeches to get through, but also probably for fear I might filibuster for hours with her entire life story and keep the band waiting.’

  I see Greta and her mum both laugh and nod in unison.

  ‘So instead, I’ll just thank Greta for being Greta. Her mother and I are unbelievably proud of the woman she’s become. We wish her and Will nothing but happiness, love and the humour to deal with whatever life throws their way. We love you both.’

  Mike is now in tears. God, even I’m starting to tear up a little. Sarah whoops in support of the man, who’s now being hugged tightly by his daughter, along with the rest of the room.