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

by Joanna Bolouri

  ‘What? I thought you were younger than me, like late twenties?’

  She laughs. ‘God bless you and your terrible eyesight. I’ll be thirty-four soon.’

  ‘So, Matt’s your toy boy?’ I say, grinning. ‘Lucky him.’

  ‘Piss off!’ she replies, chuckling. ‘Three years is nothing! I’m not some coffee-serving cougar.’

  As Matt takes Alfie on to the Flying Fish ride, Sarah points to a nearby attraction which looks relatively tame compared to the coaster I’ve just been on.

  ‘We’re going on this,’ she insists. ‘I feel the need to sway wildly.’

  I look up at the current passengers, most of whom are screaming their heads off, which seems excessive for a ride which only swings back and forth.

  We take our seats on the back row, next to a couple of young teens who are already whooping excitedly. She giggles as the ride begins to rock throwing her head back as it peeds up. It’s a joy to watch.

  ‘Hands up, bitches,’ someone yells, and everyone follows suit, including Sarah and me, now both laughing like drains as our stomachs exit the carriage.

  After a quick juice break, Alfie decides we should all go on the dodgems, which happens to be my least favourite ride in the park.

  ‘Um, maybe I’ll just watch . . . take pictures?’ I suggest, but Alfie’s having none of it, insisting I ride with him. Trying to explain to a four-year-old the concept of whiplash is pointless.

  Matt and Sarah take one car, leaving me squashed in beside Alfie, who’s grabbing the steering wheel like a tiny Michael Schumacher. As the buzzer rings to start, Alfie floors the accelerator, squealing in delight as we head straight first into Matt and Sarah, who visibly jerk forward with the force.

  ‘Let’s see if you can just drive around the track without hit—’

  A kid in a baseball cap blindsides us and I feel my chest thud against the seatbelt. Alfie giggles and powers us off again. How the fuck is this fun?

  Forty crashes later, I stagger off, wondering if my internal organs are still where they should be. Fortunately, both Sarah and Matt appear to be pretty banged up and declare that they’re never going on that again, before I do. Alfie, remaining unscathed, bounces off towards a food stand.

  Two hours later we’re fed, happy and slightly soaked from the water rides. This part I don’t mind so much, given that a small child threw up on my foot earlier and now, post-water ride, my shoe appears to be somewhat puke-free again. Matt and Alfie decide to have one last go on the junior roller coaster while Sarah and I head to SAW, a ride based on the horror movie.

  ‘This looks brutal,’ Sarah remarks as we take our seats. ‘Have you seen that bloody drop?’

  ‘One hundred feet,’ I reply, smirking. ‘Say goodbye to that burger you had earlier. Oh look, there’s that little puppet shit, Billy. That can’t be good.’

  Before I can say anything else, the ride takes off, twisting our way to the foot of the climb.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ Sarah declares, as we tip back and begin our ascent. ‘Here we go.’

  Gravity is doing its best to pull us back headfirst to where we started. Sarah reaches over and grabs my left hand. With one last look at each other, we tip over the edge and hurtle towards the ground like Thelma and Louise, but with far more screaming. We loop, we invert, we bang our heads off the sides of the chairs, but we hang on to each other. Even in a death grip, I feel like her hand fits perfectly in mine. As we finally come to a stop, the restraints lift, and we’re forced to break apart.

  ‘Goddamn, that was intense,’ she says, climbing out. ‘Sorry about the whole hand thing, I panicked up there.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ I reply, ‘though I haven’t been gripped that tightly since Nadine Foster took me round the back of the Sports Centre.’

  ‘I cannot believe you just made a hand-job joke in a kid’s theme park,’ she replies, taking out her phone. ‘You’re going to hell . . . oh, Matt’s just texted, they’re waiting by the Dome.’

  ‘He’s been good with Alfie today,’ I say as we walk across. ‘You must be pleased they’re getting on so well.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replies, ‘though I’m a little reluctant to let them get too close . . . just in case. I don’t want men coming in and out of Alfie’s life. He needs stability.’

  ‘Matt’s the epitome of stable,’ I assure her. ‘Completely level-headed . . . like a human spirit level.’

  She gives a little laugh. ‘I know, but I’m not naïve, Nick. Relationships either last forever or they end . . . there really is no in-between and the majority fall into the latter. Besides, I have a habit of making things way more complicated than they need to be . . . I never seem to get it quite right.’

  ‘Hmm, you’re talking to King Fuck-up here,’ I reply; ‘I’m the last one to judge.’

  ‘Don’t you talk about my friend like that!’ Sarah insists, nudging me. She waves over at Alfie who’s munching on some candy floss, while an exhausted-looking Matt is slouched on a nearby bench. ‘I happen to think he’s pretty special. I won’t hear a word against him.’

  ‘I think you’re pretty special too,’ I respond but my words fall on deaf ears as she skips off to hug Alfie and Matt, leaving me to follow behind.

  When we arrive home, I’m ready just to collapse in front of the television but Matt, Sarah and Alfie have other ideas.

  ‘Happy birthday, Nick,’ Alfie chirps as he presents me with a beautifully wrapped present, which of course I rip to shreds immediately.

  ‘Wow!’ I exclaim, marvelling at the gift inside. ‘I’ve always wanted a yellow bathroom speaker shaped as a submarine! How did you know?’

  Sarah laughs as a puzzled Alfie looks to her for an answer. ‘A little birdy told me how wonderful your shower singing is,’ she informs me, glancing at Matt. ‘So, Alfie and I thought you might want something to play your tunes through.’

  Matt smirks, slowly shaking his head. ‘Abysmal! I said his singing was abysmal! He’s going to be a nightmare now.’

  ‘Stop hurting my delicate feelings,’ I say, inspecting my new toy. ‘Besides, you were the one playing Destiny’s Child the other morning . . . would have been rude of me not to join in.’

  ‘Yeah, alright, Beyoncé,’ he replies, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Anyway, this is from me.’

  I frown as he hands me a small silver package. ‘What is this? We don’t do gifts. We’ve never done gifts.’

  He shrugs. ‘You’ve had a hell of a year. I’m making an exception.’

  I tear open the paper suspiciously, hoping it’s not something horribly inappropriate that will scar Alfie for life. Inside is an Armani watch.

  ‘Mate . . . you shouldn’t have,’ I say, admiring the dark blue sunray dial and leather strap. ‘Seriously. This is way too much!’

  ‘No,’ he replies, ‘what it is, is better than that Argos-looking piece of crap you own. Oh, don’t get all teary-eyed, just put it on.’

  My stomach sinks as I unbox the watch and wrap it around my wrist. Matt deserves a better friend than me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Harriet and Noel have moved into a charming three-bedroomed semi in Brighton, which gives me two hours on the train journey to plough through some of the work I’ve taken home for the weekend.

  ‘Need a hand?’ Matt asks, watching me rub my forehead. ‘What are you working on?’

  ‘Ugh, don’t even ask,’ I reply. ‘Some bullshit merger that sounds fishy as hell. I need to have it ready by Monday.’

  ‘Want a beer?’ Matt pulls a tin of Heineken from his rucksack. ‘Still cold.’

  ‘It’s eleven thirty,’ I reply. ‘I think I’ll pass.’

  He laughs. ‘Don’t act like a few weeks ago you weren’t drinking Baileys for breakfast.’

  ‘True,’ I reply, ‘but I wasn’t a formidable, dodgy-merger-organising lawyer back then.
Jesus, I never thought I’d miss being Santa.’

  ‘You’ve only been at this new firm a couple of months mate. Give it time. Kensington Fox was hard going the first few weeks, remember? You’ll settle in.’

  Doubtful, I think to myself. Compared to this place, Kensington Fox was practically a summer camp. At least there we were respected. I don’t think my boss has even learned my name yet, given that she just calls me ‘you, over there’.

  Matt puts in his AirPods and begins swigging his morning beer while I try to focus. I don’t want my entire weekend at Harriet’s to be spoiled by work.

  Soon-to-be dad Noel picks us up from the station in his boring yet dependable Hyundai and drives us to the most middle-aged, white-picket-fenced street I’ve ever seen in my life. We pull up outside a mixed-brick semidetached with a moving truck parked outside.

  ‘They’re dropping the last of the boxes,’ Noel informs us. ‘You’ll need to excuse the mess. Just head in, I’ll be there in a second.’

  Harriet’s ginormous bump greets us first as we step inside. I’m shocked by how big she’s grown. Behind me I hear a concerned-sounding Noel beg the driver to be careful with his computer desk.

  ‘Yay, you’re here!’ she says, leaning in sideways for a hug. ‘Sorry it’s a tip, we thought we’d be far more organised by now. I can’t lift anything, so Noel’s been left with most of it.’

  ‘Jesus, Harry,’ Matt exclaims, ‘are you having twins? There must be at least two fully grown humans in there.’

  ‘Nope, just one,’ she replies. ‘And before you ask, we don’t know the sex. I want to be surprised.’

  ‘Surprised that it’s twins?’

  ‘Shut up, Matt.’

  Apart from a few boxes, the house is actually tidier than ours, which is somewhat embarrassing. Even a heavily pregnant woman and her anxious husband are more diligent than we are.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, as we walk into a living room straight out of Homes & Gardens. Jesus, they even have an open fireplace. ‘This is impressive.’

  ‘Nice floors,’ Matt remarks. ‘The last time I saw this much hardwood was in Nick’s browser history.’

  ‘Shocking, eh?’ Harriet replies. ‘Who’d have thought I’d end up barefoot and pregnant in suburbia with a fucking conservatory and monoblocked driveway. They did leave us the hot tub, though I’m not stepping foot in it until it’s been fumigated. I know what these middle-class Brightonians are like: it’s all pampas grass and bowls of car keys; fuck knows what they did in there.’

  ‘It suits you,’ I tell her, peering through the window in search of swinger paraphernalia. ‘God, with Greta married and Matt meeting Sarah, it looks like I’m the only one still to become a functioning member of society.’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ Harriet exclaims, throwing her gaze at Matt. ‘I heard about this new woman! This baby has made me miss all the good gossip. I demand to know everything!’

  ‘Let me get my coat off, Harry,’ Matt replies. ‘Besides, Nick’s Angela fiasco is far more interesting . . .’

  I roll my eyes as Harriet focuses back on me. He is the master of deflection.

  We order in Chinese food for dinner, as Harriet has recently developed an insatiable craving for wontons with duck sauce and plain fried rice. We sit in their half-decorated dining room, eating out of the takeaway containers.

  ‘That Angela one was always a bit sketchy,’ she informs me. ‘Anyone who actually chooses to be on Big Brother needs their head seen to. I’ll never understand the need to be famous. I don’t even enjoy doing author interviews.’

  ‘I like how everyone waits until now to tell me they hated her,’ I reply, gnawing on a spare rib. ‘You’re supposed to have my back. This information would have been useful beforehand.’

  ‘We do have your back,’ Harriet replies. ‘But we’re not your mammy, we’re your friends. We respect your decision to date horrendous women but reserve the right to then make fun of you when it all goes tits up. It’ll be the same with Matt’s new girlfriend.’

  ‘’Scuse me but she’s not horrendous,’ Matt interjects. ‘She’s actually the nicest woman I’ve ever dated and therefore you cannot slag her off.’

  ‘I’m not sure whether that says more about you or her,’ Harriet replies, laughing. ‘But I look forward to meeting her.’

  Damn. Harriet is even more blunt than usual tonight.

  ‘How’s the new job, Nick?’ Noel asks. ‘Nice to be back in the rat race?’

  ‘Exhausting, actually,’ I reply. ‘I’m putting in minimum fourteen-hour days at the moment. My boss is—’

  ‘Exhausting? Try moving to a new house and working and lugging around a bowling ball twenty-four seven,’ Harriet snaps. ‘And having to pee every thirty seconds when you’re trying to work . . . you bloody men don’t know you’re born.’

  Noel almost chokes on his chow mein. ‘Harriet! There’s no need to—’

  And now she’s crying. Big fat tears detonate from her eyes and make their way down her cheeks. ‘I’m s-s-sorry,’ she says, picking up a napkin. ‘I have no idea what’s fucking wrong with me. I’m vile! Fat and vile!’

  Noel gets up and hugs his wife. ‘You’re not vile, sweetie. You’re pregnant. The hormones must be—’

  ‘What the fuck would you know about my hormones? How many times have you been pregnant? God, I could murder a glass of red!’

  ‘I . . . I . . . uh . . .’

  ‘Sweet Jesus, Harriet,’ Matt exclaims. ‘The rude just jumped right out of you, didn’t it? Do I need to call a priest? Nick, take away her cutlery before she fucking devours us all.’

  Harriet’s crying morphs into a mixture of sobs intermingled with hearty laughing. She grabs Noel’s hand and kisses it. ‘Forgive me. I’m an arsehole. And I need to pee. I’ll be right back.’

  We hear Harriet trudge upstairs to the bathroom.

  ‘Sorry, guys,’ Noel says sheepishly. ‘She’s been like this all week. I wanted to cancel this weekend, but she insisted.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Matt insists. ‘She must be getting fed up by now. When is she due?’

  ‘Now, pretty much,’ he replies. ‘Well, next weekend, to be exact. But they say first babies are notoriously late.’

  ‘Are you excited?’ I ask him, getting back to my meal. ‘Must be weird, knowing that any day now you’re going to be a dad.’

  ‘It’s fucking terrifying,’ he confesses. ‘Not that I’d admit that to Harriet.’

  ‘Maybe not right now,’ I reply with a smirk. ‘But she’s obviously nervous too.’

  ‘Sarah told me that the baby stage is actually the easiest stage,’ Matt informs him. ‘When they start to walk and fall into furniture and stick their fingers in power sockets, that’s when the real work starts. She says the baby stage is just making sure you don’t drop them and surviving on three hours’ sleep.’

  ‘Sarah has a kid?’

  Matt spins around in fright. ‘Fucking hell, Harriet, did you fly downstairs on your broomstick?’

  She laughs and sits back down at the table. ‘The stairs don’t creak when you’ve just lost fifteen pounds’ worth of fluid. My question still stands though.’

  ‘Yes,’ Matt replies. ‘She has a four-year-old son, Alfie.’

  ‘Wow,’ she replies, returning to her wontons. ‘A single mum, eh? Never pictured you as the fatherly type.’

  ‘Why?’ he asks. ‘I’m great with kids. Alfie and I hang out all the time.’

  She crunches into her wonton and shrugs. ‘I dunno. You just don’t give off that vibe. Nick does. I can see him running around the park with six kids. You, I picture owning the park.’

  ‘Six kids?’ I start to laugh. ‘Do I look like a Mormon?’

  ‘Moron, maybe,’ Matt says under his breath.

  I smile. It’s true that I’d like a big family, probably because I come from such a
small one, but maybe just three kids. Six is bankruptcy waiting to happen.

  ‘Greta will be next anyway,’ she informs us, ‘judging by the amount of shagging she did on honeymoon. She’s coming down to see the house next month.’

  Noel almost chokes again.

  ‘Yeah, that’s not something she shares with her male friends,’ Matt declares, ‘but you’re probably right. How the hell did this happen? We’re adults. I remember when we got pissed every night and barely made our 11am uni lectures.’

  With the smaller bedroom currently being made into a nursery, Matt takes the bed in the other spare room while Noel makes up the sofa for me in the living room. I could have shared with Matt, but fuck sleeping next to him after a few glasses of wine. His snoring can be heard from space.

  While it’s been lovely catching up with Harriet, it’s given me a much-needed kick up the arse. My life will pass me by if I don’t start living it . . . properly living it.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘Nick, where the fuck is the brief? How long does it take to prepare one fucking brief? I’m surrounded by fucking idiots, I swear. Is that the paperwork for the merger? I need that finished before you leave too. The client is coming in first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure, Sophia,’ I reply, glancing down at the clock on my PC, ‘but I really need to be out of here by half six at the latest. It’s my friend’s—’

  ‘Leave them on my desk before you go or don’t bother coming back tomorrow.’

  Sophia Goddard, the only woman alive who makes me genuinely miss having Geraldine as my boss, proceeds to dump her half-empty coffee cup on my desk and walk away, shouting at her phone to call Alan. I have no idea who Alan is, but I guarantee he hates her too. Where Geraldine was a stone-faced, unwavering guardian of all things customer service, Sophia is a cold, detached shark of a woman who demands nothing less than everything, and sometimes even that isn’t good enough. Last week she asked me to rework a thirty-page proposal over the weekend and then promptly binned it in front of me because she’d decided to go with the original after all. I’m only halfway through the six-month maternity cover and I cannot wait for it to be over.