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

by Joanna Bolouri

  Alfie laughs, his chin covered in curry sauce.

  ‘I thought about getting another, but with me in this thing now, it would be too much for Linda to deal with.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Linda replies, ‘you have limited mobility, not quadriplegia. We could get one of those tiny dogs. I could carry it in my shoulder bag and give it a stupid haircut. Ooh, that might be fun!’

  I laugh and take another bite of my sweet potato. Despite my initial reservations, I’m warming to this family quickly. They’re utterly mad.

  The next morning, Linda offers to walk Spot while Sarah, Alfie and I take a drive to nearby market town Cirencester to get supplies. I only intend on staying one more night, but I need a change of clothes given that I’m forced to wear one of Stephen’s brown wool jumpers. My blood-spattered T-shirt has been assessed by Linda, deemed unsalvageable and binned.

  ‘We’ve missed the Christmas market,’ Sarah informs me as she parks the car, ‘but the farmers’ market should be on and maybe some craft stalls?’

  ‘I thought we were going to Tesco or Waitrose or something?’

  ‘We will,’ she replies, helping Alfie straighten his winter hat, ‘but I thought Alfie might like to see the Christmas lights. Maybe grab a bite to eat?’

  ‘You mean this trip isn’t all about me?’ I grin, feeling a tad foolish. ‘That sounds fun, actually.’

  We walk through the car park towards Market Place, where the buildings line the streets in a terribly civilised, uniform manner and every shop appears to have a home above it. No seven-hundred-foot-tall department stores towering overhead or scaffolding from the next office block in construction – just clean, pretty buildings, lining clean, pretty streets, currently dusted with a fine layer of powdery-looking snow.

  Turning into Market Place, I understand why Sarah wanted to bring us here. The festive decorations alone are well worth the visit, even during the day. Huge strings of lights hang overhead while the remarkable Christmas tree stands in front of the charming parish church, with the festive stalls nearby already bustling with customers.

  ‘So, are we on a date?’ I ask Sarah, while Alfie investigates the brass band playing ‘Jingle Bells’. ‘It kind of feels like a date.’

  She links her arm in mine and sighs. ‘I don’t tend to date men who dress like my dad . . . Alfie, don’t touch the nice man’s trombone!’

  I laugh as she runs to retrieve Alfie, thinking that Matt was wrong about ice skating being the perfect romantic date, because this is about as perfect as it gets.

  ‘Let’s get a hot drink,’ Sarah suggests, pulling Alfie back by the sleeve. ‘Maybe some food?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I reply. ‘I’m pretty sure I smell doughnuts. Alfie, what do you think?’

  Alfie, known for his tendency to run wildly towards the mere mention of a food stall, gets in between Sarah and me, taking both of our hands. I don’t even care that he’s holding my cast, it’s adorable. As Sarah and I glance at each other and smile, it happens; my heart finally bursts.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  A heavy overnight snowfall means that my initial plan to return to London to spend Christmas with Matt and his family isn’t going to happen. I can’t say I’m entirely disappointed. Despite the fact I’m now dressed head-to-toe in the supermarket’s basic joggers and jumpers range, I’m having a bloody ball. Between sightseeing, finding new places for Spot to explore and rampant over-the-clothes touching when Alfie’s not around, I’m in no hurry to tear myself away.

  ‘But you have to come back, mate,’ Matt insists, his face freezing as our video call connection drops out for a second. ‘It’s Christmas Eve. Mum’s bought you some driving gloves.’

  ‘Don’t make me feel bad,’ I reply, wondering why his mum suddenly thinks I own a car. ‘You know I feel shit as it is, but they’ve cancelled all the trains. Anyway, isn’t Karen going with you?’

  ‘Nah, she’s seeing her own family,’ he replies before his face wrinkles with unease. ‘Um, I haven’t exactly told them we’re back together yet . . .’

  ‘Wow!’ I laugh as the screen freezes again. He looks like a puzzled baby. ‘That’ll be an interesting conversation.’

  He laughs. ‘Not as interesting as the one where I tell them you’re blowing them off to spend Christmas with my ex-girlfriend . . .’

  ‘True.’

  ‘ . . . or the one where I explain why I have a black eye.’

  Now I’m wrinkling up. ‘Shit. God, I’m so sorry . . . is it still sore?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Only when I need to look at something. How’s the hand?’

  I hold up the cast, which now has Alfie’s signature and three superhero stickers attached to it. ‘Smarts like a bitch,’ I reply, ‘but the painkillers help.’

  He nods and stay silent for a moment. Why does he look concerned? Fuck, is he reliving the punch? Am I going to be apologising for this for the next fifty years?

  ‘Um . . . how is Sarah?’ he finally asks. ‘Does she hate me?’

  I smile with relief. ‘She’s good, mate, and no, she doesn’t hate you.’

  ‘OK, good. Great. Great news.’ I’m sure the look of relief on his face is visible but the camera has frozen again.

  ‘She does think you’re a bit of a prick maybe, but that’ll pass.’

  He laughs loudly. ‘That’s fair enough. Just make sure she knows I’m sorry, yeah?’

  ‘I will . . . Wish your parents a merry Christmas from me, will you? I’ll send them some Christmassy flowers or something.’

  ‘Nice idea,’ he replies. ‘Damn, you were always the more thoughtful son. I’ll speak to you lat—’

  The connection finally drops as Sarah’s parents’ terrible Wi-Fi flatlines. I swear, somewhere in this house is a dial-up modem from 1998.

  I head downstairs to the living room where everyone is snuggled up watching Elf. Alfie, lying on the floor, scoops handfuls of popcorn from a bowl in front of him, kicking his legs as he laughs in delight.

  ‘We’ve just opened the mulled wine, Nick,’ Stephen announces. ‘Linda, grab him a glass, honey.’

  ‘Sounds lovely, thank you,’ I reply, sitting down beside Sarah, who is engulfed in a giant, fluffy green blanket, also nursing a bowl of popcorn. She lifts a section and places it over my legs. ‘Dad made apple and goat’s cheese crostini,’ she informs me, pointing to the table. ‘So good.’

  ‘Crostini? That’s impressive!’ I reply, placing one on a napkin. ‘I can barely make toast.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Stephen says dismissively. ‘Slice a baguette, drizzle both sides in olive oil, grill them for a few minutes, then chuck stuff on top. Wait ’til you taste the devilled eggs I made with sriracha mayo. They have quite the kick.’

  Linda hands me a large goblet of mulled wine. ‘He’s excellent in the kitchen. When we first met, he used to make the best hash brownies from scratch. We were pretty much high for the first year of our marriage . . . God, those were good days.’

  ‘MUM!’ Sarah exclaims, laughing. ‘Small ears are listening.’

  Stephen laughs. ‘It’s true, honey. Before you know it, he’ll be El Chapo. We’re like gateway grandparents.’

  We laugh as Sarah throws a piece of popcorn at her dad. I feel quite honoured to be part of this, to meet the people who raised the woman I’m so fucking crazy about.

  I clear my throat. ‘It’s corny, but I just wanted to say thank you for allowing me to spend Christmas with you. I’m not sure many would have been so understanding if their only daughter arrived home with some guy in a bloodied T-shirt, sporting a broken hand, but—’

  ‘He deserved it,’ Stephen announces, his eyes still fixed on the television.

  I glance at Sarah, who purses her lips, letting me know she spilled the beans.

  ‘Well, I’m not proud of—’

  ‘And looking after my g
randson with such patience and kindness to the point where he talks about you incessantly is more than enough reason to welcome you into our home,’ he continues. ‘The two most important people in our lives think the world of you and that’s good enough for us. Now drink your wine before my darling wife starts to cry.’

  I hear a loud sniff from Linda as Sarah leans over and gently takes her mum’s hand.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she insists, ‘I’m just thinking about . . .’

  Sarah grins. ‘You’re thinking about those brownies, aren’t you, Mum?’

  I splutter into my wine as we all erupt into laughter.

  ‘I’m trying to watch the Elf!’ Alfie yelps, but we’re too far gone.

  With an overly excited Alfie finally asleep, everyone mucks in to finish wrapping and arranging his presents under the tree. Thanks to the market stalls, I’m able to add three of my own: a gift basket filled with home-made chutneys, pickles and jams for Sarah’s parents, a new Frisbee for Alfie, to replace the one that Spot destroyed on the first day, and a silver family tree which has twelve little locket-shaped frames hanging from its branches. This was the trickiest to buy and I had to rush across the street to purchase it while Sarah took Alfie to the bathroom. Unbeknownst to Sarah, Linda has provided me with baby pictures of her, Stephen, Sarah and Alfie to start her collection. I think she’ll love it.

  By 11.30pm, we’re all worn out, except for Spot who stands by the porch door, whining indignantly.

  ‘I think someone needs the loo,’ Stephen says, grinning. ‘You can just let him out in the garden.’

  ‘Or we could take him for a walk?’ Sarah suggests. ‘I could use the fresh air.’

  ‘Fresh air? It’s sub-zero!’ Before I can go on to explain how bloody exhausted I am after all that mulled wine, she throws me a look which says alone time, idiot.

  ‘But yeah,’ I reply, getting to my feet. ‘It’ll tire him out. You wanna go for a walk, Spot?’

  I see Linda and Stephen glance at each other. With a combined age of one-hundred- and-forty-three, it’s safe to say they’re not buying this.

  Spot grabs his leash from the door hook and circles around in excitement.

  ‘Take one of my fleeces,’ Stephen says, ‘and watch the pavement. The gritters sometimes neglect our little street.’

  We wrap up and step outside, watching Spot slide his way down the wheelchair ramp, leash still hanging from his mouth. I laugh softly as Sarah closes the door behind her.

  ‘Something funny?’

  ‘You mean apart from my dog being a dumbass?’

  We walk over the garden grass and then on to the road, which is infinitely less icy, but the falling snow will soon put paid to that. Spot allows me to hook him up before zipping as far in front as the leash will allow.

  ‘I was thinking about last Christmas Eve, actually,’ I say as we stroll down the middle of the silent street, a small but growing flutter of snow landing across our path as we walk. ‘You were here with your awesome family, and I was alone and on my arse in the middle of the street after failing to navigate ice, once again.’

  ‘Aw, don’t! That hurts my heart!’

  Sarah links into my arm, being careful not to cause my hand any further injury. ‘But here we are now . . . arm in arm . . . completely alone . . . potential targets for anyone feeling a bit murdery . . .’

  ‘Wow, that’s dark.’

  She laughs. ‘I know. I’ve been listening to way too many true crime podcasts.’

  ‘It’s a fair point though,’ I reply, looking down at my hand. ‘With a three-legged dog and me in a cast, you’re pretty much on your own.’

  We continue down the street, turning into a small grassy area, where Spot does his business before completing a few evening victory laps. I can tell he’s as happy as I am.

  ‘So, I was thinking that, maybe when I get back—’

  ‘Shh.’

  ‘I mean, I know it’s probably too soon, but maybe you could come up to Oxford and—’

  She places her finger over my lips. ‘Shh. Listen . . .’

  In the distance I hear the church bells strike midnight, followed by faint festive declarations from nearby homes. Sarah turns and wraps her arms around my neck.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Nick.’

  ‘Is it weird that the shh thing turns me on?’

  ‘Focus, Nick.’

  I grin. ‘Sorry. Merry Christmas, Sarah.’

  And under a flurry of powdery snow, we kiss like it’s the first time, and I never want this moment to end.

  Epilogue

  ‘Do you think this would look nice in the living room?’

  Sarah picks up a large red cushion and inspects it more closely. Ever since we bought the flat in Oxford, she’s been a home furnishing machine.

  ‘Um, probably,’ I reply, doing my best to sound interested. ‘Get it if you like it.’

  She smiles. ‘I knew you’d say that. Honey, we may have been together for two years, but living together is entirely different.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And sometimes having to look at cushions or other items that you dislike day in, day out can cause unnecessary tension in a relationship.’

  ‘You’re alluding to my tapestry, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s not a tapestry, it’s an old, frayed tea towel-looking monstrosity and I hate it.’

  We continue walking around the market, killing time before I meet with Matt. London is unusually mild for December, but still cold enough for Sarah to wear her white bobble hat. God, she looks cute as hell in that hat. We have the whole weekend to ourselves and I intend to spend at least sixty per cent of that naked.

  ‘OK, I’ll make a deal with you,’ I say. ‘I’ll get rid of the tapestry, if you get rid of that creepy picture.’

  ‘What picture?’

  ‘The one in the hall.’

  ‘Miss Fox? I love that sketch. It’s—’

  ‘It’s a fox in a Victorian nightdress, holding a duck! It’s weird, and frankly, a little disturbing!’

  She thinks for a moment and finally agrees to put it in the loft if I’ll surrender the tapestry.

  ‘But if she escapes the frame and haunts the loft out of spite, it’s your fault.’

  I’m not sure she’s kidding.

  ‘Oh, Alfie texted me from Mum’s phone. He says Spot’s having a great time and says good luck!’

  ‘Aww, that’s sweet,’ I reply, smiling and taking Sarah’s hand, hoping she doesn’t think too hard about the good luck part of the message. I can tell she’s missing Alfie but having him stay with his grandparents for a few days has given us a much-needed rest.

  She shrugs. ‘Not sure why you need luck, but I guess seven-year-olds rarely make sense at the best of times. Listen, after we’ve done our visiting rounds, can we just go back to the hotel and chill?’

  ‘Room service and trash TV?’

  ‘I love it when you talk dirty.’

  We take the bus to Southview Shopping Centre, a place I haven’t stepped foot in since I hung up my red suit three Christmases ago. I’ve arranged to meet Matt in the bar next door, allowing Sarah to grab some last-minute gifts for Alfie while he’s busy being spoiled by his grandparents.

  ‘OK, it’s half four now,’ Sarah informs me. ‘I don’t have much to get, so just text me when you’re done, and I’ll meet you.’

  I agree, kissing her lightly on the mouth before heading out into the snow.

  Matt and I haven’t seen each other in months, but we greet each other like it’s been much longer. He looks good. Marriage obviously agrees with him.

  ‘Two spiced rum and Cokes, please,’ I say, as we sit at the bar. ‘No ice in mine.’

  ‘God, it’s good to see you, mate,’ Matt says. ‘How’s life? Did the move go well?’

  I nod. ‘As well as
moving to a new flat can go, but yeah, we’re getting there. Still unpacking. Sarah’s so much closer to her parents, which is great, and Alfie really likes his new school.’

  Matt looks delighted. ‘And how is Sarah’s new job? Is she enjoying teaching?’

  When she and Alfie moved up to Oxford, Sarah got a job teaching art at the local college. It’s perfect for her: she loves the students and it gives her time in the afternoons to work on her own stuff.

  ‘Jesus, what a turnaround. Can you believe that three years ago, you were dragging your arse down here every day to play Santa?’ Matt shakes his head.

  ‘I know. But it made me the man I am today, even if it sparked a mild addiction to selection boxes. And you? I haven’t seen you since you got back from your honeymoon. How’s it all going?’

  ‘Yeah, everything’s great. Though Karen’s getting fat.’

  I nearly choke on my rum. ‘Jesus, Matt, you can’t say that about . . .’

  I stop chastising him when I realise what’s going on. I could toast bread on the glow coming from his proud, grinning face as he hands me a sonogram.

  ‘No! Aww, mate, congrats!!’

  ‘Fourteen weeks. I’m so stoked, it’s unreal.’

  ‘Bloody hell. I’m so pleased for you!’

  As we cheers, I knock back the rest of my rum and ask for another.

  ‘Slow down there, Oliver Reed, it’s only half four.’

  ‘I know,’ I reply. ‘Dutch courage.’

  I reach into my jacket and pull out a small silver box, handing it to Matt. He opens it and stares inside.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I mean . . . I like you and everything but, mate, I’m already spoken for.’

  ‘Fuck off, I’m nervous as hell. Do you think she’ll like it? It was my mum’s.’

  He closes the box and hands it back. ‘Nick, I think she’ll love it. Why are you nervous? She adores you!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘She’s got a lot going on just now. New house, new job . . .’

  He frowns. ‘Is it because she’s been married before?’