The 12 Christmases of You & Me

by Jennifer Joyce

  The 12 Christmases

  of You & Me

  Jennifer Joyce

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jennifer Joyce is a writer of romantic comedies. She's been scribbling down bits of stories for as long as she can remember, graduating from a pen to a typewriter and then an electronic typewriter. And she felt like the bee's knees typing on THAT. She now writes her books on a laptop (which has a proper delete button and everything).

  Jennifer lives in Oldham, Greater Manchester with her husband Chris and their two daughters, Rianne and Isobel, plus their Jack Russell Luna.

  Find out more about Jennifer and her books at www.jenniferjoycewrites.co.uk, subscribe to her newsletter or follow her on social media:

  Twitter/Instagram: @writer_jenn

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/jenniferjoycewrites

  ALSO BY JENNIFER JOYCE

  The Accidental Life Swap

  The Single Mums’ Picnic Club

  The Wedding that Changed Everything

  A Beginner’s Guide To Saying I Do

  The Little Bed & Breakfast by the Sea

  The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

  The Wedding Date

  The Mince Pie Mix-Up

  Everything Changes But You

  A Beginner’s Guide To Salad

  A Beginner’s Guide To Christmas (short story)

  CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY JENNIFER JOYCE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  SNEAK PEEK: EVERYTHING CHANGES BUT YOU

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For Chris, Rianne and Isobel.

  And Marty McFly.

  ONE

  The rain is drumming a beat on the floor-to-ceiling windows, creating a rhythm for the awkward dance I’ve been performing for the past twenty minutes: glance down at watch on wrist, grimace, flash a brief, discomfited smile at the sales assistant before uttering the words ‘she’ll be here any minute now’ with so much false cheer I could be auditioning for the role of a children’s TV presenter, then stare out of the rain-splattered window until it’s time for the loop to begin again. The sales assistant is performing her own little routine as well as we wait for my best friend to arrive at Clementine’s Bridalwear on this rainy Thursday afternoon. Laura is pretending to be jotting in the open notebook next to the vintage cash register, but she beams at me periodically before her eyes slide to the door. It’s dark outside now. Her smile slips ever so slightly as I utter the words I’ve repeated so many times that I’ll be dreaming them tonight: ‘She’ll be here any minute now.’

  Laura nods, the mega-watt beam back on her face. ‘No worries.’ She usually assures me that there’s no rush at all, but this time her eyes flick to the oversized clock above the shelves of glittery tiaras. ‘Although we do have another bride-to-be booked in at five-thirty.’

  This is a new element to her routine, as is the biting of her pink, glossy lip as she glances back at the door. Laura is young – early twenties, I’d guess – but she looks extra-youthful right now, her eyes wide and anxious as she watches the rain pound down on the glass. It’s lashing it down so hard, the raindrops pelting against the windows are drowning out the radio playing softly from speakers hidden around the shop floor. Which is no bad thing, actually. Who wants to listen to Leona Lewis counting down the sleeps until Christmas in November? We’ve only just survived the onslaught of trick-or-treaters, and Bonfire Night was only a week ago – why can’t we have a little break before we’re slapped in the face with all things festive?

  ‘We could reschedule?’ Laura tears her gaze away from the door, not quite able to meet my eye. The self-assured young woman who greeted me half an hour ago is wilting. Worry lines have interrupted her once-smooth forehead and she’s in danger of popping her fingers out of their joints if she wrings her hands any harder.

  ‘Yes. Good idea.’ Her discomfort is making me squirm in the sugary-pink and gold chair, so I’m grateful to push myself up onto my feet. Snatching my handbag and flinging it over my shoulder, I scurry to the door.

  ‘It’d be best if you rescheduled a date with Lily.’

  And perhaps she’ll turn up next time.

  ‘Sorry for wasting your time.’

  Laura’s smile is back, but it’s a weak mix of relief and sympathy rather than the toothy beam she gave me earlier. My time has been wasted just as much as hers. Though at least she’s getting paid to be here, I suppose.

  ‘No worries. I’ll get in touch with Ms Davis and rearrange.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Reaching for the door handle, I step back in alarm as it suddenly swings open and my best friend barrels inside, dripping rainwater on the polished oak flooring.

  ‘Jeez, it’s nasty out there.’ Lily opens her arms wide, dripping more water onto the floor. ‘Have you seen it?’ She shakes her head, sending droplets of water cascading from her hair, which is plastered to her scalp and hanging like lengths of rope around her face. ‘There were no parking spaces out the front so I’ve had to leg it from near the Co-op. And this coat is useless – it’s got no hood and I’m soaked all the way through to my knickers.’

  ‘Let me take that from you.’

  Lily has started to yank at the zip of her coat, and Laura helps her to wrestle her arms from it. It’s still dripping as the sales assistant holds it out in front of her by her fingertips. She eyes the rows of pristine white gowns lining the shop, the worry lines back on her forehead. ‘Stay right there. I’ll grab you a towel.’ Carefully navigating the puddle on the floor, Laura makes her way towards the room at the back of the shop.

  ‘Mrs D’Arby? Ms Davis is here for her fitting.’

  ‘My feet are killing me.’ Lily kicks off her shoes and wanders towards the pink-and-gold chair. There’s a ladder in her tights, running up from her ankle, over her knee and disappearing beneath the skirt of her flamingo-print dress. ‘Ooh, Prosecco. Yes please.’ There are two glasses on the little table beside the chair, and Lily snatches one up, draining it in one go. ‘I really needed that.’ Covering her mouth to mask a tiny burp, she flops onto the chair and stretches her legs out in front of her, wriggling her toes.

  ‘You’re late.’ I look pointedly at the clock. Quarter past five. She was supposed to be here at quarter to.

  ‘I know.’ Lily blows at a strand of damp hair that’s hanging across her left eye. ‘It’s Nige’s fault. Caught me just as I was about to escape and somehow roped me into helping out with the school musical. You are now looking at the director of Westgate High’s production of A Christmas Carol.’ She holds out her arms before grabbing the other glass of Prosecco and taking a sip.

  ‘You? But you’re a history teacher. You can’t sing or dance, and you don’t know anything about
Dickens. Although you are a drama queen.’ I nudge Lily with my foot before prising my glass of Prosecco from her fingers.

  ‘Nige was pretty desperate. Meera was all set to direct, but she’s buggered off on maternity leave and her replacement’s left due to stress. And not just Westgate – he’s left the teaching profession. Not that I blame him – he’s been trying to work his way through Macbeth with Marvin Elliot, and the only thing that kid wants to learn is how to evade police capture. His two older brothers are already inside.’ Opening her mouth wide, she tips the empty glass upside down to catch every last drop.

  ‘Would you like a top-up?’

  Laura is back, a towel in one hand and a mop and bucket in the other.

  ‘Oh, go on then. It isn’t every day you get to try on your wedding dress, is it?’ Lily exchanges the empty glass for the towel and starts to rub at her hair. ‘Can you believe it’s only six weeks until I get married?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re going to be able to cope with the musical on top of everything else?’ Planning a wedding is stressful enough – and especially during the run-up to Christmas – without adding directing a school production on top.

  Lily shrugs. ‘Probably.’

  ‘You need to be careful. You don’t want to take on too much and end up crashing and burning.’

  ‘Will you take your counsellor hat off and be my maid of honour for the next ten minutes?’ Lily nods at the glass of Prosecco in my hand. ‘And get that down you before I get my mitts on it again. It’s been a long day.’

  I take another tiny sip before placing the glass back on the table. I’ll be driving home soon – and probably dropping Lily off, by the looks of it. Laura has returned with a topped-up glass and Lily is working on it like there’s no tomorrow. Luckily, the boutique’s owner pokes her head around the door at the back of the shop and beckons Lily through before she downs the lot.

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  Laura has started to mop up the puddle of rainwater, and she tries to resist as I take over, but I insist. She’s already running behind schedule due to Lily’s lateness, and it isn’t as though I’ve got anything better to do. I’ve already leafed through the bridal magazines fanned out on the little table while I waited for Lily to arrive, and I could probably sketch out a detailed plan of the shop by now, including the individual dresses hanging from the rails.

  The pink-and-gold chair is a bit damp from Lily’s sodden dress, but I sit on it anyway once I’ve mopped the floor, idly picking up the almost-full glass of Prosecco and taking a sip, just for something to do. Six weeks. Six weeks and my best friend will be a married woman. I almost giggle at the thought, but that may be down to the Prosecco. It doesn’t take much to go to my head these days and the after-effects of a session have become increasingly harsh lately. Where I could once stumble home in the small hours, collapse into bed and snatch a few hours’ sleep before heading for work, I’m now rendered immobile and unable to string together a coherent thought the morning after an evening in the pub. It’s totally unfair. I’m a woman in her thirties – just – and I’m not ready to settle down with a mug of cocoa before popping off to bed before the ten o’ clock news.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Laura is beaming at me from across the room, her face youthful once again, all worry lines smoothed away. Her hands are clasped under her chin as she stands next to me, and she sighs when Lily emerges from the back room, the shimmery tulle skirt of her gown swishing along the floor in frothy waves. The beaded bodice dances as it reflects the shop’s lighting, and the sweetheart neckline completes the fairy-tale effect.

  ‘What do you think?’ Lily stretches out her arms and performs a pirouette, showcasing the beautifully laced-up back of the dress. ‘Will I do?’

  ‘I think I’m going to cry.’ And it’s true. My chest is heavy as I look across at my best friend with a mixture of awe and pride and love, and I have to swallow hard against the lump that is forming in my throat. I can’t quite believe this is my Lily standing in front of me – the girl who took me under her wing a quarter of a century ago and has kept me safely tucked up there ever since. I don’t know what I would have done without Lily and she deserves a fairy-tale wedding and happy-ever-after ending more than anyone.

  ‘Don’t.’ Laura wafts her fingers in front of her face as she shakes her head over and over again. ‘If you cry, it’ll set me off.’

  ‘She’s not going to cry.’ Lily gives me a pointed look as she glides towards us. I’ve never seen her glide before; Lily’s more of a stomper. ‘I’d have to disown her for being a wet blanket if she did, and that’d mean I’d have to find a new maid of honour. And we both know that’d be a major headache.’ She grabs the empty glass from the table and gives it a wiggle. ‘Any chance of a top-up?’

  Laura and her boss exchange a look before they turn towards the giant clock in a synchronised move. Their next client is due in a few minutes and, unless she’s as unreliable as Lily at timekeeping, they’ll overlap.

  ‘We wouldn’t want to chance spilling any on your dress.’ Mrs D’Arby’s face is pinched, even as she attempts a mollifying smile.

  ‘That’s okay.’ Lily shrugs before lifting the skirt of her dress and stomping towards the back of the shop. ‘I’ll get changed and you can fill me up while you wait.’

  TWO

  We end up taking a taxi home. Lily enjoyed her top-up once she’d changed back into her damp dress (‘I’m like Cinderella in reverse,’ she’d moaned before downing the Prosecco. ‘Any chance of some more conciliatory booze?’) and she’d persuaded me to polish off my own glass before pressing another into my hand (‘I’m paying a fortune for that dress. May as well get my money’s worth, eh?’). The boutique isn’t far from my house – a ten-minute walk, at most – but it’s still pouring.

  ‘Drop us off here, mate.’ Lily leans forward, sticking her face in the gap between the front seats of the taxi. We’re still a couple of streets away from my house, but Lily has already thrust a fiver at the driver and is pushing me out of the door and onto the pavement. ‘Let’s grab a bottle of wine and take it back to yours, yeah?’ Looping her arm through mine, she marches us towards the off-licence on the corner.

  ‘I’m not really in the mood for any more.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ Lily shoves the shop door with her shoulder, knowing its tendency to jam. ‘Annabelle’s at your mum and dad’s tonight, right?’

  I follow her inside, to duck out of the rain if nothing else. ‘Being child-free for an evening doesn’t mean I have to get bladdered.’

  Lily stops suddenly and turns to look at me, brow furrowed and chin tucked in so it looks as though she has a double chin. ‘It doesn’t?’

  ‘No, it really doesn’t.’ I tut, but good-humouredly, and steer her towards the shelves of booze at the back of the shop. Past the stacked tubs of chocolates, rows of selection boxes and rolls of festive wrapping paper. ‘What is it with Christmas getting earlier and earlier? Everybody still rushes out on Christmas Eve to panic-buy, so what’s the point of shoving all this in our faces now? It’s the twelfth of November, for goodness sake. It’s way too soon to be even thinking about Christmas.’

  ‘I got my first Crimbo card yesterday.’ Lily stops in front of the wine selection and scans the price tags rather than the labels.

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  Lily shakes her head and grabs a bottle that’s reasonable for a mid-week, slouch-in-front-of-the-telly drink. ‘Nope. One of the girls left it on my desk for me. Georgia. Sweet kid. Wouldn’t be able to pick Henry the Eighth out of a line-up, though.’ She turns sharply and heads for the counter, picking up a family-sized bag of Doritos on the way.

  ‘Oh, God.’ I groan as the familiar intro to Mariah Carey’s festive offering to the world starts up on the radio. ‘I don’t want a lot for Christmas either, love. To be able to celebrate the season in the month it was intended would be more than enough for me.’

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ Lily turns
to me as she sets the bottle of wine down on the counter. ‘You used to love Christmas. It was your favourite time of the year. You were like Mrs bloody Claus.’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess I’m just not feeling it this year.’ I grab a share bag of Maltesers and chuck them on the counter. ‘Annabelle’s outgrown it all. She doesn’t put a mince pie out for Santa any more, and she doesn’t want to bake with me or make crackers out of loo rolls. The magic’s gone.’

  ‘It was the same when Anya was a teenager.’ Lily taps her debit card against the card reader. ‘The trick is to create your own magic. Make Christmas special for you rather than the kids.’

  ‘And how do you do that?’

  Lily declines the shop assistant’s offer of a carrier bag and tucks the wine under her arm. ‘You get really, really pissed on mulled wine.’ She clutches the Doritos and Maltesers before leading the way to the door, but she stops before reaching for the handle. I assume she’s delaying having to head out into the rain again until she turns to me with a massive grin stretched across her face. ‘Hey, isn’t this the song you and Aaron were dancing to? At that disco.’ She nudges me, her grin somehow stretching even wider. ‘When you snogged his little face off?’

  My cheeks are aflame, which is daft as the event in question happened over twenty years ago. Still, I can’t meet Lily’s eye and my head is down as I edge past her and yank open the door.

  ‘It was the year we met, remember?’ Lily isn’t letting it go. In fact, she seems to be quite enjoying her trip down memory lane. There is definitely a skip to her step as we head down the road. The rain is now little more than a drizzle. ‘Jonas was firmly in his Robert Smith, goth stage and I had that massive crush on Mr Adamson.’ She sighs happily as she passes me the Doritos and chocolate, freeing up an arm to thread through mine. ‘He was divine back then. Not as divine as Aaron, though, obviously.’ She nudges me again and giggles as my face burns brighter than the lit-up Christmas tree in the window across the road.