It Happened on Christmas Eve

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Adam sighs, defeated.

  ‘Look, she really loves this stuff.’ I say more kindly. ‘She’ll be happy.’

  ‘Are you two together?’ The assistant asks, looking between us with more surprise than I’m comfortable with.

  ‘Definitely not!’ I say, wrinkling my nose.

  The assistant, a woman seemingly without shame, wordlessly scribbles her phone number on a post-it note and hands it over to Adam, with a meaningful raise of her eyebrows. He takes the post it and puts it his pocket, patting it twice.

  ‘Ugh!’ I mutter, as we leave the chemist. Broken heart my bruised ass.

  Chapter Four

  Christmas Eve 4:15 p.m.

  Outside on the street, Portobello Road is getting busier and busier with people frantically doing last minute shopping and heading to pubs and bars in order to toast their happy lives with plastic cups of hot wine that tastes of Glade PlugIn.

  ‘I have one more task I need to do,’ Adam says as we set off down the road, weaving in and out of tourists, shoppers and Christmas Eve revellers.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I have plans of my own.’

  ‘You said you were going home to eat noodles alone.’

  ‘Yes. That’s my plan.’

  ‘That’s a terrible plan. Where’s your festive spirit?’

  ‘Christmas is a commercial construct, designed to make idiots spend as much money as possible.’

  ‘I expect Jesus would be very disappointed to hear you say that.’

  Why won’t this guy leave me alone? He’s an adult. Why can’t he just, I don’t know, hire someone to help him. Why is he treating me like some sort of servant? I’m about to ask him these questions when my phone rings and buzzes from my coat pocket.

  I pull it out and glance at the screen. It’s Marcy. ‘Hey Marcy!’ I say super cheerily. ‘Everything okay?’

  I cross my fingers that Jemima Crossley Jones’ design emergency has been fixed so that Marcy can come and take care of her irritating son herself.

  ‘No, it’s a total nightmare,’ she declares, dashing my hopes in one dramatic announcement. ‘We’ve managed to restore the lighting back to an elegant pink and purple, but the DJ has apparently double booked and the replacement they’ve sent hasn’t, by the looks of him, had a gig since Duran Duran were the hot new thing. So now I have to find a last minute DJ with some modicum of credibility while Jemima has the mother of all meltdowns and stress eats the entire party’s supply of gluten-free breadsticks!’

  ‘Yo, Mum!’ Adam calls out from beside me.

  ‘You’re still with Adam?’ Marcy asks. ‘I thought he’d be home by now.’

  ‘Yes!’ I say, pressing jollity into my voice. ‘I thought I’d be home by now too…’

  ‘I tried calling him, it just went to voicemail. Will you put him on the phone, please?’

  Pursing my lips together I hand my phone over to Adam.

  ‘Mother!’ he says brightly. ‘How are you? We were just buying your gift!’

  He pauses for a second and then says, ‘Yes. Very much.’ And then ‘Another few hours, ideally… they already have plans… Yes, the flight was tricky but I have many many painkillers... Okay… Thanks, Mum. I’ll put her back on now.’

  ‘Hello?’ I say, once the phone’s back at my ear.

  ‘Hi, yes. Phoebe, I’d be very grateful if you could stay with Adam just a little while longer. He says he has things to do and you were only going to go home anyway, weren’t you?’

  I think of going home. The silence, the darkness, the binge watching horror movies and those lovely warm slippery microwaved noodles. It sounds perfect. And, I sense, a prospect much further away than it was thirty seconds ago.

  ‘Yes, but I was —’

  ‘He’s had such a tough time these past few weeks. What with his fiancée cheating and the leg, and now his new book tanking. He could do with a little kindness.’

  Fiancée? Shit. I though it was girlfriend, not fiancée. And his new book has tanked? I’ve seen it in at least three local book shops. I side eye him. He’s tapping something on his phone, looking perfectly happy. Why is he acting so happy when his life seems terrible right now? Maybe too many painkillers?

  ‘If you could just help him out I would see it as a great personal favour to me.’ Marcy says and although she is not outright, I sense an undertone of ‘Do this for me and I’ll owe you.’

  I picture myself in my own personal little office. No Jim. No Ellie. Although I don’t mind Ellie that much. No Horace the creepy IT guy who always looks at my boobs or Tracey the overtly sexual admin assistant. And then I imagine training with Marcy, little by little, learning to design rooms and spaces with the elegance and economy that she does.

  ‘No problem, Marcy,’ I say with competence in my tone and dreams in my head. ‘You can definitely count on me.’

  Chapter Five

  Christmas Eve 4:35 p.m.

  The thing Adam needs to do – the urgent errand that simply cannot wait and must be done – is the purchase of a Christmas tree. It doesn’t seem to matter that he’ll be spending Christmas Day with his family at Marcy’s house and will probably chuck the poor tree out in a week. Adam Westbury wants what he wants and, from what I can fathom, is quite used to getting it.

  Because he’s only been living in Notting Hill for a few months I recommend my favourite florists on the corner where Kensington Park Road and Westbourne Park Road meet. I push him down the street past the heaving boutiques and festively decorated bars, being careful not to skid again on the ice forming under the rapidly falling snow. One arse bruise is quite enough, thank you. On the other side of the road, a bunch of girls are chucking snow balls at each other. I get a little memory of doing that with my mum when I was a kid. Before she and Dad broke up and she moved to somewhere in the world where they never get snow.

  I look away quickly and carry on down the road until we reach the florist. There’s one tree left and I feel a spark of relief that I’m not going to have to trek any further to find another one.

  ‘It’s a beaut!’ Adam declares, gently stroking the foliage of the short, fat, lush looking tree. ‘You are gorgeous and you don’t even know it,’ he says tenderly to the tree.

  ‘How many painkillers have you actually taken?’ I ask, parking the wheelchair and standing in front of him.

  ‘Just a little codeine. It’s great stuff, don’t you think?’ Perfect at Christmas. Mince pies! Brussel sprouts! Booze! Codeine!’

  ‘I expect Jesus would be very disappointed to hear you say that,’ I deadpan, recalling his earlier jibe.

  ‘Ahahaha! Was that a joke, Phoebe?’

  I shrug a shoulder and reach my hand out to the tree. Urgh. It’s all spiky and unwelcoming. Adam was stroking it like it was lovely and soft.

  ‘We’ll take this amazing tree,’ Adam says to the young guy manning the shop.

  ‘That’s forty five pounds please, mate.’

  ‘Will you get my wallet for me?’ Adam asks.

  I’m about to reach down into his jeans pocket when I realise he’s wiggling his eyebrows saucily. I snatch my hand back to my chest as if scorched.

  Adam laughs and takes out his own wallet, paying the man his forty five pounds as well as a five pound tip because it’s Christmas. The florist shakes Adam’s hand heartily and tells him to have a cracking festive season and maybe they should go out for a pint sometime.

  No one ever asks me to go out for a pint sometime! Not that I would say yes even if they asked. But still…What must it be like to naturally be that charming?

  The tree is heavier than it looks. I pick it up and lay it across Adam’s knees on top of the crutches that are already resting there.

  ‘Are you sure that’s alright?’ I ask. ‘It’s not hurting your leg?’

  Adam shakes his head. ‘It’s only the bottom half of my leg that’s broken. This feels fine.’

  ‘Good.’ I start to push him back down the road.

  ‘What shall we call her?’ Ad
am asks as we head back down Kensington Park Road.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The beautiful tree!’

  ‘You want to name your Christmas tree? How high are you right now on a scale of one to Snoop Dog?’

  ‘How about we call her Phoebe. Because she is prickly and attractive and I like her.’

  Oh God. Ew. Is… is he flirting with me? Oh brother.

  I stop the wheelchair in the middle of the street much to the chagrin of a woman weighed down by a million carrier bags, four young bundled up children and two large rambunctious dogs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the lady hisses. ‘Are you an idiot?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m not the one Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve with four children and two dogs in tow,’ I grumble back.

  The woman considers this for a second before shrugging at the truth in my statement and stomping away.

  Once she and her entourage have disappeared around the corner I stand in front of Adam and put my hands on my hips.

  ‘You can charm everyone else, I get it. It’s your thing, your schtick. Everyone just loooooves it. Adam the handsome charmer. But, my friend, you don’t charm me, so don’t even try. That tree is nothing like me, and to say something as cheesy as ‘it is prickly and attractive just like you’ is not only embarrassing for me, but embarrassing for you too, especially since we don’t know each other now and probably won’t ever know each other ever again. I’m well and truly off men for the foreseeable future so don’t try that shit again and I’ll take you wherever you need to go. No complaints. Okay?’

  Adam’s mouth opens and closes a few times. He stutters the beginning of a few sentences which peter out as his brain can’t catch up with his mouth. I don’t think anyone has ever told him off before.

  ‘Okay,’ he says eventually, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. He looks down at the tree and pats it twice. ‘We’ll just call her Elaine or something.’

  ‘Okay.’ I nod my head firmly and we continue on down the snowy street.

  Chapter Six

  Christmas Eve 4:50 p.m.

  For noodles’ sake. I should never have told Adam off for flirting with me. I reckon I could have escaped him quickly, gone to Tesco to grab my booze and none Christmassy food for the week and scooted off back to my safe haven. But I must have pissed him off because now he has decided that he simply must have decorations for his tree because – and I quote – ‘a tree without decorations is like Christmas pudding without brandy, completely unreasonable and and an insult to the festive season.’ So now we are in the little Notting Hill Gift Boutique choosing baubles. And the little Notting Hill Gift Boutique is indeed little. The owner – a kindly looking elderly cockney looks horrified as the pair of us squeeze ourselves in, crutches, Christmas tree and all. It is incredibly difficult to negotiate the wheelchair between the ornaments, plants, candles and junk and not knock any of it over.

  ‘We’re not really wheelchair friendly,’ the woman says with a shrug.

  ‘Maybe you should make a few changes?’ I suggest. ‘People in wheelchairs buy gifts too, you know.’ I point to the massive row of porcelain cats in the middle of the shop. ‘How many of these do you sell?’ I ask.

  The woman shrugs. ‘About one a week at Christmas and about one a month the rest of the year. They’re not our best sellers.’

  ‘That’s because they are very creepy. If you just displayed one of them and kept the rest in the back then there’d be enough room for a wheelchair user to move around more comfortably.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful shop,’ Adam says leaning his Christmas tree and tinsel wrapped crutches against a bare bit of wall by the door and giving the assistant his big smile. The woman immediately smiles back and even gives a little giggle. I look at her name tag. Denise. Denise is old enough to be his granny, yet is reacting to him in the exact same way as the girl serving us the perfume. I don’t get it!

  ‘That’s a very good idea about moving the cats,’ Denise gushes, still looking at Adam, as if he made the suggestion.

  ‘It really is,’ Adam shrugs modestly, also as if he made the suggestion.

  ‘I will move them as soon as you’ve finished shopping in here.’ Her eyes flick up to me and then immediately back to Adam as if she simply can’t bear to look away from him.

  Adam claps his hands. ‘Right, Phoebe! Help me choose some baubles!’

  This is my actual nightmare. Choosing plastic balls for a plant that, little by little, dies in your home. What is even the point? Christmas is ridiculous!

  The shop assistant points us in the direction of the Christmas decorations, and a little selection of coloured glass baubles. Even I have to admit that the way they shine under the display lighting is really quite enchanting.

  ‘What’s your favourite colour, Phoebe?’ Adam asks. ‘Mine is red.’

  ‘My favourite colour? What are we? Ten?’

  ‘Mine is duck egg blue,’ coos Denise who has swiftly and silently traversed the shop to be standing next to Adam, looking down at him with the kind of twinkle in her eye that should frankly be kept private.

  ‘Go on, love. Tell him. Your favourite colour.’ She slightly nudges me with her shoulder as if I’m acting like a spoilsport, which, to be fair has kind of been my default state for a while.

  ‘Fine.’ I roll my eyes. ‘My favourite colour is green. Like a jade green. A witchy green. Like that bauble there.’

  ‘Witchy green. Sounds about right,’ Adam mutters. I ignore him because he’s not wrong and also he is not flirting and as long as he’s not flirting he can say whatever he likes.

  ‘Jade green. Very nice.’ Denise nods with approval.

  ‘That decides it then. I will take three red baubles, three duck egg blue baubles and three witchy green baubles.’

  I glance at the price tag. These baubles are ten pounds each! Adam is going to spend almost a hundred quid on baubles? That would get me two weeks worth of food shopping! His books can’t be doing too badly if he can afford that. Or maybe it’s Mummy’s money he’s using – wouldn’t surprise me. He definitely has more than a touch of spoiled brat about him, what with the entitled behaviour and the threatening to tell over me if I was mean to him.

  ‘Will you choose a star, Phoebe?’ he asks me, with a kind smile that makes me feel slightly guilty for thinking bad thoughts about him. Maybe he just saves his money up like an adult? I should really try harder not to jump to conclusions so readily.

  ‘I will,’ I say, walking over to a shelf filled with sparkling stars made with little diamonds and pearls and gold and silver glitter. They’re beautiful! One of them, though, is extra special. It’s smaller than the others. It’s made out of copper, twisted and bent to form a star. At each bend in the copper there is another tiny copper star. It’s really elegant and unusual. I pick it up and enjoy the pleasing heaviness of it in my palm. Then I see the price tag. Fifty nine quid!

  ‘Fifty nine quid!’ I yell, unable to help myself.

  ‘Well, it’s hand-made by a local artist,’ Denise sniffs, heading over to the till and ringing up the purchase.

  ‘I do like to support the arts,’ Adam says, wheeling himself over to the counter where while Denise carefully wraps up the star and baubles. ‘It’s my duty as a writer to support our creative community.’

  ‘You’re a writer?’ Denise breathes.

  ‘Yeah. I write that series The Newcomers. The one about the teenagers who find that spaceship? It won the YA book prize three years ago and book four in the series has just been released.’

  I roll my eyes, peek through all the sparkly decorations in the window and look outside. Shit. People are finishing work now which means Tesco is going to be chock-a block. I curse myself for leaving it too late to do an online order.

  We eventually leave the shop, Adam having cheerfully agreed to mentor Denise’s granddaughter who also wants to become a professional writer. The bags and trees and crutches are piled precariously upon Adam’s thighs, making the wheelch
air extra hard to push.

  ‘Ready to go home now?’ I say to Adam, already moving as swiftly as I can, which is not very.

  Adam responds by lifting a hand to his ear, as if he’s in an old black and white movie and can hear something compelling in the distance. ‘Is… is that carol singers?’

  I prick my ears and hear the sound of a group of people singing Good King Wenceslas, which is surely the shittest of all the Christmas songs. My head thumps a little harder in protest at the very sound of it.

  ‘Follow the singing!’ Adam declares, pointing a finger in the opposite direction to his house.

  I stop short of stamping my foot like a toddler in a tantrum.

  ‘I thought we were going back now?’ I hiss. ‘I still need to get my food shopping from Tesco and it’s getting busier and busier out here.’

  Adam wheels himself round so that he’s looking up at me.

  ‘Listen, if we could just go and see the carol singers for a little bit I will pay for your food shopping.’

  Of course! Rich kid thinks he can flash the cash and get whatever he wants. But a free food shop would not be totally unfortunate. Maybe I could get some extra stuff. And maybe I could get all the extra special Tesco Finest brand rather than the cheap Tesco own brand I usually get. And maybe I could pick up some bits and pieces to take to the food bank, if he's paying. And maybe I’ll buy some nice new books and a new bra while I’m at it!

  ‘Deal,’ I shrug, being careful not to let my face display my plans to spend a ton of his money.

  ‘Yes!’ Adam pumps his fist and I wonder, once again, how much codeine he’s taken.

  Chapter Seven

  Christmas Eve 5:30 p.m.

  I follow the sound of the carol singers and turn a corner into Ladbroke Grove Road, where it seems the ordinarily private park has been opened for locals. I must admit I’m intrigued. I walk past the park every day on my way to work and have never gotten to see inside. I once peeked my head through the fence and was stopped by an American woman who told me that I needed a key, just like the one she has for Gramercy Park in New York where she lives. When I asked how she had a key for Ladbroke Square Gardens if she lived in America, she said she was on holiday and had specifically chosen an Airbnb with exclusive use of a private park. I did not like her.