Four Christmases and a Secret

by Zara Stoneley

  ‘But a strawberry without passion is just …’

  ‘Soft fruit,’ finishes Frankie, and stares at me. ‘Squelchy.’

  ‘Stop it. He’s not soft and he’s not squelchy.’

  ‘Good. I just want you to be happy, hun. You know I do! I’m only teasing, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You haven’t upset me.’ I glare at Uncle T. ‘He is passionate, he’s passionate about all kinds of things, about the planet, plastic, animals.’ I don’t know why I’m being so defensive, I think it’s because Frankie is attacking him in a totally unfair and personal way. Why does she have to comment about his chin, and call him squelchy?

  But to be totally honest he is lacking a bit in the passion department (not that Frankie needs to know that), when he kisses me it’s perfectly pleasant – but is perfectly pleasant really good enough? He needs lessons from Ollie, Ollie just gives me one of his looks and I’m feeling all hot and bothered. And as for that teenage kiss … ‘He loves Stanley so much.’ I say something quick, before I get too diverted comparing him to Ollie. Loving Stanley is a huge plus in my book. ‘He’s brilliant at his job, he really cares, and he’s passionate about the future.’ Am I overdoing this?

  ‘Whose future?’

  I am stunned into silence by Uncle T’s interruption, for a second or two. ‘Sorry? The future. Everybody!’

  ‘My darling Daisy.’ Uncle T pats my hand. ‘You deserve somebody who is passionate about you, your future!’

  ‘He is!’

  ‘Well then that is all that matters.’

  ‘Lordie you should see your face.’ Frankie is grinning at me. ‘We’re teasing, lighten up! This must mean it’s serious.’

  ‘I like him.’ I say, like a sullen child. ‘He’s fun and he’s clever, and I wish he was here as well because I need you all to help me.’

  ‘Help?’ Frankie stops twiddling with a breadstick and her eyes light up. She can be a pain in the arse, but she likes to help. And she’s good at helping.

  ‘Carrie’s been threatened with eviction.’

  9.30 p.m., 17 July

  ‘Carrie who?’

  The deep voice right next to my left ear makes me jump. ‘Tim!’ Trust him to appear just when he smells a whiff of a story. Good journalists are like that, aren’t they? They manage to be on the spot, and listening, at just the right time. ‘You made it!’ I wrap my hands round his waist and our lips meet. Just the right amount of snog for a party like this. Pleasant.

  Oh my God, I need to stop thinking like this. But it is a bit like kissing a middle-aged relative, or somebody you’ve been married to for decades (not that I have been, but it’s how I imagine it can get if you’re not careful). Although I have to admit after a few drinks, and not sharing a bed for longer than seems acceptable, I’d quite like something a bit more intense. Shouldn’t sparks be flying at our age? Right now, we couldn’t set a bone-dry field of straw in a drought on fire.

  ‘What do you mean, eviction?’ He is actually giving me his intense stare, but it’s the version linked to work, not sex. He’s definitely not thinking about sex, maybe a vodka will help.

  ‘Bloody hell, don’t you love a man who’s passionate about his work.’ Drawls Frankie. ‘So sexy.’ Her one visible green eye narrows and she rests her chin on her knuckles. I wish Tarquin was here to distract her.

  I am tempted to kick her on the ankle, but shockingly Tim is actually preening. He has totally missed the sarcasm and thinks she fancies him, I swear he does. He puts on just the same face when Ruby, the agony aunt (who is nothing like any aunt you have ever seen – she looks about 15 years old), asks if she can ‘run a problem past him’.

  I dare to glance Uncle T’s way – he’s faintly amused. Watching them spar.

  ‘Frankie, great to see!’ Tim grins and gives her a thumbs up. ‘You are looking stunning, even better than last time we met.’ This might actually go alright. I was worried he’d hate her, go on the defensive and she’d shred him to pieces before telling me to dump him. All for my own good of course. Instead he likes her, he’s trying to charm her.

  This is good. I’m not the insecure type who is scared her friends might steal her man, and I know that he’s so far away from Frankie’s type that she’ll be amused and entertained rather than turned on. So, this is brilliant.

  ‘You’ve no idea how great it is to see you too, Timbo. I was beginning to think you were Daisy’s dirty little secret, she just keeps you all to herself.’ She leans forward. ‘Tell us about your naked men!’

  They’ve only met a handful of times, just after I started working with him, and briefly at the flat, but every time I see her she drops hints about meeting him properly. So this is supposed to be the opportunity, but I’m not sure I trust her in this mood.

  She says she wants to delve into his mind and decide if his intentions are noble. I reckon she wants to inspect his body and give him an energy rating. I am now very worried that asking about naked men is her lead in to other trickier topics.

  ‘Not a lot to tell. Ladies of the WI had draped them in dock leaves and roses by the time I got there, an allotment holder had some bolt-cutters and another had a chainsaw. Great photo opp. Just trying to frame a headline.’ He frowns, he’s thinking.

  ‘Well I hope it wasn’t Steven Dunlop with the chainsaw, he’s got very shaky hands you know! I wouldn’t let him touch my dahlias, let alone my lady garden. Salmon blinis, anybody?’ Mum is very good at using food and drink as a way into any conversation. She is looking at me expectantly, and angling her head in the direction of Tim.

  He is staring blindly at the morsels that have been shoved under his nose, his mind still on work I think. ‘Invasion of Lady Lane allotments? Too much?’ He stops staring at the plate and glances my way. I shrug.

  ‘Fuck me, Ladies Lane, it’s called Ladies Lane?’ Frankie laughs loudly, the quiet hum of conversation dies. ‘You couldn’t make this up! This is better than binge watching Vera or Midsomer Murders. My ladies lane has been invaded.’ She is struggling to breathe, she’s laughing so much.

  ‘It’s Lady Lane.’ I point out.

  ‘Anybody?’ Mum squeezes in between us, her back to Frankie, and shoves the plate so far under Tim’s nose he could practically inhale the contents.

  He flinches and pushes the plate away, rather violently. ‘I don’t eat fish.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not proper fish, it’s smoked salmon!’

  He rolls his eyes, I am expecting an outburst any moment. ‘Tim, meet my mum, Mum meet Tim, my boyfriend.’ I add the last word rather more strongly than I intended to. To make sure he is polite.

  ‘Oh, how wonderful, that’s wonderful! I was thinking she’d made you up! Call me Wendy!’

  ‘He’s vegan, Mum.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ She looks confused. ‘V what? Can’t he call me Wendy?’

  ‘Of course, he can call you Wendy.’ I try not to roll my eyes. ‘Tim is vegan. I told you! He can’t eat salmon.’ My insides slump. I have told her, several times. I’ve even printed off a list of do’s and don’ts, which I bet she used as scrap paper for her shopping list.

  ‘Oh, that nonsense. Don’t fuss, dear.’ She waves a dismissive hands and smiles. ‘I’m sure it’s not worth fussing over. Come with me to the buffet, Tim. You can tell me what you really don’t like then I’ll get it right for when you come at Christmas. Daisy used to be so funny about olives and mushrooms, but she grew out of it so I’m sure we’ll be fine. So nice to see Daisy with a man, she brought a dog to the last family party you know. And her lesbian friend.’

  ‘All going okay?’

  I glance at Frankie, whose eyes have lit up in such a way that even if I wasn’t totally familiar with Ollie’s deep tone, I’d know it was him.

  ‘Great!’I grin up at him. He does look good. He always did, and now I’ve realised that he has to put up with the same kind of ‘mother pressure’ that I do, and he isn’t really that much different to the kid I shared a paddling pool and baby Jesus with,
I can forgive him his perfection. In fact, I’ve rather begun to enjoy it. What would you prefer, a gross part-time flat mate, or an attractive one? See. Shallow, but true. Ollie and I have already swapped ‘you look nice’ comments before we left home. We’re beginning to behave like some old married couple. I put a hand out to stop Mum dragging Tim off to look at canapés, ‘What about Carrie?’

  Tim looks at me blankly.

  ‘You know, Carrie! I was just talking about her.’

  ‘The one who runs the dog rescue place?’ Says Ollie. We share a conspiratorial look, which I then feel guilty about. It’s not Tim’s fault he wasn’t brought up in the village and doesn’t know every bit of gossip.

  Tim is still looking confused.

  ‘She’s being evicted! She’s behind on her rent, and she’s got far too many dogs to feed. She’s got until Christmas to sort it, and then she’ll be turfed out. And Christmas is her worst time!’ When Carrie started the shelter, it was to help street dogs like Stanley from abroad, she’s got a friend out there who rescues them and then sends them over. The problem is though that she hasn’t the heart to turn away all the other dogs that are found abandoned locally, or that just need new homes.

  I’ll do anything I can to help her. Every penny she’s given goes on the dogs and given a choice between dog food and a sandwich for herself, she’d plump for the dog food every time. Which is why when I visit I go armed with a coffee and junk food – she’d never, ever give that to the dogs!

  ‘I was thinking maybe you could start a campaign.’ I look from Tim to Frankie and back again. ‘You know, put something in the paper, and you’re ace at ideas and talking people into doing stuff Frankie.’

  ‘Not sure it’s headline grabbing, unless she’s going to barricade herself in?’

  Mum is gently tugging his arm, and I can see his attention is on the buffet and drinks.

  ‘Dogs are headline grabbing, people love animal stuff, and it’s local.’ I try not to sound needy and pleading.

  ‘Homeless people.’ States Tim.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Homeless people. What people want, not dogs.’

  ‘But there aren’t any homeless people in the village!’

  ‘Might sell to the nationals.’ He holds up a hand, headline style. ‘Village of shame, poverty strikes rural idyll, lost souls nobody talks about.’

  ‘Well Carrie might be homeless soon if somebody doesn’t help, and so will a load of dogs!’

  ‘That’s the time to do it.’

  ‘That’s when it’s too late Tim!’I grit my teeth and fight the urge to throttle him. I’ve always known he’s quite ambitious, and he only wants to write on-trend pieces that might make the nationals take notice. His Instagram account shows he is an achiever, mine shows I’m a drifter. We are different in so many ways. I have always thought he’s a very nice, kind boyfriend, even if I’ve not been convinced that he’s my happy ever after. But right now, I could shake him.

  ‘Why can’t you do it yourself?’ Says Ollie, to me. ‘Write a piece? Kick things off.’

  ‘She does reviews.’ Says Tim, holding a ‘whoa’ hand up. ‘No offence, but it’s not the same. Can’t step on people’s toes.’

  Wow, Ollie is standing up for me! A little tremor of something that could be mildly sexual but is probably just normal excitement makes me want to clench my fists and jump up and down like a small child. But I don’t.

  ‘Not the same as writing about naked men on an allotment?’ Ollie says drily. Then he looks at me. His gaze steady, and I feel like I should be saying something strong, something positive, but I don’t know what. I just blink back at him, feeling like I want to hug him, and shout thank you. Ollie thinks I can do this – even if Tim doesn’t! ‘It’s what you’re good at.’ He says softly.

  ‘No offence, mate.’ Tim practically elbows his way in. ‘But take it you’re not in the biz?’ It’s the first time I’ve noticed he’s the one that can sound pompous. A bit of a smart arse.

  ‘He’s a doctor,’ says Mum, ‘a consultant no less!’

  ‘No, I’m not in the biz, but you are, aren’t you, Daisy?’ Ollie is a bit like a ship in a storm, well a rock, or a lighthouse. He’s been buffeted from all sides, but he’s standing firm. Ignoring all the commotion. Still looking at me, as though nobody else exists. It has taken my breath away.

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’ I say lamely. My idea had been to get Tim roped in, not to launch a campaign single-handedly.

  ‘There’s no start.’ Tim says, quite firmly. ‘End of. First step is knowing if there is an actual story or not.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that, Dais, the man has a point. Anyhow why rock the boat and fuck up your job, I thought you liked it? Shouldn’t you be concentrating on that, not some pie in the sky idea? It’s less than a year since you ditched the ads job and started again!’ I stare at Frankie. It’s quite nice that she’s agreeing with Tim over something – but not nice that they’re both dissing my idea. Why does she keep have to keep reminding me that I’m new at all this? And calling my idea ‘pie in the sky’ is just nasty.

  I feel all hollow and empty inside. Surely friends are supposed to help each other, at least offer some support, not just shoot each other down?

  Even if she is right, and I should stick to what I know, she could at least be diplomatic about it.

  Is she right though? Is it really a lame idea, am I wrong to want to try everything I can to help Carrie?

  ‘And I need food, lead me to the buffet!’ Frankie has got bored with the lack of entertainment and has decided to stand up. Which leaves Tim open mouthed. She has that effect on people, when she unfurls to her full magnificence. She has these never-ending legs, she might not be one hundred per cent conventionally beautiful, but Frankie is stunning.

  ‘I’ll join you.’ Tim smiles, then strokes my arm absent-mindedly. ‘Sorry, Daisy. Lovely idea, but you know James, all about the distribution figs and job descriptions. Nibbles?’

  ‘Lovely.’ Mum can sense she’s finally going to be able to get his attention and interrogate him. ‘Let’s grab your canapés! You can tell me all about what you do and don’t eat.’

  ‘Beard definitely has to go,’ whispers Frankie in my ear. ‘Christ, that must tickle your fancy!’ I’m sure Frankie didn’t used to be this rude, she seems to have sex permanently on the brain since I moved out and Tarquin moved in. ‘C’mon let’s go and find out what your mum’s saying to him! Not sure she should be allowed to grab his canapés.’

  ‘Daisy.’ There’s a staying hand on my arm, and I know before I even glance up, who it is. Ollie.

  ‘I’ll catch you up.’ I say to Frankie, who rolls her eyes.

  ‘Is there a story?’

  ‘There is for me.’ I sigh, I can’t help it. ‘Maybe I’m being stupid, I mean Tim’s the one with all the experience …’

  ‘And you’re the one with the heart.’ He half smiles, and it’s so beguiling I stop listening to his words and watch his lips. They’re very kissable. Very. Mesmerising. ‘Daisy?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Oh my God, I must not kiss him. ‘Yeah, well, I mean he’s probably right, there’s no real point, no story.’

  ‘But there is to you? Come on, you’re the girl that breaks in and rescues dogs in peril,’ he winks, ‘that place means something to you, doesn’t it?’

  At this point I could come clean – but I don’t. Carrie rang me the day after we rescued Stanley.

  ‘Great rescue, very professional!’

  ‘You knew? You were watching?’

  ‘Of course I was bloody watching!’ She’d laughed. ‘I paid a lot of money for that CCTV. I do have an, er, confession.’

  ‘What kind of confession?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘Well,’ she paused, ‘an hour before you broke in, I had a letter through the door. That family who adopted him hadn’t got the guts to call or speak face to face, but they did say they didn’t care, I could do what I wanted with him. Or words to that e
ffect.’

  ‘Yay, that’s brilliant, Carrie!’

  ‘I spoke to the vet, he reckons the threat of legal action was all it needed.’

  ‘So I didn’t have to rescue him?’

  ‘Nope. You were having so much fun though, seemed a shame to stop you.’ I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was grinning.

  ‘Git! So I can keep him?’

  ‘You can keep him, but maybe you need to formally adopt him?’

  ‘You bet! Carrie, promise me something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t tell Ollie? I reckon he enjoyed being all heroic, not quite the same if you tell him you were watching.’

  ‘Gawd, you’ve got it bad, haven’t you babe?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean!’

  She’d laughed. ‘I won’t tell him. I have er, got a bit of a problem though,’ her voice had lost its humour, ‘could do with your help. Have you got time to pop in for coffee tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure.’

  And that’s when she’d told me.

  ‘You really want to help her, don’t you?’ Ollie is watching me intently.

  ‘Well yes, Carrie’s my friend for a start, and she does such a brilliant thing. I mean,’ I gulp, it’s hard to concentrate when he’s gazing at me so intently, ‘dogs can’t stand up for themselves, can they? We all need somebody to be kind to us, don’t we? We all need to be listened to, talked to, hugged …’ My words tail off. Strangely, all I can think is that Uncle T was right, we need passion. I need passion. I need something to feel passionate about, like Carrie has her rescue centre.

  ‘We do.’ Ollie has somehow edged us into a cosy nook between some bookshelves. It’s a Harry Potter wonderland, on the shelf behind him is a hat. I pick up the wand from the table and run my finger along its knurled edge.

  ‘If Carrie loses the dogs it’ll destroy her, after what happened to Evie.’

  ‘I know.’ Ollie squeezes my hand. It’s nice, I might be staring at him all doe-eyed like no doubt his patients do. ‘Evie really was her one and only, wasn’t she?’ This is one of the nice things about living in a village. The ‘knowing about Evie’ bit, not me being doe-eyed. Although that’s quite nice. He’s got very warm fingers.