Four Christmases and a Secret

by Zara Stoneley

  We’re so close together in this quiet corner, and he really is quite attractive, and he’s looking at me in a way I can’t remember anybody ever looking at me.

  And if it was Christmas, and Uncle T had put a sprig of mistletoe in this corner, I think I might just …

  I suddenly realise he’s disentangling himself, so I let go abruptly. I hadn’t realised I was hanging on. Or thinking about snogging him.

  Bloody hell, what is wrong with me? I have a boyfriend! I feel so confused.

  He sticks his hand in his pocket, and I feel strangely lost. I must just be missing Tim, where the hell is Tim?

  ‘You love her, you love helping people, Daisy. You’re in the right place to do it, so why not?’ Luckily, Ollie is oblivious to my mixed-up brain, which brings me back down to earth. I rearrange the pile of books slightly, take a couple of deep breaths, and try to concentrate on his faults. Which is tricky, because they don’t seem to be coming to mind right now. Apart from the fact he’s too neat and tidy. And has posh and totally unsuitable girlfriends.

  ‘Daisy?’ He sounds slightly exasperated and puts a hand out to stop my book sorting, which is a bit unnerving. I leap back, which makes him start and step away, which sends the magic sorting hat flying. In typical Ollie fashion, he catches it neatly in one hand.

  ‘I’m a book reviewer, I don’t write features and …’

  ‘But you could. You wrote a couple before, that’s why they gave you the job, promoted you out of the hell that was small ads!’

  We share a smile, the awkwardness of the finger grasping forgotten. He even takes his hand out of his pocket and picks up a mini Harry Potter figure.

  ‘And those ads were a work of literature.’ His words are teasing, and I’m very tempted to kick his ankle.

  ‘Now you’re getting cheeky!’

  He raises an eyebrow, just a little bit. But when he speaks again, his voice is surprisingly gentle. ‘It’s one story, pitch it to your boss, James Masters isn’t he called? Uncle T will help if you need him to, I know he will. Though you don’t need anybody’s help, Daisy. It’s time you trusted yourself, believed in yourself again, isn’t it?’

  I think I’m staring up at him in the same way Stanley gazed at me when I brought him back home. Adoringly. ‘I do trust myself!’

  ‘Well do it.’ His eyes are sending out a challenge, and it’s making my heart go all jittery. ‘Just write from the heart, like you do when you write your reviews. Nothing clever, just being you.’

  Nothing clever! Ha! ‘I do love books, I love doing my job.’ I stare at the display, the magical Harry Potter. ‘Tim’s got a point, he knows much more about this than me, he knows what the paper will print. And what if Frankie’s right and I fuck things up?’ I can’t risk my job. I like it, it pays well. I’ve got enough money to pay rent once I find my perfect home, a steady job, a dog. I’m finally getting things together. ‘I’ve got what I’ve always wanted.’

  ‘What you’ve always wanted?’ Ollie is looking at me in a strange way. ‘Is this all you ever really wanted, Daisy? Or is it all you’ll let yourself want?’

  Is it?

  I stroke down the spine of a book with my finger. I’ve spent so long denying myself everything, that I’ve no idea what I really want. I look him in the eye. ‘I’m not sure,’ I say quite truthfully. I have to start being honest with myself, with everybody. ‘But it’s a good start.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t let it be the end?’

  I nod. My heart pounding. Ollie has this way of saying the right things, asking the right questions, marching his way through the me I’ve been as though he’s determined to ignore her and reach the me I used to be, the me I could be. I want to beg him not to walk out of my life again. But I don’t. I nod again and smile. Positively.

  I look around, at Mum trying to persuade Tim to at least try the mini toad-in-the-holes, and Uncle Terence catches my eye. He smiles and raises his glass, and I automatically lift my own. Ollie follows my gaze and nods at Uncle T.

  ‘I promised I’d have a chat to Uncle T about something, I’ll catch you later?’

  ‘Okay.’ I put the wand back down on the pile of books. Magic. Passion. I love books so much because they’ve got everything I want. Even the stuff I won’t let myself dream I should have.

  ‘Dais, you care more about people than books, you know you do. You could do this. You can be,’ he pauses, searching for the words, ‘authentic. Do it for Carrie, even if you won’t do it for yourself. Tell James Masters it’s a one off. I dare you!’

  Then he leaves me, in my little cosy nook with Harry Potter.

  Frankie and Tim are wrong, and Ollie is right. There is a point, and there is a story – well at least there is to me.

  Chapter 16

  2 p.m., 18 July

  ‘What’s that?’ I point at the pinkish-brown sliver of something that Mum is artfully piling potatoes on top of.

  ‘A bit of lamb won’t harm love!’

  ‘Yes, it will!’ I whisk it off the plate and put it in a bowl at the side. If Tim can as much as smell meat, let alone see traces of animal fat on his plate he’ll be marching off for a lie down.

  ‘It’s not like proper meat.’

  ‘Of course, it is! It was standing up in a field not long ago, bleating.’

  ‘But it’s only a tiny bit.’

  ‘That’s Stanley’s bowl! Don’t put it in there, I’m giving him his own food!’ She flicks the slice of meat onto another plate. ‘Your father can have it. I’m disappointed Tim won’t at least try it, when you were little we made you at least take a taste, and he does need building up.’

  ‘It’s different, Mum. It’s not that he doesn’t like the taste—’

  ‘Well it’s a shame not to have a bit then. He can have a chicken vol-au-vent later before you go, they’re so small and a little one won’t harm, it’s mainly mushrooms and sauce after all. I made them especially, I won’t tell if you don’t!’

  I would try to explain, again, but I know I’ll be wasting my breath.

  Despite the food thing, I can’t believe how well Mum’s ‘real’ birthday is going, and we’ve barely started. But I am part of a couple! I have a date, and a dog. Sadly, mother is finding it hard to come to terms with what ‘vegan’ means. She thinks Tim’s just in denial and longing for something meaty to get stuck into. Her plan seems to be to sneak bits onto his plate thinking that the rest of us won’t notice, and Tim will be thrilled.

  He won’t. He’ll be sick.

  At her big party at Uncle T’s, Mum and Tim became so attached she insisted I bring him round on her actual birthday for a meal. It’s just a shame that I am suddenly starting to feel a bit detached from him. It’s weird. I thought this was what I wanted, but now I am almost pining for the ‘hasn’t got a man’ comments.

  Maybe I have matured to the extent that I now realise having the right man is more important than just having any man.

  ‘Well here we are then!’ Mum holds out a plate for Tim and I try to check she’s not sneaked a cutlet back on there. I don’t think she has. ‘I’ve given you plenty of carrot batons, Tim, don’t you love batons? We normally have rounds, but it is my birthday! And broad beans, I’ve given you extra, love, nobody is keen on them not even the dog so it’s thoughtful of you to eat them up! Do you like sprouts as well?’ she plonks the plate down, ‘Stanley was quite keen at Christmas, wasn’t he, Daisy? Very smelly, I must say. Now, are you sure you won’t have some gravy? It’s made from proper lamb stock, this vegetable stuff is very thin, it’s not normal.’

  ‘It’s fine, thank you Wendy.’

  ‘Wine?’Dad waves a bottle of red in one hand, and a bottle of white in the other. Apparently, many years ago he did try to make Mum a birthday dinner, but he said it upset the harmony (then whispered that he was scared he’d be dead and buried before the day was out if he didn’t keep out of Mum’s way) so he’d stick to pouring the drinks.

  ‘Thank you, Stuart.’ Tim winks at me and sque
ezes my knee under the table.

  If we go home and have sex after this, it will be the first shag after a family dinner that I have had for a decade. Well, ever.

  I stare at my broad beans. The thought should make me happy, but strangely enough it doesn’t. I feel like somebody else should be here, not Tim. I would also much rather he just drop me off home tonight with Ollie and go back to his own place.

  This is very worrying.

  ‘Well now, Tim, tell us about your job! It’s so exciting having a real journalist in the family.’ Mum smiles at me. ‘And my very own trainee, isn’t Daisy clever?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Tim pats my hand and looks at me adoringly. I smile back, but I think it’s a bit false. Very false. Right now, I’m not sure I want to be with Tim at all.

  I don’t want a man who just pats me, like he’d pat a dog. I want somebody who believes in me, who wants to support me, who loves me.

  It’s not like I’ve always thought he was ‘the one’, but I did at least think he was ‘one of the ones that was fun along the way’. I’m not even sure about that now.

  I’ve finally got my plus-one at my parents’ house for dinner – and I’m wishing I was on my own.

  Chapter 17

  8 p.m., 8 October

  ‘I’m sorry, Daisy. Really.’

  ‘Go away.’ I go to slam the door shut but Tim shoves a bunch of red roses towards the gap, and I haven’t the heart to crush them. I can’t remember the last time somebody bought me red roses.

  ‘Chat? Truce? Pretty please?’ In his other hand he has a toothpick. A snapped toothpick.

  I can’t help it. I smile.

  Last night, at the office bash to celebrate James Masters birthday, we had our first big row. This was bigger than the tiff we had by the water cooler just after I started, but it was by the water cooler again.

  It started with a ham sandwich. And ended with a mini trifle. Both were in Tim’s face – the first in his mouth, the second on his nose.

  The first was nothing to do with me. I was just totally shocked he was not only eating processed pig (he always tells me to think about Peppa Pig when he catches me tucking into a bacon bap) but he was practically orgasmic. I haven’t seen him with that look on his face for months, which quite frankly pee’d me off quite a lot.

  When I’d asked him what he was doing he started to hiss at me about going behind his back, being a sycophant and not knowing the meaning of the word loyal.

  I said he didn’t seem to know the meaning of the word vegan.

  He called me obsequious and a flirt.

  I did a good impression of a goldfish out of water (lots of flapping about and mouth opening).

  He made some comment about my lack of eloquence which could give me problems in my save a dog campaign.

  So, I behaved in an adult way. I told him to stop using long words and being pompous, tipped his drink over his head, kicked him in the shin and said, ‘well at least some men don’t offer a toothpick before they snog me’. And walked off.

  Like I say. Mature.

  Luckily it was actually quite late, and the party was winding down, so it wasn’t rude of me to leave.

  But how could he do it? Eat the sandwich, accuse me of making eyes at another man, and say I wasn’t up to helping Carrie?

  He’s pretentious, silly, and not a vegan.

  And now he is on my doorstep. He flicks the toothpick over his shoulder. Then starts to sing. ‘I can’t live, if living is wi—’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, come in. You’ll upset the neighbours.’ He comes in and wraps his arms round me.

  His beard is a bit tickly and I’ve got roses tangled in my hair.

  ‘Got a bit wound up!’ He looks a bit shamefaced.

  ‘About what?’ I frown as I take the flowers from him, and he follows me through to the kitchen, looking around.

  ‘No Ollie?’

  ‘He’s not here. You know he’s not often here.’

  ‘I felt undermined.’ He sits down on a stool by the breakfast bar and stares at me like a sad puppy.

  ‘Undermined?’

  ‘You talking to James about your story. I am your boss you know.’

  ‘But I was only chatting to him!’

  ‘Pitching.’

  ‘Well I might have …’ My cheeks have started to burn. ‘I was just fishing, you know see what he thought. Helping Carrie means a lot to me.’ Since I first heard about her threatened eviction, I’ve helped her stick leaflets through doors, left collection tins in shops and put ads in the paper, but it’s hopeless. She did manage to pay back some of the debt, but she’s limping by month by month. Putting off the inevitable. We’re both broke, and she needs something big. A boost that will keep her going over the winter – when the bills are at their worst, and the kennels are cram-packed.

  After Mum’s party, in a post-sex languor, Tim did say he’d have a word with James, if it meant that much to me. Then nothing happened. And then he said it was a definite no-go again. But when I thought back about it the other day at the party, I started to wonder if it was worth one more try. By somebody who believed in it. I like James Masters, I was just convinced I could make a case and he’d listen.

  ‘And you mean a lot to me.’ He takes both my hands, and stares into my eyes.

  ‘You ate a ham sandwich!’

  ‘That’s how much you mean to me.’

  I’m not quite sure I follow.

  He’s still clasping my hands, and his are slightly clammy and over-warm. Moist is not a word I like, but it fits this situation. ‘I made you turn to meat?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. Shit, I’m sorry. Too much to drink.’ He pushes his sleeves up, displaying those fabulous forearms which I fell in love with the first time I met him. I know that might sound a bit kinky, but I’d just wanted to touch them, feel the soft downy hairs against his firm hard muscles. I stare at them and swallow.

  I can’t let a slice of ham come between us.

  The problem is, after my chat with Ollie at Mum’s surprise birthday party I’ve not felt settled. It’s been niggling at me. I might have a more organised, better life. I might have more job security and a lovely home. I have (I think, though not sure on this one) still got a boyfriend. But is this really what I want? Is it really what I’ve always wanted?

  Much as I adore good books and a funny movie, is writing about them what I want to do for the rest of my life? It’s hard to be witty when you’re writing about mass murder or a herd of nutcase zombie bulls who are taking over the world (yes, really), and that’s what comes naturally. Being funny, not pithy and meaningful. James said only the other day that he thought my latest theatre review was lacking my normal oomph. I think it’s because I’d known even as I was writing the words that they weren’t really me. I was trying to write what I thought I should.

  Maybe I’m just a crap journalist after all. Maybe this isn’t the career for me.

  I think I want more than just the perfect life. I want an imperfect, but better one.

  Tim strokes a finger down my arm. Normally it feels sexy, today it is mildly irritating. ‘I’m a stupid twat, I should believe in you. I do. Honest.’ He is looking at me so seriously, I have to believe him. ‘If you get the go ahead for the story, I’ll help you, then back to normal eh? What you’re good at.’

  I’m not sure we’re completely on the same wavelength here. But he definitely seems sorry.

  ‘I’m also jealous as hell that you’re living with another guy.’ He gives me a twisted smile but avoids looking directly at me. He seems fascinated by my forearms. Maybe it’s just our arms that should be in a relationship? Anyway, it’s handy right now because all of a sudden I feel a bit hot and bothered.

  ‘I don’t live with …’ it comes out strangled and reedy. ‘You know there’s nothing between us, Ollie just sometimes sleeps here, and not often.’ And not with me, although recently he did feature in a startlingly realistic dream.

  ‘You nearly kissed him!
’

  Okay, I made an error of judgement here. As I was mushing a trifle into his nose, I might have mentioned that close-up to Ollie in the Harry Potter aisle had been sexier than most of my encounters with Tim recently. Ollie was a man who didn’t insist I floss then pass an animal-product free breath test.

  ‘I did not nearly kiss him!’ I did. But it didn’t happen, so it doesn’t count. And Ollie didn’t know anything about my lustful thoughts. But this is why I am now glowing with embarrassment and shame.

  It was just weird how it felt when Ollie’s fingers brushed over my arm. All tingly, it left me buzzing and feeling a bit trembly. Although I think that had to be adrenalin, I was a bit worked up at the time, about nobody wanting to help me help Carrie. That’s it, it explains the lot. A bit like when I get shaky and it’s because I’ve got a sugar low. I’d got an adrenalin high.

  It meant absolutely nothing at all …

  11 a.m., 9 October

  ‘Right then, what’s the plan with this idea of yours? Any progress?’ James Masters is sitting behind his big desk in his small office. He’s quite a big man actually, which makes it all feel even more cramped. But he’s nice and smiley.

  I smile back, all tongue-tied, slightly in awe of the big boss. I’ve hardly spoken to James since I started working for him and now he’s summonsed me into his office!

  ‘Sit down, sit down, coffee?’

  He’s the only one with an office, and everybody else is trying to watch us and lip read whilst still appearing to concentrate on their laptops and work.

  The coffee is brought in by Maureen who answers the phone, and generally keeps a close eye on us all. She gives me an encouraging smile. ‘Biscuit?’

  Bloody hell, I’ve arrived! It’s normally make your own coffee and keep a snack in your drawer. I am being offered custard creams! I take one, to hell with my no-carb diet, I am not going to pass up on this. It might never happen again.