One Christmas Star

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘I just wanted to say,’ she pushed on, ‘that I know how hard it is to juggle everything you have to juggle, Susan… Mrs Clark. And I’m sure none of us envy your position… not the position of Head, I mean, I am positive almost all of us envy that.’ She swallowed. This wasn’t coming out right at all. ‘Well, perhaps envy isn’t quite the right word but… anyway… it’s Christmas coming. The children have worked really hard already this school year. I don’t think, in my very humble opinion obviously, that we should cut any more corners… in this term in particular.’ Emily could practically hear the tension fizzing off the skin of her colleagues. A quick side-eye to Mrs Linda Rossiter (Year Three) gave her nothing but the sight of a tightly wound, greying bun. The woman’s face was trained on her lap, hands clasped together as if in prayer. No one was going to agree with her. They were all too good at sitting on the fence. Worried they could be stage-managed out of the school and back on to the job market.

  ‘Why this term in particular?’ Susan queried sharply.

  ‘Well,’ Emily said, trying to maintain her calm alongside her conviction. She pulled down the sleeves of her cream cardigan. ‘It’s Christmas, isn’t it? The children love this term. They love making things, adding sparkle to everything. And there’s the Christmas lunch with the giant trifle and crackers for everyone and then there’s the Christmas play…’

  ‘Ah!’ Susan said, smiling then and holding up a finger as if to stop Emily from talking further. ‘The Christmas play. I’m glad you mentioned that.’

  ‘You’re not going to cut the Christmas play, are you?’ This had come from someone else. Dennis had got to his feet, half in his coat, half out of it, a pair of thick mittens falling to the floor. ‘I mean, I know we’ve lost Mr Jarvis and his fantastic piano-playing skills, but that shouldn’t mean we lose the show completely. That’s what smart speakers are for these days, isn’t it? You know… Alexa, play an instrumental version of “Silent Night”.’

  ‘I’m not cutting the play,’ Susan responded. ‘In fact, despite the need to conserve funds in the everyday running of this establishment, we are going to be shaking up the Christmas show this year thanks to some very generous sponsorship.’

  ‘Sponsorship?’ Emily queried.

  There was murmuring and movement in the hall now, her colleagues all raising their heads and opinions out of their arses and coming to life.

  ‘Yes, Ahmer Dar from Dar’s Delhi Delights is one person who has given us a substantial sum to put on what I hope is going to be a wonderful culmination to everyone’s hard work and dedication this term.’

  Rashid’s dad. Emily closed her eyes. How was she going to broach Rashid’s bullying of Jayden if his dad was sponsoring the Christmas show? It was utterly impossible for this day to get any worse…

  ‘The children won’t all have to wear T-shirts with the restaurant logo on, will they?’ This question came from Linda Rossiter, a panicked look on her face. Her husband, Ralph ran the local fish and chip restaurant and rumour had it that Ahmer Dar had added deep-fried Bengali fish and fries to his menu to steal customers from Ralph’s Plaice. Then Ralph had quickly countered, serving giant bhajis with curry sauce on a weekend special offer…

  ‘No, of course not,’ Susan replied, waving her comment away. ‘Although they will get a large mention in the programme and… perhaps a couple of lines in the performance.’

  The murmuring increased in volume and Emily took that as a cue to sit back down, while Susan was distracted…

  ‘Quiet!’ the Head ordered. ‘You all sound like the children!’ She shook her head. ‘This is a good thing. A wonderful thing. Particularly in light of everything I’ve just been telling you about having to do a little bit of penny-pinching.’ She let her eyes rove over each and every one of them until all the teachers looked like they felt exceedingly uncomfortable. ‘This year’s show has the chance to pull the whole community together. Because that’s what we have always tried to do here at Stretton Park. Be part of something bigger. Yes?’

  Community spirit. This was making it sound a bit better. So, they might have to work around the fake Pritt-Sticks for a while. They were going to have a lovely Christmas show. Perhaps she could help with the costumes…

  ‘And, Miss Parker,’ Susan continued, ‘I’m so glad you asked about the show because… I want you to be at the forefront of it.’

  At the forefront. What did that mean? Emily needed quick clarification. ‘I’m sorry, what?’ She swallowed. ‘What does that entail exactly?’

  ‘I’d like you to be the one to organise a festive extravaganza the diocese can be really proud of this year. A strong Christian theme throughout, with all original songs. Proper singing and dancing. You know, like… The Greatest Showman or Mamma Mia but with… more… more Jesus.’

  Emily tried to swallow again, but it felt like there was a Terry’s Chocolate Orange stuck in her windpipe. This couldn’t really be happening. Festive extravaganza. The Greatest Showman. She might sing a little bit, when no one was listening, but she had zero musical ability really. The only instrument she had ever played was the recorder and the only excelling she had done with it was annoying her parents. Somehow, she remembered, the instrument had got broken…

  ‘Mrs Clark, I don’t think…’ Emily began. She couldn’t do this! The eyes of all her co-workers were on her, looking expectant like she had suddenly morphed into Andrew Lloyd Webber.

  ‘Fantastic! You have until 20th December to get your little darlings’ show ready! Right, if there’s no other business we’ll head off. See you in the morning!’ Susan announced, already halfway to the door.

  Emily was dumbstruck. How the hell was she going to create a brand-new Christmas show in weeks, with original songs and dances, performed by the children whose skills at coordination were limited at the best of times. She wanted to burst into tears. She equally wanted to down a bottle of elderflower tonic water and really, really pretend it was full of gin.

  ‘Well,’ Dennis said, voice close to her ear, ‘that was unexpected. But I have every faith in you, Emily. Even though one of Mr Jarvis’s original songs did almost get picked as a UK Eurovision entry.’

  Emily closed her eyes, wishing she hadn’t even mentioned the end of year show. The only saving grace was that this was the third thing. Things happened in threes not fours, everyone knew that. Her day had finally reached its lowest ebb and she had Thai food to look forward to. And she was sure, as soon as Susan realised the low level of her musical expertise, she would give the role to someone else. She just needed to keep calm… Except then Dennis doffed an imaginary top hat and began to whistle the tune to ‘This Is Me’.

  Four

  Harley Street, Marylebone

  It was early evening in Central London and Ray was glad no semblance of Christmas had leaked into the office of Dr Crichton yet. It had been enough walking through a festive Marylebone High Street on the way, while listening to Deborah’s voicemail suggestions for him turning holiday lights on. It would be a miracle, though, if his agent were able to find a London borough that hadn’t had them either turned on already, or someone who was happy to have him anywhere near their brand after this latest press story. Still, he was here now, in the familiar leather bucket seat, staring at the equally familiar bubbling tank containing the shoal of black fish that all looked like they had teeth. He’d had one pet growing up, a gerbil called Soot. It hadn’t lasted long.

  He swallowed, eyes moving to the mid-distance, hands either side of the green chair, tapping on its arms as he waited. What he really wanted to do was pick at the leather to distract himself from the waiting, but he suspected, like with most things in this office, it was antique. He didn’t want to add criminal damage to the press furore. Deborah would probably drop him as a client… or make him do obedience lessons like her dog. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

  The door behind him finally opened and Ray turned his head a little. In strode a beaming Dr Crichton dressed in his trademark three-piece
grey suit. The man was either always extremely happy with life, or existing on the verge of being a raging psychopath. Ray hadn’t decided which yet. But, as he was his doctor, he was really hoping it wasn’t the latter.

  ‘I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Ray. You know what it’s like with these celebrity types.’ He laughed at his own joke before throwing himself down in the bigger green leather chair that sat behind his large desk. Dr Crichton picked up a glass paperweight and began moving it from hand to hand like it was a cricket ball he was weighing up before a bowl.

  ‘Ariana Grande?’ Ray asked with a smirk.

  Dr Crichton guffawed, slamming the paperweight into his palm. ‘This one would like to be. But it will take quite a lot of my magic to achieve that.’ He tapped his nose with a finger. ‘But don’t say I said so.’

  The reality of his visit here scratched at Ray’s conscience while that now all-too-familiar ache in his neck scratched at his throat.

  ‘So, to you,’ Dr Crichton said, finally putting down the paperweight and leaning over his desk, elbows on the wood, palms together. ‘Well, Ray, I’m afraid it’s not good news.’

  He’d known. Something was really wrong, and he had ignored it, for far too long. He had kept it from Deborah. He hadn’t even let himself acknowledge it fully. And now…

  ‘But I don’t think it’s bad news either,’ Dr Crichton continued. He manic-grinned, pushing his gold-rimmed spectacles up his nose. ‘The endoscope suggests there’s nothing that can’t be fixed by some rest and an operation.’

  ‘An operation.’ He had meant the statement to be in his head, but he’d said it aloud and his voice had cracked on the last word. Immediately, Dr Crichton was up out of his seat, a small torch he’d snatched up from somewhere now in his hand, its light flicking on.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ he ordered. ‘Is that happening more often?’

  Ray was caught between opening his mouth as if he were at the dentist and replying to his doctor’s question. ‘Does what happen often?’ He widened his mouth as the torch came closer, the doctor stooping over him, face close to his as he looked to inspect his throat’s inner workings.

  ‘Your voice breaking like that. Hold still.’ The doctor put a hand on top of Ray’s head as he continued to look, before flicking the torch off and leaning back against the desk.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ray answered. ‘I suppose… it does sometimes… I just put it down to, you know, maybe when I’ve had a rough night.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Dr Crichton said. ‘It all looks inflamed again, Ray. Have you been singing since our last appointment?’

  Ray threw his hands up. ‘I’m a musician. It’s what I do.’ He was working on a new album, while he still had a record deal. And it was a challenge trying to make this one as good as his first. It also had to be different, somehow more soulful. Not as in the soul music genre, as in actually coming from his soul. His best songs always came from a very personal place. They were always stories of who he was, where he had come from and where he wanted to go to. He stayed one step above the very darkest places, but some lyrics had skimmed closer to those places. And, at the moment, with his voice not being on its A-game – plus all this controversy with Ida’s claims – inspiration and creativity was taking a battering.

  ‘How about the drinking?’ Dr Crichton asked, one eyebrow seeming to raise of its own accord. ‘And, so we’re clear, I don’t mean Aquafina.’

  Ray said nothing. Alcohol was sometimes the only thing that made him feel better when the songwriting wasn’t hitting the spot. But it wasn’t a problem. It was just a tool. Like the breathing techniques he was supposed to be using…

  ‘Ray, this is serious. If you don’t listen to my advice and take it on board, there’s a chance you won’t have a voice at all. And I don’t simply mean for singing,’ the doctor told him. ‘I mean real life-altering issues.’

  And there came that pain right between his ears again, as if reminding him that this was affecting every part of his ENT connections.

  ‘So you say,’ Ray answered gruffly. God, why was he being so antipathetic? Was he letting the press attention get to him? He’d had years of media scrutiny and usually it ran off him like melting ice from the roof of his three-storey modern townhouse. Except, this time, it felt very different.

  ‘You want a second opinion?’ Dr Crichton asked, looking far more maniac than Mr Happy now. ‘Because I’ve discussed your case with three other colleagues already.’

  ‘No,’ Ray said, shaking his head, fingers still desperate to pick at the leather on the chair. ‘No, I didn’t mean that.’ What he wanted was some of that alcohol he wasn’t meant to be drinking that totally wasn’t a problem for him…

  ‘You need rest, Ray,’ Dr Crichton continued. ‘Your voice needs rest.’

  He nodded. He didn’t know why he had nodded because Deborah was currently trying to line him up with more appearances to counteract the tabloid stories and save his career. One person saying he needed to sing to distract the press from his personal life and keep his career on track. Another telling him if he did sing, he was putting his voice in real jeopardy. And his voice was literally all he had left.

  ‘My advice,’ Dr Crichton continued, ‘is to stop drinking alcohol completely. Stop singing completely for the next week. Practise the breathing techniques we went through last time. Do you need me to print you off another sheet?’

  He hadn’t looked at the last one. It was screwed up in the fruit bowl that only contained plastic fruit on his coffee table at his house. He shook his head. ‘No, I remember.’

  ‘I’m telling you,’ Dr Crichton said, fixing Ray with what seemed like a well-practised look of authority. ‘You are going to need an operation. Lifestyle changes will help, but I strongly suggest you clear your schedule for December. I’ll see you here again next week and we will talk about getting you in for surgery before Christmas.’

  Ray swallowed, feeling all the tension, but well-practised in not letting it show. He smiled at his doctor. ‘No singing, I promise,’ he stated calmly. ‘Not even in the shower.’

  Five

  Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington

  The bright purple miniature Christmas tree overloaded with silver, gold and a clashing red tinsel in the communal hallway of the period house conversion made Emily smile. She knew it would be the work of Sammie, the little five-year-old who lived in the apartment on the ground floor. Emily had stumbled into a conversation between Sammie and his mum, Karen at the beginning of November when Sammie was insisting that now Halloween was over it was definitely time to start Christmas. Kudos to Karen for hanging out this long. The tree was a little something to make Emily smile as she took the stairs to the top floor apartment she had once shared with Simon, had recently shared with Jonah and now shared with no one but a wardrobe full of vintage apparel she had been indulging in slightly too much to combat the loneliness…

  Through the closed door of the flat she could smell the delicious fragrances of Thailand. She closed her eyes. Definite coconut milk and lemongrass with a hint of spice. Jonah still had his key and had obviously let himself in. Like everything was normal. Like she really still wanted it to be. She sighed. She thought she had done quite a reasonable job at acting pleased Jonah was taking the plunge and moving in with his boyfriend, the lovely Allan – nicknamed Two L’s. It had started out as something to avoid spelling confusion but it had stuck. The two men shared a gorgeous apartment not too far away, but Emily still wished she could share Jonah. For a moment she had considered suggesting a scheme whereby he lived with Allan four nights of the week and with her for the other three, but she had never got up the courage to put it out there. Plus, it would have made her look very needy. And women of almost thirty should not really be needy.

  Putting the key in the door, Emily let herself in, hurriedly unbuttoning her coat as tropical temperatures assaulted her. This was way too hot. There had to be something wrong with the heating system, because yesterday the climate was defi
nitely North Pole and now it was halfway to the Bahamas.

  ‘Before you say anything!’ Jonah called, voice coming from the direction of the kitchen. ‘I did not do anything to the heating. And I’m sweating like Bradley Cooper’s ex-girlfriend watching that Oscars performance just so you know.’

  She threw her coat on the blanket-covered sofa, taking a second to enjoy the stars twinkling through the large full-width window that lined the main wall of the spacious lounge room, then went towards the kitchen. Leaning on the doorframe she looked at her best friend at work; he was in his element. Black hair slicked back into the tiniest of ponytails at his nape, apron on over jeans and a slim-fit designer jumper in a coral colour. Jonah was stirring something in her large cooking pot with one hand, while flicking sizzling vegetables in a wok with the other.

  ‘How was work?’ he shouted as if she was still in the other room.

  ‘I’m right here,’ Emily answered, stepping into the tiny kitchen with only room for the smallest of small tables and two chairs. Jonah seemed to have laid out placemats, glasses of water and cutlery, even added tealights.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ he replied, laughing. ‘So, how was school? Or are you already at the we-don’t-do-anything-but-eat-chocolate-make-christingles-and-watch-Elf-on-DVD stage?’

  ‘Rude!’ Emily doffed his arm with her hand, her hip nudging one of the chairs as she attempted to shuffle round the slightly too-small space. Yes, the kitchen did leave a lot to be desired, but she could always move the table out into the lounge if she needed to. Except she liked the light and space in the lounge and, now it was just her here, she tended to eat her meals curled up on the sofa in front of Davina’s Long Lost Family.

  She picked the wooden spoon out of Jonah’s hand and tasted the culinary creation. Closing her eyes, she revelled in the mix of tastes, all heavenly and perfect, all reminding her of summer evenings out on the roof terrace, Jonah and Simon barbecuing, her trying to get the solar-powered fairy-lights to work before it was too dark to find the wine. The roof terrace was her favourite part of the apartment. It wasn’t huge but it was private and decked and gave her a gorgeous view over the city. And, with the benefit of patio heaters it could be used all year round which more than made up for the limited kitchen space. She gave the spoon back to Jonah before more reverie took hold. ‘It’s so good,’ she said, sighing. ‘And it’s just what I need after today.’