Some Kind of Wonderful

by Giovanna Fletcher

  I haven’t heard from her for a while though – I did message her once I got home from the choir session the other night, but she didn’t respond. So it means a lot that she’s bothered to message today.

  Merry Christmas to you and yours! I hope you’re having a wonderful day filled with mulled wine, lots of turkey and a gigantic tub of Quality Street! Xx

  OK, it’s highly likely this is a round robin text, but she didn’t have to include me in her list of recipients so I appreciate the gesture.

  And Merry Christmas to you! Hope you’re having a good one. Xx

  She surprises me by messaging back instantly. I’m sure she has lots of other people contacting her who she knows better. Plus, I imagine her family are all getting ready for a Christmas Day walk. I’ve never understood how families fit it all in. A Boxing Day walk makes sense, but not on actual Christmas Day when Mum’s having fun in the kitchen peeling and prepping enough potatoes, carrots and Brussels sprouts to ensure we have the leftovers as bubble and squeak for the next fortnight, there’s trashy TV to watch, and two tables loaded with guilt-free alcohol and treats. But Natalia strikes me as someone who’d manage to pull on her Hunter boots and warm but trendy double-breasted khaki parka jacket from some swanky yet chic designer label, before heading out with her huge family while the Christmas dinner slowly cools in the oven.

  I’ve been meaning to message you. It’s been so manic with clients wanting me to magically transform their homes before Father fucking Christmas leaps down their chimney. Anyone would think this day was a last-minute plan and not the first date everyone pins in their diaries each year. Seriously, my fingers ache from the amount of bows I had to put on one tree yesterday. Now I just have to look forward to taking the whole thing down and working on what’s left. This one client has redecorated his lounge every January. I’m talking complete overhaul of curtains, wallpaper, furniture, fixtures and fittings. Once the bows are gone he thinks the magic goes with it. Gosh, can’t believe I’m messaging you about work on Christmas Day, but you know what it’s like! Xx

  I chuckle as I read it, knowing exactly how she feels. Pausing to think before I type.

  Sounds like you need to get yourself an assistant …

  I take a deep breath as I await a reply, wondering whether she’s going to jump on the idea or think I’m a cheeky cow who’s overstepped the mark after one drunken night on the dance floor together.

  Tell me about it. Know anyone I should approach? Ha! Just out with the family – Mum’s dog needs a serious walk. Let’s talk in the New Year. I promise I won’t go AWOL this time. Xx

  Looking forward to it. Have a fab day. Xx

  I type out my reply and press send before I allow myself to fully digest and revel in what she’s said. She’s thinking about hiring. This is a big deal. After we met I decided to Google Natalia and see what I could dig up. I didn’t have to look very far and it turns out I’ve seen her work many times in magazines and online. After years of working for a huge company she decided to set up her own business and is now renowned in the London circle as the designer everyone longs to collaborate with. Not only that, but it turned out that I already followed her company on Instagram. She kept my hope alive that interiors should be about more than how many crystals and sequins you can fit on a lampshade or whether eight mirrors in one room is too much (it is!). Her work is insane.

  I can’t help but grin as I put my phone down. Merry Christmas to me, I smile, opting to treat myself to a little something from the drinks table after all. It’s past midday now and I decide to spread the love (it’ll ease any judgement from Mother) by pouring a little port for her, Ted, Michelle (just a centimetre) and Stuart, as well as a Guinness for Dad.

  The drinks are received with gratitude, meaning I can hide my face in my glass and let my mouth give way to a huge smile. Another one.

  ‘What you smiling for?’ asks Happiness PC Michelle, always ready to sniff out a whiff of joy and stamp on it.

  ‘Nothing,’ I shrug.

  ‘Is it too soon to do Christmas gifts?’ Michelle grins, clapping her hands together excitedly like she did when she was a little girl, bouncing around at the foot of the tree. We used to open our presents as soon as we opened our eyes on Christmas morning, but over the years, thanks to hangovers setting in and us not always being together on Christmas Day due to the chore of having to see in-laws, the whole present thing has stirred up less and less enthusiasm. It’s not that we’re over the day – not at all. But rather we usually wait to open our presents at a more reasonable time. Not at six in the morning, or straight after people have walked in the door. One year Michelle was sitting on the porch step waiting for me to get back from a drunken Christmas Eve with Connie. She insisted on ripping paper off gifts before I was allowed to take my coat off or get rid of my rancid Tequila-shot breath. It wasn’t a pleasant experience for anyone.

  Nowadays we usually know what we’re getting too, as we do a family secret Santa – one where we tell each other exactly what we want. Some might say it sucks the joy and fun out of the whole thing, but I have to say, it’s brilliant opening a gift and finding something you completely love, or need. I haven’t put in my request this year, though, as I haven’t really been able to muster the enthusiasm.

  ‘Mum!’ Michelle shouts, straining her neck as she attempts to call around the door. Her big bump prevents her from moving more than a few inches in her seat. ‘Mum!’

  ‘What? What is it? Is the baby OK? Are you having contractions?’ Mum breathes excitedly as she darts in, chopping knife still in hand, her mind instantly skipping to the thought of the best gift of all time arriving – her first grandchild.

  ‘Can we open presents now?’ Michelle pleads, her palms placed together as though she’s praying.

  ‘Mi-chelle!’ Mum whispers, her face looking cross for the briefest of moments before looking at the gifts under the tree. She glances back to the kitchen, debating whether she has enough time between steaming (carrots), sautéing (Brussels) and roasting (everything else) tasks. ‘Come on then. It’s not like there’s much,’ she tuts, putting her knife precariously on the coffee table – an action she won’t be able to do once her grandchild arrives. We’ve already been briefed on baby safety by Michelle, and blades at reachable heights was definitely mentioned along with the suggestion we all start drinking our teas and coffees at a lukewarm temperature to avoid any burns, and the placing of a coin jar by the front door. The idea is that we’ll empty our pockets when we arrive so that no coins can roll out unknowingly and become a choking hazard.

  Knowing Michelle, I imagine she’d do us a favour and kindly keep hold of our loose change, too. Unburdening us of our heavy money. She’s thoughtful like that, my little sister.

  ‘Lizzy first!’ Michelle sings, elbowing Stuart in the ribs before giving him a firm push in the direction of the tree.

  ‘Really?’ I laugh, feeling dubious as to why she’s so happy to be gifting, it’s clear either she or Stuart are my secret Santa. She’s never like this. The last few Christmas gifts have most definitely been recycled from work, no matter who she was buying for. The last time she was my Santa, she hadn’t even removed the previous tag. Sally, who works alongside Michelle in the Council’s accountancy department, had given her a hugely generous gift box from Lush. I almost messaged her to say thank you myself! I mean, it was gorgeous, so I didn’t grumble, but still, it would be nice to receive something from my sister that she actually bought with me in mind.

  ‘I can’t wait to see what this is,’ sings Mum, looking as excited as Michelle. ‘Your Santa had nothing to go on.’

  ‘That’s because I really didn’t want anything,’ I tell her, although I whole-heartedly agree that it was easy for me to be Mum’s secret Santa as she’d even sent a link to her desired label-maker on Amazon. It arrived the next day without any fuss. All I had to do was wrap it.

  ‘You just didn’t know what you wanted,’ says Michelle, giving me an over-exaggerated wink.
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  ‘Clearly not,’ I frown, taking the rectangular-shaped box from Stuart, who can barely contain a grin himself.

  ‘Open it then,’ says Dad.

  ‘I have a feeling this is going to be the best present of your life,’ declares Michelle.

  ‘It’s that good?’ asks Ted, tearing his eyes away from Home Alone to engage with the rest of us.

  ‘That good!’ beams Michelle.

  She’s even managed to get me excited.

  Everyone is watching as I pull off the red ribbon and start ripping at the brown wrapping paper to find a black box inside inscribed with an aqua-coloured letter R. Whatever it is, it seems like a luxury item. I’m impressed with her. She’s clearly gone above and beyond to be extra nice to me this year after my break-up, and I strongly suspect she’s gone over our usual spending budget of fifty pounds to buy me something special to cheer me up.

  One more tear of the paper causes my mouth to drop. As I read the snappy list of features down the side of the box I’m left in no doubt about what the gift is. Words like ‘waterproof’, ‘silicone’, ‘quiet’, ‘ears’, ‘pulsing’ and ‘speeds’ jump out at me and fill me with embarrassment. It’s a vibrator. Michelle has given me a sodding vibrator, while we’re sitting with our parents on Christmas Day. If the ground could swallow me up right now and send me all the way to Australia, that still wouldn’t be far enough to shield me from this horror.

  ‘What is it, love?’ Mum asks, craning her neck to have a look, her fingers reaching out to touch it.

  I instinctively hold it up against my chest and cover it up to stop her from seeing it.

  ‘Michelle told us she’d got you a bestseller,’ says Ted, his eyes squinting at the back of the box. I’ve no idea what’s there, so I arrange my fingers and arms to hide whatever writing or pictures might be displayed. Please, God, say there are no pictures showing examples of use. The thought of them seeing it makes me go queasy, the whole Terry’s Chocolate Orange I ate after breakfast threatening to reappear.

  ‘It is an extremely popular gift for young, successful, driven, independent, kickarse women,’ declares Michelle, nodding.

  ‘Ooh!’ coos Mum.

  I can’t even look at Mum, Dad and Ted who by now have enthusiastic, yet confused, grins on their faces. Stuart looks beside himself with mirth, and Michelle still looks delighted with herself.

  ‘It’s a multi-speed vibrating, waterproof, battery-operated, Rampant Rabbit,’ Michelle states, her arms extending out as though she’s delivering a punchline to a joke. Sadly it’s not a joke and no one laughs. Instead, the room goes quiet, even little Macaulay Culkin seems to halt his Home Alone trickery to ensure the moment is at the peak of humiliating.

  ‘Did you say …’ starts Ted, a confused look appearing on his face. Oh, poor innocent Ted.

  ‘Yes, a vibrator, Ted. To help Lizzy get her kicks, you know. Now she’s single,’ she continues matter-of-factly, as though my search for an orgasm has been at the top of my list of priorities since being flung back on the shelf. ‘It’s the best one on the market. It does everything. I even got it in your favourite colour,’ she says, her eyebrows dancing in my direction.

  ‘So thoughtful,’ says Dad quietly. I can tell he’s trying not to seem mortified.

  ‘Careful, though,’ Michelle warns, leaning into me as her face becomes very serious. ‘Walls are thin here …’ She then proceeds to make vibration sounds, her head wobbling about like she’s a sodding latex willy.

  I cover my face with my hands, utterly embarrassed that she’s talking like this in front of Mum, Dad and Ted. I don’t imagine any of them have even seen one of these until now.

  ‘Anyway, it needs batteries. I’ve included them but you might need a little screwdriver to fit them. Dad, can you help? Ted?’

  ‘Ye—’

  ‘Of co—’

  ‘No, no!’ I shout, cutting off both men as they begin offering up their services and running the risk of taking our relationships somewhere I’d never want them to go. Covering up the box, I wedge it down the side of the sofa. ‘I’ll sort it later.’

  ‘Right-o,’ says Ted, his eyes still transfixed by the box.

  We’re all still camped around, unsure how to move past the thought of me using this green penis-shaped toy.

  Michelle howls with laughter, she’s loving how awkward we’re all being about this. ‘Make the most of it. Stu won’t come near me and I can’t even reach down there to sort myself out. I’m living in a nightmare of frustration.’

  My face creases into a grimace, trying to block out the image of my heavily pregnant sister attempting to masturbate. Too late. It’s there in all its awkwardness. Eurgh! And I mean ‘eurgh’ because that’s my sister and my unborn niece or nephew she’s trying to navigate her arm around, not because I think it’s an act to be embarrassed of. I simply don’t want to be thinking of her in that way. Also, she’s so pregnant. It’s no wonder Stu isn’t too keen on the idea of ‘banging’ her in her current state.

  I unscrew my face, hoping it’s safe to do so, but I look over to see Michelle staring at me with a huge smirk on her face, fully aware of what images and thoughts she’s placed in my head. Bitch.

  ‘Do it for me,’ she mouths, absentmindedly rubbing her bump as she says it.

  I mean, there’s not a doubt in my mind that I will be unboxing Ann Summers’ finest as soon as I get some alone time, but I’m not going to be thinking of her while I do so!

  I flipping hope not anyway.

  Mum shuffles out of the room along with Ted, who’s offering to carve the turkey, which we know is totally ahead of Mum’s schedule. Meanwhile, Dad busies himself with a box of chocolates, taking an awfully long time to decide on the deliciousness of the hazelnut noisette Green Triangle – which is always his first choice.

  ‘Thank you,’ I mutter, while tapping the box, fully aware that my face is bright red.

  ‘You. Are. Welcome!’ she smiles back.

  My phone bleeps again, and I’m grateful for the distraction. This time it’s Connie.

  The last time we talked was so weird and, rather surprisingly, we haven’t spoken since. Seeing as I was a dick to Dad last night, I’m inclined to think I might be seriously at fault with the way I reacted to her news. If I were watching myself in a film I’d say I’m stereotypically pushing away those close to me to stop more pain occurring. Severing ties so they aren’t in a position to hurt me further. For instance, when Connie runs off with Matt and becomes a hugely successful author.

  I’m an absolute twat face.

  I open Connie’s message.

  Merry Christmas, babes. I hope you know I love you to the moon and back. I don’t think I tell you that enough, but you should know you’re the Thelma to my Louise. There’s no one else I’d rather leap over the edge with. Xxx

  Regardless, I’m still not joining that choir.

  Seriously.

  And that’s why we’re best mates.

  I thought today was going to be a challenge to get through, but two lovely texts, a glass of port and one vibrator in, and it’s actually turned out to be a huge success. It feels nothing short of a Christmas miracle.

  Michelle and Stu leave just after the Doctor Who special has ended, and Dad decides to take up their offer of a lift home. After a busy day, Mum and Ted fall asleep side by side on the sofa, leaving me to find companionship in the bottle of Baileys I tried to flirt with earlier. The smooth, creamy, punchy liquid goes down a little too easily, so I quickly pour another one, although this time doubling the quantity.

  I sit in the kitchen of the house I grew up in. It’s all pretty much the same as it was when we all lived here, which is probably why I still feel so at home here. I’m so lucky to have this place to come to, but it’s time to sort out what I’m doing.

  It’s time to be a grown-up.

  Merry Christmas! Hope you’re having a good one. Can we meet up next week to talk about the flat? We haven’t spoken at all since the last message an
d things haven’t moved forward at all since as a result. I’m happy for you to buy me out, but if not we should sell it. The sooner it’s all done, the better for both of us.

  I press send and then go on to Facebook, having a little stalk of the people I’ve collected over the years, some of whom I haven’t even interacted with since I first became ‘friends’ with them.

  A mate from school, who’s younger than me, has just got engaged after popping the ring under the Christmas tree. Another couple, Syd and Clara (the ones with the sloppy brown proposal), have posted a video of them telling their parents they’re expecting a baby. Oh joy. I’m yet another step behind.

  Half an hour passes in a blur of proposals, winter sun, ski slopes and Christmas magic and slowly the excitement and happiness of earlier wanes. The same Christmas disappointment falls on me, just as it has for at least the last six years. I’ve held an expectation, and a hope of marriage. The same ruddy hope that’s caused my heart to be butchered. All caused by the man I loved. Love. I’m not sure which yet.

  Every year was the same. In the lead-up I wondered whether our time was upon us. Wondered so much I’d snoop around the house like Sherlock Holmes, rattling every wrapped gift I could find, trying to identify its contents. I’m not too proud to admit I unpeeled the sellotape on one occasion. I was a woman possessed. I wanted to know if my desperation was about to stop. The Swarovski earrings might’ve been gorgeous, but they were no substitute for an actual ring. They weren’t the diamonds I was after. Instead they stared back at me, mocking my hurt heart. I felt stupid as I wrapped the gift back up, of course I did. But I was glad to get that deflated feeling out of the way before Christmas Day arrived, because I knew I wouldn’t get those as well as a ring.