Christmas at Carol's

by Julia Roberts

  ‘Nine nil,’ Matt says, slurring slightly while pulling Sally into a bear hug the moment he is through the door. ‘It was a massacre. We were six nil up by half-time, and that was mostly down to Rob.’

  Sally and I transferred our gaze to Matt’s sandy-haired friend who smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He put five past their keeper. He was on fire today. It must have been the thought of his blind date tonight.’

  Rob colours up and I take a sudden interest in the oak floorboards, but Matt is seemingly oblivious to the awkwardness he has caused.

  ‘Perry stuck him in goal for the second half so he couldn’t do any more damage and we still scored another three. I reckon we could easily have gone into double figures if he’d stayed up front. Something smells good. Is it nearly ready? We’re starving aren’t we, Rob?’

  ‘You’re forgetting your manners, Matt. Rob, this is Carol, our new next door neighbour. Carol, this is Rob, one of Matt’s team-mates at Belton Rovers. And, in answer to your question, dinner is ready when you are. I did it in the slow cooker while Carol and I were out making five hundred and sixty pounds on the cake stall. It seems we’ve all had a pretty successful day.’

  ‘That much, just for a few cakes and biscuits? Mind you,’ he says, addressing Rob, ‘she’s a pretty good cook. She should go on that Great British Bake Off programme she makes me watch. How about you, Carol? Are you a good cook too?’

  What a great start to the evening, having to admit to a complete stranger that the tin opener and microwave are my best friends in the kitchen. It’s a good job that I don’t fancy Rob or I would have been mortified.

  ‘Carol may not know a choux puff from a filo parcel,’ Sally says, rushing to my defence, ‘but she’s a dab hand with a paintbrush. She only moved in a week ago, and she’s already decorated her lounge, hallway and front door. Come through to the kitchen, we’re eating at the table tonight rather than on our knees in front of the TV.’

  ‘Wow, that’s pretty impressive to get all that done in a week. Do you not work, Carol?’ Rob asks.

  ‘I’m a teacher in a private school. We break up a week or so before the state schools so I’ve been able to make a start on getting my house the way I want it. There’s a long way to go before it’s anything like this though. I love what you guys have done with this kitchen. I remember you suggesting I could do something similar when you showed me around next door, Matt.’

  ‘Matt sold you the house?’

  ‘Yes, although he didn’t mention at the time that we would be neighbours. I only found out when Sally popped round to introduce herself on Thursday.’

  ‘That’s the easiest commission you’ve ever earned, mate. It must have been like showing someone around your own house. I was surprised it went so soon after going multi agency. We hadn’t had so much as a sniff of interest.’

  ‘Rob’s an estate agent too,’ Matt explains, pre-empting my next question. ‘His company took it on back in March as sole agents but they couldn’t get a sale. The vendor realised the error of his ways and offered it to a decent agency.’

  ‘You just got lucky that Carol came along when she did and fell in love with the house.’

  ‘When we eventually fought our way in through the overgrown garden. What on earth were you thinking getting rid of the gardener?’

  ‘Ignore them, Carol. They’re always like this when one of them steals a sale from under the other one’s nose. Good-natured banter, so they say.’

  ‘Actually, Rob, you might be able to help me. I was going to ask Matt, but if you had the property first, I’m wondering if you were the agents when it was rented out?’

  ‘Yes, we were. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered if you had a forwarding address for the last tenant, Leanne something?’

  ‘No address, but I think we have her parents’ number on file. That was a really odd business. She had paid six months’ rent in advance so we had no idea she had moved away until she failed to make her February payment. The owner didn’t need to get any kind of court order to evict her cos she’d already gone. You guys were quite worried about her, if I remember rightly?’

  ‘Sally was. She even rang the police towards the end of January, when we hadn’t seen her for over a month, but they weren’t interested unless a crime had been committed. Why do you need her forwarding address?’

  ‘A letter arrived for her. I think it’s only a Christmas card but it’s a shame for her not to have it just because the sender is unaware that she has moved on.’

  ‘Give me your mobile number, Carol, and I’ll text you when I’m in the office on Monday if her parents are happy for me to pass on their number to you.’

  ‘Now that’s what you call smooth,’ Matt said, winking at his girlfriend.

  ‘Stop it, Matt, can’t you see you’re embarrassing them both? You’re terrible when you’ve had too much to drink.’

  ‘It’s just banter. You know that don’t you guys?’

  I hesitate, unsure now whether to give Rob my number or not.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Carol. I’ll give you my direct line at work and you can call me at the office on Monday. We don’t want people starting fake rumours,’ he says, glaring at Matt.

  Matt shrugs his shoulders and sticks his fork into a piece of chicken coated in an unctuous red wine and herb sauce.

  ‘Divine,’ he says. ‘Maybe you should go on MasterChef rather than Bake-Off.’

  It’s the first sensible thing Matt has said all evening. He was so charming when he showed me around Wisteria Cottage, and devastatingly handsome I couldn’t help but notice, however I’m not sure I like Matt when he’s had a drink. Maybe that’s my problem when it comes to men: I’m looking for Mr Perfect and he probably doesn’t exist.

  Chapter 7

  18th December

  Dad made everything look so easy. He took a dozen sheets of newspaper, rolled them up into long sausage shapes and then tied them in a double knot before placing them on a bed made from the remaining sheets of my local free paper. He topped that with a couple of small logs and broke two firelighters in half, strategically placing them under the logs before setting them alight. Once the small logs had started to glow red, he rolled them on to their sides and put two slightly bigger logs across at right angles. Within fifteen minutes a decent fire was crackling in the grate, adding to the warmth already created by the radiators, now set to come on and off periodically throughout the day. All very simple when you know what you’re doing. It’s just as well he has got the heating sorted as it’s turned even colder outside. There was a very heavy overnight frost as I discovered when I went to fetch my Christmas tree in and found that the water in the bucket was frozen solid.

  ‘Do you think it will be okay, Dad?’ I asked, when he arrived to give me a helping hand.

  He had given me a weird look.

  ‘Just think about what you’ve said, Carol, and then think about where fir trees grow in the wild. It’s the heat inside our houses they’re not so keen on, which is why you need to remember to keep this stand topped up with water.’

  When you consider that I’m a teacher by profession, I can sometimes be incredibly lacking in common sense.

  He’s currently adjusting the stand for me, to stop the tree leaning to the left, before heading off home to a roast beef lunch while I tuck into a carton of supermarket own-brand tomato soup. I don’t mind; I like tomato soup and I’ve got some yummy rosemary focaccia rolls to warm in the microwave to have with it.

  ‘Nice job with the painting, love,’ he says. ‘Great colour choice for the front door. Very stylish.’

  I decide not to tell him about the Royal Purple fiasco.

  ‘Thanks. I think I’m going to leave the kitchen for the time being. There doesn’t seem to be much point in tarting it up if I’m going to put an extension on the back.’

  ‘You’re not thinking about doing that straightaway, are you? It’ll cost a bit and winter is never a good time to be knocking down o
utside walls.’

  ‘No. I can live with it for now while I decide if I’m going to do something similar to Matt and Sally’s next door. I had dinner with them last night and what they’ve done is perfect for the size of the cottage.’

  ‘It’s nice that you’ve already made friends with your neighbours. Your mum and I have been worried about you being lonely, you know, not having a boyfriend or even a lodger for company.’

  Ouch! I’m sure my dad didn’t mean to be quite so brutal.

  ‘I’m fine, Dad. I’m actually enjoying having my own space and coming and going as I please. Not that I’m ungrateful for the roof I’ve had over my head,’ I add quickly as I see Dad’s expression. ‘It must be nice for you two to have the house to yourselves.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly different. Right, there we are, a perfectly upright Christmas tree. Did you say you’ve got some fairy lights? Do you want me to help you put them on?’

  ‘It’s okay, Dad, you’ve done enough already. You’d better be getting off or your lunch will be spoiled.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Dad says, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. ‘Your mum told me to say that it’s not too late to change your mind if you want to come back with me. She said there’s plenty to go around and I can always bring you back later.’

  I’m almost swayed by the thought of Mum’s fluffy roast potatoes and bloated Yorkshire puddings but I stick to my resolve.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I want to get the tree finished and then I might paint the back bedroom in the same grey as the hall. I’ve only used about a third of the tin so it will make good use of the rest and at least the room would look nicer if anyone wanted to stay over.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see you on the twenty-third then and we’ll take you back with us so we can drive over to Noella’s together on Christmas Eve like usual.’

  ‘Or maybe you and Mum could stay over on the twenty-third?’ Clearly my earlier hint wasn’t direct enough. ‘We could go to Noella’s from here. It’s closer, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe next year, love, when you’re a bit more organised.’

  He’s already halfway down the path so he won’t have seen my disappointed expression.

  The soup tasted surprisingly good and, once fortified, I went to fetch the box of second-hand decorations from my spare bedroom. Actually, on closer inspection, they don’t look as though they have ever been used, unless Annie was particularly fastidious about taking care of them. I remove the top layer of tinsel to get at the lights, which always go on the tree first in my parent’s house. My mum will stand on the other side of the room directing my dad until she’s happy that the lights are evenly spaced. I don’t have anyone to do that for me so I’m up and down like a yo-yo, turning the lights on to check the colour distribution and off again if I need to move anything. I don’t know why I’m being so particular when there is no-one to please but me. I had initially thought that Annie’s colour choice was random but now that I’ve unwrapped all the baubles I can see she had a colour scheme after all. The lights are five colours; red, blue, green, yellow and clear and she has almost mirrored that in the baubles, swapping in gold and silver for the yellow and clear. Same with the tinsel, except there is no silver, she had selected the string of silver beads instead.

  Once I’ve finished draping the tree with the fluttery tinsel, saving a couple of strands for the mirror over the fireplace and the picture in my bedroom, the only one I have on the walls so far, I reach for the star to crown my creation and that’s when I notice. The first time I saw the red envelope, I had paid more attention to the card and its desperate message within so I hadn’t really noticed the writing on the front, but now a shiver has run down my spine. There, in distinctive handwriting which I immediately recognise as the same as on the pink envelope currently propped up on the shelf in my hallway, is the name Leanne Sykes, with my address underneath. I check the postmark, which is 11th December the previous year. Annie must be Jake’s abbreviation of Leanne and it looks like he’s sent her another Christmas card a year on from the last one. I have an overwhelming feeling of sadness in my heart. I had hoped that her disappearance was as a result of her forgiving him for whatever he had done wrong and that they were now living happily ever after but it looks like I’m wrong. Just to be absolutely sure, I fetch the pink envelope from the shelf and sink on to my sofa, a card in each hand, comparing the two. There’s no mistake. I desperately want to know what he has to say this time but it’s a bit different reading a card that has already been opened and tampering with someone else’s mail. I could probably go to prison for that.

  The light is fading as I sit debating with myself what I should do. Half of me thinks I should stick with Plan A: ring Rob at his office tomorrow morning, to see if I can get Leanne’s parents’ number and tell them about the card. But even if I get it, what if they just want to protect their daughter from further heartbreak and they tell me to throw the card in the bin? Leanne may never be made aware that Jake has tried to contact her again. Plan B is that I should steam open the card and see what Jake has to say this time. Maybe he is over her and just wants closure, but somehow, I doubt it. What I need to ask myself is what I hope to achieve by interfering? Do I seriously believe that I can act as some kind of counsellor and get the two back together? That’s ridiculous, I decide, and put the card back on the shelf in the hall. Plan A it is. It’s none of my business.

  Chapter 8

  The sound of a hunting horn startles me and I’m surprised to find myself sitting in near darkness, the only illumination coming from the multi-coloured lights on the Christmas tree. I must have dozed off on the sofa in front of my log fire after I finished decorating it. All the painting I’ve done in the past week has clearly caught up with me; I’m not used to so much physical activity. I reach for my phone to check who the message is from. I should probably change my ring tone. I’m not sure how the locals in this village feel about fox hunting and it does rather sound like the call to action on the morning of a hunt. I’m not a fan myself, and I definitely don’t want to offend anyone.

  The message is from Sally:

  You should have come to church this morning. The vicar was on top form and very appreciative of our efforts yesterday. I told him all about you and he’s very keen to meet you. Did I mention he’s quite handsome? Anyway, I’m just texting to remind you to put your bin out tonight. They’re collecting a day early because of the Christmas and New Year rosters and they usually do us first thing. Apologies again for Matt’s behaviour last night, he can be a real idiot when he’s had too much to drink xx

  I text back:

  Thanks for the heads up on the bins, I didn’t know about the change of collection date. No problem re Matt, like he kept saying, it was just banter. xx

  I hit send, then check the time on my phone. It’s almost six. I can hardly believe I’ve been asleep for two hours. The fire, which had been burning quite fiercely, yellow and orange flames licking the blackened brick walls of the chimney, is now merely glowing, a wispy thread of smoke rising from it, making its bid for freedom. I spur myself into action, swinging my legs down off the sofa and narrowly avoiding knocking over the mug of now cold coffee which I had put on the floor next to me for convenience. If I don’t rescue what is left of the fire I might not be able to relight it. Even with the radiators working the room feels much colder than it did earlier. I’m trying to remember what Dad did to get the fire going. I prod the side of the big log with the poker to try and turn it but it just collapses in on itself in a pile of smouldering ash. Rummaging in the log basket, I find the thinnest pieces of wood and then push them into the embers, more from hope than expectation. A few seconds later, a small flame catches the tapered end of the wood and I watch, mesmerised as more flames form and envelop the new wood at a terrifying speed. It’s no wonder that house fires can be so devastating. I make a mental note to self to put the mesh guard in front of the fire before going to bed, to be on the safe side. I drop a couple of sli
ghtly larger logs on the flames before heading to the kitchen to tackle the rubbish. If this is the last collection before Christmas, I definitely don’t want to be stuck with rotting leftovers in my bin.

  It’s quite surprising how much waste one person can generate in under a week but then I suppose I have been existing mostly on convenience foods and they always use excessive packaging. Maybe I can ask Sally for a few cooking tips. The meal at hers last night was delicious even if the company, Matt in particular, was a little wearing at times. He did improve as the evening went on, once he realised I had no interest in dating his friend, and Rob made it clear the feeling was mutual.

  Bin bag in one hand, I grab my keys from the hall shelf and open the front door. The shock of the cold air rushing to greet me takes my breath away for a moment. It’s freezing out there. I should fetch my coat really but I’ve left it upstairs and I just want to get this over and done with as quickly as possible so that I can return to my cosy lounge and contemplate which ready meal I’m going to heat up for dinner tonight. The glow from the outdoor lantern is illuminating frost glistening on my tiled path making it slippery underfoot as I gingerly make my way towards the brick bin store next to the front gate. We have to put the wheelie bins out on the road for collection and, on opening my gate, I can see everyone else’s is already done. I’m just manoeuvring the bin into position against the wall, thankful for the lights from an approaching car on our otherwise poorly lit lane, when there is a squeal of brakes followed by a metallic crunch.

  I scream in shock turning towards the lights as I do, to see a dark-coloured car firmly embedded in the back wing of my blue Ford Fiesta. There is a moment or two of silence and then a lot of noise as Matt and Sally’s front door is wrenched open.