The Great Christmas Knit Off

by Alexandra Brown

  Taking a big breath as if to clear my head, I ponder for a moment. I know there’s no escape once Ruby has made up her mind; she’s very tenacious, look what happened with the Dolly boots. So I’d best just get it over with. Gingerly, I nod my head, a secret part of me warming to the idea; nobody will see me, and you never know, it might be fun, in a mad, kookie cuckoo, liberating kind of way, and certainly the perfect opportunity to celebrate me having reached a momentous milestone in my predicted year of heartache.

  ‘OK, I’ll give it a go – but I’m not coming out of the changing room.’

  Laughing and shaking her head, Ruby lets the curtain swing closed. ‘Brilliant. And I have just the costume for you. It’s a new Christmassy-themed one and, to be honest, I really could do with seeing how it looks on someone else, so now is the perfect moment. I’ll get it while you try on those two tops.’

  *

  I’ve just about managed to cram myself into a crimson satin corset with matching frilly knickers which has a white lacy trim around the cleavage part and fluffy feathers fluting around the tops of my thighs. I’ve also managed to bury my pongy Converse trainers under my jeans; I didn’t want to inflict them on Ruby again.

  ‘How do you feel?’ She pokes her head around the curtain. ‘Wow, look at you! Sally Rand, eat your heart out,’ she adds on seeing me.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, she was a famous burlesque dancer in the Thirties and quite beautiful,’ Ruby smiles, ‘just like you.’

  ‘Aw, thank you,’ I grin. ‘I do feel pretty good, actually.’ It’s amazing how it gives me a lovely hourglass figure. Feeling pleased with myself and a bit daring, I put my hands on my hips and twist my body from side to side. Not bad, even if I do say so myself.

  ‘Try these.’ Ruby hands me a pair of fishnet stockings. They have snow-white and scarlet satin rosebuds stitched around the top with black whizzy tassels dangling down from each side.

  ‘I can’t wear those. I’ll get arrested,’ I say, in a very breathy voice, as the corset is so tight it’s making me feel giddy. I make big eyes at her and pull a pretend outraged face.

  ‘Of course you can. It’s just for fun. Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you dance or anything … unless you want to.’ Ruby smiles eagerly. ‘I’d be happy to show you some moves.’

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think so.’ Smiling and puffing, I hold up a finger, my miraculously enhanced cleavage practically bursting up to greet my chin as I attempt to bend over and swing a foot up on to a stool in preparation for a stocking. ‘Can you imagine me shimmying and bouncing on the back of my heels? Hmm, I don’t think so; I may have to build up to that part of my burlesque experience.’

  ‘OK, calm down. You have to be ready. Hang on, I’ll find you a wig! Ooh, I’ve got just the thing.’ Her eyes light up. ‘And some Mary Janes and a choker. You have to have a choker.’ She darts off excitedly, and I admire myself in the mirror until she returns a few minutes later with a shoebox under one arm, a long blonde plaited wig over the other and a matching crimson velvet choker in her hand.

  Once I have the rest of the costume on, and now with my confidence soaring, I swing the curtain back and kick a stocking-clad leg out of the changing room. Ruby claps her hands together. She’s reclining on the chaise longue, and I feel euphoric now, so I kick my other leg, place a hand on my hip and sashay out into the back of the shop.

  ‘See? What a transformation. You’re flying now, aren’t you?’ Ruby laughs.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I purr, in a way that hopefully sounds sexy and not too much like a chain smoker heavy breathing down a phone line looking for a cheap thrill.

  ‘You could do a turn at my next burlesque event; I’m hosting a Christmas special at the Picture House – that’s the old cinema building in Market Briar. Think gold satin swishy curtains and a cocktail bar on the stage. Perfect. I’m sure I could find a spot for you,’ Ruby laughs throatily, but with a deadly serious look on her face. Is she mad? I can’t dance burlesque in public. On a stage, in an old cinema with all those people watching? Oh no!

  ‘Steady on,’ I laugh. ‘I’m just a beginner.’

  Unperturbed, I press on, arching my back as I stick my bottom out and rest my hands down on the chaise. Ruby has switched off the record player now and turned her iPod on instead. She swipes the screen a few times until Mariah Carey starts singing ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’, so I strut around in front of her, flinging my arms out high and wide before doing a big air grab on the ‘yooooooou’ bit which I then draw in, clasping my left fist against my chest in an exceedingly over-dramatic way, all the while strutting up and down, tossing my long blonde plaited wig around with lots of attitude and loads of twerking action going on.

  ‘Yes, Sybs. You go girl. I see you, shaking that arse!’ Ruby whistles, and we’re both laughing like a pair of loopers when the bell jangles and the door flies open.

  With my pointy finger suspended in mid-air, my backside still sticking right out and my mouth agape, I freeze.

  ‘Oh, er … sorry. Um, perhaps I should go.’

  It’s Dr Ben, aka Dr Darcy, aka Dr Benedict Darcy, aka utterly hot man in a very unassuming way who doesn’t even know it – which just makes him all the more fanciable. And I’m squatting here like a constipated duck. Aaarggghhh!

  The floor sways.

  What the bloody hell is he doing here? Is this some kind of home visit? Because that would never happen in London. Oh no.

  I want to evaporate. Right here on the fluffy carpet of Ruby’s lovely little shop. So much for feeling sassy! Right now I just feel like a massive quivering jellyfish. My mouth drains of saliva. I try to swallow but end up doing an impression of a python devouring an egg instead. Whole. This has to be the most embarrassing moment of my whole life – apart from that time in the church, of course. Oh God.

  Looking flustered, distracted, who knows what? But most definitely surprised and quite possibly horrified, Dr Darcy turns and walks straight into the Pucci mannequin, making its wig swing furiously from side to side.

  ‘Ah, Jesus, I’m so sorry, I um,’ he apologises to the mannequin, before pushing a hand through his curly hair and quickly adjusting his glasses. Ruby whips a pashmina out from somewhere and hands it to me. I grab it gratefully and swing it around my shoulders.

  ‘We, er, were, just, um … testing out a … new costume,’ I splutter, swivelling my head towards a stack of unopened cardboard boxes as some kind of proof, still whirling my pointy finger around like the blade of a helicopter spiralling in for a catastrophic crash landing. ‘Um, yes that’s it.’ I bob from one foot to the other with a crazy cow smile plastered all over my face.

  ‘I saw you coming in here,’ Dr Darcy tries to explain, doing a half-grin and making big saucer eyes. A mixture of embarrassment and amusement, I think, hope, not … oh, I don’t know. I’m so flustered.

  ‘Yes. That’s right. I came in here.’ I cringe all over. Of course I bloody did. I gulp. Big mistake, as it makes my neck expand and the choker pings right off. For crying out loud! The choker lands in amongst the tassels at the top of my stockings and then just hangs by the Velcro fastener, like a spare appendage. Basil, not missing a trick, does a running body slam, bringing himself to a halt beside my thigh to play with the tassel. I attempt to shoo him away, but it’s no use, he just gets even more excited and spins in a circle instead, his little fluffy tail batting the tassel back and forth like a pendulum.

  ‘Yes. Er, well I thought I’d,’ Dr Ben coughs and quickly flicks his eyes to Basil and the bouncing choker, ‘bring this back.’ And he pulls my Kermit green scarf from his duffel coat pocket. Ruby clears her throat.

  ‘Oh, right. Thank you,’ I say, taking it from him and then, for some utterly inane reason, I wind the super-chunky knitted scarf around my neck. Not once, not twice, but three flaming times, as if I’m about to step outside into the chilly white snow. I stop winding and fold my arms instead.

  ‘You left it in the surgery. I, um, found it earlier wh
en I was trying to get a head start on sorting through the mountain of files.’ Mirroring my stance, he crosses his arms too and then seems to think better of it, as he quickly unfolds them and shoves his hands in his pockets instead, before changing his mind again and, pulling his left hand out, runs it over his stubbly beard.

  ‘Er, excuse me you two. I’m really sorry to interrupt,’ Ruby says, leaping up from the chaise, ‘but I just need to dash over to the village store before it closes. To get some, um, milk. Yes, that’s it. Milk.’ She sticks an index finger in the air as if to confirm the perceived sudden urgency. ‘Won’t be long.’ And she practically hurls herself at the shop door, flicking the closed sign over as she scarpers.

  The sound of a pony whinnying in the distance stirs me and for a blissful moment before the synapses of my brain kick in I’m a nine-year-old again on holiday at Brownie camp. I stretch out like a starfish, relaxed and carefree, happy after another glorious night’s sleep. And without a hangover, which is actually a bit of a miracle – or perhaps I’m just getting used to the merry amounts of alcohol consumed here in the countryside, as I did have rather a lot of deliciously fruity mulled wine last night, with several brandy chasers. Yep, I ended up going to the Duck & Puddle again with Dr Ben; well, not exactly with him, as in just the two of us, but he invited me to join him. And I was very happy to.

  After Ruby fled on the pretext of getting milk, Dr Ben said that he planned on having dinner in the pub later, seeing as it was curry-and-quiz night, and that if I wasn’t already booked (hardly!), then I was more than welcome to join him. So I did. And just as it played out on Friday evening, his time was monopolised by several of the villagers wanting advice on a variety of ailments, so we didn’t get any proper time together alone – I spent most of the night helping Clive to facilitate the quiz, which I actually thought was going to end in disaster at one point as Cooper could have sworn blind that the official language of Togo was Dutch, when in fact it’s French. Molly was on the opposing team that got it right, which didn’t help matters at all, especially as she had the ferret with her and it nipped Cooper’s thumb during the debacle.

  There’s a knock on the door so I fling back the duvet and get out of bed, much to Basil’s dismay – he does a grumbly growl on having to galvanise himself into action and move from the snuggly nest he’s made at the end of the bed. I pull on a robe and answer the door.

  ‘So sorry to wake you, Sybs.’ It’s Lawrence.

  ‘It’s OK, I was just languishing.’ I smile, attempting to smooth my tangled knot of curls into something resembling normal.

  ‘Jolly good. Only there’s someone here to see you.’

  ‘Me?’ I instinctively pull the robe in tighter, really hoping it isn’t Ben doing another one of his impromptu home visits – I’m still cringing from him inadvertently witnessing my first-ever burlesque moment, even though he was incredibly polite and didn’t mention it at all when we met up later in the pub.

  ‘That’s right. Here she is.’ Lawrence steps aside.

  ‘CHER!’ I scream, flinging my arms around her shoulders, taking care not to squash her magnificent treacle-coloured beehive (she hates it when people do that). And she looks amazing in giraffe-print leggings teamed with black suede knee-high wedge boots and a gorgeous leather and shearling aviator jacket. Very rock chick, as always.

  ‘I’ll put the breakfast on, will you be joining us?’ Lawrence asks, turning to Cher.

  ‘Ooh, yes please. I could murder a good breakfast and I’ve heard on the village grapevine that yours are legendary,’ Cher says eagerly, in her cracking cockney accent – still there even though she left London’s East End when she was just a girl, but both her parents are cockneys, her grandparents too. ‘If you’re sure that’s OK?’ she quickly adds, beaming at Lawrence.

  ‘It most certainly is – the more the merrier. And I’ll take this little fella downstairs with me, he seems eager for his breakfast too,’ he laughs as Basil plonks his bottom on Lawrence’s left shoe, tilts his black whiskery head up and does his usual ‘feed-me-because-I’m-starving’ (not) look.

  With Basil under one arm, Lawrence waves a cheery hand over his shoulder and heads off down the corridor, leaving us to it.

  ‘Babe, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,’ Cher turns to me. ‘How are you? I could have killed Clive when he casually mentioned that you had helped him with the quiz last night. That was the first I even knew you were here.’ She pauses to draw breath and roll her eyes.

  ‘Oh, never mind. I’ve had a fantastic time, honestly,’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘Come inside while I get changed.’

  ‘Thanks, babe. But are you sure you’re OK?’ She twiddles a finger around the inside of her massive gold hoop earring.

  ‘Absolutely. It’s been brilliant. Just what I needed – to get away, a change of scenery sure puts lots of things into perspective,’ I say, closing the bedroom door behind us while trying not to think about Jennifer Ford and Mr Banerjee and having to face the fallout of all that tomorrow morning at work. I may have eased my broken heart here in Tindledale but there’s still the not-so-small matter of £42,000 of taxpayers’ money to account for. Eeep. And the really lovely thing is that being here in Tindledale, I have felt protected, insulated almost, from it all. ‘And it’s like another world here, and everyone is so friendly,’ I say quietly, and then, letting my voice trail off, ‘I really wish I didn’t have to go home.’

  ‘I wish you didn’t have to either,’ Cher says and I realise that I actually said the words out loud, but before I can tell her all about it, Cher carries on talking.

  ‘Oh God, come here, and give me another hug. I’m so pleased to see you.’ She gives me a squeeze. ‘As soon as Clive said you were here, and I’d had a go at him for not ringing me the very minute you walked into the bar, I was out of that dump of a hotel – a shack on the side of a dual carriageway, more like. You know, I got woken up at four this morning when one of the druggies in the crack house opposite decided to play silly buggers and call out the fire brigade. And they don’t come quietly!’ She waggles a sparkly tipped finger in the air. ‘Oh no, blues and twos, the works. And then they left the lights on for the whole duration of their visit. Spinning round and round and round and round,’ she loops the finger in a circle to emphasis the spinning motion, ‘for at least an hour! How am I supposed to sleep with all that going on? I’m telling you, it was like a flaming theme park in that shit-hole of a bedroom.’ She shakes her head in disgust and I have to stifle a giggle. Typical Cher, always outraged. And always tells it like it really is. ‘So, have you had any more calls from that sneaky sod of a sister of yours?’

  ‘No. Well, not since I arrived here. I don’t have a mobile, remember, so I’ve been totally incommunicado which is actually a whole lot better than you might imagine,’ I say, taking a hairband and scooping my curls up into a messy bun, making a mental note to pop in and see how Poppy is when I get home – I’ll call the others too, although I don’t fancy going to Zumba again.

  ‘Hmm, mobiles don’t work in Tindledale any case,’ Cher shrugs, ‘and a good thing too. Maybe Sasha will have got the message by now and stop with all those “poor me” calls. You’re the injured party here, remember.’ She sniffs in solidarity. ‘No, those two deserve each other. I never liked Luke in any case,’ she adds ominously, whilst flicking a stray lock of hair away from her face.

  ‘Oh?’ I crease my forehead in surprise. ‘You never said.’

  ‘Hmm, well, how could I? When we all thought he was going to be your husband. You wouldn’t have wanted to hear it, and I wasn’t going to risk ruining our friendship over it. How would it have been if you had never have spoken to me again? No, I wasn’t taking that chance.’ Cher bounces down on the bed while I wander into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar, to get changed into my jeans and the gorgeous cashmere jumper that I bought in Ruby’s shop yesterday.

  ‘Maybe you have a point. I was a bit oblivious,’ I call out.

&n
bsp; ‘A bit?’ Cher teases.

  ‘OK. A lot. But let’s suppose you had said something and I had listened like a mature, sensible, grown up adult,’ I do a cross-eyed funny face and Cher giggles, ‘what would you have said to me?’

  ‘That he didn’t adore you. That you could do better. That I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’ Cher reels the reasons off on her fingers one by one. ‘You know, he came on to me once, and—’

  ‘He did?’ I jump in, utterly shocked. God, how sordid! My boyfriend trying it on with my own best friend – it’s embarrassing, cringey too. With my jeans half up, I shuffle out of the bathroom until I’m standing square in front of her, hands on hips and jeans dropped around my ankles.

  ‘Yep. Don’t worry, nothing happened, I’d never do that.’ Cher holds up her palms in protest and shakes her head vigorously, causing a lock of hair to bounce out of her beehive and plop over the left side of her face. She tucks it behind her ear and leans back on the bed. ‘Nice knickers, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks. They’re real silk.’

  ‘Classy.’ She nods and I nod back, revelling in the moment of light relief. And why not? Decent knickers are important, even more so when your ex is clearly a proper shit.