The Great Christmas Knit Off

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Look, Sasha, I don’t want to talk about it. What you did was unforgivable, but it’s done, in the past. I can’t change it, and to be honest, you might even have done me a favour; I’m starting to see that now. Let’s just say that I would never do something like that to you, or any other woman for that matter.’ I turn away, determined not to make this about me. This is her doing, not mine.

  ‘You say that now, but you have already done it,’ she snivels, picking at a hangnail on her left thumb.

  ‘Whaaaat?’ Is she for real?

  ‘With Ian. He told me all about it, that you came on to him in the taxi that time, that he had to turn you down.’ Her voice is all quivery.

  ‘Are you kidding me? That’s a pack of lies. He came on to me!’ I say, incredulously, remembering Sasha’s barrister boyfriend who was named after Ian Botham.

  ‘He said you’d say that, that’s why I never asked you outright. I couldn’t bear to, but I never forgot and it broke my heart you know, everything changed from then on. I loved Ian, I thought we’d be together for ever, I just didn’t care after that, it’s why I am the way I am. And why I—’

  ‘Hang on,’ I interrupt. ‘So let me get this straight, are you saying that you got with Luke as some kind of sick revenge plan for something you thought happened years ago?’

  ‘Nooooo!’ And she actually looks genuinely horrified. ‘I truly didn’t Sybs, I was just saying, explaining that you’re not perfect either.’

  ‘But I didn’t betray your trust. I didn’t come on to Ian. Like I said, I’d never do anything like that,’ I reiterate.

  ‘I realise that now,’ she says in a very small voice. ‘And that’s what makes me even more awful.’

  ‘You’re not awful,’ I say quietly. I actually can’t be bothered to argue with her any more. I look sideways at my beautiful, glamorous twin sister and see instead, a wreck, a shell. On close inspection her hair is a mess, her red roots are in desperate need of a blonde touch up and her nails are chipped and bitten. Underneath her usually immaculate make-up her face is looking withered and weary because she’s lost too much weight. Her fight has gone, the hard outer shell, and the snootiness has faded away, leaving a vulnerable and frightened woman. I feel sorry for her. Something’s clearly very, very wrong.

  Cher arrives back with two glasses and a bottle of Southern Comfort. She looks at me and I nod my head so she backs out of the room, pulling a face and mouthing, ‘good luck.’

  I pour us both a drink, hand a glass to Sasha, down mine and ask her to start from the beginning. And she does.

  *

  ‘Oh my God.’ I shake my head.

  ‘So do you see now?’ Sasha says, and I pour us another drink.

  ‘I had no idea,’ I reply.

  ‘I did try to tell you. I called and called and called to explain,’ she says, swallowing a mouthful of Southern Comfort. Sasha has told me that nothing happened with her and Luke before the wedding. He turned up at her hotel room the night before, confused, saying that he wasn’t ready to settle down, and they started drinking and one thing just led to another and they ended up in bed together, and then when they woke up in the morning, an hour after the wedding was due to start, they both panicked – Sasha says she felt disgusted with herself. And the weirdest thing of all is that I believe her. I just know she’s telling me the truth; so maybe we do have that twin thing, that sixth sense, that connection after all. But none of this changes anything between Luke and I. It wouldn’t have worked, it wasn’t right in any case. And he clearly thought so too, if he turned to my sister to pour out his heart to, the night before our wedding.

  ‘I know you did. But you can’t blame me for not wanting to talk to you,’ I say, ‘I thought it had been going on for a while.’

  She shakes her head vehemently.

  ‘Yeah, I can also see that now. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to you on the day of the wedding, explain everything, but I felt so ashamed, so revolted with myself, I couldn’t have even looked you in the eye.’

  ‘But it doesn’t explain why you thought it was OK to sleep with my fiancé. What do you have to say about that?’ I ask, not ready to let her off the hook completely.

  ‘There’s no excuse. We had been drinking, and well …’ She stops talking.

  ‘Come on. You need to do better than that.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You must know. Had you wanted him for a while? Was that it, you fancied Luke and couldn’t stop yourself?’ I say, desperately trying to fathom it all out.

  ‘No. It was never like that. I didn’t want him.’

  ‘Why did you do it then?’

  ‘To feel better, perhaps.’ She shakes her head. ‘Oh, I don’t know, I’ve gone over and over and over it a million times.’

  ‘To feel better?’ I say incredulously. ‘But you weren’t unhappy, were you?’

  ‘Ha! This is the thing,’ she sniffs, ‘everyone assumes that just because you have loads of money and a glamorous, high-flying life, that it means you’re happy. But I’ve never really been happy. Not properly. Lonely, more like. Not like you, with your cosy, secure life. Friends like Cher that you’ve known for years, people that really care about you. A future, getting married and then most likely having a family, and let’s face it, I’ve always been the mean twin, the wicked one – and that’s the thing about being a twin, there’s always a comparison.’

  Silence follows. I had no idea she felt this way.

  ‘So is that why you …’ I pause, not wanting to kick her when she’s down, I’m not that heartless, ‘um, are, gregarious?’ I settle on.

  ‘I guess so. When you’re the black sheep of the family, it’s sometimes easier to just carry on reverting to type, playing the pantomime villain.’

  ‘You’re not the black sheep,’ I protest.

  ‘Yes, I am. I know what you all think of me …’ her voice trails off.

  ‘Well, you could always try being a bit more courteous, less judgemental in future.’

  ‘I know. And I am trying. That’s what coming here today was all about. A start. But I got scared. Scared of what you might do to me, scared you might not talk to me, let alone see me. I thought I had lost you for good and well, I suppose I did what I always do—’

  ‘Lashed out,’ I finish, and she nods her head. ‘And what about the bankruptcy?’ I ask, not wanting to talk about her, or Luke, or what they did to me any more. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘Oh God, it’s such a mess,’ she starts, and then takes a deep breath before exhaling hard and carrying on. ‘In Dubai, there are strict rules about kissing and drinking and that kind of thing in public. And it’s ludicrous, but I, we, Luke and I – he begged to come back to Dubai with me after he missed the wedding, said he had to get away, and well, we got drunk on the beach. We both felt so wretched, and unhappy, and we had one of those horrible, sad, desperate, rebound kisses and got caught by the police. So as soon as word of my arrest spread faster than a bush fire, that was that, all my clients drifted away. Pouf! Just like that.’ She waves her arm in the air in a feeble attempt at a joke. ‘Nobody wants the drunk tramp organising their daughter’s sweet sixteen. People can be very particular about that kind of thing. And in my business, you’re only as good as your last gig; hence I’m back here with only my charity event left. Plus a trillion bills to pay: my landlord in Dubai is suing me for non-payment of rent on the penthouse and all the catering companies, celebrity singers – superstars like Kylie and Miley performing at your wedding reception don’t come cheap – still have to be paid for because you can’t just cancel them at the last minute, and I never bothered with insurance policies and all that; I ran my business on goodwill and charm. So now it’s all an utter mess.’ And she starts sobbing some more.

  Twenty-first of December, and Hettie’s House of Haberdashery is adorned with colourful Christmas decorations and packed full with fifteen Japanese tourists all looking resplendent in their Ho Ho Ho Christmas jumpers, alongside various
people from the Tindledale parish council and practically all the residents from the village too. We thought it would be nice to have Christmas drinks to welcome the Japanese guests to the village, and also give them the chance to meet Hettie and the rest of the traditional hand-knitters.

  So, Hettie has a special Christmas songs tape in the cassette player and everyone is laughing and chatting and generally having a wonderful time. The tourists must have taken a trillion pictures, at least: individual ones of them standing outside the shop, individual ones of them with Hettie and the Tindledale Tappers and then the same thing all over again, but this time as a group. The whole process took over an hour, but was actually a very lovely, jovial experience helped along with copious cups of mulled wine and iced Baileys, followed by an exceedingly good selection of Kitty’s cakes – mince pies, stollen slices and fruity, marzipan-topped Christmas cake. And Hettie is thrilled to be receiving such ‘international recognition for her little shop in Tindledale’ is what she whispered to me when the others were busy chatting and laughing with our guests.

  Even Cher has managed to duck out of the pub to come and celebrate with us, leaving Clive in charge with strict instructions not to flick on the karaoke machine or let the locals think there’s going to be a lock-in later.

  ‘Do you reckon Sasha will be OK, then?’ Cher asks, joining me by the fireplace.

  ‘I hope so. I spoke to her last night and she said she’s going to stay at Mum and Dad’s in Staines while they’re away on the Christmas cruise – she wants to give herself a chance to get her head straight and then see if she can sort out her finances somehow and salvage her career.’

  ‘Hmm, well that’s good, and I’m pleased you and she are kind of OK now. You are twin sisters at the end of the day.’

  ‘Yes, me too. I’m glad she didn’t hang around though – I can’t handle all her dramatics, an afternoon seems to be my limit.’ I shake my head and sigh. I feel so much lighter now after having seen Sasha and confronted my demons. I think I had built up the scenario of what happened with her and Luke to such a monstrous thing in my head that I’d turned it into an insurmountable hurdle to get over, when the reality was actually quite sad and pretty desperate – two lonely, flawed and confused people who got it wrong, and they’re both facing the consequences of their mistakes now. I guess that old adage of ‘what goes around comes around’ really rings true sometimes.

  ‘Ha! She sure can be a bit intense. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved when she agreed that travelling on to the Christmas hunt ball venue was a good idea,’ Cher puffs, helping herself to another turkey and cranberry sandwich from a plate that Taylor is offering around the room.

  ‘Me too, plus it was the right thing to do because it’s all she has left and, putting everything aside, she is an excellent event manager, so if she has any sense, she’ll make the most of the hunt ball and see if she can use it to jumpstart her career here in the UK. Far less glamorous, but—’

  ‘Oh well, I’m sure she’ll cope somehow,’ Cher laughs. ‘She could always ask your mum to fix her back up with that awful Ian and his chamber!’ And we both do childish sniggers as we finish the last of our champagne. ‘Look who just walked in,’ Cher says motioning with her head towards the door. I glance over and see Ben walking through the door, pushing the hood of his duffel coat down and smoothing his curls. He sees me, and waves, but before he has a chance to come over, a woman from the parish council grabs his arm and practically canters him towards the Japanese tourists who, after being introduced to the village doctor, all do reverent little bows as Ben shakes their hands, each one in turn. And I know any chance to get near him is futile. ‘Awww, you have to feel sorry for Dr Ben,’ Cher laughs as we see him surreptitiously glance in our direction with a ‘rescue me’ grin stuck on his gorgeous face. I smile, wondering if we’ll ever have a chance to be on our own together. I think I’d quite like that.

  Lawrence arrives too, and after introducing Cher to Leo, I dash over to greet him. Then the bell above the door makes the now familiar jingly sound, and an older man in a black overcoat and a very serious look on his face appears.

  ‘Can I help you?’ It’s Marigold who breaks free from the throng and turns towards this unexpected guest. I move closer, as there’s something about his manner that’s making me feel edgy, uncomfortable almost. His eyes are darting around the room, looking, searching for something or someone and he seems taken aback by the crowd, as if surprised, annoyed even. He leans in to Marigold, says something, which I can’t hear, and she shakes her head. I step forward to be right next to her, ready to help out if required. She says, ‘not here,’ in a stilted voice. Oh God, please, not another bailiff.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I smile breezily, inwardly praying this isn’t what I think it is and that he’s going to embarrass Hettie in front of all these people.

  ‘No. This, er, gentleman …’ Marigold pauses to give him an up and down look, ‘wants to see Hettie, but won’t say why.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I glance at Marigold.

  ‘In that case, you’ll have to come back another time,’ I say, swiftly taking charge but keeping my voice low, I’m not having Hettie upset, not now, not when this party means so much to her. ‘Hettie’s busy and we’re in the middle of a private function,’ I tell him. And I can’t even see Hettie. I scan the room, but it’s no use, there are so many people squeezed into the small space that it’s impossible, and probably a good thing as Hettie will only worry if she sees Marigold and I talking to this stranger.

  ‘Is she here?’ he asks, looking around too.

  ‘Um,’ I start, and Marigold gives me a discreet nudge on the back of my leg with her knee. ‘Actually, she isn’t, she er, had to pop out,’ I lie.

  ‘So when will she be back?’ The man creases his forehead and glances at his watch.

  ‘We really couldn’t say,’ Marigold answers airily, before crossing her arms.

  ‘In that case I’ll wait.’

  ‘But she could be ages. Why don’t you come back another time?’

  ‘Look, this is … er, a …’ and he clears his throat as if weighing up the right words to use before settling on, ‘family matter.’ And then I know.

  I get it.

  Marigold does too.

  It’s Hettie’s vile nephew.

  In one swift movement, Marigold places a hand on his forearm, the other on his elbow and practically frogmarches him out of the shop. I dart after them, just in time to see her propel Hettie’s nephew into the snow-covered wooden bus shelter.

  ‘Get off me, woman! Are you crazy?’ the man huffs, shaking his arm free in an overly dramatic way. ‘You know, there are laws against physically assaulting people,’ he adds, brushing his coat sleeve with a look of disgust on his face.

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I hardly touched you, and talking of laws – for your information, there are lots of laws to prevent people from pulling the wool over old ladies’ eyes,’ Marigold hisses.

  ‘What are you talking about? Just because I won’t tell you my private business. And as for old lady?’ He pauses to give Marigold a disparaging glare. ‘I’d dispute both of those claims right now!’ There’s a short silence while Marigold opens her mouth and then closes it again, clearly trying to fathom what he means by this juxtaposed compliment, and then he clarifies, sort of. ‘Since when did ladies go around dragging complete strangers along the pavement and into bus stops?’

  ‘Oh, well, if you put it like that …’ Marigold pats her hair, the penny seemingly having dropped that he doesn’t think she’s old! And she’s not, really; she’s much younger than Hettie, which is who she was referring to having the wool pulled over her eyes. But still, mid sixties, which is what I’m guessing how old Marigold is, isn’t really that old these days, not when people are living well into their nineties, or to over a hundred in some cases, so he has kind of got a point. ‘Then I apologise for dragging you out of the shop.’ And I swear there’s a hint of a simper in Marigold’s
voice.

  I jump in. We need to pull this back – we can’t fraternise with the enemy, the man that thinks it’s OK for Hettie to worry about being forced to go into a home, worry about having to drink stewed tea from a beaker. What kind of a way is that for her to live? It’s not right. I take a deep breath.

  ‘But you still haven’t explained why you’re here?’ I fold my arms and wait for an explanation, desperately trying not to shiver, but it’s nearly impossible given how blooming cold it is out here. And then he throws me completely off-guard.

  ‘Would you like my coat? Here.’ He goes to unbutton it. Hmm, trying to be a proper gentleman now, I see. Well, it won’t work; he’s not going to pull the wool over my eyes too. Not wanting to get distracted, I carry on.

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I will.’ Marigold leaps forward, but I quickly push out a hand to stop her.

  ‘No, she’s fine too.’ I give him a glare.

  ‘Yes, of course. You’re quite right, Sybs. Sorry,’ she mutters, checking herself.

  ‘OK, seeing as it’s so cold out here and we have a party to get back to, I suggest we get this over with quickly,’ I start, authoritatively, and fixing my eyes on to his Wedgewood-blue ones – just like Hettie’s, so obviously a genetic Honey family thing then. ‘Tell me why are you here?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s a family matter.’

  ‘Then you must understand that we’re Hettie’s friends, so we’re not going to stand by and—’

  ‘That’s right.’ Marigold jumps in. ‘I’ve known Hettie for years and to see her unhappy and struggle for so long because of you, is well, quite frankly, heartbreaking. Have you no shame?’ And to give him fair dues, the man flicks his eyes to the pavement as if Marigold’s words have really unnerved him. Ha! So Hettie’s nephew does have a soul then. Good. Perhaps we can persuade him to leave her alone and stop banging on about carting her off to an old people’s home, away from everything she holds dear – her friends, her beloved oast and glorious House of Haberdashery – which is definitely on the up. Only this morning we had another batch of new knitting commissions. Baby sets, booties, bonnets and cardigans in mainly white, with a few pink and blues too, and a lovely Valentine’s jumper which I thought might be popular – a gorgeous crimson mohair with a sparkly pink heart on the front. And the first order is from a guy who plans on presenting it to his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day – he’s asked, especially, if it can have a label sewn inside with ‘will you marry me?’ on it, which we all thought was super swoonsome. Taylor is all for delivering it in person just so she can yarnbomb some hearts over the bonnet of his car or something, to really complete the whole handknitted romantic experience for them both.