by Lacey London
‘All right, the first appointment is in... Greenton.’ I confirm, looking at my print out of the properties we are going to view. ‘Do you have the postcode?’
’1... S... Q... 8... P... L.’ She couldn’t sound more uncertain if she tried.
‘Right... since when do postcodes start with numbers?’ I roll my eyes and turn on the window wipers.
‘Could you swing by McDonald’s first?’ Lianna yawns. ‘I could murder a McMuffin.’
* * *
Looking at the putrid green walls dubiously, I glance over at Lianna for her reaction. When the estate agent said that this property was in need of a little facelift, I didn’t realise what she really meant was that the whole place needed demolishing. Lianna shakes her head regrettably as the estate agent lets out an annoyed sigh. This must be the tenth property that she has shown us today and not one of them has even come close to being classed as liveable. From the damp apartment in the centre of town to the run down detached in the suburbs, it seems that Lianna’s single person salary won’t stretch half as far as she anticipated.
Before Lianna purchased her cool new build with Dan, she lived in one of her parent’s luxury apartments pretty much rent free. Marc and I were always so jealous that she got to live the life of luxury for a nominal donation each month. Unfortunately for Lianna, her property developer mother sold the apartment the second that Li moved out. Given that there’s now a lovely Spanish family living in there, it seems there is no way back to her life of luxury. Thanking the estate agent for her time, we pull our hoods up over our heads and run to the car. Once safely inside and shielded from the heavy rain, I turn to face Lianna and try to be optimistic.
‘The third one wasn’t all that bad.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Lianna laughs. ‘The apartment opposite the soup kitchen with the leaky roof?’
‘Come on, you’re making it sound worse than it was.’ Sighing loudly, I put the car into gear and pull out onto the road. ‘I just think that we might have to reassess your requirements.’
‘What do you mean?’ She retorts angrily.
‘I mean... I think that we might have to be a little more realistic as to what your budget can stretch to.’
‘OK...’ She replies slowly, with a face that says she couldn’t disagree more.
‘For instance, you don’t have to have a private parking space and an en suite isn’t exactly a necessity, is it?’ Turning to face the window, Li folds her arms like a stroppy teenager. ‘I understand that it’s going to take a little bit of getting used to considering your previous accommodation, but we should be looking at this like a new beginning for you.’
‘The beginning of the end more like.’ Li scoffs.
‘I disagree.’ Stretching my face into a grin, I reach over and squeeze her knee encouragingly.
‘I’m going to be thirty, single and homeless.’ She drops her head into her hands and lets out a small sob. ‘My life is a mess.’
‘No, you are going to be thirty, single and fabulous.’ Taking her hand in mine, I flash her a wink. ‘I promise.’
This year I’m going to put my mistletoe in my back pocket,
so everyone can kiss my ass...
December 3rd
Swiping a finger across the screen of my Kindle lazily, I stretch out my legs on the sofa. Sunday really is my favourite day of the week. The only day in the calendar when it is socially acceptable to do absolutely nothing from the moment you peel open your eyes, to the second that you crawl back under the duvet at night. Attempting to block out the rather comical loud bangs that are coming from the spare room, I try to lose myself in my latest chick lit download. My eyes scan the text as I curl up into the foetal position. I am contemplating opening a tin of Roses to silence my growling stomach when I hear Oliver’s muffled voice calling out my name. Begrudgingly putting down my Kindle, I push myself to my feet and pad across the carpet in search of my husband.
After a little searching, I push open the door to the spare room to reveal Oliver balancing the world’s biggest Christmas tree over his shoulder. My face breaks into a smile as I take in the scene in front of me. A selection of sparkly baubles and tinsel are scattered across the bed and a mountain of tangled fairy lights completely cover the carpet. Oliver is red in the face as he pushes the tree out of the doorway and lets it fall onto the living room floor with a clatter.
‘That is a lot heavier than it looks.’ Collapsing into an armchair, he tries to get his breath back.
‘I know. It took four delivery men to carry it into the apartment, remember?’ I squeeze onto the chair beside him and rest my head on his chest.
He nods in agreement and motions towards the huge floor to ceiling windows. ‘This year, I say we put it right there.’
‘Perfect!’ Letting out an excited squeak, I plant a kiss on his nose before running into the kitchen. ‘I’ll get the Baileys, you get the decorations!’
As Oliver drags box after box of Christmas paraphernalia out of the spare room, I pour out two rather large measures of the calorific, creamy alcohol. Popping a couple of ice cubes into each glass, I place them down on the coffee table and wander off in search of my iPod. Last year, Oliver and I started our own Christmas tradition of decorating the tree with help of a bucket load of Baileys. This was then followed by a lot of drunken dancing to a mega Christmas mashup. Yes, we are quite clearly embarrassing parents in the making.
After digging my iPod out of the depths of my seemingly bottomless handbag, I hit play and pop it into the docking station. Within seconds, the iconic tones of Mariah Carey fill the room and I get a tingle of excitement in the pit of my stomach. Bending down to help Oliver separate the branches of the tree, I sing along to the music merrily. It took me ages to convince Oliver that we didn’t have to have a real Christmas tree. When I was a child, the one and only time that we had a real tree my mother spent the whole of December on her hands and knees plucking pine needles out of the carpet. Since then, she successfully brainwashed my father and I into believing that artificial Christmas trees are the far superior option.
Thinking back to that time in my life makes me realise just how much my mother has changed. Until last year, my mother was extremely proud to be the UK’s answer to Martha Stewart. A self confessed homemaker, she exclusively wore twinsets and the only acrylics that she had were in the form of Tupperware boxes. To be honest, I hardly recognise the person that she is today. A matter of days after meeting Oliver’s audacious mother, she was transformed into a bronzed, mini skirt wearing pussycat. Don’t ask me how as I really, really do not know.
I watch Oliver drape tinsel over the tree clumsily and fight my perfectionist urge to straighten it out. Reaching into the box of decorations, I smile at the memory of purchasing them last year. Every bauble is either red or gold and each one sparkles manically under the bright spotlights. It took us at least two hours to make a decision on which ones to go for. With Oliver wanting purple and me longing for the more traditional colours, it took a lot of rock-paper-scissors to help us settle the argument.
Taking a seat on the floor, I dig through the box and pull out my favourite piece. Buried beneath a bag of tinsel is our wedding gift from Marc and Gina. Taking care not to drop it, I gently slide the beautiful decoration out of its velvet gift bag. The delicate bauble is made from the finest Swarovski crystal and the glitter that is floating around inside glistens wildly as I turn it over in my hands. Amazingly, the time and date of our wedding has been engraved into the surface. Of all the stunning gifts that we received, this is my favourite.
Pushing myself to my feet, I slide the loop of the bauble onto a branch and take a step back to admire it. Beneath the bright lights of the Christmas tree it glistens wildly, like the brightest star in the sky at night. Oliver passes me my drink and we clink our glasses together merrily. Christmas is coming and I for one cannot wait...
I’m terribly sorry that my OCD made decorating the Christmas tree a positively unpleasant experience...<
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December 4th
Arriving back at my desk after lunch, I take a sip of water and try to shake the growing nausea in my stomach. When did I become such a lightweight? I only had one pathetic glass of Baileys last night and I still awoke this morning feeling like I had done ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Convincing myself that it must have been Oliver’s dodgy American bacon that has made me feel a little queasy, I drop my bag to the floor and flick on my computer. With it being so close to Christmas, there actually isn’t that much for me to do. With Oliver finalising the spring collection down in the studio, Marc has moved me back to the seventh floor to help aid client relations. What this really means is that Marc’s PA is on annual leave and he hasn’t bothered to respond to an email in weeks. His blatant refusal to deal with his own correspondence has resulted in over a thousand unread emails and one too many disgruntled customers.
Sifting through the masses of junk mail, I have a quick scan around the office. I have actually really missed this place. Before Oliver joined the company, this was my designated floor. It was only when I was selected to assist him down in the studio that I had to move. Not that I was complaining, working with the gorgeous American that is now my husband was how my fairytale started. Lianna catches me staring into space and sticks out her tongue in concentration as she types. Laughing at her daftness, I turn my attention back to my own work. I actually have a lot thank Suave for. Not only has it made my dream of working in the fashion industry come true, it has also given me my two best friends and my hubby.
As I think about just how fortunate I have been, I watch a young intern try and fail to drape a flimsy piece of thinning tinsel around the vending machine. Offering her a friendly smile, I grab the singing Santa off the photocopier and sit him in the corner of my desk. This place could really do with a splash of festive cheer. Apart from the intern’s sorry looking tinsel and my stolen Santa, there isn’t so much as a glimpse of anything else Christmas related in the entire building. Determined to change this, I lock my computer screen and walk over to Marc’s office. Knocking on the door gently, I let myself in when I see that he is alone.
‘Hi!’ I smile as I collapse into a plush leather chair. ‘You look fantastic today. New haircut?’
Marc scrunches up his nose suspiciously and puts his feet up on the desk. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘Nothing! Can’t I give one of my dearest, bestest friends a compliment without wanting anything in return?’ I bat my eyelashes innocently as I twirl a strand of dark hair around my finger.
‘You’ve got five seconds before I’m going into a meeting.’ Marc checks his watch and holds up five fingers. ‘Five.... four.... three...’
‘OK!’ I yell, leaning forward onto his desk. ‘Can we have some Christmas decorations for the office?’
‘The office is already decorated.’ He fires back, not missing a beat.
‘Are you kidding me? A flimsy piece of tinsel and a decade old singing Santa Clause do not count as decorations.’
‘I don’t know.’ He replies slowly, rubbing his face.
‘Oh, come on!’ I push his feet off the desk playfully. ‘Don’t be such a Scrooge.’
He frowns for a moment before holding up his hands to surrender. ‘Fine. You win.’
‘Really?’ I let out an excited squeal and clap my hands together.
‘Yes. I will sort something out this week. Now get out of here, I’ve got work to do.’ He flashes me a wink and motions towards the door.
‘Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’ I blow him a kiss before skipping back over to my desk.
I can’t wait to get my hands on the goodies and transform this grey office block into a festive wonderland. Being BFF’s with the boss really does have its perks sometimes. Unlocking my computer screen, I imagine myself tossing glitter over the worktops like a happy Christmas elf. I can see it already. Spray on snow for the windows, a sprig of mistletoe for the staff room, maybe I could push him into getting a Christmas tree! I could even dress up as Santa whilst I decorate. Just call me, the junior designer who saved Christmas.
Turning my attention back to Marc’s mountain of emails, I tap out an apologetic response to an angry supplier who is chasing up an unpaid invoice. Rebecca has been away for all of five days and already Marc is falling behind. I suddenly have a worrying vision of the entire office falling into chaos whilst Marc suns himself on Bondi Beach. Personally, I don’t think I would like to be in a hot country for Christmas. Wrapping up warm, sipping mulled wine and praying for snow are all part of what make this time of year so magical. Although the idea of catching some rays whilst sipping an ice cold beer does make me a little envious. Just don’t tell Father Christmas... or his elves.
Anyone who believes that men are the equal of women has never seen a man trying to wrap a Christmas present...
December 5th
Clutching a box of Christmas crackers to my chest for dear life, I squeeze my way along the crowded Christmas aisle and back to the safety of Oliver. Considering that it is so early in the season, these shoppers are crazy! As we continue to work our way around the busy supermarket, I attempt to regain control of our wayward trolley. For the past twenty minutes, Oliver has been happily plucking a variety of yummy food off the shelves and tossing them in without a second thought. We are only on the third aisle and already our trolley is over flowing.
Trying to resist the huge cupcake display that is screaming out at me, I leave Oliver salivating over the desserts and make my way over to the meat section. My stomach rumbles as I scan the rows of beef, chicken and lamb greedily. I can’t help but laugh as a couple rows over which turkey crown to buy. Their argument is getting rather heated now, with the young man putting a piece of meat in their basket just for his lady friend to remove it immediately. I am still giggling to myself when a thought suddenly hits me. One of us is going to have cook Christmas dinner! Neither Oliver nor I have any cooking skills to write home about. My speciality is a baked potato with grated cheese and the most time that Oliver spends in the kitchen is to grab a takeout menu. I suddenly have an awful image of the seven of us sat around the table with a selection of pizza boxes. Oh, God! Just as I am about to have an almighty panic attack, Oliver appears in front of me with a pile of doughnuts.
‘We have got five guests coming for Christmas and neither one of us can cook.’ My voice is high and flustered, but Oliver just stares at me blankly. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He turns his attention to the beef medallions and shrugs his shoulders casually. ‘We will figure something out and if we don’t, there’s always takeout.’
‘Oliver!’ I hit him on the arm with the pack of doughnuts. ‘We can’t have guests over for Christmas and serve them pizza or... or chicken tikka massala!’
He lets out a little laugh at my hysteria and continues throwing things into the trolley. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s Christmas!’ I throw my arms in the air and ignore the stares of passersby. ‘Christmas is about turkey with all the trimmings, roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts! Over my dead body are we serving up junk food on Christmas day.’
‘Then I’ll cook.’ Taking control of the trolley, he heads towards the bread.
‘You?’ I crinkle up my nose at the thought.
‘Yeah.’ He tosses me a seeded loaf and winks cheekily. ‘Happy now?’
I nod in response, but I can’t help feeling a little concerned. In all the time that I have known Oliver, the most he has ever cooked for me is a fry up in the morning and even that can be hit and miss. Running after him, I try to convince myself that everything will be all right. If he thinks he can handle it, then I have every faith in him. After all, cooking Christmas dinner for your in laws and audacious, carb free, vegetarian mother sounds like a breeze, doesn’t it?
* * *
Dropping our bags onto the dining table, we shed our wet coats and run to the radiator for warmth. To say that the weather outside is terrible wo
uld be an understatement. I lock eyes with Oliver and we both burst into a fit of giggles. Our wind battered hair, rain soaked clothing and red noses look frankly comical. It’s not even 6.30pm yet, but it has been dark for hours already. The heavy rain and strong winds combined with the dense darkness make it almost unbearable to stay outside for very long. I wander over to the floor to ceiling windows and look down at the busy streets below. The bright lights on the Christmas tree sparkle like crazy against the black night sky as hoards of people run along the pavement with umbrellas, desperate to find shelter from the wind and rain. Before I give in to the lure of the couch and a hot chocolate, I return to the kitchen to help Oliver with the food shopping. Filling the fridge with delicious cheeses and wine, I am soon distracted by a knocking at the door. Motioning for Oliver to answer it, I carry on unloading the shopping bags.
‘Umm, Clara?’ Oliver beckons me over to the doorway. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’
‘Who is it?’ Wiping my hands on my jeans, I pop my head around the door. ‘Lianna!’ It takes me a moment to realise that she is carrying a rather large holdall. ‘What... are you doing here?’
‘My mum kicked me out.’ Her brow creases in annoyance. ‘Can I stay here for the night?’
‘Sure.’ I look at Oliver who nods in agreement and beckons her inside. ‘Drink?’
‘Absolutely!’ Li replies, propping herself up at the breakfast bar.
I take a seat next to her and lower my voice so that Oliver can’t hear. ‘What the hell happened?’