We reached the Tube station and within minutes we were squeezed among commuters and tourists, roasting like turkeys under all our layers.
Kim was still rabbiting. ‘The snowman …? The bear and the hare …? The penguin …? The man on the moon …? Liv, you’re killing me.’
‘Oh, I remember the penguin advert! He wanted a girlfriend or something, right? But I don’t recall the other three.’
‘Well congratulations on being the most cold-hearted person in Britain. Have fun on your throne of stone.’
Just as I was beginning to really dislike the feeling of another passenger’s roll of wrapping paper jabbing me in the eye, it was time to untangle from the Tubers and spill out onto soggy Oxford Street. It was still heaving at this time in the evening, with a mash-up of every Christmas song from Now That’s What I Call Christmas ’94 booming from open shop fronts.
Kim marched us both up the street, weaving expertly like a Dickensian street urchin through the crowds while I bumped my way past the other shoppers and generally made everyone hate me. We stopped in front of John Lewis.
‘Merry Christmas! Get in,’ Kim commanded.
I’ll admit it; John Lewis is lovely at Christmas. Immediately I wanted to buy the entire Scandinavian winter lodge-style fake living room just inside the entrance, from the faux-fur blankets to the log tea-light holders, to the snow-sprinkled reindeer ornaments. I was just reaching for a miniature frosted tree in a pot when Kim slapped my hand away.
‘Nope. You need to think bigger. A Christmas tree is going to light up your whole apartment; nay – your life.’
Off we trotted, accepting some of the most wonderful swag of the year from smiling sales assistants en route: a mini mince pie, a shot glass of Prosecco, and a spritz of the latest Philosophy festive scent. By the time we reached the winter wonderland that was the Christmas department, I was humming along to ‘Something Stupid’ like I was Nicola Kidman herself.
‘How about this one?’ I stopped at the first tree, an all-white creation whose spray-painted branches glistened with glittery faux-snow. I liked it.
Kim scrutinised. ‘It’s a bit … blank.’
‘I like it; it would go really well in my apartment.’
Kim gave me a pointed look which I ignored. ‘You know it’s only up for about a month, right? We’re not shopping for one to coordinate with your curtains.’
‘Nope, I like this one.’
I fingered the branches, willing myself to feel Christmassy. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to tug back memories from my past of twinkling, traditional … no. I fell short at the recollection of a Santa in board shorts passing out slices of watermelon. I opened my eyes and focused on the tree, which was pretty.
‘I like the glitter, I like the fake snow, and I like the thought of buying those three-for-two baubles in red and covering it with them.’
‘Like blood splatter on a white wall.’
‘Oh. I’ll get the gold ones then.’
‘If that’s what you want …’ Kim caressed the fluffy branch of a gigantic fake-fir that looked as if it had been lopped down from beside Santa’s house in Iceland.
‘I want the white one; you don’t own me.’ My strange affinity with this blank, emotionless tree was something I could mull over with my therapist, Squidgy Rabbit the stuffed rabbit, sometime, but for now I smiled at my friend, who succumbed, and helped me pull the box out of the rack, giant-Jenga style.
Kim looked up at me halfway through the task. ‘You will make time for Rockefeller, won’t you?’
‘Well—’
‘That’s one Christmas tree you aren’t allowed to not care about.’
I pictured the towering red and green-lit tree in my mind, an icon of New York at Christmas, and Kim’s favourite place in the world. ‘I don’t know, I’m sure I’ll go past it …’
‘Liv, you have to go, it’s our place.’
‘But you won’t be there, so it won’t be the same anyway. And I don’t know if I’ll really have time—’
‘Make time. Please. I know you’re one pair of finger-less gloves away from Ebenezer Scrooge but we’ve been on the New York trip together every year, and every year we go and see the Rockefeller Christmas tree together. This year you have to go for both of us.’
I looked down at my fingerless gloves. Was Kim right? Was I a Scrooge at Christmas? No, I had nothing against Christmas. I liked Christmas, it’s just that I didn’t really … care about it. I’d watch a Christmas movie if it was on TV, and drink Baileys if it appeared in my hand, and exchange a couple of presents with my family sometime around the big day, depending on when they were all free to get together. But when you grew up in a family who escaped for two weeks of winter sun every Christmas, and were now spread out around the world, traditions and ‘proper Christmases’ were a bit off the radar.
Christmas to me was a very lovely, very welcome break from work, from my team and the pressures that come with any job. It was a time to catch up on sleep, and it was the milestone between September and March where I gave my legs a shave.
‘I’ll go to Rockefeller,’ I said. ‘I’ll send you a photo. If I have time.’
‘You’re the boss this year, you’ll have time.’ Kim heaved the box out and, satisfied, trotted off towards the counter while I armed myself with gold baubles (and one box of the red) and a red reindeer to go on the top, because I’m not keen on fairies and the stars looked too prickly.
There was no getting away from it – I was the boss this year. Which was exciting, but … what had I got myself into?
On the Tube ride home, I trumped that passenger with the awkward rolls of wrapping paper from the previous journey, by forcing everyone to angle themselves around my Christmas tree box as if it were Baby Jesus himself.
‘I love my Christmas tree,’ I sighed, hugging the box. I’d show Kim Ebenezer Scrooge.
‘Praise the lord!’ she said, embracing me with one arm. ‘And you promise you’ll go and see Rockefeller?’
‘Sure. This is my first ever Christmas tree, you know.’
Several eavesdropping passengers side-eyed me like I was mad.
‘No way.’
‘Seriously. We’ve never had a family Christmas at home, and I’ve never had one in my flat before.’
‘Not even with Kevin?’
‘Nope.’ I looked away, the best I could, without staring straight into a stranger’s set of boobies. It still smarted to think of him, even after all these years. ‘We always had Christmas separately, and we never decorated because all the spare money went towards—’ ‘—the house fund.’ Kim finished for me, putting a much-needed end to that little conversation. Kim thought for a while, whilst sucking on a complimentary John Lewis candy cane. ‘New York is going to be really good for you, I think. This year, especially. You’ve never been the one making the decisions about the schedule and planning the itinerary. You’ve always been told you have to do this at this time, and be there at that time, and have dinner at Ristorante el Blandezvous while making small talk with delegates.’
‘This isn’t going to be any different – I still have to make sure everyone does the same job.’
‘But you’re in charge. You want to have a business meeting over hot chocolates at the top of the Empire State, you can do it. You want to hold a feminist rally on the Central Park ice rink: just book it, honey pie.’
I gulped. All I heard was ‘business meeting’, and suddenly the fear of everything being On Me hit me. I had to make sure Girls of the World’s presence at the #IWasHereNYC conference was a success. Christmas would have to wait.
Back at the flat we decorated my tree, Kim dancing along to a particularly festive-themed episode of Strictly Come Dancing (she’d declared my one Christmas song as ‘crap’) while I found myself thinking about not wanting to think about Kevin.
Trickles of regret ran through me as I hung the gold and red baubles. I shouldn’t have spent this much on a fake tree. A little part of me bitterly
thought that Kevin wouldn’t be worrying about spending money on a Christmas tree. Well, he didn’t need to save up again from scratch, did he?
I looked at my flat. It wasn’t even my flat; getting out of rented accommodation seemed like such a faraway dream.
Luckily Kim trod on my toe at that point while cha-cha-ing backwards. ‘What are you standing still for? It’s Christmas, you’re going to New York next week, Strictly’s on!’ She saw my face and stopped. ‘Are you OK?’
I stood back and observed the tree. It did look nice. ‘I’m not sure I should have spent the money on this tree.’
‘Don’t start that again.’
‘But—’
‘Nope. You’re in a good job; you’re well behaved, like, all the time with your money. You can treat yourself once in a while; it’s hardly going to make an inch of difference.’
‘I’m not well behaved all the time. I like living wild. I ate a muffin for breakfast the other day, and it wasn’t even the breakfast kind.’
‘What kind was it?’
‘Blueberry. They were reduced in Sainsbury’s.’
‘That’s still the breakfast kind.’
I shrugged. ‘Fine. Maybe I’ll just move in with you and Steve. I’ll be the spinster in your basement, the bitter old Miss Havisham in your granny flat. The fly in your ointment.’
‘That’s the Christmas spirit I was after,’ Kim said, and twerked against me (I think she was trying to jive) until I snapped out of my bad mood.
Read on for an exclusive extract of Lisa’s next bestseller CATCH ME IF YOU CANNES.
Available to pre-order now!
Once upon a time Jess accidently stole
a superyacht from Cannes marina,
but we’ll get to that . . .
Jess was awoken by her best friend punching her in the back of the head.
‘Get off me please, I have a knife and I will kill you to death!’ she shrieked, rolling over and remembering in the nick of time that she was three bunks up. In the opposite bed, Bryony lay face-down, fast asleep, a long arm stretched across the gap between them like a rope bridge with her clenched fist on Jess’s pillow. Jess exhaled in relief and pushed her friend’s hand off her bed.
Bryony lifted her head, her face painted the colour ‘grump’. ‘Jess, I love how bubbly you are at any God-given hour, but could you keep it down a bit? I just got to sleep.’
‘If you’re going to sleep-punch me I’ll fight back, you know.’
‘You’re a lover, not a fighter,’ Bryony yawned.
‘Where’s everyone else?’ Jess rubbed the back of her head and peered over the side of the bunk at the empty beds below.
‘The Scot with the earrings declared at two a.m. that he couldn’t sleep, and that they should all go to the bar instead. I haven’t seen them since. Did you say you have a knife?’
‘I thought you were a robber. I was just warning you that I’d kill the hell out of you if you tried anything.’
Bryony raised an eyebrow. ‘You couldn’t kill a robber.’
‘I could, I’m feisty. I do boxercise. And Zumba, if that’s relevant.’
‘You said “please”.’
‘Huh?’
‘You definitely said, “Get off me please”. Even when you think you’re being attacked your manners are impeccable. Anyway, you don’t have a knife with you. Did you mean your plastic spork?”
‘If you’d been a robber you wouldn’t have known that.’ Jess sat up as best she could when the ceiling was less than two feet above her bunk, pulled on her glasses and cracked open the curtain, letting bright Riviera sunshine flood into their compartment of the sleeper train. ‘Wow!’
‘Urrrrgggghhhh, what time is it?’ Bryony pulled the covers over her head, exposing her feet, which dangled off the end of the bunk anyway.
‘Nearly seven.’ Outside the window, glittery turquoise sea whizzed past. White sails shook like elegant swans waking up, while yachts the size of houses gleamed lazily in the early-morning sun.
A beam of happiness and hope pushed its way across Jess’s face. It was happening, and this was exactly what she needed: two weeks of fun somewhere different, somewhere out of her comfort zone. She reached over and yanked the blanket off Bryony. ‘Look.’
Bryony scrunched her eyes closed. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Bryony, look! We’re in the South of France, the Côte d’Azur.’ She pulled down the window as far as it would go and pushed her face up to the gap, breathing in the Mediterranean air. ‘Bonjour la France!’ she yelped into the breeze.
Chuckling, Bryony pulled her back inside. ‘Okay, Édith Piaf, I’m awake. Let’s go and get you a croissant and me some strong coffee before we arrive.’
Jess couldn’t drag her gaze away from the window as she and Bryony sat in the restaurant car munching their way through a basket of flaketastic croissants. The sea was a never-ending turquoise ribbon, and every thirty seconds Jess would point out yet another beachside eatery she wanted to try.
‘We’re still half an hour from Cannes,’ said Bryony. ‘I’m sure there will be plenty to eat there. Now answer the question; I need to know the protocol should this happen.’
‘It’ll happen, I can feel it. So if Mr DiCaprio makes eyes at me across the marina and says, “My love, come to my yacht,” I will warble, “I’LL NEVER LET GO” and you’ll know I want you to skedaddle.’
‘And you’ll do the same if Zac Efron invites me for a Cannes-Cannes-Cannes? Only my code word will be “cougartown”.’ Bryony stuffed in another croissant.
‘Sounds perfect. But George is off limits – he’s a married man now. I shall be content to be just friends with him, and perhaps be the recipient of a good-natured Clooney prank.’ Jess’s phone buzzed with a text message. ‘It’s Mrs Evans. She says “Havv a NICE tIME swetie” – she’s just learnt texting.’
‘From you?’
‘Yep.’ Mrs Evans was one of her regulars at the café, ninety years young and obsessed with gadgets.
‘How will those villagers cope without you for the next fortnight?’ Bryony smirked.
Excitement fizzed like popping candy in Jess’s chest. ‘They’ll be fine. I can’t wait to be in Cannes. Sunshine, red carpets, rosé wine, celebs everywhere … Thanks again for letting me tag along.’
‘My pleasure. Any time you want to muscle your way on to one of my trips suits me fine – this would be my idea of hell without my short-stack. Besides, when we spoke about it you were a right grump. You were practically me.’
The unlikely friendship of Jess and Bryony had begun the day after Bryony moved to Cornwall and joined Jess’s secondary school in year nine. The personality and height differences back then were even more pronounced than they were now: Jess was the tiniest girl in their year, while Bryony towered above most of the boys, her chunky canvas high heels adding to the effect. Bryony didn’t speak to anyone on her first day, just stared straight ahead among a sea of whispering teenagers. Jess had felt for this serious new girl, so made her a welcome pack of Rimmel Heather Shimmer lipstick, some Impulse O2 body spray, a copy of Bliss magazine and a homemade map of the school that showed which toilets to avoid and the best places to sit in certain classrooms. Bryony, who’d felt trapped in a lonely, awkward body, painfully and angrily aware that – at the time – she was the only black girl in the year, that hers was one of the only black families in the village, instantly felt a fondness for this funny, petite ray of sunshine.
They were as different then as they were now, with Bryony honing her sharp mind on crime and mystery books as she grew up to become a fiercely intelligent journalist – though not the type she yearned to be, yet – whose heroines were Scandal’s Olivia Pope and C. J. Cregg from The West Wing. Meanwhile, Jess had clung on to her Sweet Valley novels until the bitter end, before moving on to feel-good fiction and travel writing, all the best of which now lined the bookshelves of her very own café; she ran a homely, happy place that was like having everyone in the village come in
to her living room for a cuppa.
They bonded that first school lunchtime, over the pages of that Bliss magazine, and although life took them along different paths after school, they still got together as often as possible.
One rain-soaked Saturday evening back in April, Bryony had been visiting for the first time in weeks, and she dropped the following over a bottle of their favourite wine …
‘Guess what? I’m being sent to the Cannes Film Festival.’ Bryony reluctantly worked for Sleb, a highly disrespected gossip magazine with a readership of close to zero and morals at about the same level.
Jess, uncharacteristically not in the best of moods, had dragged herself back to the present, forcing herself to engage in the conversation. She had to make the most of Bryony while she was here, feeling low and lost wasn’t an option. She knocked back some more wine. ‘Shut the fridge up – really?’
Bryony shrugged. ‘Apparently Sleb needs me there. To see, in the words of the ever-eloquent, never-misogynistic Mitch, “Which stars are shagging each other and get the skinny on who’s actually a fat chick.”’
‘Urgh, he makes my skin crawl and I’ve never even met him. What a penis.’
‘There’s literally no point in me even going; he’ll Photoshop fat onto everyone anyway, regardless of what I say … I know, I know, I shouldn’t complain: a magazine job is bloody hard to come by and a free trip to the South of France isn’t exactly the crappest thing in the world. But one day, Meems, one day, Sleb will magically turn into Marie Claire and he’ll actually take me up on one of the current affairs features I keep begging him to publish.’
‘Exactly.’ Jess swirled her wine, racking her brain for something more insightful to say, but she was all over the place.
*The author relinquishes all responsibility for funds lost whilst holidaying in Vegas.
You Had Me at Merlot Page 23