Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe

by Debbie Johnson

  I was told, in no uncertain terms, that it was none of my business, that she wasn’t stupid, that she’s only fifteen, and that I should get my dirty mind out of the gutter. Which was super-fun. It did at least make me rest a bit easier, and cross that jumbo box of condoms off my list of presents for my much-more-sensible-than-me-at-her-age niece.

  By night, I am also kept pleasantly busy. Mostly by having fantastic sex. With a fantastic man. Sometimes he comes over to Cherie’s apartment, and we listen to her vinyl and eat ice cream and romp around naked.

  Sometimes, I go to his little house in the village, where we watch box sets on Netflix and eat ice cream and romp around naked. And sometimes, we go out to secret, quiet places that only he seems to know about – idyllic coves, deserted beaches, hidden caves – where we drink flasks of hot chocolate and watch the stars and don’t romp around naked. Because, you know, dead of winter – severe frostbite risk to places you really don’t want frostbitten.

  So far, so good. My fears that relenting on one of my ‘diets’ would suddenly result in me falling off every single wagon don’t seem to be materialising. Sam is great – if we go out to the pub, he doesn’t drink; the same when we stay in.

  This makes me feel a little bit weird to start with – like some kind of circus freak that needs to be handled with kid gloves. But I soon understand – because he explains it to me in words of one syllable – that he doesn’t mind. That he wants me to feel relaxed. That it’s not a big deal. Plus, as he said, ‘I don’t need booze at the moment – I’m high on all the shagging we’ve been doing.’

  I realise this doesn’t sound very romantic to the outside observer, but for me, it is better than a lorry load of hearts and flowers. It’s about respect, and kindness, and good old-fashioned lust – three of my very favourite things.

  We’ve not exactly kept our relationship, if that’s what you can call it, a secret – but neither are we snogging in public or talking to our Comfort Food companions about it.

  This, of course, is driving Laura absolutely bonkers. She is smug beyond belief that she’s been proved right; marginally worried about all those wagons I mentioned I was on, and mainly – disgustingly – totally nosy about what Sam is like in bed.

  Seriously, she’s like a curious schoolgirl about it – being with Matt has definitely opened up a whole new side to her; an earthy side that I’ve never really noticed before. I’m sure it was there – her and David always seemed to be at it – but perhaps I deliberately distanced myself from it. After all, she was in her perfect marriage, and I was busy working my way through every loser in the North West of England. Not pretty, I know, but true.

  I steadfastly refuse to tell her anything at all, which leads to some interesting one-sided conversations where she speculates wildly. She even goes so far as to try and goad me into talking by wondering accidentally out loud if perhaps he has a small willy and that’s why I don’t want to discuss it. Naughty girl.

  Wise to her ways, I simply raise an eyebrow and smirk. Partly I am staying quiet because it is annoying her so much – we are sisters after all, and some habits just don’t go away because you allegedly grow up. But partly, perhaps, I don’t want to jinx it.

  The dark side of me – the side that is still very much there, and waiting for its chance to leap out and take control, like Mr Hyde lurking in the background – doesn’t feel entirely safe. I am allowing myself to be… happy. This is a new and unusual feeling for me, and it has taken this thing with Sam to make me realise just how unhappy I have been.

  For years, it feels like I have been living in the shadows of my own unsettled memories, punishing myself, lingering on the edge of life rather than plunging straight in. Everything I did that seemed to be fun and pleasurable – the men, the drinking, the partying – was actually just contributing to my private misery.

  Now, as I am the very definition of a work-in-progress, I am starting to unravel some of that. I’ve still not told Laura about the baby, and certainly not Sam – but I’ve been letting myself at least think about it. Even if it makes me cry, makes me weep myself into a big soggy heap, I’ve been letting myself think about it. About all that happened then and all that’s happened since.

  I am starting to understand that the tragedy of it all wasn’t just the initial mistake, it was the way I’ve lived my entire life since then.

  I don’t know if I’ll go back to Manchester as a different person. I have no idea where Sam and me are heading. No clue as to what will happen next – but the one thing I do know is that things had to change. Laura was right. I couldn’t carry on like that.

  So, against all my better judgement, I am going with the flow. Seeing what happens, and trying to relax as the next stage of my life unfolds around me.

  This is a scary thing – and I am terrified.

  Chapter 18

  ‘How about you just drop me off in the middle of nowhere with a compass and a whistle?’ I say, sulking next to Sam in the front seat of the truck.

  ‘You wouldn’t survive five minutes, city slicker,’ he replies, navigating the winding and frost-coated country roads. ‘I’d have to come and rescue you before you died of exposure.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I answer, genuinely meaning it. ‘I really don’t want to go to Christmas Blunderland.’

  ‘It’s Wonderland. And we’re going because Cherie asked us to. Those giant inflatable snowmen won’t deliver themselves, you know. What is it with you and Christmas anyway? I’ve never met such a grinch.’

  ‘I just… hate it. I hate the songs and the carols and the fact that Sainsbury’s start sending me emails about turkey crowns in November. I hate the Christmas markets in Manchester where everyone is drunk on mulled wine and carrying around wicker reindeers they’ll regret buying the next morning. I hate the stupid knitted jumpers and the fake merriment and the way people try and snog you under mistletoe. I hate buying the presents and receiving the presents and wrapping the presents. I hate the forced joviality. I hate the… disappointment of it all.’

  He snorts with laughter, and I fight the urge to punch him in the kidneys. That wouldn’t be good while he’s driving – I’ll save it for later.

  ‘Wow,’ he says, once he’s stopped guffawing, ‘that was a pretty comprehensive catalogue of hate, there. But you still haven’t explained why.’

  I glance at his profile, staying quiet for a second, and wondering if this is one of those moments. You know, those moments where you have a choice. A chance to open up and be honest.

  I shake my head, and decide that it isn’t. Not just yet.

  ‘Christmas 1991,’ I say, simply. ‘Some knob of a kid at school told me Santa didn’t exist, and I got a Girl’s World under the tree, which proved him right.’

  ‘A Girl’s World?’ he says, frowning, obviously trying to place the name. ‘Right! Those fake heads with all the hair and make-up? My sisters had one of those. It had been passed down the lot of them, and by the time it got to Siobahn, it looked like a zombie. Scary as hell. So, what was wrong with that, then? I assume yours was new.’

  ‘It was. But it’s not what I’d asked for. I’d asked for Mutant Ninja Turtle toys instead. It was a grave disappointment, and scarred me for life.’

  He’s laughing again, and I feel a small tug of amusement forming on my own lips in response. Because, you know, when I put it like that it does seem pretty silly.

  ‘And from that one disappointment, you decided to hate everything about Christmas for the rest of your life?’

  ‘Well… not just that. But that was the start. It was all downhill from there. I just don’t see the point.’

  His eyes widen, and I see that, yet again, he is trying hard not to collapse in hysterics. I’m glad I’m of some use. Perhaps I could start a whole new career as a stand-up comedian.

  ‘You don’t see the point? Even if you’re not religious and don’t believe in celebrating the birth of the baby Jesus and all that, the point is… well, the point is joy. Happiness
. Family. Goodwill to all men.’

  ‘Hmmm… I’m not really a goodwill-to-all-men kind of girl, Sam. And anyway, that’s another thing I hate – that people start pretending to be all nice with each other, and going to church and doing good deeds, but only for a few days. Then once it’s all over, they go back to being bastards.’

  I’m warming to my subject, and feeling quite passionate about it by this stage.

  ‘Okay,’ says Sam, lifting one hand from the steering wheel and waving it in submission. ‘Well, I can see I’m not going to convince you otherwise, so I give up – no need to get your knickers in a twist.’

  ‘I’m not wearing any knickers,’ I say, deliberately. This is, in fact a lie. It’s way too cold to go commando, but he doesn’t know that – and it serves him right for laughing at me so much.

  He gulps, audibly, and I see his knuckles whiten as he grips the wheel a bit too tightly. He takes a quick glance over at me, and his blue eyes are sparkling.

  ‘Oh. I see. Well, do you want to pull over and discuss your underwear situation in a bit more depth? There’s a little place I know just off the side of the road near here…’

  Crikey. His brain clearly contains a roadmap of all the potential nookie spots in the whole of the West Country.

  ‘No,’ I say firmly, shaking my head. ‘I’m far too prim and proper for that. Anyway, I can’t wait to get to Christmas Blunderland, I really can’t. So hurry up.’

  I pat him on the thigh, and look straight ahead, trying not to laugh myself now. He’s looking quite uncomfortable, and is obviously thinking naughty thoughts.

  ‘And you’d better stop imagining my underwear situation,’ I add, pointing at his lap. ‘You’ll get arrested if you walk into Christmas Blunderland with that going on. Nobody should find inflatable snowmen that exciting.’

  He growls at me and stays quiet for a few minutes. Perhaps he is picturing totally unsexy things like Les Battersby or dentists’ waiting rooms to help his self control.

  Eventually, we both start laughing, and the rest of the journey passes quickly and pleasantly – until, of course, we arrive at our horror show of a destination.

  Christmas Blunderland is exactly how you would imagine it to be, but worse. Everything is covered in glitter and fake holly and plastic icicles that light up, and as you walk through the entrance there’s a machine that showers you with pretend snow that is actually tiny bubbles of white foam. I swipe it from my hair in disgust, and mutter a few very un-festive words.

  The music is sickly sweet and loud, only rivalled by the excited screams of kids, and the repeated noises made by all the toys that they are playing with – Santas that yell ‘Ho Ho Ho’, penguins that do ‘Jingle Bell Rock’; even a camel that belts out ‘Silent Night’ in a rich baritone. Someone must have designed that thing, and spent valuable time imagining what kind of singing voice a camel would have. It’s a weird world we live in.

  The place is packed, mainly with families browsing the decorations and light-up reindeers and giant signs that say ‘Santa, Please Stop Here’ on them. It smells of a strange combination of real pine trees and all kinds of fake effects, mixed with the aromas of cinnamon, ginger and chocolate wafting through from the café area.

  I feel my nose twitch and burst into a rapid-fire sneezing fit. Looks like I might actually be allergic to Christmas after all.

  I head to the toilets while Sam sorts out our collection – two ten-foot-tall inflatable snowmen that Cherie wants setting up in the garden of the café, and some kind of special order that comes in about five enormous cardboard boxes.

  I stand around looking pretty (or not) while Sam hefts it all into the back of the truck with a member of staff – an eighteen-year-old kid dressed as an elf, complete with pointy green shoes. He has clearly lost all self-respect, as he doesn’t even seem embarrassed by this.

  By the time we are packed up and ready to go, I feel like I have been trapped in this hell-scape for way too long.

  Once we’re back on the coastal road and heading towards Budbury again, Sam asks: ‘So, how was that for you? Fun times?’

  ‘Not fun times, no. We were stuck there for, like, about three hours.’

  ‘No we weren’t, Little Miss Grinch – we were there for twenty-five minutes. I even resisted the urge to browse that magical Christmas toadstool display for you, that’s how much I care.’

  ‘Ha! Well, it seemed like longer… it all made my skin itch. I could really do with a drink right now.’

  There is a marked silence after that, and I realise what I’ve said. Of course, I know that I don’t mean it – that it’s just an expression. A way of reflecting my distressed state. A bit like when you say ‘I could kill for a mocha right now’ in the morning, but you don’t actually mean that you’d machete someone down and steal their posh coffee. It is merely a turn of phrase.

  But I can tell by the quiet that Sam doesn’t understand that, which I get. After I’ve told him about my demon-battling, what else could I expect? It’s annoying, but fair.

  ‘In case your powers of telepathy aren’t working at the moment, Sam, I’d just like to stress that I didn’t mean that literally, okay?’

  He chews his lip, concentrating hard on the road ahead of him, then nods.

  ‘All right. Fair enough. I just… well, I know you were worried. Worried that if you started something with me, it would end up with you starting other things as well.’

  ‘I know I said that, but honestly, no. I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine. I’m not about to ask you to drop me at the nearest pub and go on a binge. Plus even if I was, that would be my problem to deal with, not yours. And, if we did go to a pub, feel free to have a pint, for God’s sake!’

  I don’t know why I say that. It’s petty and mean, especially when I am actually grateful for his temporary abstinence.

  ‘I didn’t say you were going to go on a binge, I said I knew you were worried!’ he replies, sounding a bit exasperated with me. ‘And do you have to be so bloody defensive? What’s with all this I-am-an-island crap? Am I not allowed to care about you? Is that it?’

  This has gone very bad very quickly, and I feel tears of both anger and frustration welling up as I stare determinedly out of the window at the passing traffic. I am trying not to let any of those annoying tears spill out, but if they do, I don’t want him to see.

  ‘Are you crying?’ he says, more gently.

  ‘No!’ I reply, hoping I don’t snuffle. God, what is wrong with me? Dorset has reduced me to a blubbering wreck. I’ll be like Laura, crying at John Lewis ads before long.

  ‘I think you are. I have a lot of sisters. When they throw their hair over their face and look to the side like that, it’s because they’re trying to hide it. I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know where that came from… I don’t want to upset you. I just over-reacted, that’s all.’

  I shimmy my hair a bit more, because, of course, he is entirely correct. I am now crying, and him apologising and sounding all gentle and concerned isn’t helping matters at all.

  ‘Look, it’s… fine. Like I have said, repeatedly. I didn’t mean that I wanted a drink. At least I didn’t then… but I did mean it when I said it was my problem to deal with. Me freaking out about me is one thing. You freaking out about me is another – I am not your responsibility, Sam.’

  ‘What are you, then? My friend with benefits? Or is ‘friend’ even a bit too much?’

  He sounds sad, and that makes me feel sad too. I’ve hurt him, I can tell. Even if he’s not hiding his face with his hair, he’s upset. And I don’t know how to make it right, and be honest at the same time. In the end I give up.

  ‘Yes, you’re my friend. And yes I’m enjoying the benefits. But my problems are my own, and I don’t want you worrying about me. I don’t like anybody worrying about me. It’s too…’

  ‘Intimate?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe I’m the world’s biggest commitment-phobe. Maybe I have intimacy issues coming out the wazoo. Maybe I’m a
n absolute arsehole. But Sam… I never pretended to be anything else, did I?’

  He puffs out a long, jagged breath, and I can almost feel him controlling what comes out of his mouth next. A skill I’ve never mastered.

  ‘No, Becca,’ he says quietly. ‘You never did.’

  Chapter 19

  When we arrive back at the café, after an uncomfortable silence that neither of us seems able to quite breach, the place is a hive of activity.

  Cherie is there, wrapped up in one of those vintage Afghan coats that comes all the way down to the ankles of her moon boots, sitting at a table with Willow and her mum.

  Willow’s mum, Lynnie, is encased in a padded puffer jacket and is busily arranging what seems to be a vast array of craft activities. She has Alzheimer’s and I can’t even imagine what that is like for Willow. I know her life is a complex tapestry of carers and work and staying at home with her mother, who sometimes doesn’t even recognise her.

  Today she seems lucid, and is clearly excited to be there. She used to be the kind of woman who made a living from being arty and spiritual: yoga classes, holistic therapies before they were fashionable, creative workshops for kids, that kind of thing. All of which probably explains why Willow, despite her restricted lifestyle, somehow still manages to come across as a free spirit.

  I see that they all have giant mugs of hot chocolate, which Laura is ferrying out from the kitchens on a tray. Katie is there with Saul, and the two of them are helping Lynnie and Willow decorate pine cones. Well, ‘help’ might be too strong a word, as Saul is mainly using a glue stick to attach glitter to his own chubby cheeks. He is shiny and cute and laughs each time Katie tries to clean him up with a baby wipe. She looks relaxed and happy too, which makes a complete set – just my ugly mug spoiling the festive fun, then.