by Tracy Bloom
He had no idea how long he’d been asleep when Katy shook him awake, her eyes red and her cheeks flushed. The logs in the grate had burnt down to embers, and the lights across the mantelpiece had switched to an upbeat flashing mode, incongruous with the sombre face in front of him. He pulled himself up to allow Katy room to slump beside him.
‘So what’s happened?’ he asked, slapping his cheeks to try to wake himself up.
‘My mother’s a floozy is what’s happened.’
Ben had nowhere to go with this information. If he agreed, he was doomed. If he disagreed, he was doomed. To be honest, the news wasn’t too great a shock. Despite being in her seventies, Katy’s mum had always petrified him. She made no attempt to hide that she was envious of Katy managing to snag herself a toy boy. She was the only person who actually called him a toy boy, and she said it in such a way that it made him feel slightly uncomfortable. It was also true, as Katy remarked many times, that despite all Katy’s quite sizeable achievements in her career, her mother wasn’t the slightest bit interested or proud. She was, however, very impressed that her daughter had married a handsome, athletic younger man, even if Ben did his utmost to dispel the myth he was the dream husband whenever in her company.
‘Oh, how come?’ he managed to ask casually.
‘She’s left Dad.’
‘Right.’ Ben scrutinised Katy. Still his path through this conversation wasn’t obvious. Should he side with Katy’s dad, Dennis, who for years had found the only way of dealing with his full-on wife was to pretty much ignore her? Or with Katy’s mum, who should have cut her losses years ago and left him to live the life she wanted rather than moan about being trapped by her inattentive husband?
‘Big decision at their age.’ Ben nodded, deciding to stay neutral. ‘How are they both doing?’
‘Oh, Mother’s like a… like a… like a dog on heat.’
This thought made Ben feel nauseous. Who would have guessed that it wasn’t going to be a small child stopping him from sleeping with his wife that night but the thought of his mother-in-law panting?
‘She’s got a boyfriend!’ exclaimed Katy, looking up at him wide-eyed.
‘Really?’ He tried to look surprised despite the fact that he knew the only way Rita would ever have left Dennis was if she’d found someone prepared to take her on. The fact that there was someone prepared to fulfil such a task did surprise him. Her addiction to appalling karaoke renditions was surely enough to make any man run a mile. ‘Who is he?’ he asked, trying to stop the note of wonder creeping into his voice.
‘He’s Spanish, owns a bar. She met him at church.’
‘Church!’
‘Yeah. She joined the choir.’
‘Jesus! A choir? In a church?’
‘It’s all very confusing,’ said Katy, shaking her head.
‘You’re telling me. No choir needs Rita, especially one in a church. Her voice is enough to frighten the Holy Ghost away.’
‘She says she loves him. She says she never loved Dad like she loves Carlos. She says she wishes she’d met him before she met Dad, so she’d never have to have lived through her miserable marriage.’
Fortunately Ben realised that this was the moment to put his arm round her. And perhaps turn off the flashing fairy lights over the mantelpiece.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, when he sat back down again. ‘That can’t be good to hear.’
‘She never mentioned me,’ said Katy, her head leaning on his shoulder. ‘She never said that if she hadn’t met Dad then she wouldn’t have had me.’
Ben put his other arm around her. He wracked his brains for the right thing to say to a daughter whose mother had repeatedly failed to show any gratitude for her existence. Words failed him. He squeezed her hard.
‘He’s only sixty-four,’ sniffed Katy.
‘Who is?’
‘Carlos.’
‘So she finally got her toy boy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know she’s always been jealous of you snagging yourself this young thing,’ said Ben, smiling and indicating his body.
‘You think she’s left Dad to compete with me?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Who knows? She was always going on about me being your toy boy, wasn’t she? Do you think she’s going through a midlife crisis?’
‘She’s in her seventies, Ben!’
‘What do you call it in your seventies?’
‘Should know better is what you call it.’
‘How’s your dad doing?’
‘She says he’s devastated.’
‘Really?’ replied Ben. Somehow he suspected Dennis might have even helped her pack.
‘She says he keeps calling her, begging her to come back.’
He was most likely ringing her to ask how to use the washing machine when he ran out of clean clothes, Ben was tempted to say.
‘I tried to call him, but there was no answer.’
He’ll be down the bar with his expat mates and a big grin on his face, thought Ben. Katy was looking far into the distance, clearly in shock at the news. He squeezed her shoulders, again wracking his brains for words of wisdom to break her out of this sorrow. He wanted to tell her it was no big deal. He wanted to tell her that, in his opinion, this had been a long time coming and they would probably both be happier apart. He wanted to say they were both grown-ups and Katy had to let them get on with it, just as they had let her get on with her life. He wanted to say she hardly ever saw them anyway so the impact on their lives was going to be virtually zero. Two Christmas cards rather than one would probably the biggest change they’d see.
‘They’re coming for Christmas,’ Katy said, reaching for a tissue.
‘What! Who is?’
‘Mum and Carlos.’
‘What! You have to be kidding me? Tell me you’re kidding me?’
‘I’m not kidding.’
‘But… but your mother hates Christmas in this country. Remember last time she drank rum all day to keep out the cold and passed out before Christmas dinner?’
‘She says she wants to spend Christmas with us. And she wants us to meet Carlos,’ said Katy, blowing her nose.
This was a disaster of epic proportions. Christmas with his deranged mother-in-law and her geriatric toy boy. This was not how he’d imagined it. He wanted to be in front of the fire all day, opening presents and eating hideously fattening food with Katy and Millie. It was the first time Millie would know what was going on, her first real Christmas. It was going to be magical. The magic certainly didn’t include unwanted visitors. Christmas was well and truly ruined and it was still only November.
Chapter Three
‘What are you doing up here?’ asked the head that suddenly appeared out of the dormer window on the roof.
‘What are you doing up here? You’re supposed to be holding the ladder,’ replied Ben.
‘I got bored and I wanted to see what the view was like.’
‘So who’s holding the ladder?’
‘No-one.’
‘Great,’ said Ben. He punched the inflatable Santa he’d been wrestling with for the last ten minutes then leaned forward to rest against the top rung. He was eighteen feet above the ground and level with the edge of the roof of his house. Next to him, his soon to be ex-best mate, Braindead, was leaning out the dormer window without a care in the world while he remained moments from certain death.
‘You can’t see much from up here, can you?’ commented his friend. Ben cautiously rotated his head to look behind him over the multitude of near-identical rooftops. All he could see was grey. Grey sky, grey shiny roofs, wet with a light rain from earlier, grey tarmac roads and pathways… everywhere was grey, and it matched his mood perfectly. Darkness was just creeping in, and his fingers were raw with cold and damp from his efforts to resuscitate the stupid inflatable Santa.
‘So what are you doing up here then?’ asked Braindead again. ‘When you asked me round to give you a hand I thought you wanted me to expl
ain Minecraft to you for the millionth time, not you know, do something… outside!’
They had been friends since they’d started school together, aged four. Ben couldn’t remember when he started calling him Braindead. Braindead had a very unique way of looking at the world that kind of lacked all sense and yet made total sense. This could make him appear both stupid and a genius simultaneously. Ben preferred to label him Braindead and keep his feet on the ground. It was a northern thing.
‘I’m trying to bestow some much-needed Christmas spirit back on to this house,’ Ben told him through gritted teeth.
‘With that?’ asked Braindead.
‘It’s supposed to be an inflatable glowing Santa.’
‘Looks more like one of those naked pictures of people who’ve lost ten stone in weight and their skin’s all saggy and baggy and it rolls around all over the place. Like Santa’s been on the no-sugar diet and taken it too far.’
‘Well, I wish he’d get fat again,’ said Ben with a sigh, kicking Santa’s lolloping head.
‘I wonder why Santa is fat?’ pondered Braindead. ‘He’s a terrible role model really, isn’t he? “Listen, children, if you’re good then the fat man will bring you presents, and don’t forget to leave him alcohol and cake so he gets even fatter.” What’s that teaching our kids, eh? That the nicest, kindest, loveliest man in the world, who we allow to break into our homes every year, is a fat bastard who has a serious eating disorder. Santa has issues. He needs rebranding or rehab. I mean, in this day and age shouldn’t Santa be an athletic, transsexual vegan who drives a hybrid and leaves you an educational toy along with the address of the nearest charity shop so you know where to donate it once you’ve finished with it?’
‘He doesn’t sound much fun,’ responded Ben.
‘He? He’s transgender. Now he’s a she, you dingbat! Aren’t you listening?’
Ben wasn’t really. Normally he found Braindead’s knack of turning the world upside down entertaining, but not now. ‘I think I’ll just have to take him down,’ he said, looking forlornly at the Santa, who was doing a head splat on to the side of the roof.
‘Shall we stab him with the screwdriver, let all the air out?’ asked Braindead, looking excited.
‘No!’ said Ben. ‘Maybe if I get him on the ground I can work out why he’s not glowing.’
‘Yeah, let’s open him up, see what’s inside that huge Christmas gut.’
‘How very festive,’ said Ben.
‘You’re on a roof wrestling with an inflatable Santa. I think I’d call that festive,’ pointed out Braindead.
‘Well I don’t know why I’m bothering. Christmas this year is going to be miserable anyway.’
‘What’s new?’ Braindead shrugged. ‘Christmas is always crap. Massive hype, massive underdelivery. It’s always been like that.’
Ben looked over at Braindead.
‘Not when you have a three-year-old in the family. Not when you’ve just moved into a house with a real chimney. Not when… not when you think the only thing that could possibly beat this Christmas will be next Christmas.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Nothing,’ said Ben, looking away. ‘Anyway, it’s already ruined. Need to forget all that. Katy’s mum is coming to stay with her new boyfriend.’
‘Christmas is all about having your day ruined by unwelcome guests. From day one that’s what’s happened on Christmas Day. I mean take the shepherds. At least you haven’t got shepherds calling in unannounced. Think of all the sheep shit.’
‘I’d rather have a bunch of shepherds round than have to eat Christmas dinner with Barbara Cartland and Antonio Banderas.’
‘Ooh,’ said Braindead, a look of excitement flooding his face again. ‘Is this like one of those dream dinner-party-guest things that can include people who are dead? Only it’s Christmas dinner so you have to think really carefully.’ Braindead screwed his face up for a moment. ‘I’ve got it,’ he declared. ‘Surely you’d have to have Mary and Joseph? But you wouldn’t want Jesus, would you? Not as a baby anyway. No-one’s happy sitting down to dinner next to a high chair. But it could be interesting if he were older, then you could ask him a few things like, “So, Jesus – did you ever question your mother on this whole immaculate conception thing?” To be honest though the three wise men would be good. I’d want to know what they were thinking, taking gold, frankincense and myrrh. I mean who gives a baby that and calls themselves wise?’ Braindead paused for a moment but not long enough for Ben to interrupt. ‘Actually that’s a really hard ask. Ideal guests for Christmas dinner, dead or alive? I mean you’d have to factor in who would bring the best presents and who would be good at the traditional post-Christmas-dinner Monopoly game. I mean would you want someone really smart who could beat you or someone stupid so you could absolutely annihilate…’
‘Braindead?’ Ben finally managed to interrupt.
‘Yeah.’
‘Shut up.’
‘OK.’
Ben stared at the amorphous mass of Santa in front of him while Braindead showed no signs of returning to his post at the bottom of the ladder.
‘You should be like me and have no expectations for Christmas,’ said Braindead eventually. ‘Everyone makes so much fuss about it. Treat it like any other day of the year and you won’t be disappointed.’
‘Abby agree with you on that one, does she?’
Braindead nodded. ‘So far. I just give her some cash and she buys her own present. She even wraps it. Then she gives it to me on Christmas Eve, and I pop round to her mum’s on Christmas night and hand it over. She always cries when she opens it. That’s a bit of an overreaction, I have to say.’
‘How many Christmases have you been together?’
‘I don’t know. Are you supposed to count?’
‘Well, no but… well, let’s work it out. You came to our wedding with her, didn’t you? And this will be our third Christmas married so this will be your third Christmas with Abby.’
‘And your point is?’
‘Well, don’t you think perhaps this time she might have upped her expectations?’
Braindead shrugged. ‘No, if anything she’s downgraded. Normally she would have bought her present by now, but she hasn’t even mentioned it. Maybe we’re already at the stage in our relationship where we no longer need to buy each other pointless presents?’
‘Or maybe you’re at the stage in your relationship when she’s expecting a whole lot more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not getting any younger, Braindead.’
‘I know that. I’m ticking the 30–35 years’ age-bracket box in surveys. Although I have to admit I often tick the 15–20 years’ box as my answers always seem more appropriate to that age group.’
‘Third Christmas, Braindead? She’ll have expectations.’
‘Enough of these festive expectations,’ said Braindead, starting to look cross. ‘I told you I don’t believe in them, whether it’s the third or the twenty-third.’
‘Well, if you don’t produce a ring come Christmas morning, on your head be it.’
‘A ring? What sort of ring?’
‘For goodness’ sake! An engagement ring, you bloody idiot. Mark my words, that’s what she’ll be expecting in her Christmas stocking this year.’
‘She… she… wants to marry me? Are you insane?’
‘Well, yes. I know it may seem utterly ridiculous that someone might want to spend the rest of their life with you, but it’s what usually happens in normal relationships after you’ve been together a while, particularly at this time of year. Something weird happens to women when they start to smell the mulled wine and mince pies and watch Love Actually too many times. Makes them all soppy and romantic and want to walk along the River Thames holding hands.’
‘What?’
‘Have you ever seen Love Actually?’
‘No.’
‘I think you’d better watch it.’
‘Is
it about Christmas then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it like Home Alone?’
‘No!’
Ben gave him a pained look. ‘Look, all I’m saying is that it’s highly likely Abby may be expecting your relationship to move on this Christmas, that’s all.’
‘But what if I want it to stay the same? I like it how it is now. We have a good time. Marriage puts a stop to that, doesn’t it?’
‘Staying the same may not be an option. I’d say three Christmases and you’re out.’
‘What, she’ll dump me?’
‘Probably.’
‘But I don’t want her to dump me.’
‘Well you’d better go ring shopping then.’
‘What? Really? Fucking hell, Ben! Why does Christmas screw everything up?’
Braindead’s head disappeared back inside the house. Ben blew on his fingers and waited for his friend to appear on the front lawn to hold the ladder so he could climb down. He heard the front door open, then slam shut. Thank goodness for that. He could finally get down and warm up.
He waited.
‘Braindead!’ he shouted.
But Braindead was gone.
Chapter Four
So excited about being with you at Christmas, darling. Just wanted to tell you before I forget that Carlos has high cholesterol. Skype Friday? Mum xxx
Katy sighed and put her phone back down on her desk. She would have to deal with her mother’s boyfriend’s dietary requirements later; she had work to do. She looked back at her computer and continued working her way through the sixty-eight emails in her inbox. Before she could respond to an irate client who hated the visuals that the agency had produced for a poster campaign, the door to her office flew open. ‘I’ve got a meeting in five minutes,’ she said without looking up.
Daniel walked in and shut the door behind him then sat down on the sofa along the back wall of Katy’s office and put his feet up. Immaculately dressed, his pale grey trousers and soft pink shirt were completed by tidy salt ’n’ pepper hair and a slightly smug smile.