A Mistletoe Moment

by Natasha West

  ‘It’s funny how organised fun never usually turns out to be that fun, isn’t it?’

  Sam laughed. That was what it all came down to. Why did no one else at the party seem to admit that truth to themselves? They’d all behaved as though they were having the time of their lives. And it wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t.

  ‘How about your night? Busy, I’m guessing?’

  Tilda paused and then said ‘Actually…’

  ‘Tilda! What are you still doing here?’ Tilda and Sam turned around to see Dave standing beyond the hallway. His face was a shade of red that Tilda had seen many times. He was at full rage. ‘I want you out. You might be nicking stuff up here!’

  ‘Calm your tits, Dave. I’ve got no interest in making off with the Sambuca. I’m going in a second!’

  She turned back to Sam and said ‘Well, as you’ve no doubt figured out, I just got the sack and I suppose I’m about to be ejected from the premises. Bloody drama queen’ she said, nodding at Dave in the distance, stomping toward them. They had seconds before he reached them.

  ‘You’ve been sacked?!’ Sam exclaimed.

  ‘Yep. So I guess this is goodbye’ she said and then happened to glance up. And there it was, the very thing. A green sprig and a few red berries. Mistletoe. Tilda felt that if there was such a thing as a Christmas miracle, it was hanging over her head right now.

  Sam saw where her eyes went and took in the mistletoe too. She looked back at Tilda, their eyes connected and something passed between them. And then it was happening. Tilda’s lips on hers. Sam felt her head go light and electricity shooting through her veins.

  A moment of magic. But it couldn’t last.

  Abruptly, Tilda’s lips were wrenched away and Sam realised Tilda was being dragged out of the hall by the angry bar manager.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Button Nose!’ Tilda shouted at Sam, who gaped as she watched Tilda pulled out of view. She heard one last thing as she vanished from view, pulled downstairs. It was the manager saying ‘Who the hell do you think you are, kissing the customers?’ and the distant reply from Tilda. ‘I regret nothing!’

  And then she was gone. Sam was left alone underneath the mistletoe, knocked on her arse by the brief kiss.

  Four

  22nd December

  Sam awoke the next morning and wondered if the ending to her night had been a dream. It seemed such an unlikely end to a suck-fest of an evening, it could surely only be her sleepy brain trying to correct it somehow.

  But once she’d had a cup of tea and replayed it in her mind, it was clear to her that it had really happened. In amongst the general mundane horrors of the evening, which included finding out that Lara would be at her interview, as well as an ill-advised conga line, a sexy woman had planted one on her.

  Sam considered the kiss as she sat in her flat. Luckily, it was Sunday and she had the day to languish and contemplate.

  She and the bartender, Tilda, had barely exchanged a few words. She didn’t know her at all. In fact, the one thing she knew about her was a red flag. In the course of the evening, Tilda had somehow managed to get herself sacked in spectacular fashion. It didn’t exactly scream ‘Girlfriend material.’

  Yet still, the kiss. It had been a humdinger. It couldn’t have lasted more than a second or two. But it had stirred Sam.

  And then Sam noticed something. It was lunchtime. And she hadn’t thought about Lara in hours. That had to be a record. Lara had been haunting Sam for the last few post-break-up months, occupying her mind at any lax second. She’d been like some succubus, draining Sam’s ability to think about anything else.

  But not this morning. She’d been free. And that was because she’d been thinking about Tilda. Only a few minutes of interaction and the briefest of lip locks and it had drawn her mind toward Tilda like a compass finding North.

  That swung it. Sam knew she had to find Tilda.

  Five

  Tilda, the object of Sam’s musings, had not gotten up quite as early. Twelve o’clock and she was only just coming to. She might have slumbered even deeper into the afternoon if not for a sharp rap at her bedroom door.

  ‘Tilda! It’s lunchtime! Getup!’

  Tilda awoke, fuzzy and irritated. Who was demanding her consciousness?

  Another sharp rap and she knew who it was. Her father.

  ‘Look, I need you to come to the garden centre with me. Those fertiliser bags are heavy and it’ll take two people.’

  ‘Dad, I work nights’ Tilda called from under her duvet. ‘You understand that means I sleep late, don’t you?’

  ‘You came in at about twelve thirty last night. I don’t think that constitutes sleeping into the afternoon. Now get your arse up. When you don’t pay rent, this is the price. No such thing as a free lunch.’

  It was no good, Tilda realised. Her Dad wasn’t going to let up.

  ‘Fine! Give me ten minutes and I’ll be down.’

  That seemed to assuage him. Tilda closed her eyes.

  Fifteen minutes later, the cycle went into repeat.

  ‘TILDA!’

  Tilda’s eyes flew open and she jumped out of bed before she was fully awake. ‘Is it a fire!?’ she screamed. The door opened and her Dad filled the doorway. He was a big guy with a big beard and normally gentle eyes. But they weren’t gentle right now. He was livid.

  Chris Banks looked at his twenty-eight-year-old daughter, on her feet but still mostly asleep, having thrown her Power Rangers duvet cover onto the floor, which Chris had been trying to throw out for years with little success. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for from his child. He’d imagined that by the time he reached retirement, which had happened a few months ago, Tilda would be an ambitious young woman, making her way in the world. Not a job hopping layabout, still sleeping in her childhood bedroom, wearing a onesie at the scrag end of her twenties.

  ‘Get dressed. We’re leaving in two minutes!’ Chris instructed.

  This time, the order stuck. Tilda pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt and sloped down the stairs. It wasn’t worth being screamed at again for a few minutes more sleep.

  As she hit the last step, her father thrust a travel mug of coffee into her hand, saying ‘Drink it in the car.’

  Tilda followed him dutifully out to the blue Yaris and plopped herself in the front, watching her Dad start the engine.

  ‘What’s the rush? It’s winter. Stuff doesn’t even grow now, does it?’ Tilda said and took a deep glug of the coffee, feeling her brain beginning to shake the sleep off.

  Chris rolled his eyes and pulled out of the space and onto the road. ‘Precisely. I’m planting my daffs now, ready for spring. It’s called planning in advance.’

  It was really only then, as the caffeine hit Tilda’s system, that she began to remember the previous night. Two things stuck out. She’d been fired, that was the big one. But coming a close second, snogging a woman with a cute nose called Sam under the mistletoe.

  The firing didn’t make her feel great. But the second thing almost cancelled it out. It had been an unexpected delight. Practically worth the sacking.

  But then Tilda realised with horror that she hadn’t gotten Sam’s phone number. She would likely never see her again.

  As Chris pulled into the garden centre, Tilda was filled with disappointment. She didn’t know Sam at all really but the brief kiss had done a lot of talking.

  And then Tilda realised something else. Her phone. She’d left it with Mikey. She’d completely forgotten to get it back as Dave had dragged her out of the pub.

  ‘Dad, can we swing by the Lantern after this?’

  ‘What for? You’re not working today, are you?’

  ‘No. Actually, I got the sack.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Tilda! Again?’

  Tilda shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. I was gonna quit anyway. I’ve been thinking about going back to Oz.’

  Chris looked at his daughter in utter bafflement. ‘As in Dorothy and the ruby
slippers?’

  ‘No, Dad. Australia.’

  Chris was relieved. His daughter was flighty but not barmy. It was some sort of comfort, he supposed.

  ‘And how are you going to afford that?’

  ‘I could probably swing the ticket and then I guess I’ll find some work out there.’

  ‘That all sounds very vague.’

  ‘I’ve done it before.’

  ‘Yes, when you were nineteen. And then twenty-three. And twenty-five. When’s it going to end?’

  ‘I don’t really see why it has to.’

  Tilda’s Dad went silent, wonderfully stumped for the moment. But Tilda knew it couldn’t last. Her father had spent the best years of his life selling insurance and waiting till now, at retirement age, to enjoy his life. Which apparently included visiting gardening centres. Tilda knew that wasn’t for her. She felt she was likely only going to get one go round on the planet, so why did she have to do the whole settling down thing if she didn’t really want it? What was the point?

  But Chris would never get it. He was old school. Practically old testament.

  ‘It’s about building a life, Tilda. You don’t have forever to do it’ Chris finally said, his composure regained.

  ‘What is it I’m supposed to be building?’ Tilda asked with a head shake. ‘I don’t want anything other than what I’ve got.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Freedom.’

  Chris snorted. ‘Sleeping in your Dad’s house is not freedom. It’s actually the opposite. Now, if you’d made a living and gotten a mortgage, that would be freedom.’

  ‘Are you serious?!’ Tilda said, starting to get angry. She’d only been awake for half an hour and she was having to account for her life choices to her father. Again. She shouldn’t have engaged with it, she knew. But she couldn’t help herself. ‘Freedom? Tied to a job and a bank loan?’

  ‘Well, right now, you’re tied to me for a roof over your head. Do you think that’s OK at twenty-eight?’

  ‘Do you think it’s OK to wait forty years to go to a garden centre?’

  Chris looked at her in bafflement. ‘What the hell are you talking about?!’

  Six

  While Tilda went off the deep end of parent-child relationships in the car park of the garden centre, Sam was at The Brass Lantern, having her own frustrating conversation with the manager.

  ‘Look, I’m not asking for a home address. I realise you can’t give that out. But maybe just a phone number. Actually, a last name would do.’

  ‘That little madam has been making my life hell since I hired her. So, no. I’m not about to help her with her love life.’

  Sam started to blush. This was more detail than she wanted to get into with this awful man.

  ‘It’s not about anything like that-’

  ‘No? So you weren’t the woman I saw snogging Tilda near the toilets?’

  Sam had no answer to that.

  ‘You want to be ashamed of yourself! This is a bar, not a bloody brothel. Having your company party here doesn’t entitle you to take those sort of liberties with the bar staff, you know.’

  Sam knew it was pointless but she was starting to get pissed off with the manager who for some reason had decided to slut shame her for a peck under the mistletoe.

  ‘I’m pretty sure you’d sacked her by then so she wasn’t on the staff. If you want to get technical’ she shot back.

  ‘Yes, and I couldn’t be more pleased if this is the sort of thing she thinks is alright in the workplace.’

  Sam sighed. This was a waste of time.

  ‘Alright then. Thanks for your help.’

  She walked out of the pub.

  Out on the street, she racked her brains. There had to be some other way of tracking Tilda down. But what was it? Nothing came. Perhaps this dead end was all there was. Sam was no private detective. She had no idea what came next. It was probably time to give up. She’d tried her best and it had come to nothing. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. She didn’t live in some fairy tale where a kiss under the mistletoe led to some beautiful romance. Life didn’t work like that.

  ‘Hang on!’ a voice said from behind her. It was a skinny young guy in the uniform of the Lantern. Sam remembered him from last night, manning the bar badly.

  Mikey stepped out of the pub, looked back over his shoulder to check his boss wasn’t watching his mutiny. ‘Did you say you were looking for Tilda?’

  Was this a break?

  ‘Yes! Can you help me?’

  ‘Possibly. But I have to ask what you want her for? You might be, err…’ he trailed off, not wanting to say something insulting.

  Sam realised it was a reasonable question. ‘I met her last night, at my company function. And we sort of… hit it off’ she added euphemistically. ‘I just need her phone number. I’m not some mad stalker, I promise. I just want to get in touch.’

  ‘I guess I could give you her number…’

  Sam smiled. ‘Oh, wonderful.’

  ‘…But it wouldn’t do you any good.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. ‘She left her phone behind.’

  Sam’s shoulders dropped. ‘Oh no.’

  Mikey considered.

  ‘You know what, though. If I gave you the phone, you could probably call some people in her phone book and track her down.’

  He offered the mobile. Sam took it hesitantly.

  ‘You’re fine with giving me her phone? What if I really am some crazy stalker?’

  Mikey laughed. ‘I reckon Tilda could handle you. And when you find her, can you tell her thanks. She’s a total hero.’

  ‘A hero?’

  ‘Yeah’ Mikey said, leaning in so as not to be overheard. ‘She took the blame for me last night. That’s why she lost her job.’

  Sam’s mouth fell open. ‘She got the sack for you?’

  ‘What a legend, right? Tell her I finished putting my number in there as well.’

  Mikey skipped back off to the pub and Sam was left with Tilda’s phone. It wasn’t exactly what she’d been hoping for. But it wasn’t the brick wall she’d been looking at a few minutes ago.

  It was something.

  ‘You gave my phone away!?’ Tilda said to Mikey, two hours later in the alleyway outside the bar, while her Dad waited in his car. ‘What on earth possessed you to do that, you spanner!’

  ‘She said she was trying to find you and I…’ Mikey stopped. Now that he thought about it, it had been kind of stupid. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time’ he said, but it was weak justification.

  Tilda shook her head in disbelief. But what was done was done. ‘Well, who was this person?’

  ‘I…’ Mikey realised he hadn’t actually gotten a name. ‘…I don’t know.’

  ‘Mikey, no offense but this was a real fucktard move.’

  Mikey shrugged apologetically. ‘I see that now.’

  ‘Guess I’ll just have to get a new phone. Fuck, I only just got that one, too’ Tilda said, irritated. But looking at Mikey’s long face, it was hard to stay mad at him. ‘Don’t worry about it, mate. It’s not a big deal.’

  ‘I keep ruining your life, don’t I?’

  Tilda ruffled his hair. ‘It was just a phone. Don’t sweat it.’

  Tilda turned to leave. Mikey remembered something. ‘She did say one thing, though. She said you met last night and that you hit it off.’

  Tilda turned, hope in her heart. ‘Did she have auburn hair and a button nose?!’

  ‘Err.. Yeah. I guess so. I mean I didn’t get a good look at her nose or anything…’

  Sam, her mistletoe kisser. It had to be. ‘She was at the function. What company was it? Maybe I can find her that way.’

  Mikey shook his head. ‘Dunno. Something sales-ey, I think. Does that help?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  Then Tilda realised she didn’t need the company name. She had a much easier way to track Sam down.

  ‘Thanks Mikey. You may not be a t
otal fucktard after all!’ she said and ran off down the alley.

  Mikey watched her running and smiled to himself. He wasn’t a total fucktard. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him all day.

  Seven