by Alice Ross
‘Hey, come on.’ I plop down on the chair next to her. ‘You say that every time, but you always breeze through. You’ve been studying so hard you need a break.’
‘Maybe.’ She rubs a hand over her face. ‘But I honestly can’t be bothered with Christmas this year. I’m just not in the mood.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, hoping it really will be. Ellie declaring she can’t be bothered with Christmas is like a nun saying she’s going to inject a bit of colour into her wardrobe. Her enthusiasm for the twenty-fifth of December is usually boundless. Which means something is definitely amiss. So much so, that, for the first time since steaming ahead with my matrimonial plans, it occurs to me that she might not accept my proposal. This thought ignites a frisson of panic that I instantly dampen down.
‘How about I rattle us up some tuna pasta for dinner?’ I offer, pasting on a smile.
‘OK. Great. Thanks,’ she mutters, sounding more miserable than a wet weekend in Bognor with no telly and dodgy Wi-Fi.
Chapter Two
‘Oh. My. Goodness. How exciting,’ squeals Ellie’s mum, Diana, when I phone the next day to inform her of our Christmas plans – including the proposal.
‘You mustn’t say a word, though,’ I stress – for the fifth time. ‘If you do, it’ll completely spoil the surprise.’
‘As if I would,’ she tuts. ‘You know me, Adam. Discretion is my middle name.’
On the other end of the phone, my features form a dubious expression. Pamela is my-hopefully-soon-to-be-mother-in-law’s middle name. And I doubt she could even spell discretion, never mind execute any. Like the time her poor husband, Anthony, had a bad case of piles. A condition Diana magnanimously shared with every individual within a five-mile radius, including the Avon lady and the poor guy who called to conduct a survey on cavity wall insulation.
Still, as she was expecting us as usual for the festivities, I had no choice but to bring her up to speed with my intentions.
‘So,’ I reiterate – in the same voice I use at work when trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about, ‘we all just need to pretend that we’re still coming to you on the twenty-third. Only, instead of us setting off to drive up to your house—’
‘You’ll be heading to swanky Pebberley Castle. Oh, how romantic. Anthony and I had nothing like that. We were standing at the counter in a fish and chip shop in Scarborough, waiting for cod and chips twice, when he muttered something to me. I thought he’d asked if I wanted salt and vinegar, so I said “Yes, please”, and the next thing I knew, he’d produced a ring and stuck it on my finger. Mind you, it was good timing because we got the fish and chips for free and they threw in two cans of Tropical Lilt. Do you remember, Anthony?’
‘What’s that?’ I hear Ellie’s father asking in the background.
‘I’m just telling Adam how there were no violins or posh hotels when we got engaged. I thought you were asking me if I wanted salt and vinegar.’
‘Got the fish and chips for free, though, didn’t we? And two cans of Tropical Lilt.’
‘I know. I’ve just told him that. Do they still sell Tropical Lilt? I haven’t seen it in year— Oh, have you bought the ring, Adam? Because if you haven’t, I could come with you and—’
‘All done,’ I inform her smugly, a vision of the exquisite vintage emerald and diamond cluster mounted on white gold, currently concealed in the plastic bag containing my traffic cone outfit, popping into my head. I’d known it was The One the moment I’d spotted it, in a tiny antique shop in Newcastle.
‘Oh. What a shame,’ chunters Diana, tone reverberating with disappointment. ‘Well, not that you’ve bought it, obviously. But that I can’t have a nice browse with you. Still, no matter. Ellie and I can spend many a day shopping once the wedding planning starts in earnest. Dresses and shoes and hats and bridesmaids’ attire. Ooh, and talking of dresses, Adam, what are you going to do about Ellie’s clothes? She’ll need to look her best at Pebberley Castle. It’s very posh, you know.’
This point had occurred to me. ‘Actually, I wondered if you could help me out there. Tell her you’re planning a little soirée with the neighbours or something on Christmas Eve. Ask her to bring something smart.’
‘Good thinking,’ replies Diana approvingly. ‘We’ll come up with a plan, won’t we, Anthony?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Excellent. Thanks so much for your help,’ I chip in quickly, before the conversation detours to Tropical Lilt. ‘And remember, Diana – mum’s the word.’
‘Oh, it most definitely is,’ giggles my hopefully-soon-to-be-mum-in-law.
‘You haven’t forgotten we’re meeting Kyle and the Terrifying Turnip at the pub tonight, have you?’ I ask Ellie that evening.
She’s at the kitchen table again, surrounded by a Himalayan mountain range of accountancy tomes, staring into space.
My question sends her ricocheting back to earth, a place I’m not entirely sure, by the wave of disappointment that settles over her countenance, she wants to be.
‘Oh, do we have to?’
I pull a face of my own. A slightly bewildered one, given her reaction. ‘We meet them every Friday night.’
She heaves an almighty sigh. ‘I know, but that doesn’t mean we can’t break the routine once in a while. It’s the Friday before Christmas. The place will be rammed.’
‘Look, we’re supposed to be there in an hour. It’s too late to cancel now. Let’s just go along for a couple of drinks. It’ll do you good to get away from the books for a while.’
She shakes her head. ‘It won’t. I haven’t done anywhere near enough revision today and I don’t have time to waste sitting in a pub. I don’t think you realise just how important these exams are to me, Adam.’
I blink, shocked and hurt in equal measure at that accusation. Over the three years we’ve been together, during which Ellie has been a full-time student, I’ve been nothing but supportive: surprising her with little treats – like her favourite chocolate fudge brownie ice cream – whenever she’s been on a downer; reminding her of all her achievements to date, when she’s been entrenched in a confidence crisis; and even sitting through countless YouTube tutorials on how to do an Indian Head Massage, so I can help her relax when her stress levels soar to cataclysmic heights.
‘Of course I do,’ I retaliate. ‘Nobody knows better than me how hard you’ve worked. Or how much you want to pass. But trust me, you’ll feel better for having a break.’
She props her elbows on the table and rakes her fingers through her hair. ‘OK. But I’ll have to do more work when I come back. I’m still not confident about all the corporate tax stuff.’
‘Fine,’ I reply, thinking it really wasn’t. She looked worn to a frazzle. ‘But let’s try and enjoy a bit of time together first. After all, it is nearly Christmas.’
Kyle and Ingrid are already at the pub when we arrive. Looking like they’ve just nipped out from a photo shoot with Hello! magazine. Ingrid is wearing her trademark black, in the form of a figure-hugging halterneck dress, accessorised with long sparkly silver earrings and an armful of jangling bracelets, her platinum blonde hair swept up in a sleek high ponytail. Kyle, maintaining the image of the perfectly coordinated couple, is clad in a grey designer shirt and smart skinny-fit black trews, and, with his trendy stubble, is his usual immaculately groomed self. Ellie and I loiter at the other end of the scale. Given my beloved’s lack of enthusiasm for the outing, she’s wearing washed-out jeans with a rip in the knee, a George 4 Ezra T-shirt, and a smudge of ink on her left cheek which, given her dark mood, I haven’t dared inform her of. Despite a lack of ink smudges, I’m not faring much better in a checked shirt that I really should have ironed but couldn’t be bothered, and a pair of chinos that I only just noticed when tugging them on, are decorated with a smear of ketchup.
By the disapproving look with which Ingrid greets us, it’s clear our shabby sartorial efforts have earned us a black mark.
I determine not to let suc
h trivia spoil the evening. ‘So, how was your week, guys?’ I enquire brightly, as Ellie and I - trying desperately not to spill our drinks - squeeze onto the stools they’ve somehow succeeded in keeping for us. Given the place is heaving, I attribute this success to Ingrid resembling a terrifying dominatrix.
The Swede sucks in a shuddering breath and flips her ponytail over her shoulder. ‘It has been very annoying,’ she puffs on the exhale. ‘There is so much work to do but all anyone is interested in is partying.’
‘Well, it is nearly Christmas,’ I point out – admittedly rather unnecessarily given Slade’s Merry Christmas Everybody is blaring out from the speakers. ‘That’s what happens.’
A staccato shake of her head follows this observation, during which her ponytail inadvertently whacks Kyle across his exfoliated and moisturised face. Obviously knowing his fiancée well, he refrains from pointing out this misdemeanour and instead, after a brief rub of his perfect features, knocks back two swigs of lager.
‘But everything shouldn’t stop for parties, Adam,’ Ingrid whines. ‘Not when one is still being paid. It’s not right. And it doesn’t happen in Sweden.’
Oh God. The woman is in what Ellie and I term one of her ‘That would never happen in Sweden’ moods. And as neither I, nor my hopefully-soon-to-be-wife, are in the frame of mind to wind her up, we’ll have to sit it out. Thankfully, Kyle comes to the rescue with a less contentious subject.
‘As soon as the holidays are over, Ingrid’s going to start planning our wedding,’ he informs us.
At this news, I expect Ellie, who loves a good wedding – mainly because she can do her stupid dance to hits of the eighties – to start effervescing.
She doesn’t.
In fact, by the way she’s staring blankly at the table, I’m not even sure she’s heard.
‘Wow. Exciting,’ I gush, giving my beloved a surreptitious poke in the thigh. ‘Where are you thinking of having the wedding?’
I hope the emphasis on the last two words will galvanise my girlfriend into action.
It doesn’t.
‘Mansford Hall,’ sniffs Ingrid. ‘In September.’
My eyebrows rocket up to my hairline. ‘But I thought the waiting list there was so long, you were practically divorced by the time they could fit you in.’
Ingrid flicks her ponytail back over her shoulder, while Kyle executes a perfectly timed duck. ‘For normal people there is a long waiting list. But I have connections.’
‘Ingrid wants a Swedish style wedding,’ chips in Kyle.
‘Will that involve shimmying down the aisle to Abba’s I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do?’ I ask, snorting with laughter.
No one joins in. Which basically sets the tone for the rest of the evening.
Thankfully, our suffering at having to endure Ingrid droning on about the disruptiveness of the festive season, is curtailed by Ellie announcing she still has revision to do.
‘Blimey,’ I snigger to her on our way home. ‘I wouldn’t fancy being the wedding planner at Mansford Hall. Imagine having to deal with the Terrifying Turnip. She’ll be Bridezilla from Stockholm. “We do not want any humour at the wedding. We do not do that in Sweden.”’
Normally, this is the kind of conversation at which Ellie and I excel. Particularly on a Friday night after a few beers and several hours in Ingrid’s company. One of us will recall something she said, then the other will make up some daft Swedish words – usually based on the names of items in the Ikea catalogue. And by the time we arrive home we’re usually laughing so hard we practically fall into the flat.
This evening there is no jovial banter. No giggles. Not so much as a titter.
‘I’d better get on and do another couple of hours’ work,’ Ellie sighs.
And slinks off to do just that.
Chapter Three
Following a weekend during which Ellie barely lifts her head from her books, and I resort to wrapping all the presents myself – without the fun of sticking ribbon rosettes in rude places - the last couple of working days in the office pass in a bit of a haze, everyone strutting about in Santa hats, plastic reindeer antlers and red jumpers bearing slogans such as When I Think of You I Touch my Elf and Fab Yule Us. The staffroom, meanwhile, hosts a pile of weird and wonderful confectionery, including marzipan snowmen – which someone has creatively sought to enliven by snapping off their carrot noses and repositioning them further down their bodies; and animals that I think are supposed to be reindeer, but look more like elephants with dodgy ears.
I, adorned with a flashing Rudolph nose, play along with it all. Even donning my Secret Santa present of pink and pearly washing up gloves. But, just like other years, my heart isn’t in it. Not because I’m my usual Bah Humbug self, but because I’m worried about Ellie. And the proposal. And her exams. For all she’s one of the cleverest people I know, and I have complete and utter faith in her ability to pass, the possibility remains that, because she’s worn herself into the ground, she might not perform at her best on the examination days. And what state she’ll be in then, I hardly dare contemplate.
Still, hopefully before we reach that stage, she’ll have much pleasanter things to think about. Like our wedding.
Assuming, of course, her answer to my question is a big fat euphoric ‘Yes!’.
The possibility that it might not be, being something else I can’t bring myself to think about.
Eventually, after what seems like an eternity since I booked Pebberley Castle six days before, December twenty-third chugs around: the first day of the festive holidays from work, and the day I surprise Ellie with our luxury break.
All my nerves have, mercifully, been ground to dust by excited anticipation. Not that I can demonstrate any excited anticipation. Heavens, no. That would give the game away completely. Instead, maintaining the pretence of visiting her parents in Northumberland as usual, I affect something of a solemn demeanour. Which mirrors hers perfectly.
‘You all right?’ I ask, catching her, yet again, gazing into the middle distance while part way through her cereal.
‘What? Oh. Yes. Fine,’ she replies glumly.
I eye her suspiciously. She doesn’t look fine. She looks knackered.
‘I don’t think you should take any books with you,’ I say. ‘You need a break from it all.’
She shakes her head. ‘I can’t afford the time off. I have to pass these exams, otherwise I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘You will pass.’ I sit down next to her and take her hand. ‘And even if you don’t, it’s not the end of the world. You can always re-sit them. And you’ll still have me.’
She nods. A jaded, resigned kind of nod. Which has the instant effect of boomeranging my nerves right back.
She’s just tired, I assure myself when we’re chucking our bags into the car, Ellie with no enthusiasm at all. She needs a break. And what better place to have one than Pebberley Castle? She’s going to love it. Especially when they’re all set to make a fuss of us. A fuss that has cost me a month’s salary, but which will be worth every penny.
As, I hope, will the extortionate amount I forked out for the ring. I hadn’t intended spending such a ludicrous sum, but, exactly like the first time I’d set eyes on Ellie, I’d known instantly that it was the right—
Bollocks!
The ring!
I’d taken such pains to hide it by stuffing the box in with my traffic cone outfit, that I’d totally forgotten to bring it.
Of all the stupid, idiotic—
‘What are you doing?’ Ellie demands, as I slam on the brakes so hard we both catapult forward in our seats.
‘Forgotten something,’ I reply, swinging the vehicle around. ‘Won’t take a minute to pop back and pick it up.’
‘It’ll take twenty minutes,’ she grumbles, radiating disapproval. ‘Because that’s how long we’ve been on the road. What have you forgotten?’
Oh God. ‘My, er… Secret Santa present – the pink and pearly washing up gloves,’ I blurt,
plumping for the first – and with the benefit of a few seconds’ hindsight, the stupidest – thing that zips into my head.
‘Pink and pearly washing up gloves? What are you going to do with those at Mum and Dad’s house?’
‘Washing up?’ I quip, as brightly as I can muster.
Thirty minutes later than planned, thanks to the unanticipated detour, my surreptitious retrieval of the ring, and a hasty search for the pink and pearly washing up gloves, which I subsequently used to conceal the jewellery box as I stuffed it into my bag, Ellie’s even more cheesed off than a wedge of mouldy Stilton.
‘You’ve missed the turning,’ she gripes, when I fail to take the usual road to her parents’ house.
Ha! A mental drum roll sounds in my head. This is the bit where I inform her of our change of festive plans; the first stage in the implementation of me popping The Question. I clear my throat. Or at least I would have, had a bit of spittle not slithered down the wrong way, setting off a bout of coughing which almost results in the car colliding with a Don’t Drink and Drive sign.
‘No, I haven’t,’ I splutter, as the episode subsides. ‘We’re not going to your parents’.’
Despite my watering eyes and flushed cheeks, I affect what I hope is an enigmatic expression, briefly turning my head to gauge her reaction.
As expected, it’s one of perplexity.
‘Where are we going then?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘I’m not in the mood for surprises.’
‘You’ll be in the mood for this one.’
‘Pebberley Castle? What are we doing here?’ my beloved gasps upon arrival at our destination.
‘Carving turkeys. They’re paying twenty quid an hour. I thought we could use the extra cash.’ By the blank expression on her face, my stab at humour has clearly fallen flat at the first hurdle. ‘We’re staying here, of course.’