by Sue Watson
‘Sacher who?’ I joked, but it was lost on Jody.
‘The cake… chocolate and yummy toppings. You could seek out new cake recipes for that café you’re going to open one day.’
‘Yeah, who knows? I suppose one of the positives of being single is that anything’s possible, and there’s only me to think of.’
‘Yep, it’s up to you – café owner, librarian, wife and mother…’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever be a mum, Jody, not now. My periods are sporadic to say the least… so on top of being single I’m also about to be menopausal and barren, ooh what a catch!’ I half laughed.
‘You’re young to be having the menopause, but if you are then embrace it. Perhaps it’s your body’s way of telling you time’s running out?’
‘I wish you’d stop trying to cheer me up,’ I snapped.
‘Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself. And, stop banging on about your dying eggs. You aren’t defined by your womb. You can live the life you want to – it’s up to you. There’s adoption, IVF, surrogacy, more than one way to skin a cat or have a baby. But the key word here is “live” – stop putting everything off and blaming your bloody ovaries for everything.’
‘I’m not.’
‘So come to Switzerland with me and the girls. We’ll work hard, but we’ll also eat delicious rich chocolate cake and watch the world go by… downhill on skis.’
I hated to admit it, but it sounded fun and the very prospect of Swiss chocolate cake made me salivate. Damn, the appetite-loss stage of my relationship grief hadn’t lasted long – it was coming back with a vengeance.
‘At night the landscape glows, the stars twinkle, the sky is so velvety black…’
‘You’re reading from the brochure, aren’t you?’ I said, knowing this poetic description was beyond Jody. She was a nurse, not Noel Coward.
‘Yeah, but it’s just gorgeous. Even if I did want to go away, I told you there’s no one to look after Mrs Christmas.’
‘What about supernatural Susie? She loves cats, dead or alive.’
‘You mean Storm. I can’t leave my cat with Storm – she’d have her contacting the dead before I got back.’
‘And talking of dead – Switzerland is on the list of things to do before I die… life’s short, Jen.’
This made me think. It seemed a mere handful of years since I’d been in my twenties, young, free and single, life ahead of me and a future filled with possibilities. It was like I just turned round and suddenly here I was on the cusp of forty-one, and overnight my future and all those possibilities had shrunk. A year of being single had brought no suitors, so even without my suspected menopause, the lack of bedroom action meant I couldn’t get pregnant anyway in the last dying days. Jody said she knew a student doctor who might oblige with a turkey baster of sperm, but I’d declined her kind offer. ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass on that romantic encounter,’ I’d said, deciding to face the fact that I may have a different future than I’d planned.
When Jody had gone I spiked my lovely Christmas cake with a prong and poured brandy in, trying to put thoughts of a white Christmas and sleigh rides through fir trees out of my head. I tried not to think about snow and Sachertorte as I turned on the TV to watch Midsomer Murders, but I couldn’t settle. I couldn’t work out who the murderer was, distracted by the early ads for Christmas hampers and families sitting down to Christmas dinner. But the perfume ads really got me – always the beautiful, flawless six-foot woman, usually ending up dancing round the Eiffel Tower at dawn with some gorgeous hunk, a painful reminder I wasn’t anywhere near Paris, and I was on my own.
Christmas would be difficult but remembering Tim taking down my tinsel and criticising my ‘tacky tree’ made me realise I was happier without him. I was happier without anyone – because people only come into your life to leave you, and I should know. The Christmas I’d turned ten my dad had taken me out for tea and given me two beautifully wrapped gifts – one for my birthday and one for Christmas. I’d been delighted and still remembered the moment through a glittery gauze framed by fairy lights.
The first gift was wrapped in Christmas paper and I tore it off to discover a small radio with headphones, which in those days was the ultimate in music technology. ‘You can listen to that any time – and if you ever feel lonely you can put those earphones in any time, day or night, and listen to the music and imagine us singing along together,’ he’d said.
Dad and I often sang along to his radio so it was perfectly natural that I should have my own now I was ‘grown up’, and I’d squealed with excitement at the prospect of us singing the top twenty in the kitchen. ‘I’ll let you listen too, Dad,’ I’d said, opening the birthday gift and reading the card attached, which said, ‘Happy birthday to the most important girl in the world.’
Opening the box I’d been delighted to see the most beautiful doll but surprised because this was a ‘little-girl’ gift. Yet as I’d touched her long, silky hair I hadn’t been able to articulate my feelings but somehow knew it was permission to continue being a little girl, Dad’s little girl. The doll had real eyelashes that blinked slowly when you moved her and I remember such happiness at receiving this wonderful gift from my father. After tea he’d driven us home and, walking with me to the front door, unlocked it before saying, ‘I’m not coming in, Jenny.’ I’d been shocked, horrified. ‘Where are you going, Daddy?’ I’d heard myself say, but he’d just kissed me on the forehead; ‘I have to go away for a while. I’ll phone you.’ He’d smiled sadly, touched my fringe with his fingers then walked slowly down the path and climbed into his car. I didn’t see him again for two years.
Later, I learned that he’d walked out on me and my mum for another woman. My parents had decided it would be less painful for me if he stayed away, and I never really understood the logic – I still don’t. After that day, my only comfort was the doll – and the card that told me I was ‘the most important girl in the world’. But after a while, I began to question this – if I was the most important girl in the world, how come he’d walked out on me?
As an adult I’ve always found it hard to trust men, and I’m so desperate for them to stay I’m aware I can be a bit needy. With Tim I thought I’d finally found someone who’d stick around, but now I knew that wasn’t possible and, as much as I’d have loved a partner, I’d given up on that dream because I always ended up with men like my father – who leave.
The next day I was discussing Jody’s idea for Switzerland with my friend and colleague, Storm. She said a working holiday away sounded like a great idea because I needed to let go of the past. As we talked she brewed a calming pot of her peppermint tea and was, as always, a sympathetic friend.
‘Ten bloody Christmases I waited for him to get on one knee under that Christmas tree,’ I said.
‘Yes, like I say, you need to let go,’ she said and smiled. Storm had been through it all with me – when I received the letter from Tim’s solicitor telling me we had to sell the house, I’d wept openly during the morning session of Toddlers’ Story Time. Much to the dismay of the children and their mothers who’d come to hear me read Horrid Henry’s Cannibal Curse, Storm arrived to find me in the middle of a protest from rampaging four-year-old boys and continued with the story before escorting me into the staff room. But being psychic she said she wasn’t surprised about Tim. ‘I saw the colour of that man’s chakras and I can tell you it gave me a few sleepless nights,’ she’d said, handing me a steaming mug of bracing mint tea. Having worked together for over twelve years we’d shared the last of our youth with each other among those dusty old library shelves. When I’d had to move out of Tim’s house I’d ended up lodging in Storm’s big old Victorian villa just south of Manchester.
Storm was desperately looking for meaning in life like the rest of us. Some people find meaning in music or shopping, but Storm found it in Uncle Albert, her spirit guide who’d apparently ‘passed through’ in 1972, choking on a chip butty and a Woodbine on a day out in Southport.
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br /> Her style was less Gypsy Rose Lee and more Psychic Sally with her northern accent and conversations with Uncle Albert about who would win the 15 to 1 at Aintree. But Storm’s kindness and apparent contacts gave me comfort, and as I now had to take a belt and braces approach to the future I agreed to let her read my cards. After all, if there was wisdom to be had from any other dimension I wasn’t going to turn it away at this stage in the game – I needed all the help I could get.
‘Let’s see what the future really holds,’ she said, setting herself up on a small table and asking me to hold the cards and think only of myself. After about two minutes I handed them back to her but when she turned round my first card I saw it was a skeleton.
‘Oh God, I’m going to die.’
‘It doesn’t mean death – it means change,’ she said calmly.
I nodded as she turned over another card, this time with a broken-down building on it, which I immediately interpreted to be my womb.
‘I see a man. He’s waiting for you,’ she was saying quietly under her breath. ‘He’s tall and handsome and…’
‘But where is he and when will he reveal himself?’ I said, wanting a time, date and telephone number, something the Tarot wasn’t apparently prepared to yield.
‘Have patience, dear,’ she muttered. ‘Ah… I see… snow, I see a glittering frost, a Christmas tree… a white Christmas… pure and oh dear…’
I thought of Switzerland, of snowy peaks and Christmas in the mountains and a thrill of excitement ran through me. ‘What? What?’
‘I see you standing outside a big, beautiful church – it is here on hallowed ground that your future will unfurl before you… like a cloak.’
‘Great, I’m going to be a nun,’ I said and we both laughed, but the mere mention of my future unfurling before me did provide a tingle. All my friends were married with kids and living different lives. I looked at Storm, realising that I now had more in common with this childless older woman with wild hair and pierced nipples, who sought answers from dead people and a deck of cards. And despite this I was feeling quite positive. Perhaps I was finally recovering from Tim? He’d moved on. Perhaps it was now time for me to do the same?
Chapter 2
A Mistletoe Ménage with Mrs Scrooge
I wasn’t living in a fairy tale. There was no such place as The Christmas Cake Café and there never would be – only in my mind. I wasn’t going to find my romantic hero among the library bookshelves – not unless you count the weirdos and nerds who hung around the ‘Vampire’ section. But I was a grown woman with a career and a life, and I wasn’t going to let myself be hurt by anyone again. I had to start with me – and stop fantasising about things I’d never have.
Jody was slowly but surely wearing me down about going to Switzerland with her and I had to admit, there were worse things than a white Christmas in Switzerland. I had been thinking a lot about my future recently and how it might have to change – no white picket fence or babies but something else perhaps? A new career doing something I’d always wanted to do? I had the time off, the money for the flight and enough to keep me going if the short-term job worked out. I could do a lot of thinking somewhere like Switzerland – all that pure white snow, like a blank canvas to write a new life on. What did I have to lose?
It also occurred to me that going to Switzerland would give Jody and I the chance to develop a much stronger relationship. She was now my only living relative, but the twelve-year age gap had always made me feel more like an estranged aunt than a big half-sister. It didn’t help that we hadn’t actually grown up together either. When I was twelve, my dad had finally got in touch and asked if I’d like to spend the day with him. I was elated. Despite Mum telling me I didn’t have to go if I didn’t want to, I gently told her that I did want to see him. I sensed that I was being asked to choose between them, but my twelve-year-old head managed to bat this away temporarily and, in spite of still feeling hurt at his departure, I think I still harboured some hope that I could convince him to come home.
‘We’re going to my new house,’ he said, once I was in the car. I was delighted at this prospect, imagining Dad and I playing Scrabble and drinking hot chocolate together like we used to – and perhaps moving Mum in at some stage once they started talking again. It hadn’t occurred to me that anyone else would be there, but when we arrived at his new house there was a welcome committee. Maureen, the woman my mother could only ever refer to as ‘her’, was standing on the doorstep – and to my abject horror she was holding a baby.
‘This is Jody, your new baby sister,’ Dad said, proudly plucking the cooing baby from Maureen’s arms.
I was devastated. The one thing I’d clung to while we’d been apart was what had been written on that gift card. But as Dad and ‘her’ oohed and ahhed over the tiny little scrap in their arms I felt nothing but betrayal. I wasn’t the most important girl in the world any more. Mum had told me he didn’t want us, but I’d refused to believe her until now – but I could see how he looked at that baby and I knew I’d finally lost my father.
Consequently, I never became part of his second family as he’d perhaps hoped. There was always too much hurt, and the adults were too wrapped up in their own feelings to try and assuage mine. As a result of all this I never bonded with Jody when we were young and had secretly spied on her Facebook page out of nosiness rather than any concern. I had felt the sting of resentment when I saw a page filled with photos of her with ‘Mum and Dad’ – my dad. I was also slightly bitter about her university life of clever friends and long hot summers – a life Mum said we could never afford for me. Dad died when I was twenty, and although we’d been estranged for several years by then, I was surprised to feel such grief for him.
But as time went on I’d begun to wonder about my sister and how she’d turned out. We’d spent the last few years building up a tentative friendship and making up for lost time, but we were an odd couple really – she had her rowdy friends and a life of late nights and early mornings and a different boyfriend every week – and I’d had Tim. But we got on quite well, and lately she’d been a wonderful support, a good friend… a sister really.
‘Let’s meet up for a drink and talk properly about this trip,’ I said when she asked again about me going with her to Switzerland. ‘I agree we need to bond, the two of us. After all, you’re the only family member I have. I’ll be leaving you all my Wham! records when I die, and I need to make sure they’re going to a good home.’
‘Ahhh, I suppose at your age you have to think about stuff like that,’ she sighed. She wasn’t joking. ‘I’m SO excited about Switzerland. You will LOVE it. Oh I can’t wait to go skiing with my big sis.’
I was now as excited as she was. This could be a wonderful opportunity to finally become the sisters we should be in a lovely Christmassy setting with the world locked out.
Jody and I met in her local wine bar where it seemed Christmas had come early. The bar staff were dressed as Santa Claus, the tree was flashing like crazy, all the drinks had Christmassy names and there was noise and tinsel everywhere.
‘It’s only November,’ I said, sipping on my Christmastini, a lurid red drink that glowed like nuclear waste. It was probably toxic, but it tasted okay.
‘Yeah but the guy who owns the bar is going to Australia for Christmas so he wants a British one here first.’
It made perfect sense to Jody.
‘How stupid,’ I replied. ‘You can’t have Christmas before December.’
‘You can have Christmas whenever you want – there’s no local bylaw that says you can’t celebrate Christmas in July if you want to.’ She rolled her eyes at what she probably saw as my pedantry.
‘It’s idiotic,’ I said. ‘And don’t kid yourself – he just wants to make money out of Christmas before he leaves the country!’
She lifted her head from a large Mistletoe Ménage cocktail and gave me a stern look. ‘I hope you aren’t going to be this scratchy in Switzerland, Mrs Scrooge.’
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‘I am not “Mrs” anything. And please don’t rub it in.’
‘Okay, Miss Scrooge,’ she said, wide-eyed and innocent.
‘So… me and you spending the next few months – including Christmas – together – I worry we may not want to do the same things.’ I had to shout over Noddy Holder screaming, ‘It’s Christmaaaaas!’ which was very annoying but certainly supported my concerns.
‘We will. We both LOVE Christmas – well Dad said you always loved Christmas.’
‘Did he? Well, he was right… I did, I still do… I just don’t like that Christmas,’ I said, gesturing at a group of lads in Santa hats, drinking shots and dropping their trousers – with gusto. I was always surprised when Jody talked about Dad and how he’d sometimes spoken about me like I was there, part of their family. It made me irrationally happy to think I was on his mind and that he’d wanted to share memories of me with Jody. At the same time it made me feel such regret that I couldn’t share some of that family life and special times with my sister when we were younger. I hoped Dad could see us from wherever he was and that he knew we had become friends after all – it would have made him very happy, I was sure of that.
I was momentarily distracted from my thoughts by the obscene antics of the Santas on the next table and pulled a disapproving face.
‘They’re only having fun,’ Jody sighed, winking at one of the boys in the Santa hats.
‘If what they’re doing with their fake beards is your idea of “fun”, then you must be mad.’ I averted my eyes once more from the circus going on at the next table, hoping to unsee the spectacle – suffice to say the beards weren’t being worn on their faces.
‘Boring… that’s what you are now.’
‘No, I’m not, I’ve just matured…’
‘Old. Old and boring.’
‘I’m forty-one… almost. I’m not old and…’