by Sue Watson
‘You look like one of them hunters in the Arctic,’ he laughed. ‘Ha, like you’ve just killed a polar bear,’ he was now laughing openly at me, which made me feel quite ridiculous.
Hermione laughed from the sidelines and I grimaced because Sam had said only that week that I needed to be more of a sport and laugh at myself sometimes. But when my daughter started taking shots on her iPhone enough was enough. ‘Stop that Hermione I will not be the subject of some “my mad mother post” again on your sodding Facebook page.'
‘I wouldn’t waste this on FB, ma,’ she huffed. ‘This is pixel gold for my instagram... I may even tweet this shit it’s too funny.’
I gave her a look, which she didn’t get because she was too busy sending a picture of her dog-straddling mad mother around the bloody world wide web. I sent up a silent prayer that the women of Chantray Lane weren’t witnessing this online spectacle as it happened.
‘Can someone please help me up?’ I yelled feeling abandoned for the hundredth time that day. I was wearing a tight skirt and it wasn’t going to be easy, ladylike or even possible to stand up without losing what little dignity I had left. My legs were splayed, my forehead was damp and Horatio was beginning to whimper.
Gabe (who was still laughing) reached down and took hold of my hand to help me up. I was surprised at the gesture and when I lurched up and landed against him, even more surprised to discover how hard his chest felt. Just at that moment Hugo wandered back in.
‘My mum and Gabe doing it standing up? Gross. I have to unsee that,’ he groaned.
‘Gabe and I were dressing Horatio as you full well know,’ I answered a little breathlessly, straightening myself and ordering Horatio into the kitchen. Gabe sat back on the chair smiling and watching me cross the room, which I found extremely irritating. I must have blushed. He made me feel very foolish, and not for the first time I wished I’d never booked him to help with my Christmas decor.
‘Now, I need you to think, Klosters, in Switzerland... the swish ski resort?’’ I said, determined to engage him and make him move his arse to do some work now the dog was dressed. But he looked at me blankly and stared at the dog who was wandering around the room. I’ll admit Horatio was walking strangely and probably wanted to pee but there was no way I was taking off that onesie – he only had to wear the outfit for an hour.
‘Tammy. You can’t let your dog walk round like that,’ Gabe whined.
‘For God’s sake, you don’t hear Mariah Carey’s dogs whimpering. They are delighted to be on her Christmas cards every year,’ I said. ‘They pant and pose with their little paws up AND they were there when she gave birth to the twins... that dog should count himself lucky he wasn’t around when Hugo was born.’
‘Blood bath,’ commented Mrs J from behind the sofa.
‘Thank you Mrs J... I don’t think we need to go into it.’ I turned back to Gabe who was looking me up and down, with his mouth open, no doubt imagining me in the throes of a horrific labour. Nice.
‘Gabe,’ I said, almost clicking my fingers to get him off the labour ward and back in the present. ‘Haven’t you got stuff to do?’
He nodded doubtfully.
‘I’m looking forward to film star glamour and Christmas sparkle on the slopes... and as Heddon and Hall seem a little “tired and emotional”, perhaps you can support them?’ I glanced at Heddon who was hanging by a glittery thread from the chandelier in the hall. I was hoping for literal support from Gabe as I didn’t want Heddon to fall and leave blood on my winter white wool Berber.
Gabe was looking at me vacantly, spinning a £100 wreath around in his hands.
‘So, think about it from a design perspective’ I trilled, suddenly worried about the ratio of glitter to winter white in the wreath he was holding.
‘Think Richard and Liz in their heyday.’
‘Don’t you mean Richard and Judy?’ he monotoned... which said it all really.
I looked at him and he looked straight back at me, defiance and humour mingling in a very disturbing cocktail.
Then he leaned towards me, his lips close to my ear, and his breath warm on my skin.
‘You be Judy and I’ll be Richard,’ he whispered.
‘What a horrific thought,’ I said, batting him away, but couldn’t stop the shiver running the length of my spine.
‘Go on Tammy...you know you want to,’ he whispered, his breath tickling my neck as he leaned in even closer.
‘Stop that,’ I said as I pushed him away playfully. He was so very naughty I had to smile. I moved away and turned back to see a twinkle in his eye.
After organising Heddon and Hall I noticed Hermione’s make-up needed touching up so I grabbed some glitzy eye liner in silver. It was all over the catwalk that season and I was just transforming her eyes when Jesus arrived.
* * *
‘Dahling, I run from the airport, your weather she’s so damned fucking cold,’ he muttered as I embraced him. Jesus, the photographer, was an old friend who’d taken photos for mine and Simon’s property company in the early days when we were poor and struggling. Our star had risen over the years, but Jesus’ had gone stratospheric. He now jetted around the world snapping film stars and rockers in close-up half-naked sepia, before showcasing in stark white galleries in LA.
Dark, brooding and gorgeous he positively smouldered and I couldn’t help but flirt – his presence seemed to tease out the young, vital woman I had been when we’d first met.
‘Are we black and white this year, Jesus?’ I asked, batting my eyelashes.
‘No. I want you in full, glorious fucking colour,’ he spat, without eye contact.
I loved Jesus, with his gloomy face, filthy mouth and faux depression. Of course he hadn’t always been a morose South American with a chip on his shoulder, his name had once been Jeffrey and he hailed from Chorlton. He’d been quite jolly in his Jeffrey days, always eager to please and smiley but that’s the problem when you’re nice, it’s seen as a weakness and people take advantage. It was only when he changed his name, developed a foreign accent and anger issues, the fashion world sat up and took notice. He called himself Jesus after some footballer, but as he’d only read the name and hadn’t actually heard it spoken he didn’t realise it was pronounced hezuus. By the time he found out, it was too late – he’d already announced (and mispronounced) his global entrance. Consequently, Jesus’ actions and whereabouts had always been a huge joke in our family, if a little sacrilegious. Simon would say ‘Is Jesus sleeping with that supermodel?’ and delight in making jokes about the second coming. We’d laugh for hours, the possibilities for Jesus’ whereabouts and actions being endless and hilarious.
I poured him a mulled wine as he unpacked his equipment. I felt akin to Jesus. We were both born pleasers from the wrong side of the tracks who had somehow reinvented ourselves. I often wondered if he felt like me, like an intruder in his own glamorous life.
Now our celebrity photographer had arrived we were ready and I marched to the top of my beautiful stairs, which were the reason we’d bought the old rectory house fifteen years earlier. The stairs came down into the centre of the open plan hallway and sitting room, sweeping in a dramatic curve. I would often sashay down them one step at a time, feeling very Bette Davis. In fact, some days I had been so bloody bored of shopping and lunching I’d stay home and go up and down my spectacular stairs again and again perfecting my walk. Arriving at the bottom I’d stand, hand on hip, and say, ‘Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.’ I loved doing that but stopped when Mrs J asked me why I kept talking to myself at the bottom of the stairs. I’d had no idea she was there, the woman was like someone from bloody MI5.
Surveying the scene from the top of my fabulous stair-scape, I could almost taste Christmas. The air sparkled, glittering snowy white feathers glinted with diamanté on the giant tree and I had to hold my breath at the Christmas my interior design geniuses and a calming white colour palette had created.
Jesus stood at the bottom of the stairs, N
ikon in hand, a sardonic, but admiring smile on his face. ‘Go baby,’ he said. And I obliged.
‘Boys, you are my angels – I am in Heddon and Hall heaven,’ I announced in my best Bette Davis voice, wishing I had a glitzy cigarette holder to wave for effect.
‘You are an outrageous tyrant, but we love you,’ screamed Heddon, glugging the last dregs of his mulled wine before climbing the balustrade and hurling white fur and spangles in a delicious, if impromptu Christmas swag.
‘Brace yourself gorgeous one,’ sighed Hall, the younger of the two. ‘I’m about to mount the main fireplace, light the Christmas lights and within minutes, my darling, you will be immersed in your own, sparkling, white Christmas-scape.’
I heard Gabe say ‘Jesus’ under his breath, and he wasn’t addressing my photographer. I gave him a withering look. He didn’t fit in – I’d only employed him for his muscle and he had no finesse. He just didn’t appreciate our mutual adoration, camp affectation and love of all things gorgeous. He’d have to go.
I wasn’t going to allow the butch, obtuse Gabe to impair my evening, so I began my walk down the stairs, each important step bringing me a little nearer to Christmas.
Heddon and Hall screamed and clapped as I swished and shimmied, camping it up just for them. Even Jesus had a little twinkle in his eye as he climbed the filigree banister to get me in my best light, while Sam shouted, ‘Go girl.’ How I loved being the star of my own Christmas show.
‘Jesus, I’m ready for my close-up,’ I said, breathlessly looking down his lens and abandoning Bette for an over-the-top Gloria Swanson.
As I reached the bottom, my kids were giggling and blowing kisses and I blew them back as Gabe stepped in and reached out a hand to walk me to my seat. I was touched, but I wished he’d washed his hands first, one didn’t like to contemplate where they’d been, but as most of the wives on Chantray Lane had been recipients of his services, one could hazard a guess. I tried not to dwell on Gabe’s sexual proclivities and personal hygiene as he led me to my seat next to Hermione and Hugo. I held my breath; the air shimmered with expectation as Hall leaned behind the fireplace pressed the switch, and flooded the room with fairy lights.
The whole room glittered, the tree shone and icy white baubles caught a million wintry rainbows in their facets. I was moved to tears by my own Winter Wonderland – and this was only early December and only Phase One. Everyone ooed and aahed and shrieked (Heddon) and sobbed (Hall) and swore (Jesus). And just as we began the ritual hugging, the Christmas doorbell chime set off. Simon. I was delighted, he’d left work early after all – he knew today was special and I felt warm, fuzzy and grateful all at once. Mrs J shuffled off to get the door and I turned in my seat smiling in anticipation of his arrival. But when Mrs J came back into the room, hands on hips, there was no Simon, just two big, rough men. I had never seen them before, but it was quite clear these two hadn’t turned up for the official launch of my St Moritz-inspired winter wonderland.
‘Who...?’ was all I could say.
‘They’re bailiffs... say they’ve got a possessive warrant,’ Mrs J said. ‘They’ve come for the house.
It took several seconds for me to compose myself. I was frozen to the seat and all I could think was how apt that I should sit there like an ice statue in my own winter wonderland. When I tried to stand up, my legs buckled and I fell to the ground, face deep in pure wool, wall-to-wall designer carpet. After a few minutes, I came round, but remained on the floor, gazing upwards, hoping it was all a bad dream and that I’d wake soon. Sam and Gabe were above me, discussing what to do – he was offering mouth to mouth or something equally sinister, but I put my hand in the air before he got any ideas. The thought of his Monster-munch-scented breath lurching towards my lips made me want to heave, which I promptly did – all over my winter white flooring. Of course Heddon and Hall were now in full throttle, screaming, running around in a complete frenzy demanding hot water and towels.
‘She’s been sick, she’s not given birth,’ Sam said rudely, while wiping my face with what looked like one of my very expensive linen napkins, which caused me to pass out again.
Within seconds I was back, having been slapped in the face by a now hysterical Heddon, who was being comforted by Hall. I felt woozy, and with everyone’s blurred face in mine, I turned away. My eyes alighted on the Christmas tree, still magnificent, smothered in a million fairy lights and snowy white baubles... had I dreamt these last few minutes? The smell of Norwegian Pine danced in the air, but however hard I tried to pretend it was a nightmare and I was now back in my own winter wonderland, I was dragged into reality by two balding bailiffs standing over me, impatiently.
‘I don’t understand... it’s all a big mistake... isn’t it?’ I felt a tear fall down my cheek.
‘No,’ the fatter and lesser tattooed gentleman answered gruffly. ‘Ask your husband, he knows all about it, he’s been in receipt of a Warrant of Possession for several weeks now.’
‘Simon knows about this?’ I looked at them.
The fatter one nodded. ‘He’s known for weeks.’
‘Well you’ll need to speak to my husband then and he isn’t here is he. I don’t know anything about it. So would you please leave...’
‘You can’t ask them to leave,’ Sam said gently. ‘They have a Notice of Eviction, Tam...’
‘Okay... okay,’ I couldn’t think straight, I had no idea what a warrant of possession or a notice of eviction was, but they both sounded terrible – and not something one would associate with Chantray Lane. ‘Well, if you won’t leave, let’s keep this civil and discuss what exactly is going on,’ I said. ‘Mrs J, mulled wine for everyone please,’ I called. I was feigning the ‘good hostess’ trick, but really I needed alcohol in order to bring myself round, comprehend what had just happened and try to deal with it.
‘It’s not a bloody drinks party, Tamsin. This is serious,’ Sam snapped from my side. I pulled away from her and addressed the men.
‘Please don’t do anything rash just yet – I’m sure we can sort this out. My husband will be home any minute, just sit down over there... no, not on the white sofas,’ I cringed in horror at the very thought of these men’s no doubt grubby backsides on my perfect seating. ‘Use those dining chairs, and let’s talk,’ I said, with what little authority I could muster from my semi-prostrate position on the floor.
They both looked at each other and I saw a glance pass between them.
‘No point talkin, you haven’t been payin yer bills. You don’t need to give out fancy wine to find that out,’ Gabe said, rudely, as he and Sam helped me to my feet.
‘Oh I’m so sorry. I should have spoken to you first, Gabe – after all, you seem to know exactly what’s happening,’ I snapped. ‘I’m offerin these men a drink because I might be about to be repossessed – but I wasn’t brought up in the fuckin gutter!’ I’d raised my voice and dropped my g and shortened my u and my hand flew to my mouth, horrified at my own outburst. Heddon and Hall gasped and everyone stood open-mouthed, even Hermione looked surprised, and it took a lot to shock my daughter.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered, sitting down, supported by Sam. ‘I just thought we all could do with a drink.’ Well, I certainly could.
‘You’ll be offering them a mince pie next,’ Gabe said, more gently this time, but just as annoying.
I didn’t dignify his comment with an answer. Looking at their broken noses and tattooed knuckles, a Patisserie a la Joyeux Noelle definitely wasn’t on their ‘to-do’ list.
‘So we are in financial trouble?’ I nodded, making it sound vaguely like a question, in the vain hope that the shorter bailiff (with a disturbingly naked lady tattoo on his arm) would say ‘no’ and this whole nightmare would be over and I’d be back to my unspoilt winter wonderland where the only thing I had to worry about was Horatio not spoiling his onesie.
He didn’t say no. He just flexed his forearm which made the lady’s breasts move.
‘Financial trouble? You could say that, love
. You haven’t paid your mortgage for over a year and your husband’s neglected to make contact with the bank with regards these repayments.’
‘Oh... I see,’ I tried to appear unfazed by this, aware I had an audience and suddenly feeling very embarrassed. My brain was working ten to the dozen, hadn’t paid the mortgage for over a year, what on earth? I had no idea how this had happened, Simon was in charge of finances and he’d given no sign anything was wrong if anything he’d been working more. He was always working late into the evening and recently had even worked weekends, so I had no reason to question our finances.
This was the dirty washing my Nan always warned me about – don’t let anyone else see it, keep your business to yourself. Heddon and Hall were standing with Mrs J, mouths agape, and Jesus was glaring out from jet-lagged eyes and about two years’ worth of unwashed dyed black hair. It was like they were watching a cliff-hanger episode of Coronation Street. I wanted to die.
I should have known something was wrong – Simon had been even more stressed and grumpy of late, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I’d thought he might be having an affair, a mid-life crisis, but I never thought it would be anything like this.
I called him, sure this was all a big mistake, but it went straight to answerphone. This wasn’t like Simon, he always kept his phone on, never wanting to lose business.
I tried again and with the phone to my ear just kept looking at Sam and Gabe and Heddon and Hall. My eyes moved from one to the next seeking some kind of answer... and rested on Sam, who looked as shell-shocked as I was. ‘What do I do?’
Sam said we could stay with her for now and she asked the bailiffs basic questions I couldn’t even utter like ‘do they have to leave now?’ And to my temporary relief, as the court order had been served, we didn’t have to move out for two weeks. ‘Small mercies,’ I muttered, meeting no one’s eyes.
Hermione and Hugo said nothing – which was distressing in itself to see my two kids in shock. This whole scenario was mortifying, and as I looked at the people around me, all I could see was pity on their faces.