A Fairy Tale for Christmas

by Chrissie Manby

‘It was about three years ago. Breast cancer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah. It was terrible. One day she was fine. We were planning the rest of our lives together. Next day she found a lump. She had a mastectomy right away but it had already spread. She died about six months after she was diagnosed.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘It still gave us time to talk about a lot of things,’ said Ben. ‘We said things we might not have said to each other if we thought we had the rest of our lives. Good things. I’m grateful for that.’

  Kirsty nodded. ‘I think I know what you mean. My mum died of cancer too.’

  Ben offered his sympathy.

  ‘It was nothing short of hell to see her dying, but because we knew what was coming, we had so many conversations we might not otherwise have had. We were able to say that we loved each other. And Mum had time to show me how to use the washing machine, boil an egg, write a cheque. Stuff like that.’

  Ben gave a sort of laugh.

  ‘Jo made sure I knew how to use a washing machine before she married me. And if I hadn’t known how to boil an egg, we’d have both starved. But she left me lots of instructions for Thea. Not just practical stuff. Stuff like make sure she never falls for the Cinderella myth.’

  ‘What’s that? That we women have to sit around and wait to be rescued? And if our feet are too big, it’ll never happen.’

  ‘Big feet, big heart,’ said Ben. ‘Not that your feet are anything other than average.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Ben was glad Kirsty knew his joke was meant kindly.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sorry it came out like it did. About Jo. It’s not exactly small talk for a theatre bar.’

  ‘You don’t need to be sorry,’ Kirsty exclaimed. ‘What else were you supposed to say when Jon asked? And I know what it’s like. You lose someone special then you spend all your time trying not to make other people feel bad by not mentioning it. You don’t need that on top of everything else.’

  Ben nodded, grateful for the recognition.

  ‘I’d just turned sixteen when we lost Mum, so I was much older than Thea. But if you ever want to talk about what it might be like for her, for Thea, that is, I’d be happy to. I’d be happy to talk to her too.’

  Ben had already decided that he would like to keep talking to Kirsty all day long. And all night. Her kindness only made that feeling stronger.

  But all too soon, it was time to pick Thea up from school.

  Kirsty kissed Ben lightly on the cheek as they parted. Though they had been dancing almost cheek to cheek, this felt much more intimate. It wasn’t a luvvie air kiss. Her perfume was warm and spicy as the mince pies and just as delicious. As Ben stepped back from her, he hoped she couldn’t see he was going red.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night at the theatre,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Ben’s casting came just in time. At the end of his second rehearsal, on the Wednesday night, the main cast put on their costumes (Ben’s would have to be taken in) and assembled on the stage for a quick photo shoot for a poster.

  The NEWTS’ programmes and posters were always done in house by Bill Woodford, another old-timer who fancied himself a bit of a David Bailey. Prior to retiring, he’d worked as the in-house photographer for the local paper, shooting pictures of everything from local regattas to lost dogs, taking it every bit as seriously as Don McCullin’s war photography.

  On the Cinderella poster shoot, Bill spent most of the time being baffled by the buttons on his new state-of-the-art digital camera, to the extent that Thea, who’d been photographed with the rest of the mice and was getting bored as she waited for her dad to be ready to take her home, offered to show him how it worked. Then Bill had to spend half an hour on Lauren, who insisted on seeing every shot as he took it. She deleted forty-nine of fifty.

  ‘I’ve got to protect my brand,’ she said. Thankfully, Bill, who had also photographed Lauren at several Alzheimer’s support group fundraisers over the years, was used to Lauren’s insistence on bad photo veto. And like so many men, he was so enamoured of her, he didn’t care.

  It was while the photographs were being taken that Ben learned something which somewhat took the shine off his day. He had very much enjoyed another chance to be with Kirsty. In the space of the theatre, they were able to practise their dances properly. Ben hadn’t laughed so much in a long time as he did while they whirled around the floor in the scene where Buttons helped Cinders learn her dance steps for the ball.

  When Bill Woodford had finally taken a photograph of Lauren that she was happy to see go into print, Bill fired off a few small group shots. Kirsty pulled Ben into the centre of the group arrangement and suggested they pose in a dance hold. Ben could have stayed there all day, with Kirsty in his arms. At one point she swayed backwards in a dip, so that her lovely long neck was exposed to him. Ben felt an overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss her.

  But then the photo shoot was finished and the witches of Wardrobe were waiting impatiently for costumes to be taken off and put away properly before anyone managed to tear something/get too sweaty. They were visibly irritated to have to deal with Bernie’s Vivienne Westwood frock, which was now officially Cinders’ ballgown.

  ‘If this gets damaged,’ said Angie, ‘we’re not taking responsibility.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have expected otherwise,’ Kirsty assured them. Bernie rolled her eyes at the witches’ silliness.

  It was while Ben was in the wings, being released from his jacket, which was bulldog clipped into shape at the back, that he heard Jon ask Bill if he would take a picture of Jon with Kirsty, before she got out of the gorgeous red dress. Ben watched as Kirsty stepped into Jon’s arms for the photo. Then Jon pulled her close and planted a kiss on her lips.

  Until that moment, Ben had not realised that Jon and Kirsty were an item.

  How had he not guessed? Ben went back over the times he had seen them together. Obviously, Jon wasn’t going to be all over her during rehearsals. But they hadn’t seemed very connected when they were standing together in the bar either. In fact, Ben would have put money on Lauren being Jon’s girlfriend, given the proprietorial way she had grabbed him by the collar and pulled him off into a corner to talk after Ben’s first rehearsal as part of the cast.

  Still, Ben felt very foolish. Surely someone must have said something about Jon and Kirsty’s relationship, but obviously it hadn’t sunk in because subconsciously Ben didn’t want to believe it. He tried to sound casual as he asked Lauren for confirmation.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Lauren. ‘That’s obviously why she got the part. You don’t think it was all about talent.’

  Actually, Ben had assumed it was all about talent. As far as he was concerned, Kirsty was a proper star. But why hadn’t he realised the truth about her relationship with Jon? Why hadn’t Kirsty said something when they were together in the shop? They’d talked about pretty much everything else.

  Ben felt oddly deflated.

  ‘Thank goodness that’s over,’ Kirsty said, as she joined Ben in the wings. ‘I hate having my photograph taken.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll look great in all of them,’ said Ben.

  He wondered if Jon would get the photograph of him and Kirsty printed out and put it in a frame. Ben remembered the first time he and Jo were photographed together. It was at a Christmas ball at uni. A proper photographer took shots of all the students as they arrived. Ben had bought their picture and given it to Jo for Christmas. It was a significant gesture, which let her know that he was serious about her. Of course, that was back before digital cameras were widely used, when people didn’t waste film on people they weren’t in love with.

  ‘I think those shots of you and I doing our dance hold will turn out really well,’ Kirsty continued.

  But she wouldn’t be putting one of those on the mantelpiece, Ben guessed.

  The posters were rushed into production. Two days later, th
ey were ready to be distributed all over town. The design was simple. Kirsty and Ben seemed to lean out from the centre, while the other characters smiled beatifically or glowered from the stars around them, depending on whether they were good guys or bad.

  Each cast member was given a roll of ten posters to place strategically all over Newbay. And, of course, posters were placed all over the theatre itself. And then Kirsty came to understand Bernie’s comment about the Hitler moustache. Less than two hours after the poster went up in the theatre lobby, Kirsty’s face had gained a Hitler moustache and several hairy warts. The only consolation was that all the other women on the poster had received the same treatment. Bernie had glasses and a beard. Annette, who had been smiling broadly in her portrait, looked as though she had no teeth. Even Lauren hadn’t escaped the poison pen. Her nostrils had been amended to look like deep dark tunnels you definitely didn’t want to go into.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Bernie to Kirsty as they admired the vandal’s handiwork. ‘You got the moustache. That’s your last rite of passage done. You are now officially a full-blown NEWT.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Talking of fully blown NEWTS, with just a couple of weeks left to go before the opening night, Vince had missed three rehearsals. Kirsty’s heart went out to Bernie every time she turned up alone.

  ‘He’s got that bug that’s been going round,’ Bernie said.

  Everyone knew it was closer to the truth to say that Vince was the bug going around. The Christmas party season had begun and Vince hadn’t missed a single shindig so far. There was no party without Vince. The previous evening, the Giggle Twins had seen him staggering out of The Sailor’s Arms as they headed for nineties’ night at Maestro, Newbay’s premier club.

  As she lied on her husband’s behalf, Bernie’s eyes were sad and Kirsty felt the urge to hug her. Kirsty asked Bernie if she was OK, but got no further than, ‘Of course.’ Kirsty didn’t push. She understood that if Bernie didn’t want to talk about her husband, it was not Kirsty’s place to try to force any revelations out of her. Bernie’s marriage was her business. It was hard, though, not to want to give Bernie a pep talk.

  However, when it was her turn to be on stage again, Bernie knew how to turn on the sparkle. Unlike her husband, Bernie was determined that she would not let anyone down. Kirsty hoped that acting happy went some way to making Bernie feel happy too.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Bernie, when another Saturday rehearsal was finished. ‘I’d better get home and play Florence Nightingale.’

  That evening, Jon was going to be staying late in the theatre for a meeting with Elaine and the technical crew, so Kirsty decided she would walk into the centre of Newbay and take advantage of the late-night shopping. She wanted to get a head start on her gift buying though there weren’t really that many people on her list. Just Jon, Jane and India, her half-sister.

  Kirsty still didn’t know whether she would actually see her half-sister over the Christmas season. Kirsty hadn’t seen her father since the spring, just before she went off to join The European Countess, when she had been so disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm for her upcoming adventure.

  When she told him she was quitting the cruise line to come back to the UK, he was even less impressed.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t stick it out,’ he said.

  Kirsty protested that it wasn’t a matter of not sticking it out. She was coming back because of Jon. But that didn’t impress her father either.

  After that exchange, Kirsty decided it was best she and her father agree to disagree about her career and her love life. One sure-fire way to avoid getting into a disagreement was to avoid one another altogether. She still texted, to let him know she was alive and to make sure he was too, but she hadn’t visited.

  Maybe she should. Stu might not approve of the way Kirsty lived her life, but he was still her dad. She still loved him. And Kirsty very much wanted to see her half-sister. As she walked into Newbay, inspired by the inviting glow of the Christmas lights in the shop windows, she pulled out her phone and sent a text. Not to her father but to her stepmother. She was more likely to get a prompt response that way.

  She was delighted when Linzi replied within minutes.

  ‘We’d love to see you!’ followed by a string of possible dates. Kirsty plumped on the following Thursday evening. Would it be OK if she brought Jon?

  ‘Of course!!!’ was the effusive reply. ‘We want to meet him!’

  The little text exchange made Kirsty feel warm inside. Her stepmother’s enthusiasm convinced her they hadn’t been sitting around talking about what a disappointing daughter she was after all. The visit was something to look forward to. It also meant that Kirsty had to step up her Christmas shopping game now that she had less time than she thought to find something for India.

  Kirsty headed straight for Topshop. Her little sister was not so little any more. She was well into her teens. There was bound to be something just right for her there.

  After half an hour in Topshop, however, Kirsty was losing the will to live. She had hoped she would walk in and find the perfect gift within minutes, but everything looked wrong to Kirsty’s eyes. It was all too brash, too cheap and too short. She reminded herself that she was looking at it from the perspective of a woman twice her sister’s age. To India, everything in Topshop probably looked just right. It would have looked right to Kirsty once. She loved bright colours. She loved lace and sequins and fluffy feather boas. There wasn’t a pair of heels too high or a skirt too short.

  These days, she still liked bright colours. She was still drawn to them whenever she walked into a shop, but she no longer grabbed for the brightest, shiniest things and threw them into her basket. She had begun to ask herself if the clothes she liked were ‘appropriate’. Did they highlight her best features and disguise the ones she wanted to hide? And, all of a sudden, there seemed to be so many more features that she wanted to hide. Like her feet.

  Kirsty was in the shoe department. She picked up a pair of gold sandals with a platform sole. They were exactly the kind of shoes she adored. In fact, she had once owned a pair just like them. She had a feeling they’d been left behind in the back of a taxi when she changed into a pair of foot-saving flat shoes on the way home from a club. Kirsty’s heart reached out to the golden shoes but as she was turning them over to see what size they were, the voice in her head chipped in to point out that those platform soles would make her taller than Jon – something he really didn’t like – and, of course, they would draw attention to the fact that Kirsty had big feet.

  She put the shoes back. She wasn’t supposed to be shopping for herself anyway. She needed something for India.

  Kirsty watched as three girls who were about India’s age went into raptures over a short black playsuit with subtle silver stripes. They all three grabbed one each from the rails and raced to the changing room. When they were gone, Kirsty went to look more closely at what they had been gushing over. If the three of them were that enthusiastic, then maybe India would like the suit too.

  ‘Done,’ Kirsty said to herself. She imagined India’s delight as she opened her Christmas gift. Kirsty would get major big sister points for scoring something so trendy. She went through the suits on the rack and found the last of the size tens. She took it straight to the counter. The bored-looking assistant searched for the price tag.

  ‘This is a size ten,’ she observed. She didn’t need to add, ‘It won’t fit you.’

  The assistant tossed the playsuit into a carrier bag. Kirsty thanked her but in her head she was already composing an online review. ‘Never have I met a ruder sales assistant than in the Newbay branch of Topshop.’ It made her feel better to think of it though she knew she wouldn’t post it. She stepped out into the cold December air and focussed on more important things. What would she buy for Jon?

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Kirsty didn’t manage to find anything for Jon that evening. Instead, she picked up a couple of calorie-counted r
eady meals at Marks & Spencer and turned back to the flat. It was as she was heading away from the town centre, past the town’s leisure centre and swimming pool, that she saw Vince.

  He was weaving down the street ahead of her. From time to time, he tottered dangerously close to the edge of the pavement and the oncoming traffic. Still, he seemed to be making his way somewhere with a certain determination.

  So much for Vince being ‘ill’. He had obviously spent the day getting bladdered, just as Annette and the Giggle Twins had insinuated. Did Bernie know where he was, Kirsty wondered. Was she at home worrying? She toyed with texting Bernie to let her know that she’d seen him. But what was the point? Vince was an adult. He could go wherever he wanted. Kirsty had no right to treat him like a child by reporting him to his missus. She had no right to humiliate Bernie by exposing her husband’s lie.

  All the same, she decided to stay close behind Vince for a while – if only to stop him from falling in front of a lorry – and, if he did go into a pub, perhaps she would follow him in there and meet him at the bar in an attempt to persuade him that another night of drunkenness would not help him be at his best for the next day’s rehearsal. Vince’s tendency to slur his words had not gone unnoticed and while the rest of the gang still laughed at Baron Hardup’s prat-falls, Kirsty wasn’t sure the laughter was as friendly as it had been. There was an edge to it.

  Vince continued on his meandering path. From time to time, he took out his phone to check directions, perhaps, on his maps app. Kirsty tailed him at a discreet distance but she soon realised that Vince wasn’t ever looking behind him. He wouldn’t have noticed if he was being tailed by three elephants wearing cloaks and Homburg hats.

  He was heading away from the centre of town towards the university. Kirsty was surprised when she saw him arrive at what looked like a student accommodation block. He rang a door-bell. He slumped against the doorframe, massaging his forehead with one hand as though to chase away a headache, while he waited for someone to answer.