All I Want for Christmas: a hilarious and heart-warming romance

by Joanna Bolouri

  Sticking my hands in my pockets, I begin my journey, my boots crunching into the newly formed ice on the pavement. This time last year I was a corporate lawyer, kissing my beautiful girlfriend Angela at a party in Kensington with a free bar. Now I’m an out-of-work Santa Claus who’s going home alone to an empty flat.

  As I quicken my pace, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  Merry Christmas, Nick! Love, Sarah and Alfie xx

  My internal yelp of delight at receiving her text is quickly replaced by a very audible yelp of surprise as I slip and fall flat on my back. Jesus Christ, ice, why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?

  ‘You alright, fella?’ I hear a voice ask from across the street. I give them a thumbs up as they walk on, but the pain radiating from my arse makes me suspect otherwise. I lie there momentarily, wondering how tonight could get any worse, as the faint sound of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ drifts out from a nearby flat and into the night air.

  Merry fucking Christmas indeed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘She actually sang “Santa Baby” to you . . . in the middle of the pub?’

  ‘Yup,’ I respond as Matt and I walk up the garden path to his parents’ house. Their garden is perfectly tended, even in winter, with frost-covered conifers and little bare holly bushes, the berries evidently ravaged by hungry birds.

  ‘It was just so awkward,’ I continue. ‘I didn’t know where to look. The whole night was a disaster, mate, even before I broke my arse.’

  Matt puts down his bags at the front door and rings the bell. A cheery ding-dong sound chimes out, nothing like the harsh buzzer we’re forced to endure at home. I peer through the living room window and see the twinkle from the Christmas tree lights along with the warm glow from the fire, making me feel like an orphan from a Dickens novel. I can almost hear the Victorian carol singers. The Buckleys own a large five-bedroom house in the Surrey countryside. It’s obscenely picturesque and was undoubtedly a wonderful place to grow up. Mum and I lived in a two-bedroom ground-floor flat with a damp problem and neighbours who never quite grasped the concept of keeping it the fuck down. Even though Matt hasn’t lived here for years, he still has that ruddy, country-boy glow about his cheeks.

  ‘Sarah sends her love,’ Matt informs me, pressing his face up to the frosted glass on the door. ‘Alfie’s having a ball apparently. He’s running wild.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to her?’

  ‘Just a text. I’ll call her later.’

  I don’t mention that she texted me last night too. He knows she has my number for babysitting duties, but I don’t want him to read anything into it. Perhaps I shouldn’t either.

  Finally, the door opens, and we’re greeted by Matt’s mum, Maureen, who’s wearing the fluffiest white jumper I’ve ever seen, and their golden retriever Harvey, who gruffs at us indifferently.

  ‘There’s my boys!’ she exclaims, beaming. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re here! Quick, come in, it’s chilly!’

  I beam back as she ushers us in. Since my mum passed, Maureen has ensured I never feel like anything other than part of the family. I get birthday cards, Christmas gifts and they even included me in their family celebratory dinner after Matt and I graduated.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mum,’ Matt says, kissing her cheek. ‘You look lovely. New jumper?’

  ‘Gift from Dad,’ she replies, giving a twirl. ‘I’m rather pleased. How are you, Nick?’

  She hugs me tightly as I tell her I’m great, omitting pretty much everything that’s happened in the last six months. We drop our bags at the bottom of the stairs and head into the living room.

  ‘James, stop fiddling with that gadget, the boys are here.’

  Matt’s dad places his Amazon Echo on the arm of the couch and slips off his reading glasses. The whole house smells like cinnamon and berries with faint notes of soggy Harvey.

  ‘Sorry, love, just trying to sync that thing up. Merry Christmas!’ he says, hugging us both. ‘Was the drive OK?’

  ‘Terrific,’ Matt replies, as he sits on the couch. ‘Roads were dead . . . Mum, did you get Dad an Alexa for Christmas? That’s practically another woman.’

  ‘I did!’ she replies, shaking up the pillows beside me on the couch. ‘I thought it might be fun! Gives him someone to talk to other than me and Harvey.’

  I laugh as James considers this and then nods in agreement. You can tell they adore each other, and I’ve never heard either of them raise their voice in anger since I’ve known them. Matt told me once that they had wanted a huge family but only had one successful pregnancy, resulting in him. You can tell that they had enough love and kindness for twenty more and I’ve been lucky to receive even a breath of it. When Matt eventually gives them grandkids, I think they might burst with happiness.

  Matt’s mum pushes some bowls of nibbles towards me while Harvey decides to sit directly on my foot until I scratch his head. It’s the same every year.

  ‘House is looking very festive, Mrs B,’ I say, grabbing a smoked salmon blini, ‘thanks for having me.’

  ‘Our pleasure, Nick,’ she replies. ‘Wouldn’t be the same without you. Matt, give your dad a hand with that thing, will you?’

  She toddles off to the kitchen while I watch Matt take over the set-up of his dad’s new toy. I imagine that this responsibility befalls every child whose ageing parents have received technology made after 1993.

  After much mumbling, I hear Matt say, ‘Alexa, what’s the weather?’

  Matt’s dad’s face lights up as his new device tells him that it’s minus two with a fresh breeze, despite it being information that could also be obtained by stepping outside.

  ‘Put some music on!’ Matt’s mum yells from the kitchen. ‘Something Christmassy!’

  ‘Not “Jingle Bell Rock”,’ I request, and my arse aches in agreement. ‘Anything but that.’

  Matt turns to look at me, a grin slowly appearing on his face.

  ‘Alexa, play “Santa Baby”.’

  ‘So, Nick. Tell me about this girl Matt is seeing, because it’s like pulling teeth trying to get anything out of him. You know what he’s like.’

  Matt picks up a little Christmas pudding salt shaker, rolling his eyes like a stroppy teenager. ‘Really, Mum? I’m right here.’

  There’s enough food here to feed an entire army: turkey, beef, cocktail sausages, three kinds of stuffing, pickles, potatoes, home-made cranberry sauce, and veg prepared in ways I can’t even pronounce. They even have the good Christmas crackers, not the ones that fail to bang and contain terrible jokes and choking hazards.

  ‘Sarah? She’s cool,’ I reply, spooning some more sprouts on to my plate. ‘I mean, who knew Russian brides were so affordable!’

  Matt’s dad laughs out loud while his mum looks momentarily horrified.

  ‘He’s kidding, Mum,’ Matt quickly interjects, glaring at me to help reassure his mother. ‘She’s an assistant manager in a coffee shop . . . she studied in the Cotswolds which is where she’s spending Christmas with her family.’

  ‘Oh, the Cotswolds are lovely,’ Matt’s mum interjects, now considerably less aghast. ‘Your dad and I have been there several times. Beautiful churches.’

  ‘You’ll like Sarah, Mrs B,’ I confirm. ‘She’s a great mum—’

  ‘She has a child?’

  I grin as Maureen’s eyebrows rise far above the rim of her glasses.

  ‘Well, that’s . . . unexpected.’

  Matt nods. ‘Alfie. He’s four. They’re both fantastic. I’m very happy, Mum, you can relax. This one’s a keeper.’

  ‘That’s great news, son,’ his dad says. ‘We look forward to meeting her.’

  As I watch Matt’s mum grin from ear to ear, I can’t help but feel gutted. Having the whole family now invested in this relationship makes my stupid heart hurt. It makes their relationship even more solid. As mu
ch as I want to be happy for him, inside I want to be the one boasting about Sarah, because no one else, not even Matt, could possibly do her justice.

  ‘And you, Nick?’ she asks, pouring me some more wine. ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘Um . . . good,’ I reply, glancing at a smirking Matt who knows that it’s now my turn under the parental microscope. Christ, I feel about fifteen again. ‘Not much to report! These sprouts are a triumph, Mrs B, did you—’

  ‘Don’t be modest, Nick!’ Matt insists, his smirk now morphing into something that resembles payback for the Russian brides remark. ‘I’m sure they’d love to hear all about your new work situation!’

  ‘Did Kensington Fox finally promote one of you boys?’ James asks.

  I smile politely at Matt’s dad and shake my head. ‘Not quite . . . I’m no longer working there. Funny story, actually; you see—’

  ‘Not only did he get food poisoning and throw up on a client’s wife,’ Matt informs them, ‘he also took the rap for some junior’s filing mistake, so he got the boot. Noble, but ultimately stupid.’

  If Matt was my actual brother, I’d have given him a dead arm by now. Possibly a wedgie.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Maureen exclaims. ‘Sorry to hear that, Nick. So where are you working now?’

  ‘The North Pole,’ Matt mumbles through a mouth full of turkey. ‘He’s Santa.’

  ‘Oh, behave,’ his mum scolds, ‘that’s ridiculous. You boys and your jokes.’

  ‘Ridiculous, yes, but true nonetheless,’ I confess, my face rapidly becoming the colour of the cranberries. ‘Southview Shopping Centre . . . well, until yesterday – there’s not much use for a Santa after Christmas Eve. So, I guess I’m officially out of work again! Yay, me!’

  A hush falls over the table as I reach for the roast potatoes and for a moment, I start to panic that I’ve just ruined everyone’s dinner with my depressing tale of Christmas unemployment. Even Harvey gives a little whine from his bed in the corner of the dining room.

  Nice one, Nick. Maybe bring up your mum later for some real festive cheer!

  ‘Well, Nick,’ James finally says. ‘I guess it’s safe to say . . . you’re a bit of a lost Claus.’

  Matt snorts into his wine and the laughter that follows is a welcome relief. I’ve never been so pleased to hear a dad joke in my entire life.

  After dinner, I help clear the dishes while Matt and his dad go outside for their annual festive cigar. I tried to smoke one three years ago and it made me greener than the Christmas tree. I like helping Maureen clear up anyway, it makes me feel like I’m somehow earning my keep.

  ‘Is he really happy?’ she asks, scraping a plate into the bin. ‘I do worry, you know – this girl has a son and—’

  ‘He’s fine, Mrs B,’ I reply. ‘You should see them all together . . . they are like a proper little family. I actually introduced him to Sarah: she works at the shopping centre too, and Alfie came into the grotto. He’s a great kid. And honestly, Matt’s happy. You don’t need to worry about him.’

  She laughs. ‘I will never not worry, it comes with the territory . . . but this Sarah, does she have her head screwed on properly?’

  ‘Oh, she’s very down to earth,’ I interrupt, almost defensively. ‘Sharp as a tack. She isn’t—’

  ‘She isn’t her, Nick.’ Maureen’s face looks strained as she sighs and folds over a dishtowel.

  ‘Karen?’

  She nods. ‘And that’s what worries me.’

  I understand her concern – sometimes it feels like Karen’s the bloody Voldemort of the Buckley household. Even after three years, her name is still tiptoed around, like somehow actually saying it out loud will summon her directly in front of Matt to break his heart again. Christ, he can’t even see a fucking wallet without pining.

  It wasn’t hard to see why Matt was so smitten with the tall strawberry-blonde he sat next to at his very first lecture; she was stunning. But for him it was more than that. She was his equal: his tennis-playing, career-driven, frustratingly stubborn equal. With Karen, he’d met his match.

  Matt’s mum pulls out a stool at the cream kitchen island and motions for me to join her.

  ‘You remember how Matt was when she left for New York,’ Maureen continues. ‘I’ve never seen him so shattered. I dread to think what would have happened if you hadn’t moved in with him.’

  I nod. Matt had been there for me after Mum died, so there was no way I was going to let him deal with his heartbreak on his own. I knew Matt needed company – that being on his own in the flat that he had shared with Karen was the very last thing he needed. Matt isn’t the type to show vulnerability, but he thought Karen was the one, and losing her hit him really hard. I still shared a flat with Greta and Harriet, and Harriet’s sister had been looking for a room anyway, so getting out of the lease wasn’t a problem. I moved in with Matt the day after Karen left and became his rock, propping him up until he was standing firmly on solid ground again. It took time but we got there.

  ‘He got through it,’ I insist. ‘He’s moved on.’

  ‘Getting through something isn’t the same as getting over it,’ Maureen replies. Mrs B is so bloody wise. ‘It would have been entirely different if they’d split up because they weren’t in love anymore, but she was just on a different path.’

  ‘Sarah is good for him,’ I say firmly, not sure whether I’m trying to reassure her or myself. ‘You’ve seen how his face lights up when he speaks about her.’

  She bobs her head in acknowledgement and smiles, trying to mask her visible concern. ‘I hope you’re right. It’s a whole other ball game when there’s a child involved . . . I just don’t want him to let anyone down, if he’s not ready for that.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I reply. ‘Sarah is no idiot, and neither is Matt. He’s the best . . . in fact, they both are.’

  The conservatory door opens and Matt’s deep, hearty laugh floats through the house.

  ‘You’re a good boy, Nick,’ Mrs B says, standing up. ‘We all think the world of you; Matt’s lucky to have such a good friend.’

  As she leans in for a hug, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. Matt’s been more than a friend to me; he’s my family. They all are. I’m the one who’s lucky and I swear to myself that I won’t let what I feel for Sarah override my loyalty to Matt. Regardless of what that little voice in the back of my head is telling me, Sarah isn’t my Karen. She is not the one who got away, because she was never mine in the first place, and if Matt can get over the love of his life, then I can get over the best thing I never had.

  The next morning, Matt takes Harvey for a walk and I join him. His parents live a few minutes’ walk from a huge open field where everyone walks their hairy best friends. I don’t really get dogs. They just seem like a whole load of work, only to be slobbered on in return. Cats are more my vibe. Well, technically reindeers have been my vibe for the past few weeks, but a cat seems like a more realistic choice for a Londoner. I don’t see Rudolph fitting into our two-bed.

  ‘I spoke to Sarah this morning,’ Matt says. ‘Sounds like they’re having a blast. Alfie asked for you, but I didn’t want to wake you.’

  ‘Aw, I wouldn’t have minded,’ I reply, picking up the stick that Harvey has dropped at my feet. ‘I hardly have a barrage of people wishing me Merry Christmas . . .’

  I throw the stick, and Harvey gallops after it, but he’s intercepted by a plucky little boxer who grabs it first, returning it to a woman in a bright orange jacket. Matt gasps.

  ‘No way. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Well, it’s a stick. It’s kinda what dogs do.’

  Matt waves at the woman who’s now walking towards us, smiling.

  ‘Kirstie Jardine,’ he says under his breath. ‘God, I haven’t seen her since high school.’

  ‘Matt Buckley, as I live and breathe!’ she exclaims, her f
ace slightly ruddy from the cold air. ‘How the bloody hell are you?’

  ‘I thought that was you,’ he replies, going in for a hug. ‘I’m good, how are you? Jesus, it’s been years!’

  I watch in amusement as Matt seems to regress back fourteen years to the cocky, cumbersome teenager he once was, joking about his school years and their mutual friends. By the way they’re coyly looking at each other, it’s obvious they used to have a thing. Fucking hell, can’t I have just one day where I don’t feel like Matt’s third wheel?

  ‘I’d better run,’ Kirstie eventually says, taking her thief dog by the leash. She removes the stolen stick from his mouth and hands it to Matt. ‘So lovely to see you! Say hi to your mum and dad for me.’

  ‘Will do,’ he replies. ‘Take care!’

  As Matt watches her walk away, I notice his eyes glaze over, just for a second.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ I say, snapping him back to reality. ‘Don’t fall too far down the rabbit hole, mate.’

  He smirks. ‘Nah, I’m good. Just, she still looks bloody amazing. Kirstie was my first . . . real . . . girlfriend—’

  ‘And by “real” you mean you boned? Popped your cherry, stamped your v-card, bumped her ugly?’

  ‘Shut up! There was nothing ugly about it. She was the hottest girl at school: smart and funny and popular, and oh my God, she did this insane thing with her tongue—’

  ‘Whoa, mate! I really, really don’t need to know.’ I mime vomming and Matt shoves me.

  ‘Seriously, though. Weird to see her with a wedding ring on – she’s an actual grown-up now. In my head she’s still sixteen. She was the only girl I ever loved . . . you know, except for Karen.’

  Karen’s name works its magic and there is an awkward silence as we trudge along.

  ‘Ghosts of girlfriends past and all that . . .’ Matt finally says with a sad smile, and I wonder about what Mrs B said last night.

  ‘Could be worse, Matt – mine just ghosts me.’ I smirk, trying to lighten the mood.