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

by Joanna Bolouri

  I turn my attention back to my paperwork, now aware that I have only two hours to batter through before I’m due to meet Matt, Sarah and Alfie for dinner. It’s Sarah’s birthday and I’ve been looking forward to this all week.

  At six forty-five, I’m finally finished and place three folders on Sophia’s desk on my way out. She went home ages ago, but there are at least five members of her team still working, their desks scattered with papers and half-eaten sandwiches. I say goodnight and catch a black cab outside.

  When I arrive twenty minutes late to the Thai Palace, I quickly spot Alfie, who has his face pressed against the huge fish tank in the corner of the room. Behind him to the left sits Matt, looking at his menu, while Sarah has her eyes firmly fixed on her son. Alfie notices me first.

  ‘Are you choosing a fish to eat for dinner?’ I ask him and he throws his arms around my waist. He chuckles.

  ‘You can’t eat those fish; those fishes are pets.’

  ‘Hmm, I dunno, that white one looks quite meaty.’

  ‘Finally!’ Matt exclaims. ‘I’ve just texted you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, kissing Sarah on the cheek before pulling out a chair. God, she smells nice. ‘I got away as soon as I could. Happy Birthday!’

  I hand her a birthday card with a picture of a cougar wearing a tiara and she laughs, proudly standing it upright on the table.

  ‘Aw, thank you, and don’t worry,’ Sarah insists, ‘I’m just glad you’re here! Feels like we haven’t seen you in ages.’

  I place my suit jacket on the back of the chair and pour some water. ‘I know. Work has been so hectic; it’s kicking my ass and my boss . . . well . . .’ I make a weird growling noise to express my loathing.

  She frowns. ‘That good, huh?’

  I shake my head. ‘Worse. Think Jaws with bleached veneers and a spray tan. Honestly, it’s relentless. I mean, at least when I was at Kensington Fox, I used to love what I did, even if it was hard work, but this new job is miserable – I’m starting to think that I was genuinely happier passing out gifts to snot-nosed children.’

  ‘Yes, maybe, but you were definitely poorer,’ Matt reminds me.

  ‘True . . . but right now all I’m doing is ensuring rich twats stay rich despite breaking several laws, and some of the mergers and acquisitions I’m doing are seriously dodgy. When I got into law, I wanted to make a difference. Yes, naïve, I know, but it’s true. The work I’m doing right now doesn’t make any difference, at least not one that matters – in fact, no, scrap that, it probably makes the world worse. Either way, it’s completely soulless.’

  ‘So maybe it’s not the career that’s the problem,’ Sarah suggests. ‘Maybe it’s just this job?’

  ‘Well, you were hardly changing the world at Kensington Fox and you were happy there, right? And I mean, what else could you do?’ Matt asks. ‘Work for a non-profit? Those gigs pay peanuts.’

  ‘Money isn’t everything, sweetheart,’ Sarah says, quietly. I’m not sure if that’s a subtle dig that she earns less than both of us, but I get the feeling it might be.

  A waiter brings across some wine and we order, while Sarah dives into her bag and brings out a colouring book and pencils to entice Alfie away from the fish tank.

  ‘I can’t believe he’s starting school in a few months,’ she laments. ‘He won’t be my baby for much longer.’

  Matt hugs her and laughs. ‘If my mum is anything to go by, he’ll always be your baby. Just don’t mention his bed sheets between the ages of, oh, thirteen and twenty-eight. He’ll never forgive you.’

  Alfie sits down and begins to scribble furiously, his little legs swinging off the edge of the seat contentedly.

  ‘Oh, speaking of babies,’ Matt continues, ‘Harriet had a girl this afternoon! Noel called me.’

  ‘Amazing,’ Sarah asks. ‘What did they call her?’

  He hesitates. ‘Hmm, I think they called her Irish.’

  ‘Irish?’ she repeats. ‘They called their kid something Irish, you mean? Like Niamh or Siobhan or something?’

  ‘No, her actual name is “Irish”. That’s what Noel said.’

  I cock my head to one side. ‘You’re lucky you’re pretty, mate. They called her Iris. Numpty.’

  He pauses again. ‘That would make more sense.’

  I scroll through to find my text from Noel confirming that the new baby’s name is indeed Iris. For an extremely smart man, sometimes Matt lives in a world of his own.

  As we eat, I notice how Matt’s more involved with Alfie than ever now. His once awkward demeanour has now been replaced with a more hands-on, confident approach that Alfie responds well to, as does Sarah who observes them interacting with a burgeoning delight. Fuck me, it stings. I’m watching a family flourish right in front of me and all I can selfishly think is how I wish it was me instead of Matt. I thought seeing less of Sarah would help me move on but it’s useless. Even the briefest of meetings sets me right back to square one. Every time I see them together my heart breaks all over again. I haven’t been happy for a long time and while I’m around them all, I never will be. It’s time for me to go. I need to move on. I need a fresh start.

  Chapter Thirty

  Telling my best mate that I planned on moving out was far more emotional than I thought it would be.

  First there was shock, which was also very much like denial:

  ‘Mate? What the fuck? You’re not serious?’

  ‘I need somewhere cheaper, Matt,’ I’d replied, biting into my toast and suddenly feeling terribly guilty that I’d just ruined Matt’s breakfast. He hesitated for a moment before a huge grin spread across his face.

  ‘Shut up, you twat, you’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘I am! What, did you think we’d live together forever like Bert and Ernie? I need a change, mate. I can’t stay here doing the same thing over and over and expecting anything to be different.’

  Then came anger. Only louder:

  ‘What the actual fuck, Nick? What the fuck does that even mean? What is supposed to be different? I cannot believe you’re doing this.’

  Matt’s chair screeched back as he stormed off into the living room, while I just sat there at the kitchen table, wondering if I was going to be leaving sooner than I thought. Perhaps via the window.

  He stayed silent for what seemed like forever before he thundered back into the kitchen and the bargaining began.

  ‘Look, if you need a bit of time to build up some savings, I’ll cover your rent for a bit. Don’t be hasty – we can definitely sort something out..’

  ‘I need to do this on my own,’ I’d replied. ‘You’re going in a whole new direction with Sarah, it’s just a matter of time before you move in together. Concentrate on yourself, mate, and I’ll be fine.’

  I accompanied him to the living room, just as depression hit.

  ‘Man, I feel sad as fuck,’ he said. ‘Prick. It’ll be weird not having you here. What will I do without you? We’re like the two musketeers.’

  ‘The musketeers come in threes, buddy. But I’m not dying. I’m just moving out. You’ll still see me, dude.’

  Matt smiled weakly and grabbed me in a huge bear hug.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he said, sniffing. ‘I’ll just miss you. But I get it. Do what makes you happy.’

  And finally – acceptance.

  He left for the gym about an hour ago and I still feel at odds with the whole thing. Saying it out loud has made it more real and although planning a new future for myself is exciting, leaving everything behind is daunting. I’m going to see Greta first thing tomorrow before work to see if she has any positions further afield. Reading, maybe? Winchester perhaps . . .

  ‘How about Slough?’

  Greta turns her screen around to show me a position she has for a corporate solicitor focusing on Equity and Acquisitions.

&nbs
p; I frown. ‘I was hoping for something a little more virtuous.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘And a little less Slough-based.’

  She snorts. ‘OK. Now when you say virtuous, are we talking priest or missionary worker? Lawyers Without Borders?’

  I smirk. ‘Maybe something non-profit . . . I’m not sure, just something where I make a difference.’

  She bobs her head and continues scrolling. ‘That’s admirable, Nick. Good for you . . . OK, here’s one. Legal aid lawyer for a homeless charity. Based in Oxford. Salary’s actually pretty decent. Start date in three weeks.’

  I read over the job spec and get a little rush of excitement. She sees my face and smiles.

  ‘Shall I forward your CV?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘Let’s go for it.’

  I leave Greta’s office and stride through Covent Garden feeling positive and hopeful. Oxford isn’t that far, so I’d still be able to visit Matt, and I might even be able to afford something more spacious than a room in a shared flat. Today is a good day; a step in the right direction. A step closer to leaving everything behind and . . . fuck, is that Angela?

  I stop abruptly and turn to look at the menu in a restaurant window, surprising the woman inside who’s setting up tables. As I peer to my left, I see her stop to chat to someone before continuing in my direction. It’s definitely her; she’s wearing the white poncho I bought for her in Marbella. We haven’t seen each other since New Year’s Eve, and I was more than happy keeping it that way.

  Shit. I have two options: I can turn and bolt in the other direction or I can walk past her and hope that she’s feeling just as awkward about this as I am. Steeling myself, I turn and continue walking towards her. We’re almost side by side before she makes eye contact, but I keep walking.

  ‘Nick!’ she exclaims as she realises that I’m not stopping. ‘I thought that was you!’

  Dammit. I slowly come to a halt and turn to face her.

  ‘Hey, Angela. How are you?’

  She runs her hand through her hair and then rests it on one hip. ‘Oh, you know, can’t grumble. How are you? You’re looking well.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, nonchalantly. ‘I’m doing well.’

  She waits for me to return the compliment then realises it isn’t coming. She narrows her eyes. ‘So . . . how is the North Pole?’

  I don’t react. ‘I’m sure it’s fine, though I’m on my way to Bond Street.’

  ‘You’re working on Bond Street?’ she asks, her tone now breezy. ‘Wow! Impressive! Well done, babes, I knew you could . . . wait . . . is that . . . is that a Tom Ford suit?’

  ‘It is,’ I reply, checking my phone. ‘Must dash, I’m late. Nice to see you.’

  I stroll off as she tells me it’s nice to see me too. She’s only saying that as she thinks I’m worth bothering with again. I smirk at the Tom Ford comment. This suit is one hundred per cent Marks and Spencer. Funny how having pound signs in your eyes can skew your vision.

  When I get into work the office is already buzzing, but thankfully my fake dentist appointment covers my late arrival. Still, Sophia looks at her watch as I pass, and glares just to remind me that I’m permanently on thin ice – no one is safe here. I take a seat and begin trawling through the files that have magically appeared on my desk overnight. Half of this stuff isn’t even in my remit, but I plough through because I’d quite like at least one glowing reference to give to a new employer that doesn’t say ‘does a decent “ho-ho-ho”’.

  By 7pm, I feel like I’ve stayed long enough to cover my early appointment and any other sins Sophia feels I might have committed. I’ve promised Sarah and Matt that I’ll babysit tonight, so that gives me an hour to get to her place. Just as I’m leaving, I get a text.

  Hey babe, really was great to see you again. Maybe we can do drinks soon? I miss ya Ange xoxo

  I’ve had enough of this woman. We broke up months ago and she is still fucking haunting me. Screw this.

  Fuck you and your sad face emojis and your fucking xoxo bullshit. I’m done.

  I block her number, pick up my things and head home. I should have done this months ago.

  ‘Did it feel good? Telling her to eff off?’ Matt asks while we wait for Sarah to finish helping Alfie get ready for bed.

  ‘It did . . . for about a minute. Now I wish I’d just ignored her. She revels in the drama.’

  ‘Who revels in the drama?’ Sarah asks, joining us in her living room.

  ‘Angela,’ Matt informs her. ‘Our boy here finally blocked her. Told her to bugger off.’

  ‘Good for you,’ she replies, ‘clean slate and all that.’

  I nod. ‘Hopefully . . .’

  Matt slaps me on the back. ‘It’s hard to move forward when you’re dragging the past behind you.’

  Sarah frowns. ‘OK, Plato . . . what does that mean?’

  ‘I’ll explain in the car, we need to get a move on.’

  I say goodbye then pop in to see Alfie, who’s already out cold at eight thirty. Being careful not to wake him, I tiptoe back out and grab a Coke from the fridge, feeling somewhat guilty that I’m glad he’s asleep, but fuck it, I’m tired too. I settle down on the couch and flick through the TV channels, determined to keep my eyes open.

  Sarah and Matt arrive back from their date earlier than expected to find me completely invested in the latest episode of Killing Eve.

  ‘Hey,’ I say as they walk into the living room. ‘She just killed that guy from The Mighty Boosh; I am shook! Everything alright? It’s not even ten yet.’

  ‘Sarah’s not feeling very well,’ Matt informs me, rubbing her back. ‘Thought it best we call it a night.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she replies. ‘Probably just a bug. Was Alfie OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply, ‘good as gold. Can I get you anything before I go?’

  ‘I can stay if you want,’ Matt adds. ‘I don’t mind.’

  She shakes her very pale head. ‘No, but thanks. You two get off. I don’t want to infect you if I have picked something nasty up. I just need to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  We both say goodnight and head outside where the taxi is waiting.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ Matt asks as we climb in. ‘Or are you planning on binge-watching the entire Killing Eve box set tonight?’

  ‘I can do both,’ I reply, grinning. ‘I’m a man of many useless talents.’

  I haven’t been in Bar Black since Greta’s engagement party last year, but now that I’m working again, I can safely order a beer without checking my bank balance first.

  We order drinks then find the last available table near the back of the room. It looks like there’s a hen party here or some kind of cackling women’s support group. Either way, they’re operating at full volume.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Matt says, ‘I’m totally getting chips on the way home.’

  ‘Shame you had to cancel dinner,’ I reply, swigging back my beer. ‘She did look sick, mind you.’

  He nods. ‘Weirdest thing, we had a glass of wine at the bar while they were sorting our table and she was fine. Then she suddenly asked if we could go because she felt ill.’

  ‘Maybe the wine didn’t agree with her?’

  ‘Probably. I’ll call her tomorrow. Bring her some soup or something if she’s still under the weather.’

  I pout. ‘You never bring me soup when I’m sick.’

  ‘There’s not enough soup in the world to cure what’s wrong with you. Be right back, I need a slash.’

  As I wait for Matt to return from the bathroom, I’m tempted to text Sarah and see if she’s alright, but I decide that’s not my place, no matter how much I want it to be. Besides, I don’t trust myself not to accidentally send a kiss at the end of the message like a fucking love-struck wanker.

  The next morning, I make it into
the office for 7.30am, thinking that I’d be one of the first here, but I see that everyone else also has their try-hard hats on. Jane Bridges, the tall woman with enormous hair who started a week after me, looks exhausted. In fact, they all do. The more I get to know some of my colleagues, the more I realise that they’re just as full of shit as I am. The tough veneer they exhibit is deceptively fragile and could crack at any moment. Of course, there are always a few who thrive in this kind of environment, like Sophia . . . or Duncan Walker, who sits near the water cooler and calls everyone his posse. Or Matt . . . is Matt actually a sharky wanker?

  Just as I’m starting to wonder how I ever thought that this was the world I wanted to exist in, my mobile rings.

  ‘Nick, it’s Greta. They want an interview! I think you’re in.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The last (and only time) I was in Oxford, I was eight years old and being reluctantly dragged around the Botanic Gardens by my mum and three of her excessively perfumed friends. I don’t remember that much about the day trip, apart from being bored as hell, but I do remember how much my mum longed for a garden of her own when we returned. High-rise flats don’t really lend themselves to horticulture, but she filled our flat with as many reduced-price flowers and houseplants as her budget would allow.

  For my second trip, I’m infinitely more excited to be going to Oxford, if a tad nervous – not just about the interview, but about the fact that this job could literally change my world. New direction, new town, new life – it’s quite overwhelming to think about, so I put in my earbuds and drown myself out.

  The train arrives at nine thirty-five, giving me plenty of time to find the office I’m interviewing in at ten. Google Maps informs me that it’s a nine-minute walk away, so I grab a quick espresso at the station and head out the main entrance.

  Not having to navigate the same pavement with seventeen thousand other people is the first tick on my Oxford vs. London list – that and the fact that it’s incredibly pretty. London isn’t an ugly city as such, there’s just so fucking much of it and it’s everywhere.