Книга - Four Christmases and a Secret

Four Christmases and a Secret
Zara Stoneley


‘For lovers of Sophie Kinsella this is the perfect book’ Goodreads Reviewer It’s the most wonderful time of the year… Except for Daisy, Christmas means another of Uncle T’s dreaded Christmas parties, complete with Christmas jumper and flashing antlers.  And Oliver Cartwright.  Gorgeous Oliver Cartwright. Who she hates. Every year Daisy has to face insufferable Ollie and hear all about how BRILLIANT he is.  Whereas Daisy has no job, no man and no idea how to fix things. This Christmas, however, Daisy is determined things will be different.  There will be no snogging Ollie under the mistletoe like when they were teenagers.  No, this year she’ll show Ollie that she’s a Responsible Adult too.  But as the champagne corks pop, and the tinsel sparkles, Uncle T has news of his own to share… and it could change Daisy's life forever… Bridget Jones meets the Hallmark Channel in an irresistible romantic comedy you won’t want to miss this Christmas. Everyone is LOVING this Christmas romcom… ‘Oh my goodness, what a fantastic book…I am gutted to have finished it’ Vicki, Instagram ‘I could so easily see this working on a big screen, its such a heartwarming story’ Rachel’s Random Reads ‘Characters-*****Hero- swoony *****Heroine- my kinda people *****Plot- amazing ******Will I recommend it?-highly. To all romcom lovers!:)’ Diary of a Young Book Lover ‘There’s a secret hanging around and it’s one that I certainly didn’t see coming…would make a fabulous Christmas tv movie’ Jo, My Chestnut Reading Tree ‘A story that gets you in the feels’ Vonda, Goodreads ‘Zara Stoneley is quickly taking a place on my shelf of "must read" authors…a perfect feel good read for any time of the year’ It’s All About the Thrill ‘I could not put this book down nor did I want to. I wanted to keep reading for as long as I could and even hid away on Sunday afternoon to read this!’ Zooloo’s Book Diary









Four Christmases and a Secret

ZARA STONELEY








One More Chapter

a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2019

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com)

Zara Stoneley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008363161

Ebook Edition © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008363154

Version: 2019-09-11


Table of Contents

Cover (#u18ce8c61-f52d-5966-9ad9-6d1a2b5d06b8)

Title Page (#u22f31f6f-36ff-591b-b6a7-2b71a245018f)

Copyright (#ucabd4911-40d9-57a5-873b-e99f69ff375c)

Dedication (#u47abfa10-09c6-5fdf-a25f-e3e6cfa5dd5a)

Prologue – Mistletoe Kisses

Act 1 – Must Try Harder

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Act 2 – New Year, New Me

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Act 3 – Nothing’s Going to Stop Me Now (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Acknowledgements

Also by Zara Stoneley

About the Author

About the Publisher


For everybody who has felt at some time in their lives ‘not good enough’.

Believe me, you are!




PROLOGUE – MISTLETOE KISSES (#u701c904c-f9a1-5c27-9623-99acb933782f)

24 December 2004


‘I flung open the curtains and shouted look at my hedgehogs!’

Oh my God, I knew it. My mother is going to totally embarrass me. Here, at Uncle Terence’s Christmas Eve party, in front of everybody.

Want to be able to embarrass your kids as they get older? Get your own back for every little slip up? Well, bring them up in a village where everybody will know them, and nobody will forget anything they have ever done. And never ever move house.

I am eighteen years old, for heaven’s sake. I need to stop coming to family and friends’ parties so that I can avoid total embarrassment.

Nine months, that’s all. I just have to stick it out for nine more months and then I’ll be free.

I love my parents to bits, I sometimes even like them, but I cannot wait to go to university. My own place, nobody watching my every move and I will be able to snog who I like, when I like, where I like. I will be able to leave crumbs in my bed, read until 4 a.m., spend the weekend in my pyjamas.

I straighten my antlers self-consciously, set my jumper to ‘flashing’ mode as a distraction and glance at Dad, who just shrugs apologetically, because we both know that mother in full flow is unstoppable.

‘Wendy, darling?’ He does try, but like I say, she’s unstoppable.

‘And Stuart switched the patio light on and there they were!’

‘Hedgehogs?’ I hear somebody say, hopefully.

I edge back, try to sidle behind a bookcase before anybody notices me. One more step and I’m heading towards the ‘Narnia’ display. Another step and I’ll be safely hidden behind a giant White Witch.

‘Oh no, no! Our Daisy and a boy. Horizontal on the lawn, searching for slugs they said! I didn’t even know Joshua the postman’s son was interested in hedgehogs. I never even realised that Daisy knew the boy, she’d definitely not introduced him, had you dear? Daisy?’

I lean back against the bookcase and close my eyes. I am mortified. I mean, wouldn’t you think that when your parents are holding a dinner party, you’d be safe having a quick snog in the back garden?

If Josh had had his way, we would have been naked and have more in common with rabbits than hedgehogs, but the full moon, dew sodden grass and nip in the air had dampened my ardour (as well as my best jeans) a bit. I mean he’s okay, he’s quite a lot of fun actually but I’m not about to marry him. And I’m not a hedgehog. Or a rabbit.

He’s a bloody quick thinker though, he probably would have said we were doing some kind of druid-dance to summon up snails (I bet Mum would have fallen for that, not sure about Dad). While I just stared wide-eyed like a rabbit in the headlights then scampered for the safety of the summerhouse.

Anyway, having your parents and four of their friends (who you’ve known practically from birth) all staring out at you with glasses of wine in their hands totally chills off the warm feeling between your thighs and deflates your nipples. It does, believe me, so don’t do it.

Josh went home, and I went in for a discussion about why slugs come out at night, and what kind of beer you should put out for them, before I managed to escape to bed and my ‘A’ level revision. Thank God for revision, it will get you out of practically any social occasion where your parents are involved.

I quite wish I could do that now.

Except I do actually love Uncle Terence. Once I’ve put my Christmas jumper on and we’ve set off for his rather posh bookshop (which actually looks more like a wine bar when he’s got it fancied up and makes it a brilliant venue for a party), then Christmas has officially started. And I love his bookshop with or without its festive vibe. It’s a bit of an Aladdin’s cave if you’re a bookaholic like I am. I’ve been going in there since I was in a pushchair and I’m still discovering new books and book-related knick-knacks and pictures.

Uncle T is not actually my uncle, but I’ve always called him that. And he lives in Stockton Hall, which is definitely not a hall. So, it could be confusing. But he is however hilariously funny and has a very impressive collection of waistcoats. He makes a mean cocktail and changes his girlfriends and wives more often than I have my hair cut. I was going to say change my knickers, but that’s not quite true. Close but not true.

‘Psst.’

I jump, stumble, and nearly topple into a life-size Harry Potter cut-out, adorned with tinsel. I’d rather collide with the White Witch to be honest.

Uncle Terence has popped through an opening between the book shelves, like a genie out of a bottle. He’s looking very dapper, as normal. But that is less important than the glass he is holding out to me. ‘It’s the Bee’s knees!’

I stare at him.

‘The cocktail, my dear! I thought it would suit the occasion, a nice drop of gin, something tart and a hint of something sweet.’ He winks. ‘And not a hedgehog in sight!’

He puts his arm round my shoulders and gives me a hug. ‘I will miss you when you fly the nest, my darling girl. You have become part of the fixtures and fittings in my little shop. Now, take a break and put your feet up for a second. I’ve got a wonderful stock of new and slightly racy books in your favourite corner.’ He puts a finger to his lips. ‘Our secret though, or else your mother and Vera will be here in a shot! I’m expecting an invasion by the playgroup mothers when the news gets out. Over there, between original editions and Spiritual Healing.’

He gives me a gentle shove, but I don’t need the encouragement. What could be better than a cocktail and a book?

‘Thank God, you’re still here!’ Ollie Cartwright flops down onto the small leather sofa nearly taking my eye out with his sharp elbow. Then stretches his long legs out, squashing me into the corner and nearly sends my book flying. ‘Thought you’d managed to come up with some excuse to escape and I was the only person here under forty! God, I hate these things!’

‘Why would I want to escape?’ I raise an eyebrow at him, cross that he’s come to annoy me, but also vaguely pleased. ‘I love Uncle Terence!’ And his book shop I could add. I really love his bookshop. And the books. I give this one a quick once over to check it’s not been damaged by Ollie’s arrival. Okay, I admit it. I’m a bit anal about books – unlike Mum who bends the corners over instead of finding a bookmark and bends the spine.

‘So, what are you doing hiding in a corner with a book?’

‘Well it is a book shop!’

‘It is a party!’ He grins.

We stare at each other. Impasse.

‘I needed to check something.’

‘Check something? What is that anyway?’ He makes a lunge for the book, but I am quicker, and I’m leaning back over the arm of the sofa, clutching it to my chest. ‘Riders? Ha-ha, the school swot Daisy Dunkerly reads porn!’

‘Don’t call me a swot! You’re just jealous I got a higher mark than you in Chemistry.’

‘I am.’ He chuckles. It’s quite a nice deep, rumbling chuckle that makes me want to smile stupidly back at him. But I try to resist, despite the fact that he’s leaned in and lowered his voice to a confidential level. ‘My mum will never forgive me for giving yours some extra ammo. I can hear it now: ‘Well, my Daisy came top in Chemistry! Can you imagine it? Isn’t she clever? When I was at school the girls thought chemistry was just what you felt when a boy tried to get in your knickers!’

I can’t help it. A grin escapes. It’s a pretty good impression of my mum, if a little high pitched.

His mum, Vera, and mine are best friends. She’s nice enough but honestly, the pair of them can be so competitive and embarrassing. I swear it started when they were both on the same maternity ward and Ollie weighed 3lb more than me (a win for Vera), but Mum was in labour for two hours longer (a win for her). From there it got worse, first child to say a word (shit from Ollie, but Vera insisted it was sheet), first one to poo on a potty (me, yay!).

They’re still at it. God knows what they’ll talk about when we leave home and go to university in the autumn. They’ll both have to get a puppy or something.

‘She doesn’t talk like that! Anyway, it’s not porn! Well, not that kind of porn! It’s Jilly Cooper.’

He shrugs, and sags back onto the sofa. Which leaves me feeling a bit cold and abandoned, even though he’s still only inches away.

Ollie Cartwright reads books, but only school books and weird geeky stuff based in alternative realities. He’s a bit of a smart arse.

‘And I’m not prim and proper!’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘S’pose not, not according to Josh the slosh anyway.’

Joshua, my fellow hedgehog hunter, is unfortunately in the same class at school as Ollie. My cheeks burn. ‘Why do boys have to be so immature?’ I will kill him if he’s been talking about us to his mates.

Ollie shrugs and looks faintly embarrassed, a tinge of pink along his high cheekbones. ‘One-upmanship I guess.’

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. ‘You’re eighteen for heaven’s sake! You’ll be going to uni in October! Don’t you have anything better to talk about than sex?’

‘Who said anything about sex?’ He laughs and leans in closer again, then frowns and touches my arm lightly. ‘You do know what kind of rep he’s got, don’t you? I mean I know he’s gobby but …’

‘Oh, shut up! I know exactly what he’s like!’ I move away a bit, because the touch of his hand is bringing out goose-bumps on my arm and making something deep in my stomach flutter. I can’t remember feeling that funny sensation with Josh, even when we were so close our hip bones clashed. The only goose-bumps I’d had was because it was bloody freezing.

In a strange way it would be nice if Ollie carried on, just to see what happens, but he doesn’t. He moves back as though I’ve swiped him away, not just retreated a bit.

‘So,’ he clears his throat, and points at the book, ‘what are you checking? Bet I can tell you more than a book can!’

‘In your dreams.’ I snap the book shut and sigh. Rupert Campbell-Black and Jake will have to wait another day. I mean, I know Riders has been about a while, but I read in a horse magazine that it is one of the books to read. So as soon as I spotted it was one of the new books Uncle T was stocking, I thought it was a good opportunity to try it out. ‘Anyway, why are you hiding in a corner, bothering me?’

Ollie rolls his eyes. ‘If I have to hear your mother saying one more time, ‘Well, my Daisy is going to be a vet, isn’t she clever?’ I will stick my head in the vat of mulled wine.’

‘Ha-ha, well I have to listen to your mum going on about you.’ I do. Uncle Terence’s Christmas eve party seems to bring out the worst in both of our mothers. ‘Doc Ollie, ha-ha. Suits you!’ Ollie isn’t particularly cool, he’s a bit studious (that might be the glasses), a bit geeky. His hair is a bit too long, and he’s very (and I mean very) lanky.

‘That Christmas jumper suits you!’ He grins again, his dark eyes twinkling.

‘You look a bit of a twerd to be honest, where the hell did you get yours?’ I say and giggle in a very stupid girlish way, to deflect the churning feeling that has just started up in the base of my stomach, and the desire I’ve got to kiss him.

Kiss him?

Now where the hell did that come from? I don’t kiss Oliver Cartwright! He’s the son of my parents’ best friends for heaven sakes. And he’s annoying and a smart arse, and always trying to compete, and, well, and quite gorgeous actually. In this dim light. But he’s got a silly jumper on.

‘Twerd?’ He’s closer again. Not grinning now though. In fact, he’s staring into my eyes.

I swallow.

‘Mix of a twerp and a nerd? My brain couldn’t decide before it came out of my mouth.’ God, my mouth is dry. And his mouth is so close.

‘Whereas your jumper is the height of festive fashion?’ He laughs and leans in even closer. He’s acting pretty chilled and relaxed by his normal standards. I think he might have been hitting the whisky with my dad, his own dad and Uncle Terence.

Whereas I have only Uncle T’s cocktails to blame.

‘Definitely.’ I swallow again. I’ve gone to town this year. Found a very smart jumper, with two robins, whose chests light up. Ollie has a giant reindeer head with a big flashing nose. Not original or new, I’m sure he wore it last year. Except now it’s a bit tighter, stretched over his chest which I’m sure is broader, and a bit tight over his flat stomach, and …

‘It’ll be weird next year, won’t it? We won’t have seen each other for months!’

‘Ha-ha, there’s a good side to everything!’ I laugh, to cover up my embarrassment. Because it will be weird; in fact, it’ll be very strange to not see Ollie at school, at parties at his parents’ and my parents’.

He’s staring down at the book I’m still holding. ‘You didn’t bring Josh tonight, then?’

I shrug. ‘It’s nothing serious. Just a bit of fun, why should I bring him?’

‘Just wondered.’

‘It would be daft to get serious, I’m off to Edinburgh Uni, he’s going to Bristol or somewhere daft, I mean who gets serious with somebody when they’re still at school?’

‘Yeah, you’d have to be mad, wouldn’t you?’

‘Totally.’

I suddenly realise that he’s stopped looking at the book and he’s staring straight into my eyes.

His mouth is only inches from mine. His thigh is warm against my bare leg. I feel all fluttery, not-quite-sure what to do. Whether to pull my skirt down, shoot off the chair, or say something clever. Instead, I just stare back. My breath catching in my throat as he raises a hand and touches my cheek.

‘Mistletoe.’ He mumbles glancing up.

‘Oh, yeah.’ I look up as well, then back down.

Our gazes lock, and it’s like I’m seeing him for the very first time. I don’t want to look at anything or anybody else, not even my book. All I can see is him. All I can feel is the soft imprint of his fingers against my cheek, his warm breath fanning my skin.

My heart is hammering, and I’m trembling inside and out. But I know this is going to happen.

I lean in. I can’t help myself.

‘We should …’ Then his lips brush over mine. It’s the lightest of touches, but it sends a shiver down my spine.

I freeze, and then I can’t help it. I close my eyes and I kiss him back.

His lips are soft, his hand warm on my waist, and I’m tingling all over, nervous but weirdly excited. He tastes of whisky and mince pies. And something else, something that is Ollie and nobody else. Something I want more of. And a small part of me deep inside, that I didn’t know existed, has woken up leaving me all breathless and shaky.

I’ve never kissed Ollie before. Well, I have, or rather he kissed me. But we were six years old, and he was Joseph to my Mary in the school Nativity, and he was showing off.

But this is way different.

I mean though, we’re not like this. Are we?

‘Daisy, Daisy, where are you hiding?’

‘Oh God, it’s Mum!’ I pull back, my lips feeling bruised and swollen, and I just know I’m flushed and flustered.

‘Right, er, well.’ Ollie blinks at me.

I cough and glance up. ‘Bloody mistletoe, he puts it everywhere.’ The stupid giggle comes out before I can stop it.

We both stand up abruptly at the same time, collide, lose balance and sit down. Then he stands up, holds out a hand and helps me to my feet.

‘Well, er, see you at school, I guess.’ His hand lingers on mine, and we’re close enough to kiss, again.

I nod, swallow. ‘Yeah, you sure will.’ I sound embarrassingly like a cowboy and do a thumbs up which is totally uncool.

‘Have a good Christmas, Dais.’ We both look down at our still-joined hands then let go awkwardly.

‘You, too, Ol. Happy, er, Christmas. Just, er, going to check out the other books.’ I edge up the aisle one way, and he sidles the other way.

‘Good.’

‘Er, right fine.’

‘Think I’ll get another drink, find out when we’re going.’ He points. ‘Might have drunk too much whisky with Dad.’

‘Sure.’

‘That was, er …’

‘Cool, cool, whatever.’ I do not want him to say ‘mistake’, ‘silly’ or anything like that. ‘Just for the mistletoe!’

‘Nice.’ He blushes bright red and is off before the word has even settled in the air.

I look at the books, not seeing them. Then shake my head. In a few months’ time I will sit my exams and then head off to Scotland and a brilliant, exciting few years at uni. And Ollie will move to London and meet a whole new set of friends.

Our futures lie ahead, separate futures.

‘Fine, nice, bye.’ I stare after him. My fingers rest on my bruised lips, and I blink to try to get rid of the taste of him, the feel of his hand on my waist, the sensation that prickled through my body as his teeth clashed with mine, then his tongue skittered over my teeth.

Oh. My. God. I just kissed Oliver Cartwright, and it left me all wobbly and weak-kneed in a way that Josh’s never did. But it meant nothing. Definitely nothing. It is Christmas. We are drunk. It was a goodbye snog.

But an amazing snog.

I shouldn’t have done it. We’re mates, he’s always been just like an annoying brother to me. But now we’ve kissed.

I’ll never be able to look at Ollie in the same way again.

In fact, I’m not sure I’m going to ever be able to talk to him in the same way.

Is it a good or bad thing that we have new and exciting lives ahead of us – in different places?



ACT 1 – MUST TRY HARDER (#u701c904c-f9a1-5c27-9623-99acb933782f)




Chapter 1 (#ulink_ce4e554b-c224-5aa9-b5a4-b4057a80ebda)

24 December 2017


‘Oh. My. God! Look at this place!’ Frankie, my friend and flatmate is standing in the open doorway of the bookshop and staring in as though she’s just discovered an alternative reality. She throws her arms wide as though embracing the whole place. ‘This is so fucking quaint. I didn’t know places like this still existed!’

‘You sound like a tourist who’s just discovered Stratford-upon-Avon.’ I can’t help but laugh, despite my nerves. ‘It’s a bookshop.’ Uncle Terence’s bookshop to be precise.

‘Well yeah, but look at those proper wood bookcases, and wow, cute nooks and crannies, and … cocktails!’ She leaps on Mabel, Uncle T’s bookkeeper, who nearly drops her tray in shock. ‘Oh my God, I’m going to orgasm, this is the best Dirty Martini I’ve had in ages.’

Mabel gives her a horrified look and scurries off to the safety of a nearby cranny. Dumps the tray and then heads for the protection of Uncle T.

‘Stop, please stop.’ I’m trying not to laugh. I think Frankie must be on some hallucinogenic drug. I mean, she’s not got much of a filter, she says what she wants, but she’s not normally this full on.

Frankie’s sheet of long black hair swishes in my face as her slim fingers spin the martini glass, and the look of mischief in her eyes is positively dangerous. Most of the time she’s cool and languid, but tonight she is positively buzzing.

She’s had a bust up with Tarquin, her boyfriend, which is (1) why she begged me to let her come tonight, and (2) why she’s ready to party with a capital P.

I am now beginning to realise that agreeing to let her tag along with me to Uncle T’s Christmas Eve bash could have been a mistake.

After all, this is not some swish cocktail bar, this is a bookshop, and I use the word ‘bash’ loosely – it’s more a close friends and family do. I will undoubtedly have known everybody here for most of my life, and there’s a fair chance I will be the youngest attendee by a country mile.

Which is why I agreed to wear the customary Christmas jumper and antlers. No chance of making a fool of myself in front of an attractive man tonight! Only the opportunity to once again be a slight disappointment to my mother, who would very much like a daughter to be proud of. A daughter with an impressive career, a handsome partner, and preferably a bun in the oven. Or at least the knowledge that said oven is nicely warming in preparation.

I have a job on the local rag, Frankie, and an empty womb. Oh, and Stanley – my four-legged date.

Therefore, I am still hovering on the doorstep. I am not ready to party, with or without a capital P. I’m taking a deep breath and pulling my metaphorical big girls pants up, preparing for the onslaught.

‘Here goes, Stan!’ I shoot him a pensive smile, which he ignores, plaster a grin on my face and follow her in. I’ve not got any choice. She’s grabbed the front of my jumper and Rudolf’s nose is being stretched to its shiny limit.

You know how you go in some shops and it hits you, the warm air and soft music, the bright clothes yelling out ‘buy me’ even though you’re broke? Well, Uncle T’s shop is like that. But with books not clothes. And mulled wine and mince pies. And much, much better.

The warmth of happy people, and the sounds and smells of Christmas wrap themselves round me like an old familiar blanket.

Christmas has arrived, it’s officially here. Uncle Terence’s party marks the start of the festive season. The hum of happy people chatting away, the smell of mulled wine, holly and warm pastry assault us and it’s a bit like walking into a Christmas-past time capsule. But with cocktails and canapés.

It takes a moment to adjust to all things festive and nice, after all the chaos that’s led up to it. I’m still adjusting when I’m assaulted. By my mother. My mother is the downside to Uncle Terence’s party. I do love her. Honestly. In controlled situations (i.e. my parents’ home). In small doses. Uncle Terence’s party does not bring out the ‘small dose’ side of her though. It brings out over enthusiasm. She treats me like exhibit ‘A’ – something to be paraded and boasted about. Which was strangely apt last year, when I was working as a barista and she insisted on telling everybody very loudly and proudly that I was a barrister.

Uncle Terence, who knew better, thought it was hilarious and kept asking how the coffee bean interrogation was going, and whether I was dealing with many mug-ings, and if the serial killer liked his coffee like his victims – all ground up. That last one was a bit eurgh, but it kept him entertained all evening.

Anyway, unfortunately, I am not exactly an overachiever on the career front (unlike Ollie Cartwright – but more about that later), do not yet own ‘property’ (unlike Ollie), and am a total disappointment on the getting hitched and producing offspring side (Ollie hasn’t done that either), so Mum struggles, over exaggerates or makes things up.

Since leaving school with a crap set of exam results to my name, I’ve always left the party feeling that my card has been marked ‘could do better’. This is not a jolly start to the festive season.

‘Daisy, darling! You’re here at last! We thought you’d got lost!’ I get a quick hug, and a mwah-mwah kiss. Frankie grins over her shoulder at me. Mesmerised. I think it’s my mother’s new ‘pink rinse’ and animal print jumpsuit that has done it. Or the fact she’s already downed two cocktails.

‘Love the outfit, very on-trend.’ Frankie manages to sound genuine. She winks at me.

My mother preens. ‘Thank you, dear.’ She gives her an up-and-down who-are-you look that confuses some people but doesn’t faze Frankie at all.

‘We’re not late, Mum!’ Anybody would think I hadn’t spoken to her for months, rather than earlier today. ‘And how can I get lost? I come here all the time.’

‘Where is he, then? Where’s your young man?’ Mum peers around me, almost shoving. See, it has started. She wants to mentally measure him up for his morning suit and see how he’d look framed on the mantelpiece.

‘Stephen, isn’t it? Stephen?’ She shouts his name as though she expects him to appear like a genie.

‘Simon! He’s called Simon, but I told you he’s not coming!’

‘Not coming? Oh yes, yes, silly me, I forgot! It’s Frank now, isn’t it? I can’t keep up with you and all these men! Well, where’s Frank?’

‘Frankie not Frank!’ I point at Frankie. Luckily, she is distracted and is staring across the room so doesn’t notice my mother’s disappointment.

Mum, just to be sure Simon isn’t lurking on the pavement, or hiding behind a lamppost, pushes her way out of the door to peer up the street. Treading on Stanley’s paw (sorry, I might not have mentioned – Stanley is a dog) and trapping me against the door jamb.

‘Oh buggering, flaming …’

‘Language, darling!’

The plate of sausage rolls, which I’d very cleverly balanced in one hand, goes flying one way as the dog dives between my legs and my mother dives the other side.

‘Oh my God, who the fuck is that?’ Frankie is oblivious to flying pastry, and the blob of lightly herbed pork that has landed on her head. ‘Fuck me. Well, him, well, oh my God, I think I still believe in Father Christmas!’ She clutches her throat melodramatically with one hand, and my arm with the other. Did I mention she’s a bit hyper tonight? ‘Ditch those canapés, girl and introduce me, so I can go and hang my stocking on his tree! I need to make babies with him!’

‘Frankie!’ I laugh and forget all about Mum for a moment, because this is weird. ‘Who, where? What on earth are you going on about?’ I’m sorry, but nobody in their right mind would want to shag anybody who attends Uncle T’s party. Unless he’s smuggled in a sexy bartender this year, instead of relying just on Mabel who isn’t as young as she was.

‘There!’ She does a low wolf whistle, then blows the tips of her fingers. ‘Smoking. Hot!’ He must be, because she seems to have forgotten she still has a boyfriend.

There are never hot men here though. Ever. It is a family and friends party. In a bookshop, in our village.

I look where she is pointing. At a man who is vaguely familiar, and admittedly quite attractive, in a Robert Downey Junior earnest-with-glasses kind of way. He reminds me a bit of Ollie’s dad, Charles. He must be some distant relative I’ve never met.

He has the faintest of smiles on his face, tugging at the corner of a generous mouth. Which would be slightly effeminate if he wasn’t so definitely male. Oh yes, he is definitely all male. For the first time ever at one of these parties, I wonder if the antlers might have been a mistake.

‘Oh, that’s Oliver. Silly girl.’ Mum stops searching for my missing date and chuckles. I gasp, and the mood music in my head grounds to a halt.

‘What?’I think it came out as a screech, because the conversation nearby has a hiccup. Then they go back to talking. Luckily the sound doesn’t appear to have reached his side of the room though, that’s the advantage of a bookshop – those thick pages swallow up the sound. ‘No way. That is so not Ollie!’ The last time I saw him was at very close quarters. I was snogging him. ‘It can’t be.’ I think this comes out as a pathetic whine. Buggering hell, Ollie can’t be here. Not in person. And he can’t look like that.

This makes it even worse than normal – we’ll now be plonked side by side, like we were as toddlers and compared in real life!

I’ve not seen him for absolutely ages, thirteen years to be precise. He’s been in Africa, or America, or Coventry. Well he’s always somewhere miles away. Doing good on a global scale. Well, he’s not been at Uncle Terence’s parties anyway. Which has been a bonus. At least while Mum and Vera have been going on about his virtues, I’ve been able to imagine him in my head as a pimply, fat arsehole.

‘Of course, it is, dear. Isn’t it lovely to see him?’

Fabulous.

Kill. Me. Now.

He will pity me, not want to snog me. Or he will laugh.

‘He’s got a girlfriend, you know.’

‘Hasn’t he always?’ I say, slightly sarcastically. I can’t quite help myself. Part of Ollie’s upward trajectory is his ability to date gorgeous women. Ollie always has a girlfriend, and I always have to be told about her. Just like I’ve been told about every step of his career since he went to uni.

My mother, and therefore, I, have lived vicariously through every one of the five years at medical school, followed by his two years of placements. I have heard every ‘Oh he’s been so brave when faced with mangled people in agony, I couldn’t do it!’ from his mother Vera, and lots of ‘oh he’s so clever’ and ‘so sad you didn’t do something like that’ from my mother. I have then had to endure ‘speciality training’ (hearing about it, not doing it, but believe me it’s just as bad), and face-fanning (Vera and Mum) when she speaks about the conferences and courses he’s attended. Since he qualified it’s been worse. I haven’t seen the bloody man for thirteen years, which has suited me fine. How could being face to face with the demi-god who I can never match up to help my self-esteem?

Thirteen years is a bit scary though. That makes me old. Well at least old enough to be a responsible adult. Which I most definitely am not.

‘Wow, that’s Ollie the pompous prick?’ Frankie drags her gaze away from him for a second and stares at me. I heat up like an electric blanket, my cheeks positively glowing, and Mum frowns.

I could just go home now.

I might have called him that. Once or twice. To Frankie. ‘He’s, er, changed.’ The endless stories from my mother and his about how well he’s doing, and how many girlfriends he’s got, and when he’s going to become pope (made that bit up, but it’s close – he deserves a sainthood, apparently) have really got on my tits, and definitely made him sound like a pompous prick. And anyway, he might still be a pompous prick, just a hot one.

‘The one who felt you up when you were four?’

‘I never said that! We were six, Frankie, I said he kissed me not felt me up!’ My cheeks are burning. If I blush any harder I’ll be hotter than a chestnut roasting charcoal burner. Thank God I didn’t tell her about the drunken face-eating when we were eighteen.

‘Felt your what?’ My mother has a puzzled expression, which I ignore.

‘Well, whatever he did, he is mine! ‘Scuse me, ladies!’ Frankie steams off in pursuit of her prey and doesn’t hear my mother’s plaintive, ‘Well, actually, I think you’ll find he’s Juliet’s, dear!’

Grrr. How can Oliver Cartwright be gorgeous? Be bloody perfect in every way. He wasn’t when we were kids. He was a bit lanky, sweet and maybe a bit cute, but all arms and legs, and the odd spot, and voice that hadn’t decided how low it was going to be, and a ‘did it at home’ haircut. And bad jeans. Yeah, he had bad jeans.

Frigging hell, he had all that and was still worth some lip action? I must have been very drunk.

I am not going near the man, he will be totally insufferable.

‘You two can have a nice chat, you must have so much to talk about!’ says Mum.

It is all wrong. I’m exhausted, and the party hasn’t even started.

And now my toes are warm and damp.

I glance down. Stanley is nibbling bits of sausage roll from between them.

The last couple of days have been disastrous.





Chapter 2 (#ulink_5f326aed-a8b5-5d64-840d-a2029c2777cd)


The lead up to Christmas, and Uncle Terence’s party has gone like this …




9.30 p.m., 22 December


Things I have to do before Tuesday evening at Uncle Terence’s:



1 Find my red nosed reindeer Christmas jumper and antlers (urgent or will stand out like sore thumb).

2 Make Buy sausage rolls to take to buffet (can do this in my lunch break tomorrow then if M&S have run out can always go to Greggs and cut large ones into small canapé size. Added advantage of this option – can buy vegan ones which will score points).

3  Send boyfriend message about what time to arrive and tell Uncle Terence I will have a plus one!

4 Buy new festive lipstick that Sunday supplement said was ‘guaranteed to make you smile’ (v. important when spending Christmas with my family, hope have time in lunch break to do this, might have to queue jump in Greggs. Which is top priority, lipstick or sausage rolls?).

5 Find wrapping paper. And sticky tape. (Urgent – top priority!)


My mother is bound to raise my shortcomings at Uncle T’s party, but she will soon be distracted by the scandal of how young Terence’s latest girlfriend is. Even better if he’s married her by now, which he might well have done, it is very hard to keep track. He’s had so many girlfriends, and even more ex-wives, in the last ten years even I can’t remember all their names. Uncle T’s a ‘bit of a one’ according to Mum, but he seems to bring out the fun and twinkly side of Vera. I’d never say this out loud, but Ollie’s dad Charles is a bit scary. It’s hard to believe he and Terence are brothers. I can quite understand Vera needing some light relief.

Charles is a consultant. In fact, the whole family, apart from Vera (who was named after Vera Lynn), are pretty intimidating. They are total over-achievers. Ollie’s got a brother who is a barrister and a sister who is an opera singer. I think I’m the only one that has noticed that Vera has called her children after characters in Oliver Twist, they’re Oliver, Will and Nancy. I suspect she has done this on purpose and it’s her little secret joke. I’ll know for sure if they ever get a dog and name it Bull’s Eye.

I don’t know why we go to the party really, but it can be rather fun, and it is a firmly entrenched family tradition (my father’s words not mine, I don’t talk like that) which only death or marriage will excuse me from (another thing Dad said). Personally, I think getting married is a bit of a drastic solution, and I do love Uncle T, this party less so.

The only negatives to kicking off Christmas with Uncle T are (1) my mother will be there, (2) she will compare me constantly to the hugely successful and perfect Ollie Cartwright, even though luckily, he won’t be there (he never is), and (3) dodging the mistletoe can be a health hazard. Terence hangs it everywhere, as he seems to want everybody to snog everybody else. If he wasn’t so nice and jolly, I’d suspect he had some weird fetish, but instead I will believe him when he says ‘love makes the world go round’.

It was bad enough when we were eighteen. Just the thought of that drunken totally unplanned snog with Ollie is making me feel all hot and bothered.

The only good thing has been that Ollie has not turned up at a single party since our embarrassing encounter. Which is good, and bad. I mean, back then, we actually might have got on, but we live on different planets now. He has ticked every success box going, I have to look back with fond memories of beating him in a Chemistry exam. Since then my life seems to have taken a dive and whilst he lives on planet-perfect, I meanwhile inhabit a galaxy far, far away where everything is disorganised and success can be measured by how many nearly-passed-their-sell-by-date bargains you manage to grab just before the supermarket closes.

Which makes point (4) on my list – the perfect smile part – even more essential. To be used when my mother asks if I’ve changed my mind about marrying Ollie Cartwright yet (as she knows I haven’t seen him since we were students, then how on earth can she still be dreaming about our happy ever after?). I know she will ask though (probably in front of Vera), even though I will have my own, actual boyfriend with me. This is a win, this is the first time in years that I’ve had a boyfriend who has actually agreed to spend Christmas with me and my family.




7 p.m., 23December


I have had a truly shit day. Christmas has already got off to a dismal start. I already need to strike (3) off my first list. Simon, my boyfriend, rang me at work.

‘Dais?’

‘Simon?’ This is odd. It sounds like Simon, but Simon never calls me at work. He also never calls me Dais.

‘Slight change of plan, darling.’ When he calls me ‘darling’, he’s either after sex, snacks, or is about to say something he knows I won’t like. It is one of his wheedling words. ‘Have to cancel your Christmas dinner with Mom and Pop.’

‘Why? Oh no! What’s happened, are they okay?’

I try to stop staring at the photo of a missing cat on my screen. It’s tricky, it’s got a weird squint that is hard to ignore. I fear for its safety, a cat like this would not remain missing for long – it would be impossible to ignore.

‘They’re fine. Why wouldn’t they be?’

‘Well, if we’re not …’ I blink, his words have sunk in. ‘Hang on, you said cancel my dinner?’

‘I thought you’d be pleased, far too much food in one day. I mean who can eat two Christmas dinners, ha-ha!’

‘But you’re still going?’

‘Of course, I am, they’re my parents! Look, nothing personal, it’s just there’s not enough room. Lucy,’ his little sister, ‘has made up with that boyfriend of hers, Ralph, Rafe, whatever he’s called, so he’ll be coming.’

‘But …’

‘They don’t really have enough table space for everybody, and you’d make it an odd number.’

‘Why? That’s two extra, Lucy and Rafe.’

‘And Grandmother! Cancelled her cruise cos of her dicky hip. Can’t expect Mom to turn away her aged parent, can you Daisy? Be reasonable!’

‘Of course, I don’t. I didn’t know about that!’ It’s not fair to suggest I’m being unreasonable.

‘Sorry sweets, but Mom’s all excited about a possible engagement announcement so Lucy’s man has to be there! And be fair, she knows them all far better than she knows you, they’re family!’

I’m sticking my lower lip out, I know I am. But the whole point was she would get to know me, but she obviously considers me a ‘a passing fancy’ (he doesn’t say that last bit, but I have assumed it from his tone).

‘Oh right. Fine.’ I’m not sure it is fine. ‘But you are coming to Uncle T’s party tomorrow?’ He has to come, he just has to. I’ve got to prove to Mum I can get at least something right.

‘Probs with your Christmas eve party as well now. It’s a bit awkward but Ralph—’

‘Rafe!’ He doesn’t even remember the name of the damn man who will be tucking into my Christmas dinner.

‘Lucy’s boyfriend asked me to go the local with him, got to chat to the potential brother in law, ha-ha, think he wants to discuss man stuff, proposals and all that.’

‘But you don’t know anything about proposals!’

‘Sorry and all that but didn’t think you’d be bothered.’

Bothered? I can feel my jaw tighten. I’m about to grit my teeth, which the dentist has told me not to do. ‘But I’ve got you a present!’

‘We can swap tonight. It’s only Christmas after all.’

Only Christmas? How can he say that? And how can a pub-date with a potential brother-in-law be more important than coming to Uncle Terence’s with me?

I therefore informed Simon that I no longer wish to meet him this evening as I have far too much preparation to do, and no longer wish to swap presents.

This led to full scale hostilities and him complaining about all kinds of things, including stinky Stanley (he doesn’t stink). ‘It’s me or the dog.’ Simon had actually said, in the midst of our heated conversation about Christmas lunch, when I asked if he was at least going to pop in to Mum and Dad’s for pre-dinner drinks. I’m not sure if he was being funny or not.

I no longer have a boyfriend.

Git.

I cannot believe it. I was so close to being able to stun my mother into silence. To turn up with a proper man-date, but Simon has spoiled it.

Also, just remembered other disadvantage of breaking up with Simon – I didn’t have time to shop at lunch time as I was too heartbroken to buy sausage rolls for party. Who can think of food at a time like that?

Looking on the bright side though, this year for Uncle T’s party, and Christmas dinner, I still have a plus-one. Stanley! He snores, passes wind and likes to try to stick his tongue in my mouth when I’m talking, but you know what? I love him. Sometimes a dog is a way better bet than a man.




2 p.m., 24 December


Disaster! Point 1 on my list is not looking good. I cannot find my flaming Christmas jumper anywhere, despite urgent search last night and again this morning before setting off for work.

I think Uncle Terence started the obligatory Christmas jumper tradition because he knew that we would all get hot and need to strip off at some point. When I was at junior school I thought it was funny, now I’m over thirty having a red nose adorning my boobs isn’t quite as hilarious. However, not wearing said jumper will leave me feeling naked and exposed – I will be the centre of attention, which must be avoided at all costs.

I have left it a little late to buy a new Christmas jumper. I’ve been in every supermarket and clothes shop and I am now in the pound shop. I might have to settle for a hot-chick T-shirt, or a ‘bargain buy’ Rudolf that looks like a cross-eyed donkey. Decisions, decisions. I have never been good under pressure, plus the only antlers left are the ones in the pet shop (I checked in there in case they had a jumper that would fit an Irish Wolfhound or some other giant breed, that could be modified for human use). Said antlers are more suited to a Labrador. I might have to buy some for Stanley instead.




4 p.m., 24 December


Stanley has just wolfed down half of the sausage rolls that I had home-baked (well, shop-bought from the late shop next to the beauty salon. They were a bit scuffed up which makes them look more authentically homemade, but also meant they were reduced to a bargain price). We are all expected to contribute, and in the past I have stuck to multiple bottles of bubbly and cut price stuffed dates, but this year I am rather skint. This is mainly because (1) I lent Simon the snake the money to buy his father a rather expensive bottle of malt whisky, and his mother a ridiculously expensive bottle of perfume, and (2) I bought him a gaming station. It was in the sale, but still cost way more than I’d ever spend on a toy, but I don’t think they will take it back. I see a New Year filled with trying to work out what Call of Duty is actually about, and then settling for a romp with Sonic. As I no longer have a boyfriend, snogging Sonic could be as good as it gets on New Year’s Eve.

Frankie says I’m too generous, I’ve always retorted that the giving not receiving is the best bit about Christmas. I’m beginning to think I might need to rethink that one.

So, anyway, I bought two bottles of Prosecco on offer, one as a reward for surviving Christmas, and one to take. Plus some savouries. Half of which have been scoffed.

I now don’t have time to nip down to Tesco Extra to replenish supplies, and wash and iron my hair, and get dressed, so I am going to have to cut the remaining sausage rolls into halves and pretend they are sophisticated snacks.

I’m also going to have to check for teeth marks.

Maybe a dog date isn’t a much better bet than a man?




6 p.m., 24 December


Yay! I have found my jumper and antlers! I’ve just dug out the spare Christmas gift bag that I kept in case of emergencies, and voilà! There they were. Along with some leftover stuffed dates (last year’s disaster) and some shrivelled up mistletoe.

I’ve also come up with perfect reason to keep away from fresh mistletoe! I just googled, more out of desperation than real hope, and it is poisonous to dogs, and I have Stanley. We don’t want vomiting, drooling and diarrhoea in the vicinity of Uncle Terence’s first editions, do we? I never thought I would say this, in response to those three words, but … result!

‘What the hell is that, Daisy?’ Frankie is lurking in my doorway, a drink in her hands, pointing at my list which is pinned to the wardrobe. Along with a photo of Simon with a heart shaped hole cut out of his stomach, and a big cross over the ‘sausage rolls’. She is looking very Ab Fab and is struggling to sound indignant, she’s laughing too much. She starts to pull my list off the wardrobe, then pauses and spins back round to stare at me. ‘Fuck me, you really do take this family party thing seriously! Great jumper, not so sure about the twigs growing out of your head though.’

‘Antlers!’

‘I need to come and see this!’

‘No, you don’t. And you haven’t got a Christmas jumper.’

‘And does this,’ she peels Simon off the door, prods her finger through the hole in his chest, then rotates him slowly, ‘mean you haven’t got a date?’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘Well, nor have I.’ She grins, wickedly. ‘I can be your date!’

‘I’m taking Stanley.’ Stanley dives under the bed.

‘Who the fuck is Stanley? Have you been two-timing Simon?’ She gives a low whistle. ‘Dark horse!’

I sigh. ‘Stanley is the dog I’ve agreed to foster over the holidays.’

‘Oh.’ She looks disappointed, then frowns. ‘How did I not know about this?’

‘I smuggled him in, I knew you’d like him once you got to know him.’ It’s her flat, and I really should have asked her, but I couldn’t risk her saying no. Stanley can’t spend Christmas in a kennel.

‘Whatever.’ Frankie suddenly smiles. ‘Well, you can take me too then! Pleeeeeeease!’

‘Where’s Tarquin?’ I look at her with suspicion. She had a night of lust planned, like you do on Christmas eve if you’re a normal person and have a boyfriend, which is why she’s glammed up.

‘I told him to fuck off.’ She downs her drink. ‘He started a sentence with ‘if you really cared about me’, and it all went downhill from there. He needs to get a life.’

She sounds a bit sulky.

‘He is trying to, Frankie, with you.’

‘I’m not ready, I’d be bored within a week and so would he. Can I come?’

I look at Stanley, who is peeking out from under the bed. He stares back, resignedly.

‘It’s full of old people, and books.’

‘You should get a career in sales, oh hang on, you have! Please, it’ll be fun. I can do old people.’

I’m sure she can. ‘You’ll have to promise to behave and not put a straw in the vat of mulled wine.’

‘Promise. I won’t.’

She probably will.

‘And not propose to Uncle T?’

‘Is he rich?’

‘Very, but he’s probably married at the moment. I can’t remember. You mustn’t try and steal him!’

‘Okay.’ She puts on her sweet and innocent smile. But I know she’s not either.

‘Come on then,’ I sigh, I haven’t got time to argue, ‘I’m taking my car and getting a taxi back.’

‘Cool. Can I wear your antlers?’




Chapter 3 (#ulink_819dbee7-0771-5970-80cb-8658c9bc73d6)

7.30 p.m., 24 December


So, I have arrived at the party minus a boyfriend, and plus a dog and a flatmate. And now Ollie frigging Mr Perfect Cartwright is here.

Brilliant.

‘Oh my, how lovely to see you, Daisy, sweetheart!’ Uncle Terence manages to catch the plate (minus most of the sausage rolls), put his foot on Stanley’s lead, flick most of the pastry off my jumper with his silk handkerchief and kiss me on both cheeks without breaking into a sweat. ‘Splendid jumper, by the way!’

Stanley is so shocked he stops licking my toes, sits down and stares.

Uncle Terence is a bit of an enigma. He’s rather debonair, the only man in the village who can pull off a bowtie and is a kind of cross between a cuddly uncle and a London man about town. Yes, I know, it’s hard to imagine until you meet him. I’ve also absolutely no idea how old he is, except he’s older than me and not as old as my mother. I also know he used to run a literary agency which he thought he’d hand over to Ollie (he actually is his uncle) until Ollie’s dad persuaded his son that the medical profession was a much worthier cause.

‘Thank you! Looking forward to the party!’ I flash my new-lipstick smile, and he looks impressed – it looks like the magazine was right, it was well worth spending all that money on. I reckon it cost more than the entire contents of my make-up drawer.

‘Oh, my goodness, they look a bit pasty, don’t they?’ My mother picks up a sausage roll and eyes it suspiciously, before dropping it behind a pile of books and finally forgetting about Simon and my pompous prick comment offers her cheek for a kiss.

At least she’s been distracted from the lack of boyfriend.

‘Oh darling, what happened to your boyfriend? Tell me again!’ Bugger. Spoke too soon. Mum peers around me, as though I might actually have brought him and forgotten.

‘He had to cancel, I told you, things came up!’

‘Oh no. Such a disappointment.’ For a moment her face falls, then she chirps up. ‘Never mind, we’ll find you another nice young man. Sadie at Number 17 has a lovely son, he’s a dentist, always handy to know a good dentist! Don’t you think so, Terence?’

‘Far too boring for a bright young thing like our Daisy.’ Terence winks at me. ‘No hurry is there my dear? Get your career up and running before you go for all that nonsense, eh?’

‘Oh, my goodness, yes, we forgot to tell you.’ He’s now set Mum’s mind off in a new direction, which I’m not sure is a good thing. ‘Daisy has got another job!’ Terence raises an eyebrow. ‘She works for the Hunslip and Over Widgley Local Guardian, she’s in charge of promotions and marketing you know. They headhunted her, a proper job!’

‘Really?’ Uncle T whispers in my ear.

‘Small ads, not exactly proper.’ I whisper back, as my mother carries on regardless.

‘No?’ Uncle T studies me for a moment, then smiles. ‘Well, what is proper, my dear? What would you really like to do?’

‘I’m not quite sure yet.’ I scan the room and am quite relieved that Ollie seems to have disappeared from view. With any luck he’s gone home. It’s just so bloody embarrassing, the way my mother still keeps trying to throw us together when our lives have gone in totally opposite directions. Why on earth would the hugely successful Ollie, with his glamorous girlfriends and on-track life even want to talk to me, let alone father my babies?

‘Oh, she’ll soon be editor, won’t you Daisy!’ My mother has high expectations. Terence merely raises an eyebrow.

‘You can do whatever you want my dear, you know. You’re awfully clever, you always were such a bright girl.’ He pats my hand, then hands me the end of Stanley’s lead back. ‘And who needs a date, when you’ve got a dog?’

‘Exactly!’ I told you Uncle Terence was nice. Very nice.

‘Back in a jiffy, just going to stir the mulled wine dear girl, then I’ve got a gorgeous original edition to show you. Quite a find, a real gem, and I know you of all people will appreciate it!’ He winks.

‘Fab!’ I grin back at Uncle T.

‘Ollie has a proper date, you know!’ Mum nudges me in my ribs.

‘What a surprise.’ I mutter. Ollie has a date for every occasion apparently. How does he do it? Every year, according to my mother and Vera, Ollie flaming Cartwright has a different woman in tow.

‘Vera thinks he might even marry this one!’

I frown. This raises the stakes as far as my mother is concerned.

‘Such a shame you two couldn’t get together, we were so sure you’d get on well when you were little, your first kiss!’ She’s gone a bit swoony. ‘I hope you haven’t missed your chance!’

I admit it. Ollie and I have snogged more than once, it wasn’t just that drunken fumble under the mistletoe thirteen years ago.

He kissed me when we were six years old, when he was Joseph to my Mary in the Nativity at the village hall – egged on I think by our mothers. Honestly, what kind of parents encourage that kind of behaviour in innocent children? So, I battered him with the baby Jesus. A plastic version, obviously. I hit him pretty hard, though to give him his due he didn’t cry or hit me back, but he shouldn’t have kissed me.

He didn’t try again for another 12 years.

He was a pain in the backside when we were kids. He once pulled my bathing suit down and tried to drown me when we were semi-naked in his paddling pool (‘Just playing, how sweet,’ said Mum), then progressed to blowing out my birthday cake candles before I could (‘Hilarious,’ said his mum).

These days he is even more of a pain, though at least I haven’t actually had to see him in person. Well, until now. When Frankie spotted him across the crowded room and pointed out that not only is he successful, rich and has his life in order – he is also a tiny bit dishy. How did that happen?

Ollie passed all his exams, attended the medical school at Oxford University and is hugely successful and well thought of (according to my mother). He is very serious and always has an attractive, clever girlfriend with him whenever he comes home (according to his own mother – who then passes the information on to my mother).

I, on the other hand, buggered up my exams, did a rubbish degree at a university I’d only heard of through Clearing, still live within the same postcode we were brought up in, lost my job at the local vets after behaving irresponsibly with a scalpel when they tried to euthanise an incontinent cat (I think threatening to report me for GBH if I didn’t leave the building immediately was a bit OTT though), and so foster rescue dogs and have just managed to get a pretty naff job on the local rag.

How can my mother possibly still think we’re compatible when he’s everything I’m not? Have it all Ollie pleases his parents, is smart, has a life plan, a partner, but absolutely no sense of humour (from what I have observed), whereas I have no idea what I’ll be doing tomorrow, let alone in five years’ time.

‘You were such happy, chubby, little things.’

‘We were toddlers, Mum. Toddlers are always fat and happy.’

‘Well, you’re not now, are you! You need to do an egg timer test.’

‘What?’

‘I was reading all about them when I was having my car serviced, they have a wonderful set of magazines in there you know! Not just about cars, although there were car ones as well for your father, and a golf one.’

‘Why do I need to do an egg timer test?’

‘To see how much longer you’ve got before they go off dear! Then you can decide if it’s worth freezing a pack for future use.’ She pats my hand. ‘I mean, now Ollie is off the market.’

‘Mum,’ I sigh. ‘Ollie was your fantasy, not mine.’ Well, he was my fantasy for one brief night after that snog. Well, maybe several nights if I’m honest. But that was all. I mean, at eighteen it doesn’t always take much does it? ‘There are other men, and anyway, I might not want one.’

‘Not want a man?’ She frowns. ‘Oh my! That explains everything! You’re a lesbian! Oh, darling, why didn’t you say?’ She hugs me. ‘Everybody loves a lesbian these days.’

‘No, I’m not.’ I struggle free.

‘How exciting! Is it that Frankie girl?’ She frowns. ‘Is she bi? She’s still bothering Ollie, you know!’

‘No, Mum, she’s not, she’s straight, she’s got a boyfriend and I—’

‘And you can get a sperm donor these days, you can be Mummy and Mum, or Ma, or Mom!’

‘Mum, stop!’ I lower my voice to a hiss, as everybody else has stopped talking – just not her. ‘I am not a lesbian, but I still might not want to get married, and I might not want a baby!’

‘Oh rubbish.’ She shakes her head. ‘Of course, you want a baby. And you need one while I’m still young enough to push a pram, and your dad can still play football with him!’

We seem to have made a massive jump here, from egg testing to kids hurtling round the garden kicking a ball. There also seems to be an assumption on sex. ‘What if it’s a girl?’ I say, which I shouldn’t have done because it suggests there might be a child in my not so distant future.

‘They play, too! Honestly, I thought you youngsters understood all about equal opportunities, you kicked a ball around at school, you know! I mean, you weren’t exactly George Best, but …’

I’m about to ask who George Best is, then decide it might be best not to.

‘Daisy, how lovely to see you!’ Vera kisses my cheek and hands me a glass of mulled wine. ‘Any idea who that tall girl with black hair is? She’s rather monopolising Ollie!’

‘Oh don’t worry about her,’ says my mother, ‘she’s bi, she’s already got a boyfriend and a girlfriend!’

‘Back in a jiffy, Stanley needs a drink!’ I take this opportunity to run off, before my imaginary (and rather more interesting than in real-life) sex life is dissected.

‘Oh my God, I need to do something, I can’t go on like this for the rest of my life, can I Stan?’ I pass Stanley the sausage out of the mini toad-in-the-hole and pop the rest in my mouth. He takes it off me delicately, puts it on the floor than examines it for signs of poison. ‘I mean look at me, and you!’ He looks straight at me, munching his treat, a sadness in his brown eyes. ‘Sorry, I love you, you know that, but you weren’t supposed to be my plus one.’ I sigh. ‘You’re not even mine, you’re on loan.’

I am over thirty, and I’ve brought a dog to Uncle Terence’s Christmas Eve party. And he’s not even my dog. I’m fostering him until a suitable home can be found.

It isn’t the fact that my boyfriend ducked out of Christmas, and my life, at the very last minute. He was just the straw that broke the camel’s back so to speak. It is everything.

My mother will, of course, be disappointed that Simon isn’t with me. And that I still show no signs of getting engaged, let alone married or with-child, and she won’t waste any time in telling me and everybody else in hearing range. But it’s not like a man is the missing piece in the jigsaw of my life. The whole bloody jigsaw is a mess, it’s a mishmash of several different puzzles at the moment. Or at least that’s how it feels. And I need to work out what the finished picture is supposed to look like.

‘Oh God, Mum is heading this way again!’ I adjust my antlers, straighten my rather fine Rudolf jumper and take a swig of mulled wine. ‘Brace yourself, Stanley, this is my “must try harder” moment!’ Stanley stares at me, his lovely brown eyes look worried. ‘Me, not you, there’s nothing at all wrong with you.’ I reassure him. ‘Well, there is, but we can talk about that later. Minor point!’ He doesn’t look convinced.

Stanley and I are huddled together in the corner of the rather lovely bookshop. It’s cram packed with old furniture, books and antiques that have seen far better days. The air is heavy with the smell of leather, of new and old books, of dust, and potpourri. And mulled wine and sausage rolls.

On any other day it would be heaven, but I know that all my shortcomings are just about to be broadcast. One of them being Stanley.

‘Long time no see, Daisy!’ I am so focused on watching my mother approaching that I haven’t noticed Ollie sneak up on the other side. ‘On your own?’

‘No, I’ve got Stanley!’ I wave my glass a little too enthusiastically and splatter my reindeer.

He glances around, looking puzzled.

‘Stanley!’ I point at Stanley, who wags his tail rather too enthusiastically for my liking. I was sure I’d explained to him that Ollie was the enemy. A huge part of my ‘must try harder’ problem.

Ollie glances down. ‘Ah, a dog.’ He raises an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitches. If he laughs I might have to throw my wine at him, which would be a shame as I have already wasted quite a bit of it and it is rather fine wine. ‘Lots to be said for sticking with a dog.’ He tickles Stanley behind his ear, and the traitor wiggles his body in ecstasy.

‘So good of you to make it this year! No lives that need saving in the Third World?’

‘I’m sure there are, but I’m based back here now and I’m not on call.’

‘Oh.’ There’s an awkward silence.

‘Room for me?’ He nods his head at the space on the seat next to me, and I’m suddenly feeling all hot and bothered. I’ve just realised that I am sitting in the very spot where we had our drunken snog all those years ago. Where he plonked himself down without asking. Oh Lord-y. I shift up a bit, and before I can object, he’s plopped himself in the gap, his warm thigh pressed against mine. ‘Bit of a squeeze these days.’ He grins.

‘We’ve grown.’ I swallow. Not quite sure where to look, but unable to not look if you know what I mean. My thighs have spread, his have kind of muscled up and gone all firm and take up more space. His chest is also broader, his jawline squarer, his lips still …

‘No mistletoe, then?’ He glances up and grins, hopefully he’s not cottoned onto my under-the-eyelashes sideways staring.

‘Oh no, ha-ha, Uncle T must be slipping, thank heavens for that, eh!’

He raises an eyebrow.

‘Seeing as you’re practically married and everything.’

‘And everything?’ The eyebrow quirks higher and his dimples deepen. I’d forgotten about his dimples, right next to his full lips, nestled there in a very tempting, kiss-me kind of way.

Oh bugger. Pull yourself together Daisy. ‘Babies, weddings, saving lives and all that! You’re a responsible adult now, aren’t you?’ I try to shift up a bit, but there is absolutely nowhere to go. The seat has shrunk, it has to have done. I was never that skinny. Although he was, with lanky long legs.

Shit, he’s thrown one arm along the back of the sofa. I really do feel hot now. He is quite sexy, and he seems to be sending waves of testosterone or some other kind of hormone out in my direction. Along with fingers, which seem to have accidentally brushed against my shoulder. I blame my oversized jumper, which keeps slipping.

It must be something they teach them in medical school. I mean, I know I did snog him last time we were sat here, but we were hormone-ridden teens with alcohol-laced blood. This is different.

Flaming heck, I need a fan, or something.

I hike the jumper back onto my shoulder.

‘And what about you?’ His voice is deeper than it was. Unnerving.

‘Me? Me?’ I fan myself with my hand, trying to just make it look like a casual wave and not a life-saving manoeuvre. ‘Oh me, I’m the same, you know, no babies, no saving lives, unless you call a ‘would like to meet’ ad a public service, ha-ha.’

‘No boyfriend with you tonight?’ He chuckles. ‘What was his name? Josh, Josh the slosh, that was it!’

It’s like somebody has grabbed me around the chest and is trying to squeeze the life out of me. The gasp escapes before I can stop it.

‘Daisy?’ Ollie is giving me an odd look. ‘Are you okay?’

I am not okay. I am so not okay. My forehead is clammy and I feel sick. I stare at him and try to hold it all in.

Luckily, I do not feel at all like snogging Ollie now. Kissing is the last thing on my mind. I want to thump him. Or scream and run away.

Josh is history, Josh is a name I never want to hear again. My lust has flown, now all I feel is mild panic.

‘Daisy?’ He prods me, so I swallow down the horrible taste in my mouth and try to think of a witty retort.

‘Oh, there you are, darling! I wondered where you were hiding!’ Whilst I have been distracted, my mother has sneaked up.

‘I’m not hiding, Mum.’ This has to be the first time in my entire life that I have been pleased my mother has barged into a conversation.

‘You’re never going to find another man if you’re hiding next to,’ she squints so she can read the books on the nearest shelf, ‘Ancient Relics and Wonders of the World!’

‘I’m not going to find another man at Uncle T’s party, anyway, am I?’

She ignores me. ‘Look who I’ve found!’ She hustles Vera into our little group. ‘And you’ve already seen lovely Ollie of course!’ She beams at Ollie in a proud mother kind of way and pats his shoulder. She should adopt him. ‘Vera was just telling me all about your new girlfriend!’

‘You have got a new girlfriend?’ I have to ask him.

He shifts uncomfortably. Probably because of the way he’s sandwiched into the seat with me, and that fact that when I turned slightly to face him, I nearly elbowed him in the nose.

How the hell do I get out of this seat without being too obvious? I feel like the last sardine in the tin, the one that has been squashed into the remaining tiny space that is too small for it. I need prising out with a fork.

‘Daisy is on her own again, aren’t you dear?’ Mum has carried on oblivious. ‘Single and independent, she might be gay you know!’

‘Mother I didn’t say …’ I glare at Ollie, daring him to snigger. He doesn’t. He’s not really a sniggering type these days it would appear.

‘Might be? You don’t know?’ A tall, slim blonde girl is peering at me as though I’m a particularly fascinating first edition. ‘How interesting! Are you bi?’ Then she glares at Ollie, who has his elbows squashed against his sides, after trying to remove his arm discretely from the back of the chair.

‘Oh, have you met Juliet, dear? Ollie’s girlfriend!’ Vera announces this as though he’s just won the sack race at school (strangely appropriate, but I beat him hands down at the egg and spoon) and he’s now showing off his trophy. ‘This is Daisy,’ she drops her voice to a confidential level, ‘she’s young, free and single again! Aren’t you, dear? Or are you having a thing with that girl?’

‘No, I’m not, she’s my flatmate. I am lovely and single, free to do what I want, shag who I want, get drunk and …’ They are all staring at me. Bloody hell, it gets hot when you’re wrapped in a jumper and squeezed between a man and the arm of a leather chair. ‘Well, obviously, I don’t shag around, but I am free to kiss anybody I want under the mistletoe this year!’

‘Terence?’ Questions Ollie, drily. Did I mention that he appears to have turned into a very ‘dry’ type? I’m not quite sure if he’s still got a proper sense of humour, it seems to have evaporated as he’s got older, I suppose it isn’t allowed now he’s a consultant. And it is not hip.

‘Definitely!’ I don’t actually mean this, but there really aren’t many people at all at his Christmas parties that you would want to snog, or touch, or even air kiss.

Juliet smiles, and looks down her long nose at me. She has perfect long, blonde, sleek hair and a long, slim, sleek body. Long has never been my thing.

She leans forward, well down, as though she’s greeting a child, and air-kisses.

‘Lovely to meet you, Daisy! How cute!’ Mwah-mwah. ‘Well done! I work in medicine, what do you do?’ It’s not just the words she uses, it’s the way she says them – in a very posh and very serious tone, that makes me feel like a child.

‘Oh, how lovely.’ I have a bad habit of imitating people’s accents when I’m in awe. ‘Medicine, fancy that!’

‘She works in communications,’ chimes in Vera.

‘And you’re a doctor?’ My mother frowns.

‘PR!’ Adds Juliet. ‘In medicine!’

‘Smashing, ha-ha, how clever!’ I say.

‘Christ, so you’re the one they wheel out to apologise when there’s a cock-up? Unexpected deaths and all that.’ Frankie has arrived and is now perched on the arm of the chair next to me. She drapes her arm round my shoulders, though she only has eyes for Ollie. She’s like a cheetah, waiting for her moment. I’m not sure if it’s the moment to leap on Ollie, or the moment to slay Juliet.

My nervous laugh is met with stony silence. Juliet is twitching, Frankie is positively purring.

‘We issue statements to the press, if that’s what you mean.’ Her tone has cooled.

‘Ah that’s what they call them!’ Frankie grins, then glances at her mobile phone, which has launched into a rendition of ‘Stop The Cavalry’. ‘Duty calls!’

‘Splendid.’ I say, to fill the gap as we all watch her sink into a leather armchair, her phone to her ear.

Juliet is not mollified. ‘I spearhead the PR campaigns.’

‘A bit like your job, Daisy, but people adore you, you’re not trying to wriggle your way out of being sued for incompetence!’ Chimes in my mother, who is using a plate of mini burgers as her way into the conversation. Sometimes I could hug her. ‘Daisy’s a journalist now! Canapé?’

‘Ah! Super, thanks.’ I grab a handful and try to move the conversation on from my sadly lacking career. ‘You’re in medicine as well, aren’t you Ollie?’ He raises an eyebrow, which is fair enough. He knows I know what he does, my annual date at Uncle T’s makes it impossible to avoid his accomplishments. But I was just trying to shut my mother up before she started to expand upon my not-so-wonderful career.

‘I thought you were in law?’ A faint frown lines his brow. How is it fair that frowning can be attractive on a man, but a disaster on a woman? ‘A barrister?’

‘Oh no, no, you must have misheard.’

‘Maybe father was confused. I swear he said …’

‘Oliver’s on the specialist register now, so clever, aren’t you, darling?’ Juliet buts in, which is rather fortunate. ‘That’s how we met, at work.’ She giggles and tries to link an arm through his, which is tricky. ‘And what did you say you did, Maisie?’

‘Daisy, it’s Daisy.’ I might have to thump her. ‘Oh, nothing so highbrow!’

‘I wouldn’t say it’s highbrow, just making a living like everybody else.’ Says Ollie. He shifts self-consciously and manages to extricate himself from Juliet’s grasp. ‘Just part of a team. Not exactly rocket science.’ He gives a self-depreciating laugh and Juliet nudges him.

‘More like brain surgery, ha-ha!’

‘Not exactly.’ He looks uncomfortable, and finally manages to lever himself up off the chair. Released, I nearly slither off onto the floor but manage to grab Frankie on the way and scramble to my feet.

‘Nonsense, darling! It practically is!’ She sounds a bit like Vera, I can see what drew him to her.

He has gone highbrow though, all home counties.

‘That’s enough about us though Maisie, what about you?’ She is not to be distracted, even though I swear she’s not listening to a word I say.

‘Daisy works for the Hunslip and Over Widgley Local Guardian.’ Uncle Terence has crept up unnoticed and pats my arm protectively. It’s getting pretty packed in my little corner now, soon our elbows will be squished against our sides and we won’t be able to drink out of our glasses. ‘For now! She’s quietly planning world domination though.’

‘What a mouthful!’ Juliet’s eyes are wide open.

‘Known as HOWL for short.’ Ollie looks amused, and I’m not sure if I should punch him or smile. I smile, then Juliet guffaws. Well, it’s more like a neigh.

What on earth were they thinking when they named the paper that? Why not Over Widgley and Hunslip? Or ditch the Local bit?

‘Oh, my goodness, how hilarious!’ Juliet is gasping for breath, wiping tears from her eyes.

I want to tell her it’s not that funny, but that would be rude.

‘Oh, I’m going to have to tweet that! I really am! Are they on twitter? I’ll tag them!’

‘Still dogging?’ Ollie raises an eyebrow, and glances down at Stanley who is now lying on his back, legs akimbo. The HOWL thing was his fault, so I can’t exactly forgive him for deflecting the conversation.

‘Dogging! They do that here?’ Juliet pauses, mid tweet. ‘Oh my God, I need to tweet that as well! Do they like, advertise in your paper? Or is it really hush-hush?’

‘Ha-ha!’ I can feel myself going red, but I am not going to be belittled. I also would quite like to punch her on the nose or point out to everybody her unusual level of interest in potential dogging sites. Instead I decide to take a mature attitude and ignore her. ‘I help out with animal welfare.’ I tell Juliet, who I don’t think is actually that interested. She’s too busy brushing imaginary fluff off her boyfriend’s shirt. It’s like watching a monkey groom its mate. But at least it is stopping her tapping on her mobile.

‘Oh, you rescue rhino’s, do you? That’s so brave, so, so visionary!’

‘Dogs.’

‘Dogs?’

‘I foster rescued dogs, street dogs, well I don’t actually go and rescue them myself, I help rehabilitate them and foster. I do have an actual job as well you know, I can’t just go racing off round the world.’ Although right now, that might be an idea. In fact it could be quite a good idea. I must make a mental note to think about this one later.

‘Oh. Like woof-woof dogs?’ She looks at me blankly, as though a rhino is every day, but a dog is harder to comprehend.

‘Like Stanley!’ I point to Stanley, whose sleeping on his back routine was a ruse so that I wouldn’t notice him sneak off. He is now skulking under a table with what looks like a turkey leg in his mouth.

‘What is it?’

‘Erm, a dog.’ Surely, she’s not so fixated on safari animals that she can’t recognise a dog?

‘What type?’

‘Stanley is a street dog.’ I say proudly. ‘From Spain. I think. He had fleas, ticks, mange and worms!’

‘Oh.’ She stares, then wrinkles her nose. ‘Have you thought about having him groomed? My mother takes her dog every week.’ She looks at me, horror dawning and takes a step back. ‘You don’t have fleas, do you? I’m allergic.’

‘No! He was sorted when I met him. But I have helped rehabilitate him!’

‘Maybe not a very good example.’ Says Ollie, with a twitch of smile.

‘Part rehabilitated. He’s a work in progress.’

‘So, no rhino’s then? Tigers?’ Juliet says hopefully.

‘They wouldn’t fit in my flat.’ I point out.

‘No garden I suppose.’ Says Ollie, and I’m not sure if he’s taking the piss out of me, or Juliet, or being serious.

‘Very small balcony. There would be health and safety issues. Ha-ha!’ I wish I could stop laughing nervously but being shoved in front of Ollie seems to have that effect on me. I’m perfectly normal in other company. Just not Christmas party company.

‘So, you still live here?’ Juliet sounds incredulous. She sips her drink delicately and I resist the urge to neck mine. I am well aware that my life is pretty crap at the moment, but ten minutes in the company of this pair and I feel worse than ever.

‘Yep.’

‘Ah,’ she looks as though she’s struggling for something to say, then suddenly smiles triumphantly, ‘so you play polo! Everybody does, don’t they in the countryside! My step-brother lives in Cheshire, plays polo all the time, so exciting!’ As she is excited it seems a shame to disappoint her.

‘Oh yes, polo! Great! All that galloping, hot men, chasing a ball! Yes, of course I play, ha-ha! Definitely.’

Ollie raises an eyebrow. ‘Wow, you have been busy, I thought you hated horses.’

‘Hated horses? Me? Never!’

‘I’ll have to challenge you to a chukka or two next time we’re up this way then.’

‘Splendid.’ What the hell is chucking?

‘My brother plays in Argentina a lot, do you?’

‘Oh no, no, not enough time. Dogs to rescue! Oh sorry, phone buzzing! You know what it’s like, all work no play when you’re a journalist!’ It isn’t, well not here. Unless there’s been a mass food poisoning incident and half the village have been rushed to hospital. But I cannot take this much longer. Just hearing about fabulous Ollie and his fabulous life has been bad enough in previous years, but actually being in the same room as him and his silly girlfriend is making me want to scream. Or run away and hide in a corner. With a book. A book never lets you down, a good book, bad book, any book, I don’t care.

I’m just about to dash off, when there’s a shriek.

‘Oh my God, Maisie!’ For a moment, I think Juliet is about to collapse, her hand is on my arm, she’s grasping, long polished nails sticking in. I stare down, slightly aghast. It’s a bit like being grabbed by a bird of prey wearing nail varnish.

‘Daisy.’ I say it automatically.

‘My God!’ She clasps her throat melodramatically. ‘How absolutely awful.’ She flashes her mobile in front of my face, then waves it in front of Ollie’s.

His reactions are quicker than mine. He grabs her wrist, so that the phone stills and he can read it. ‘That can’t be right. I’m sure it can’t. Never read anything so ridiculous. Don’t worry, Daisy.’

I wasn’t worrying, until he said don’t worry.

‘What?’ I grab the phone from her, but as I’m reading, she’s shouting out.

‘How absolutely awful, to lose your job on Christmas Eve! What on earth will you do, poor Maisie?’

‘Job? You’ve lost your job?’ Mum has heard and scurried back over to my side and is trying to extract the phone from my frozen fingers.

I stare at Ollie, I can’t breathe. There’s a massive lump blocking my throat.

If I’d thought the last couple of days have been rubbish, this is the cherry on top of the bloody cake.

Shit. How low can I go? I’ve cocked up my career plan, been dumped, and now even lost my crap dead-end job. I’m overweight, live in a rabbit hutch, and I’m staring at the man who has it all worked out.

I hate him.

‘Even my hair’s a mess.’ My voice has gone as wobbly as my legs.

‘Hair?’ He looks very concerned, and it makes me want to cry.

‘Come and sit down, you poor girl.’ Terence puts one hand on my elbow and the other in the small of my back and steers me towards the corner of the shop where he houses the special editions. ‘You’re in shock. Somebody get a brandy.’

Even feeling like I do I have to take a deep breath and let the smell of old leather and special words (yes, they do have a smell) filter their way into my body. I’m not sure if I want to cry, or curl up with a book and escape, pretend I’m somewhere else.

I also feel a bit heady, which could be dust, words of wisdom, or the goldfish-bowl sized brandy glass he’s pushed into my hand. The fumes alone are making me splutter.

He gently prises the phone from my fingers and hands it over to Ollie wordlessly.

‘You’ve not been sacked, Daisy.’ Ollie crouches down in front of me and looks into my eyes. He’s got the lovely warm brown eyes he had when he was Joseph to my Mary. Before they turned naughty and he kissed me. He was mischievous then, he’s not now, he’s all earnest and caring, but he actually looks a bit like the Ollie I knew. He looks like the eighteen-year-old Ollie with the luscious lips and the nervous smile. Maybe I don’t hate him.

‘But Juliet said …’

‘It says here,’ his tone is firm. It’s quite commanding and authoritative, I can see why he’s so successful. ‘That the three local newspapers are merging. The office is closing, but there will be opportunities for all staff to apply for jobs and no compulsory redundancies are expected. None.’

‘Well, that’s okay then, none!’ My voice sounds pathetic and all wavery to my ears, but it’s the best I can do. I say it again, trying for a stronger tone. ‘None.’

Uncle Terence pats my hand absent-mindedly, but he’s frowning at Ollie. ‘How the hell can they not have announced it in the office, that’s not on is it? Downright underhand if you ask me. No emails, nothing, Daisy, darling?’

‘Erm, maybe I might have missed a meeting while I was writing a missing rabbit ad. It explains why David was avoiding me when I left.’

Something nudges my left leg. Something damp lands on my left knee. It’s Stanley, with a slice of ham.

I stroke his ears and stare at Ollie. ‘It definitely says there are jobs?’

He nods. ‘Definitely.’ Our gazes lock and his is so intent I’m spun back to that Christmas all those years ago. When it was just him and me, and nothing and nobody else mattered. When all I could see were his eyes, when he tasted of whisky and mince pies, when the scent of cloves and cinnamon mingled with the citrus of his aftershave. And now I’m not sure what is past and what is present. I just know I’m glad he’d here.

‘Mince pies, anybody?’ I blink my way back to the present feeling a bit unnerved, just as Mum waves a tray under Stanley’s nose, so I cover his eyes.

‘He’s not allowed dried fruit, it’s poisonous!’ She waves one tantalising close and his nose twitches. ‘Don’t you dare, Mum!’ I kiss Uncle Terence on the cheek and down the rest of the brandy in one gulp. Which could be a mistake. The fiery liquid burns its way down my throat and insides and brings tears to my eyes and makes me cough and splutter alarmingly. ‘Thank you.’ I blink like an owl in sunlight.

‘You’re welcome, my darling. You’re okay?’

‘Definitely.’ I nod vigorously to prove the point. ‘Sorry, it was a bit of a shock, but I’m fine. All ready to party!’

Uncle T smiles. ‘That’s my girl. Oh look – mistletoe!’

Ollie blushes, and just like that he’s the teenager I used to know. Except the grown-up Ollie is even more gorgeous.

He glances at me, the corner of his mouth quirked up into the hint of a smile. A shared secret, and my stomach does a little flip of anticipation.

I want to touch him, kiss him, see if he still tastes the same.

I mustn’t!

I scoop up my dog and take a hasty step away from Uncle T. ‘Come on, Stanley, let’s mingle.’ Then I flee.




Chapter 4 (#ulink_6f66dcf9-79e2-5f30-923b-2f6367a35a81)

10.30 p.m., 24 December


‘Sorry, Dais, I’m going to have to whizz.’ Frankie is hugging me as she speaks, she’s all flushed and smiley. Or maybe it’s me that’s flushed and her that’s just smiley. ‘Thanks so much for letting me come, not had so much fun in years, but Tarquin just called.’

‘He did?’ Frankie and Tarquin have quite an explosive relationship. She’s always so controlled and restrained, right up until the moment she screams at him or throws something heavy. I think he winds her up on purpose, their relationship seems to thrive on the emotional highs and lows.

‘He’s sent a car, and roses! He’s booked a hotel for the night to apologise.’ She winks. Break-up make-up is the way they roll.

‘That’s nice.’

She glances across the room at Ollie. ‘Shame he’s got that cow in tow, he seems nice.’ She sighs. ‘Well he’s dishy so who cares if he is or not? You’ll have to give me his deets!’

‘Frankie! You’re just about to make up with Tarquin!’

She grins. ‘He’s an orphan, he’ll have nobody to eat Christmas dinner with if he doesn’t make up with me!’

‘Really? That’s so sad.’

‘Sad? Cheeky cow, what’s sad about having to spend Christmas day with me!’

‘I didn’t mean that, you know I didn’t.’ I glare at her. ‘The orphan stuff, not having anybody. That’s horrible.’

‘He’s not an orphan, you dork.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘He just chooses not to see his fam. So don’t go all drippy and nice to him when you see him. I know you, you’ll be helping him move in!’

‘Oh.’

‘Have a great Christmas if I don’t see you.’ She winks. ‘I’m hoping to be tied up on a four-poster bed! I might text your Ollie and see if he wants to make a foursome!’

‘Frankie!’

‘Oooo! You want him for yourself, don’t you?’

‘No, I don’t! You’re worse than my mother, anyway he’s almost family.’

‘Too sexy for family.’ Her voice has got that dreamy edge to it again. ‘Admit it, he’s a hunk.’

‘He’s a hunk, and he’s got a girlfriend! A nearly fiancée. And it’s not all about looks you know.’ She’s being ridiculous. Totally. I do not fancy Oliver Cartwright.

‘Ha-ha. Says who?’ Frankie smoothes her hair down, the heavy jet-black fringe would make anybody else look like a vampire having a bad day, on her it’s cool. ‘Me thinks you doth protest too much.’

She doesn’t give me time to correct her quote, or protest that I’m not protesting too much. I just don’t want to shag Ollie. End of.

Well, okay, there might be a tiny bit of me that wonders what it would be like. Just a tiny bit. Just out of curiosity, because after all he was a bloody good kisser. And now he’s cuter than ever. And kind, and I was so tempted to go in for some lip action a few minutes ago.

Frankie strides out of the shop, letting a waft of cold air in, then I hear her whoop and there’s a clatter of high heels on the paving stones as she spots the posh car and Tarquin.

The rest of the party passes in a bit of a blur. At one stage, I lose Stanley and rediscover him sharing a chaise longue with Mabel. They look rather sweet, and they’re both snoring.

I think I have had a vat of mulled wine, enough mini food to make up a banquet sized portion of full-size offerings and several unscheduled stops under the mistletoe.

Ollie goes back to being boring, stiff Ollie with Juliet – who keeps giving me patronising sorry looks, until Uncle T tempts her to try the mulled wine, and she falls into a pile of Great Expectations.

Which makes me snigger, and when Ollie catches me at it the corner of his mouth twitches with what could be a smile. Or wind. Either way, it cheers me up.

Then he and Terence prop her back up and she tries to kiss his face off and plucks at his shirt like a hungry kitten as he steers her out. Probably for a night of passion, if she stays awake.

I bet he’s good at that as well. Bugger. Where did that thought come from? I do not want to think about Oliver and his sexual prowess. Not at all. I do not want to even consider the possibility that I have missed out on some brilliant bonking. Not that he would have been that good when we were eighteen. Or even wanted to. It was just a kiss.

She’s too tall for him though. I mean, look, she’s had to wear ballet pumps and I’m sure she’s a high heels girl at heart. Not that he’s short, he’s just normal height. But she’s definitely too tall. It will never last.

Half an hour later, everybody has gone so I prod Stanley awake and let him hoover up crumbs while I’m waiting for my taxi to arrive.

‘Don’t worry about the job dear girl, that can wait. No checking emails tonight, it’s Christmas.’ Uncle Terence kisses me on each cheek, continental style.

‘Of course, I won’t!’

I will.

‘Next year will be better, my dear!’

‘Of course, it will.’ It has to be. If Ollie can do it, then I bloody well can, too.

I hug Stanley close. Ollie has everything, Ollie has the type of life I had assumed I would have. Seeing him tonight has been a bit of a kick in the gut if I’m honest, it’s hit me just how much I’ve been avoiding facing up to all the things that are wrong with my life.

All the things I could make right, if I tried hard enough.

I’ve let what happened to me when I was eighteen define the rest of my life, define me.

I’ve let one sad, horrible failure stop me from trying. I’ve been kidding myself that I’m happy coasting along, accepting what I’ve got, rather than risk failing again. And even though I can never change what happened in my past, I can change me. What’s going to happen in my future. Can’t I?

I’ve got to get my act together, I really have. I deserve so much more than I’ve got.

I am going to show them. I am going to show bloody Ollie Cartwright, and my mum that I am not a complete failure.

I’m going to prove it to myself.





Chapter 5 (#ulink_23044e79-3e9c-52fd-8411-c28426bd6658)

Very, very late p.m., 24 December (or early 25 December)


I think not knowing about my imminent loss of job could partly be my own fault. Because my data allowance had nearly run out this morning, I was very sensible (this is part of my sorting my finances out strategy) and turned my mobile data off. Then turned my phone off, because what’s the point if you can’t check on Twitter and Facebook? Then forgot all about it as I had so much to do (and the lady in the beauty salon won’t let me near my mobile until my nails are definitely dry).

This is why I have had no notification of my possible change in circumstances i.e. jobless status. Though I have to admit that I was slightly concerned that nobody at all had messaged to wish me a Happy Christmas. I hadn’t thought I was that unpopular at work, or in general.

There is a delay when I switch my mobile back on, while it fiddles about in hyperspace looking for the Wi-Fi, then it goes berserk. Honestly, it is bleating and tweeting like a sheep that has suddenly spotted its lost flock.

I stare, rather drunkenly, as it bleeps and flashes. It is just like cooking popcorn, gradually the time between bleeps gets longer, until it is safe to open the bag.

There’s an unread email. Lots of emails.

There are texts.

Voicemail messages.

I am rather drunk, but I need to read them all, listen to the messages.

Have I really been sacked the day before Christmas? Am I going to start the new year destitute and homeless, relying on my mother (oh my God) to provide shelter and food? Will I have to live in a stable like the baby Jesus (fine, I know he didn’t live in a stable, but I’m drunk, and upset, okay?)?

This is so unfair. Even before seeing Ollie at the party tonight and realising just how pathetic my life really is in comparison to what it should have been, I had decided something has to be done.

I was going to kick off next year demanding a better job, or at least a pay rise, so that I could find a better flat. I do love Frankie, but honestly, my room is so small I end up piling all my books in the corners like mini towers of Pisa. One day they will all lean in so far they’ll meet in the middle then collapse and kill me in my sleep. I had been determined to be more organised, to budget, to change my life.

And now this.

I won’t panic. I will be logical about this and start at the beginning – and not with the most recent, and most eye-catching email with the subject HELLLP MAD COLLIE ON MY HANDS. This one is from Carrie, who runs the dog re-homing centre and is Stanley’s official guardian. She is slightly unhinged, but very well meaning, and I would normally put her top of the queue. I want to help her, and I want to help any dogs that need helping.

I will also prioritise and ignore Frankie’s text ‘Oh my fucking God, send ambulance, won’t be able to walk tomorrow, make up sex is the best! P.S. Did you get the pompous prick’s number just in case?’

No, I can’t ignore it. ‘In case of what?’

‘Injury.’

This is cryptic. I’m not sure if she means hers, or Tarquin’s. I suspect the second, she might be calling on a substitute if he runs out of steam (or something snaps) before she does.

It is very hard to concentrate on possibly life changing emails when all I can think of is Tarquin’s dick snapping off, and I am drunk. But it’s essential. I need to know the worst-case scenario before I tuck into my Christmas turkey a few hours from now.

The first unread email (after one asking if I’ve considered a penis extension, another selling support underwear, and the mad collie one) was sent by my boss David approximately five seconds after I left the office. No wonder he was cross with me – it wasn’t that he was grumpy about Christmas, he was waiting for all staff to leave so that he could drop his bombshell.

He’d had his finger poised over the send button as I was waving and wishing him a happy Christmas.

Twat.

Not only is he a bit of a sex predator, he is also spineless and pathetic. And rude. And a terrible manager. I am sure (given his age) he has been offered a fabulous early retirement package that will mean he can jet off to Spain and never have to face any of us again. Our village is quite small, he would have to face up to all the mutterings and turned backs, the funny looks and rotten eggs. He might well be the headline in the free local newspaper, and he won’t want to hang about for that.

I take a deep breath, clutch Stanley to my pyjama clad breast, and click on the email.

It is very brief; he regretfully wishes to inform us that in the New Year the Hunslip and Over Widgley Local Guardian will cease trading as an individual entity. He has accepted a retirement package and is moving to Kent (not Spain) and will miss our camaraderie (I won’t miss his). A caretaker boss has been appointed and will oversee the operation for the next three months, after which we will have an opportunity to apply for a job within the new organisation. The office will be unavailable from 24 December as the lease has come to an end, all belongings will be packed and sent to a new temporary location for the New Year. Full details attached blah, blah, blah.

Oh my God! You have got to be kidding me? Not only have I lost my job, somebody will be rummaging through my drawers! Have I left anything incriminating on my desk, or anything I’ll miss? There were definitely spare tights, spare knickers, a packet of festive Pringles, a collection of pens that clients have given me. Who has been touching them? Has David himself packed the boxes (eurgh – I do not want my undies back!)?

Good luck team! Have a great Christmas.

How can he expect us to have a good Christmas now?

There is a very long forwarded message from somebody called James Masters who wants to welcome us to publishing house HQ. There are a lot of words that concern me, like merger, consolidation, and acquisition which I think are best left until the morning and a clear head. I am more than a trifle concerned about the bit buried between the welcome and the Christmas wishes that mentions ‘slimming down’ and the need for some roles to go during the reorganisation (isn’t it a shame it’s not so easy for a person? A company can just chisel off and bin the bits it doesn’t want. I don’t want to be binned, but some parts of my bottom may benefit from this approach as I am rather pear-shaped). The words ‘voluntary redundancy’ and ‘flexible attitude towards suitable positions’ have also set my pulse pounding – should I take a redundancy offer and seek out a better job, or risk ‘flexibility’ meaning I could end up with the promotion I deserve?

There are also lots of attachments, including one ominously titled ‘Application Form’. I think it’s time to move on and look at my other messages, I am not in a fit state for attachments.

I also have an email from Eva, who sits across the desk from me. She excels at passive/aggressive and manages to reassure me that there will be a place in the new organisation for such a young dynamic person as myself, whilst making it clear that if I really was dynamic, I’d be working somewhere else already. Brian (desk in the corner) chips in with an invite for drinks between Boxing Day and New Year’s Day – for us to discuss strategy and possible legal action (think he’s jumping the gun a bit there), and there is a rather formal email hoping I got home safely, wishing me well and offering his services from somebody called Oz, which confuses me. Am I being headhunted? Should I move down under? Is he a stalker? Then after blinking a couple of times I realise it is from O. Z. Cartwright. Ollie.

It is rather nice of him to get in touch, but I’m not quite sure how he can help.

And why isn’t he busy bonking his girlfriend? Maybe she passed out before he had chance, unless sex is the one thing he’s not good at and it only lasted thirty seconds. Which would be tragic but explain the rapid turnover rate.

Bugger, I have to stop thinking about Ollie and sex. But what the frig am I going to do now?

Apart from wondering what the ‘Z’ stands for? I never knew Ollie had a middle name, if he ever comes to another Christmas party, I must remember to ask what it is.

I can’t help myself, I can’t wait until next year! I fire off an email thanking him for his good wishes and asking if his middle name is Zebedee or Ziggy. Either would be quite funny.

I decide it is time to close my laptop and go to sleep. My last thought as I pull my duvet up to my chin, is that I’m bloody glad I didn’t suck up to David this morning and beg for a better job before he dropped the bombshell.




5 a.m., Christmas Day, can’t sleep


Reasons this newspaper merger is a disaster:



1 The new office is miles away from the old office, and therefore my flat

2 My savings are practically non-existent and will run out soon so if they don’t take me on, I am screwed

3 Winter has to be the worst time of the year to find a new job if I fail to keep my job (or apply for voluntary redundancy)

4 I am rubbish at filling in application forms and interviews. (I tend to start to answer a question, veer off course and forget what it was. I also get panic attacks, sweaty palms and hiccups when under pressure.)


Reasons this merger could be a triumph (always be positive):



1 I could get a pay rise

2 I could get a new, better role

3 I no longer have to work with letchy David, though pass-agg-Eva and Brian-the-pessimist might also apply for their jobs back

4 This could be a new start, a start I choose rather than one that has happened by accident. And there will be more openings.


Issues – the triumph bit is littered with ‘could’s; I could quite easily end up with no job at all, or one even worse than the one I had up until yesterday.

I put my mobile down and curl up under the duvet again. The flat is quiet, Frankie will be with Tarquin, in some luxury hotel, celebrating in style.

‘We’ll be doing that next year.’ I tell Stanley, who is curled up against my feet. He wags his tail lazily, to show he’s listening. ‘Well, you’ll have your furever home, in some big house with a massive garden. I’m not quite sure what I’ll have.’

I lie back and close my eyes, but I can’t stop thinking about my job. Or lack of it. So I pick my phone up again.

There is a new email from Ollie: ‘Sorry to disappoint, nothing as amusing as Ziggy – it’s Zane. Rgds Ollie.’

I wonder if he always writes such formal emails?

‘Not a disappointment!’ It is. ‘Is it a family name? Best wishes, Daisy’ – I did write ‘Love Daisy’, but then decided that was a bit too familiar for somebody who says ‘Rgds’.

‘No idea! Night. O’

‘Good night!’

I wait a few moments to see if he sends any more messages, and when he doesn’t I open the email from James Masters.

Maybe my first step in proving to everybody (including myself) that I can be a success, is to challenge my caretaker boss and demand better a better job immediately?




5.30 a.m., 25 December


Still can’t sleep. Keep wondering about what might have happened if there had actually been some mistletoe in my snug in the bookshop when Ollie had squeezed in beside me.

This is not a good way to think.



1 He has a girlfriend (can’t see it lasting though).

2 I still kind of have a boyfriend, I think. Not sure if cancelled Christmas = cancelled relationship, or if he might want to see me again.

3 Our lives have gone in different directions, we are no longer compatible. At all. Whatever my mother thinks. He is smug and insufferable, and I hate him. Though he was very kind earlier.


Bugger! How can he be so annoying and taking up so much of my head space when he has nothing to do with me and my life? I pull the duvet right up to my ears, feeling stroppy.

He was very kind though, and I was tempted to kiss him.

I curl up, and realise I’m smiling.

It was the way he looked into my eyes, as though he understood me. As though he knew. For a moment I was the old Daisy, the teenage Daisy, the one he’d snogged.

He really does have very kissable lips, and a cute dimple, and eyes I could lose myself in …




Chapter 6 (#ulink_6e492c9c-ebd5-5e1d-9c7c-0470db64c15d)

1 p.m., 25 December


‘You’ll find something.’ Mum says, even though I haven’t mentioned my possible jobless state. ‘You always do, you’re resourceful, and your adverts are wonderful, they’d be silly to let you go. Stir the gravy will you, darling.’

I stir the gravy. ‘Everybody has to relocate though, to the head office. Ours is closing.’

‘How sad, I wonder what it will be?’

‘What, Mum?’

‘The office! I wonder what will happen to your office when it’s closed, they’ll turn it into a trendy bar I imagine. Stir harder darling, there are lumps.’

‘I could sieve it?’

‘See, I said you were resourceful. Now, sprouts, will they make Stanley smell?’

‘Stanley?’ He looks up hopefully at the sounds of his name, he’s been lurking in the kitchen since we arrived and doing his best to trip Mum up.

‘Well I’m serving him a dinner as well dear, he is your plus one after all!’ She’s being rather upbeat about all my shortcomings today. I give her a quick hug and she gives me a bigger one back. ‘Now where did I put that slotted spoon, where is it then?’

‘Here.’ I pick up the spoon which she’s placed ready in front of herself.

‘Oh, not that, silly. I meant where is the new office?’

She does this, jumps between conversations. She’ll leave one unfinished, then half an hour later carry it on as though there’s not been a break.

‘The email said most of the jobs will be in Stavington.’

‘That’s a long way, darling. Who do we know there? I’m sure we know somebody who lives there. It will come to me. Just pop that cranberry sauce in the microwave, will you?’

Stavington is a long way. If I carry on living with Frankie and commute all the way to Stavington, I’ll be spending nearly all of my paltry salary on train fares – or polluting the countryside with my car.

Which means moving there, if the pay is good enough for me to afford a flat, because I haven’t a clue who my mother is thinking about. We don’t know anybody who lives in Stavington.

Oh my God! I’ll be finally leaving home if they offer me a job.

I mean, I know I don’t actually live at home, I do live with Frankie. But I’m practically on the doorstep.

This is different.

I’ll be moving on with my life, like I’d always thought I would. I put the sauce into the microwave with a clatter and press a few buttons. I won’t be living in this village any longer, it will be a fresh start somewhere else. This is a positive I hadn’t thought about.

A scary positive. I will be totally independent, a proper adult.

‘Daisy, Daisy, darling, I don’t think it should be bubbling like lava should it?’

‘Oh shit, sorry, no.’ I ping the door open and stare at the sauce, mesmerised as it flows over the top of the bowl.

‘Is everything okay, darling?’ Mum presses a dishcloth into my hand and squeezes my shoulder. ‘It will be okay, I know it will. You’ll sort it all out.’

I glance at her, and she nods encouragingly.

If I move away, I’ll be further from Mum, just as she’s started to support me more, just as I’ve started to realise that despite the competitive banter with Vera, she does really care. She does believe in me.

I’ll miss her.

‘It’s not that far away really, just far enough.’ It’s almost like she’s read my mind, like she used to when I was little. Well, at least I thought she was a mind-reader back then. ‘It’s rather exciting, isn’t it? Do you think I’ve done enough sprouts?’

I nod, then smile. It is. My stomach is churning a bit, and I do feel all jittery and nervous, but it is exciting. This could be my turning point, my fresh start.

‘Now if you don’t wipe that up quickly it’ll be stickier than a flypaper!’

‘Sorry?’ I frown at her.

‘The sauce darling! It will set like toffee, you’ll have to scrape it off the sides, oh my goodness, the gravy!’

The rest of Christmas day passes in a bit of a blur. It’s hard to fully appreciate cracker jokes when your future is held in the balance. Although I have to admit I had totally forgotten how much fun pin the tail on the donkey can be after two brandy and Babychams, and a snowball consisting mainly of Advocaat. Maybe retro really is the way to go.



ACT 2 – NEW YEAR, NEW ME (#ulink_58cbaa47-12e3-56ae-a87a-ab10ac502353)





Chapter 7 (#ulink_bbe875c5-ca90-5e1e-9977-f5eccb735899)

11.57 p.m., 21 March 2018


The last few months have been a bit of a nightmare, I feel like I am dangling in hyperspace. My life has been suspended, while I wait to see what Guardian HQ has in store for me.

In January, we were moved into a much smaller office, just up the road from our old office, with a much bigger temporary boss. She’s enormous, has chin hair, and is very stern and serious. I think she’d rather be in Stavington reporting on speeding offences and petty crime, than here featuring the village fête and looking for lost gerbils.

She also isn’t that keen on my funny small ads (‘Is humour really necessary?’) or enquiries about my future (‘We’ve all been there, just cope. Is that really how you spell Chihuahua?’). In fact, let’s face it. She’s a grumpy cow.

I did in fact mention this to Ollie, who has been sending me the odd email (and some of them are very odd) since Uncle T’s party, asking how things are going. It’s a bit like when we were kids and he’d leave a note in my locker saying ‘I’ll beat you next time’ if I’d got a higher test score than him.

Except now he says things like:

Hi, Daisy,

I hope you told her that humour is always necessary. A Daisy without her cheeky, funny side, is like a cow without an udder – there’s something essential and life-affirming missing.

Oll.

Hi, Ollie,

Did you really just liken me to an udderly useless bovine?

Dais

Daisy,

Ha-ha. I did. Did I ever tell you Uncle T used to have a Jersey cow called Daisy? It was a creature of beauty.

Oll

No, but I’m not sure where this is going. I think you should stop before I get moo-dy. Aren’t there any lives you need to rush off and save right now?

Daisy

Daisy,

You’re no fun. If you’d have known her, you’d have loved her. Your namesake. I think I’ll press the mooote button now though!

Oll

You’ve been looking these jokes up on the internet haven’t you? D x

I’ll have you know they’re all my own work! O x’

Followed up swiftly by:

Unlike the list of one-liners you helped me compile in Year 1 so I could woo Jasmine Smith. You’re the only person I’ve ever known who solved everything with a list and a military precision plan! Sorry, bleepers gone off, need to don my cape and save lives. Good luck with the interview, not that you ever needed luck! O x

I think they might have sent the caretaker boss in so that we all quit our jobs, but I am made of sterner stuff.

Okay, I did think about it briefly. But as I’ve only been here a few months, have zilch experience and might appear to be jumping ship before I’m sacked, I have decided that my immediate future might lie with the newspaper. Although if they refuse to give me a better job, I might need a rethink. But I have been gritting my teeth and waiting to see if my new boss, James Masters is going to give me a job. And not just any job, but a better job than I had before. I am going to demand it, and I am going to get it.

All I have to do is survive the small matter of an interview.

After a bottle or three of wine with Frankie this evening, though, I do now know how to sort my life! It’s simple.



1 I must be more organised; and

2 I must try harder; and

3 I must be more like Frankie – who definitely has her shit together. When Frankie decides to go for something, not even an apocalypse would stand in her way.





4 p.m., 22 March


I look down at what I was sure (last night – after rather large quantities of wine) was the solution.

Books.

I have downloaded lots of books.

Now I am not so sure.

I mean, I’m sure about books in general. I have lots of them, I could start a library. But they are fiction. These are different. These are self-help books. I mean, self-help, that’s exactly what I’ve decided to do, isn’t it? Help myself. But this is going to be like scaling Everest when all I need is a few highlights, a few challenging peaks that I can fit into a mini-break.

Reading this lot will take me hours, and that’s before I even start to implement the suggestions.

I drop my e-reader and flop back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Why do non-fiction books have so many words in them? There is obviously a gap in the market, people need How to get your shit together in 3 easy steps – with pictures! If I ever do get my shit together and have time, I will write this book. It will be a bestseller and help millions of people.

These bloody books have actually made my situation worse and I have just wasted another two hours of my life flicking through them on my Kindle, when I could have been planning my interview strategy. According to the books, a strategy is important. I need to write it down and then visualise. I totally get the strategy bit, I’m pretty sure the teenage me had a plan and strategy, as Ollie said, for everything. A subconscious one. But the visualisation is a new one on me.

And on top of the books, yesterday’s email from Ollie didn’t help either. It pushed me to the edge and made me think something more drastic was needed. Well, that and knowing that I would soon have to go for my interview, and then face my family and all their expectations. And Ollie. Who wished me luck at my interview. I’m not sure how he even knew, but you know what my mum is like, she tells Vera everything.

Anyway, seeing his perfect life was made ten tons worse at Christmas. And not only has he totally got his shit together, and it’s not parental exaggeration, he is also still quite nice. If he’d been a twat at Uncle T’s party, I could at least have consoled myself with the fact that being perfect comes at a price.

But he isn’t. And it doesn’t.

I can’t carry on letting everybody, and myself, down though. I am going to do whatever it takes to succeed at something truly boast-worthy!

I am going to stay calm, I am sure that ‘calm’ is key, in my bid to conquer this year (and possibly the rest of my life). It will be my year, the year I stop disappointing everybody (including myself) and be the me I am supposed to be. I am in fact going to conquer the rest of my life.

I’ve realised that I am allowed to fuck up, to be sad, angry or unsure, but I am also going to be a better me. The me I knew I could be when I was still at school – with a few adjustments of course. The one with a flat of her own (or at least a proper sized room), a wardrobe with more than two items that match, tamed hair, and a career plan. I am going to be an adult and commit (where possible, as living on a shoestring because of a crap salary does not help me in being more like Frankie).

I do have the answer to all my problems. The books have indirectly helped, so they weren’t a complete waste of money, as has Ollie.

The answer is simple. It is something I already knew. It is better lists. I have always been a fan of lists and have never been able to break the habit. But I can see now that they need to be more detailed. And I need plans. They will be prioritised and have timescales. This year I will be planning Christmas in July. I will be rediscovering my inner teenage geek – the one who always had a plan, even if she didn’t realise it at the time.





Chapter 8 (#ulink_3c616347-fa98-54a2-92bb-a41780c701e6)

8 a.m., 4 April


The final countdown has started, and I have far too much to do before my very important interview. Once I put my newly purchased interview outfit on, there is No More Time Left.

Things I must do before my interview

My new improved lists are definitely the answer, my brain already feels less scrambled. This is my first significant list, it is phase one of my preparation for the interview. I am already becoming more like Frankie. She is so together even her wardrobe is organised by colour and type. She can actually find co-ordinating stuff and doesn’t have to root in the wash basket, under the bed and through drawers to find the top she’s after. Then iron it. Ever. She also has a good job, and the big room in our flat. Because it is actually her flat, and I rent a corner. I need to work towards a proper flat share.



1  Hair – 1pm, booked

2  Nails and eyebrows – 3pm, booked! These two are very important, because if I look and feel professional and confident, it will come across in my interview. Everybody says this, including my mother

3  Read through CV every day

4  Find photo of James Masters online (done) and visualise interview – visualisation imperative according to books

5  Prepare intelligent questions – done

6  Wash S—





9.00 a.m., 4 April


‘Oh, you are there, Daisy!’ Mum says this as though she’s been desperately trying to reach me for the past few hours, when the truth of the matter is that my phone has rung out six times.

‘I was in the middle of something!’ Point 5 on my list actually, and I’d have forgotten what it was if I’d stopped. The phone ringing was so annoying that I did have to stop in the middle of point 6, but I know I’ll remember what that is.

‘I’m sure it can’t have been that important, dear.’ Mum thinks it’s rude if you don’t answer within three rings. ‘Oh no, I’m not interrupting anything am I?’ She chortles in a horribly suggestive way. Not that I mind people being suggestive, but my mother? ‘You’re not busy with your young man, are you?’ I’ve got a suspicion she’s crossing her fingers and giving Dad the thumbs-up.

‘No, Mother, I was writing a list!’

‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed. Honestly, I know she’s menopausal, but living vicariously through your daughter’s sex life is so not on, is it?

‘Simon and I have consciously uncoupled.’ I say primly. I have to admit at this point that I have not been entirely honest with my mother. After our big argument at Christmas, Simon and I had been on a slow fade. Honestly, that man is such a jerk I don’t know why I dated him at all.

‘You’ve unconsciously what dear? Is that a euphemism for sex with your eyes shut?’

I sigh. ‘We’ve split up.’

‘Oh dear, that’s a shame, but never mind darling I’m sure you’ll find a proper boyfriend one day.’

I am going to ignore that comment, skimming through the free excerpt of How to be the Zen you has taught me that inner calm will help with outer chaos, or something like that. At the moment lists seem more practical though. ‘I don’t want to seem picky, but shouldn’t a girl your age at least be in possession of an en-suite? Delia’s daughter has a lovely two bed roomed flat and they’re both en-suite!’

‘Who is Delia?’ I try not to sigh because that will make her worse. She already thinks I’m dysfunctional, sad and lonely. Incomplete because I am over thirty (just), single, have a crap career and rent a room. I don’t even have my own dog, he just lodges with me.

‘Next door, darling. The new people? They’ve got two children and they’ve both got their own places even though they’re single like you are! And as for Oliver, I was talking to Vera only the other day, and did you know he has—’

I might have to scream. ‘Mum. I am rather busy, I’m trying to find you a perfect birthday present.’ I’m not, I haven’t even thought about her present yet. Need to put that on a list, pronto. It’s a ‘significant’ one this year, (but nobody is allowed to mention numbers) and Dad has arranged a party. At Uncle T’s. Partly because Uncle T is much better at arranging things like that than Dad, and partly because it is supposed to be a surprise. But Mum of course found out, because she is exceedingly nosy. ‘Really going to have to go!’ I do not want to hear about the perfect Oliver Cartwright. I like the version I get in the emails he sends me, the non-bragging, funny, sweet Ollie. Not the version our mother’s report back, the blemish free, high achieving Ollie who shows up my imperfections. Well, that’s not entirely true. I am a tiny bit interested in everything he’s been doing since I saw him at Uncle T’s party. But I’m not sure why, I must have inherited the nosy gene from Mum.

‘Oh well, I won’t keep you. I’ll tell you all about Oliver when I see you! You are coming to Uncle Terence’s party in July, aren’t you? I don’t think you’ve RSVP’d!’

‘Yes, Mum.’ Yes has to be the answer, if I said no I’d get the Spanish inquisition. ‘How could I not be coming to your surprise birthday party?’ Why is she talking about this now? It is months off, I have an interview to prepare for!

‘And are you bringing a plus one?’

‘Not yet, but I’ll tell him if I decide to.’

‘If he asks you to bring food, you won’t bring those stuffed dates, will you dear? And I hope you’re not spending too much on my presents, I know you’re hard up!’

‘I won’t, haven’t. But the party is ages away yet!’

‘I know dear. That’s not why I called, you just distracted me! I wanted to make sure you weren’t planning on staying up late on Wednesday, you won’t go out with that Frankie girl, will you? You know you turn into Miss Grumpy, if you’re tired, and you have to be bright and breezy, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘You’ve got your interview!’

‘I know, Mum.’ Does she honestly think I might have forgotten? I go to sleep each night dreaming about my interrogation and wake up each morning feeling slightly sick. I think it’s a bit like when you’re expecting a baby, you’re excited, but just want it to be over, and you wish people would stop asking about it.

I mean, this has been dragging on for ages. According to our regular updates from James Masters things are progressing as envisaged, but in the office we think this is business-speak for, ‘We’ve been waiting until we’ve sorted out all the voluntary redundancies and know how many of you we’ve got left.’ Anyway, Brian-the-pessimist went into a huge slump after the merger was announced and declared he was too old for change and that he’d rather bite the bullet now, rather than be shot with it later, and took what he decided was a rather satisfactory redundancy package (he had been working for the newspaper for eons). Pass-agg-Eva stuck it out for a month, then realised that in our caretaker boss she’d met her match and managed to find a job stacking shelves at the village supermarket, and quite a few other people who didn’t fancy moving to Stavington headed off to pastures new (as Brian called them). So I think the HQ holding-fire strategy has worked out quite well for them.

I’m hoping it has also worked out well for me. I have applied for the job of advertising manager, which is a big step up the ladder – but as Frankie pointed out, it is much better to aim high in the area I already have expertise in, rather than be star struck by some of the roles in journalism, which would mean starting at the bottom again. And now, with so many people leaving, I’m sure I’ve made the right decision to hang on. There is hardly any competition!

‘That’s why I called! Now, you will ring me the instant you come out and let me know what you’ll be doing, won’t you?’

‘It doesn’t work like that, Mum. They won’t tell me on the spot.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll get an inkling! It’s so exciting. Now, I better go, lots to do!’ I love the way she always manages to turn things round, and it’s her who is busy and has to dash. ‘Good luck, darling! Your father says good luck as well, he said you need to picture the interviewer dressed as an Easter bunny and it will work wonders!’

‘Dad really said that?’

‘With ears! Well, not exactly, he said picture them in their undies, but that seems strange to me. Goodness knows how he ever got a job! I’ll speak to you on Thursday, I’ve got flower arranging tomorrow and I’ll be watching my TV series on Wednesday, so I thought I better call now. Love you!’

I put the phone down feeling strangely happy. When I was at school, Mum was never exactly a pushy mother, but I always knew she was there for me, a reassuring voice in the background saying she knew I could do it – where ‘it’ was practically anything and everything. After ‘it all went wrong’, I’d felt only the disappointment, the weight of expectations that were never going to be met. But I’m beginning to wonder if it was all in my head. I’d been disappointed in myself, hadn’t thought I could do anything right, and I think maybe I only let myself hear the bits I wanted to, the ‘could do better’s the ‘not good enough’s (which she never actually said in so many words) and blanked out the tentative encouragement, the support she’d always offered me.

Mum has always had my back, never stopped the hugs even when I had my fingers in my ears and was refusing to listen to her. I mean, yeah, she is always going to be in competition with Vera, but she never actually stopped singing my praises, did she? Even when it was a struggle to find anything – full marks to her for turning my dog-fostering into a Nobel Prize-worthy venture and my small ads into a work of literature.

I do love her. It’s just a shame she’s always going to be disappointed on the man and baby front!

Oh bugger, I have forgotten what I was going to put on my list. What on earth does ‘wash s’ mean? Socks? Shirt? I’m sure it will come to me, after all it must be important, or I wouldn’t have been adding it to my list.

As my brain is so overloaded it is refusing to co-operate, I put my summer sunshine playlist on and empty the entire contents of my side of the fridge – a mini bottle of cava that I have been saving for a special occasion. Surely this counts as such an occasion? I am about to have an interview that will hopefully change my life!





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