Kitabı oku: «The Zara Stoneley Romantic Comedy Collection»

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

Believe me, you are!

PROLOGUE – MISTLETOE KISSES
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

Chapter 1
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

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., 23 December

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.