Mistletoe and Mayhem

CATHERINE FERGUSON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2015

Cover design © Debbie Clement

Catherine Ferguson 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.

Ebook Edition © October 2015 ISBN: 9780008142223

Version 2017-11-14

For Pamela, firm friendship from ‘Rustic’ beginnings!

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Ten weeks until Christmas

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Four weeks until Christmas

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

One week until Christmas

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Three days until Christmas

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Christmas Eve

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Keep Reading

MISTLETOE AND MAYHEM

By the same author:

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Ten weeks until Christmas
CHOCOLATE VODKA

This tastes as gloriously indulgent as it sounds.

You will need:

6 standard size Mars Bars

700ml vodka (the cheapest you can find as the quality makes no difference to the final taste)

• Roughly chop the chocolate and melt gently in a bowl over a pan of simmering water, making sure the bowl is not touching the water.

• When the chocolate begins to melt, start adding the vodka little by little, stirring it until all the chocolate is dissolved and everything is mixed together. (The caramel will be the last to dissolve so be patient!)

• Set aside to cool.

• Bottle your chocolate vodka and place in the freezer for at least 24 hours. (It won’t freeze but will form a lovely, thick, cold texture.)

• Keep your chocolate vodka stored in the freezer.

Chapter One

Why is it that giving something up makes the thing you can’t have a hundred times more desirable?

When I decided to stop snacking between meals, for instance, I had this weird, recurring dream where a monster made entirely of Wotsits (Really Cheesy flavour) was terrorising my village and the only way I could stop him was to tie him down and eat him.

Tough work, but someone had to do it. Did I mention this was actually a daydream? (Joke. I’m really not that disturbed.)

But the point is, I used to love my lazy Sunday mornings. Until I met Nathan and they became a thing of the past.

And now I can only dream about them …

Ah, the luxury of surfacing naturally, without an alarm braying manically in my ear … followed by oodles of delicious ‘quality time’ with Nathan … and then a little while later, when we’re feeling totally blissed out, maybe breakfast in bed with the newspapers …

Nathan raps on the bathroom door.

‘Leaving in ten minutes, Lola,’ he calls cheerily. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

‘Er – right with you.’ I turn on the taps much too quickly and promptly drench the crotch of my hill-walking trousers.

Scrubbing at the area with a towel, I eye the waistband critically in the vast mirror above Nathan’s butler sink washbasin.

If these trousers were any tighter, I’d be waving bye-bye to my circulation.

But since my only other sports outfit is in the wash, they’ll just have to do.

I unzip the top inch and breathe out thankfully.

The trousers were a Big Mistake, bought three months ago in the excited aftermath of Nathan asking me out for the very first time.

He’d suggested a four-hour hill walk followed by a bite to eat at a local vegetarian restaurant. My best friend, Barb, raised a single eyebrow at the proposed itinerary. But I just laughed and said I thought it showed a refreshing originality on Nathan’s part. I mean, who needs predictable?

As with any thrilling first date, I decided it would be criminal not to treat myself to a new outfit.

So yes, I confess, the much-too-tight, figure-hugging khaki green trousers I’m wearing were chosen not for their hi-tech breathable and waterproof qualities. But rather with the goal of getting a second date.

The Lycra top isn’t great, either. It was a birthday gift from Nathan and it’s a little on the snug side, with my ample chest spilling out where it’s not supposed to. Wearing black with my straw-coloured hair and even paler complexion makes me look a bit peaky.

And hungover.

Which, of course, I am.

My stomach shifts queasily at the memory of the fizz we drank the night before to celebrate Nathan completing his personal trainer course.

It’s not just the alcohol making me feel a tad gross this morning. There’s also the small matter of waking at four with a raging dose of the munchies.

I tiptoed downstairs and opened the fridge. (More as habit than anything. With Nathan a strict vegetarian, verging on vegan, I’ve learned not to get overly excited.)

Once when I was rooting around in there (Nathan had popped to the shops to replenish his stock of mung beans), I managed to find an ancient packet of yogurt-covered raisins right at the back behind the alfalfa sprouts and his home-whizzed sheep’s curd spread.

Last night, no such luck.

There wasn’t any point hijacking the bread bin, either.

Nathan’s ‘bread’ tends to be full of random ingredients that really have no place at all in a nice, decent loaf – things like dried berries, wood shavings, bits of pan scourer, that kind of thing.

But then – rummaging through his cupboards, I struck lucky.

Pushed to the back was a lovely big box of Belgian chocolates.

Unopened.

I got them out, nodding approval at whoever gave Nathan those because they clearly had very good taste. I turned the box over to examine the pictorial contents.

Then I remembered it was me.

I bought them the very first time he cooked me dinner at his place – not realising, of course, that anything apart from ninety-nine per cent cocoa solids weren’t generally permitted across the threshold.

Belgian chocolates aren’t the usual food I go for to satisfy night-time cravings.

But hey ho, I thought, any port in a storm.

I ate most of the top layer then hid the rest in my bag to take home. (They’d already been there three months and would soon start turning an odd colour. It would be a shame to waste them.)

I stifle a yawn as I brush my teeth.

There was a real nip in the air before the heating clicked on at seven, and an hour later, it’s still dark outside. It feels unnatural rising before the birds on a Sunday, especially on a shivery morning in mid-October.

But there’s a definite upside to all this activity: I’ve never been so fit in my life.

With Nathan’s constant encouragement, I’ve climbed mountains, swum in freezing lakes and run thousands of miles (well, okay, probably hundreds, but it’s still more in the last three months than I have in my entire twenty-seven years on this planet).

There are days I stagger back to my own flat, collapse onto the sofa and remain in the position in which I landed until bedtime. Barb, my flatmate, thinks it’s hilarious. She says I look like a doomed beetle on its back. (Except I can’t wave my legs about. No energy left.) She’s good about bringing me food and tea top-ups during the reviving process, though.

I’m not quite sure what Nathan and I are tackling this morning, but it will undoubtedly be good for me.

What is it Nathan always says?

Variety is the spice of fitness!

And he should know.

Nathan is quite simply the sportiest, most energetic person I’ve ever met.

The man himself raps once more on the door and shouts, ‘Eight minutes.’

‘No problem,’ I call back, turning on the cold tap and splashing my face with icy water in an effort to wake up. ‘What is a climbing ball challenge, anyway?’

But he’s gone. Even over the hum of the bathroom extractor fan, I can hear him singing in a rich baritone as he gets into his workout gear.

Nathan’s great. We’ve been seeing each other since July and I continue to be amazed by his reserves of stamina and his sheer enthusiasm for life.

He’ll make a fantastic personal trainer. He’s got this knack of boosting my confidence and making me realise I can achieve far more than I ever thought I could.

I’m an admin assistant at Premier Furnishings in Pottersdale. The town is only a five-mile bus ride from Scarsby, the village in the Lake District where I live, so it’s really very handy. And the salary is okay.

I’ve been there almost two years now and, to be honest, I’ve never really had any ambitions to rise up the ranks – although Marla, my boss, keeps trying to nudge me in that direction.

But to get ahead in the workplace, you need self-confidence and the conviction that you’re worthy of success. And not everyone has that inner belief.

I’ve always felt like the plodder in the family. The very opposite of my younger brother, Rob, who heads up his own financial consultancy business and is brilliant at everything he does. His wife, Justine, is similarly driven and, until recently, was chief marketing executive of a small luxury hotel chain, based in Scotland, where she and Rob live.

And I’m nowhere near as brave as my older sister, Rosie, who flaunted convention at the age of nineteen by chucking in her university course and going to live in Spain. With a waiter called Romeo who she’d met while on holiday.

Sadly, Romeo failed to live up to his name; Rosie was his Juliet for no more than a year before he shagged an accounts clerk from Wigan (and possibly her mother too, although this was never confirmed) and declared himself far too young to settle down.

But luckily for us, by then my lovely nephew, Josh, was already on his way.

Now, Rosie and Josh live in a tiny, white-washed apartment near Malaga, where Rosie runs a water-front café with her friend, Jo, who’s also an ex-pat. She has a new man in her life now called Alejandro, but she insists it isn’t serious. They’re just having fun.

I am totally in awe of the way Rosie launches herself on life. She couldn’t give two hoots about what anyone thinks. She just goes out there and grabs it.

And me?

There are times I don’t even have the confidence to brave a communal changing room, never mind anything else. Which is probably why I still live in the Lake District, five miles from the old family home, telling myself I’m fairly content with life.

Nathan keeps saying I’m wasted where I am.

And lately, I’ve begun to think that maybe I could fly a little higher without falling flat on my face.

Sandra, our office manager, is retiring at Easter. And Marla has hinted on several occasions that if I were to apply for the post, I’d be in with a good chance of landing the job. At first, I didn’t really take her seriously. But I mentioned it to Barb and then Nathan, and I was quite surprised at their reaction. Barb told me very firmly that I could do Sandra’s job standing on my head, juggling print cartridges with one hand, while on the phone to stationery suppliers with the other. (She has great faith in my ability to organise and multi-task.)

So then I started thinking maybe I could do it.

Every time I think of being promoted, a little quiver of apprehension ripples through me. Or maybe it’s excitement?

I strike a confident, Dragons’ Den pose in Nathan’s mirror. Chin up. Eyes steely and determined. Yes, think positive. This could be the start of a whole new me.

Rubbing my face vigorously to gee up the circulation, I peer out of the window. It’s still dark outside, and overnight the first silver-white frost of autumn has carpeted the grassy area way below Nathan’s apartment.

Another rap on the door.

‘Lola? Food. You can’t do this without fuel inside you.’

My nauseous stomach perks up at the thought of its favourite hangover cure: the crispiest of bacon nestled between two slices of buttered crusty white bread with perhaps a dab or two of tomato sauce. And a big mug of builder’s strength tea…

The door opens and Nathan hands me breakfast.

I can tell instantly from the green sludge in the glass I’m holding that it’s the seaweed, avocado and linseed special.

‘Thank you.’ I raise the glass as if to say ‘cheers!’ and my stomach emits a gurgle of protest. ‘I’ll just – er – drink it when I’m finished in here.’

My eye wanders to the plughole.

‘I’m setting the dishwasher off,’ he says, beaming encouragement. ‘Knock it back and I’ll take the glass.’

My fake smile freezes.

Right.

Here goes.

I eye the sludge and glug it down the hatch.

My sneaky after-burp has a sort of fishy/foresty tang to it.

‘Lovely.’ Handing Nathan the glass, I think how lucky I am to have a boyfriend who cares so much about my health that he’s forever whipping me up all manner of exotic, super̶̶food smoothies.

It’s just a shame they taste like shite.

But Nathan is a fabulous advert for healthy living. And he wears Lycra very well indeed. (Even my flatmate, Barb, was forced to admit that and she can be extremely spiky and judgemental.)

Nathan leans over and plants a kiss on my nose. ‘Only the best for my little athlete in the making!’

‘What is a climbing ball challenge anyway?’ I ask again, when we’re in the car heading for the venue. (I’m having slightly distressing thoughts about being required to juggle all the way up a mountain.)

‘Um – not quite sure, to be honest,’ says Nathan, two rather attractive grooves appearing above his nose. ‘Just caught the end of the announcement on the radio. But it’s probably one of those things where you push a big ball up a hill. Endurance, you know?’

‘Right.’ I nod, none the wiser. ‘Because I’m hopeless at juggling.’

He grins, shaking his head at me. ‘Whatever it is, it’ll be something different, which is great because you don’t want your body getting complacent, doing the same old work-outs. After all, variety—’

‘Is the spice of fitness!’

‘Exactly.’ He turns to me in pleased surprise.

I glow happily in an ‘Aw shucks, it was nothing’ kind of way.

I really love that Nathan always wants to involve me in his sporting pursuits; it bodes well for the future, I think, this togetherness.

Sometimes I think about how we’ll be in later life. I know I probably shouldn’t, bearing in mind that in the grand scheme of things we only met five minutes ago, but I can’t help it.

Best case scenario: entering ‘veteran’ half-marathons in our eighties, bones creaking as we lurch arthritically across the finish line together.

And a marginally less fun scenario: racing each other along the high street on our mobility scooters.

Nathan will never lose his zest for life and if he wants me there with him, I’d be a fool to resist.

But relationships are a two-way process. So perhaps I should be demonstrating the same willingness to involve him in my life?

Hm, tricky one, that.

I suppose I could invite him along to one of mine and Barb’s box-set binge marathons.

Only one snag. Nathan can’t even sit still long enough to watch the late evening news, never mind lounging on the sofa for hours on end in the ‘Just one more episode? Oh, go on, then’ slump.

As we motor along the deserted high street of a nearby town, I spot something sparkly in a shop window and whiz round to look.

It’s a Christmas tree.

My nausea zips up to critical level.

It’s that time of year again.

A vision flits into my head of last Christmas, when we all gathered at my brother and sister-in-law’s house in Scotland to ‘make merry’ (ha-ha).

Justine’s control freak tendencies become rampant in December. Christmas absolutely has to be perfect. No lolling around in pyjamas, eating chocolate Brazil nuts for breakfast and admiring Bing Crosby in a Santa hat on TV. It’s all smart cocktail parties with the affluent neighbours and hand-crafted mince pies from an extortionately expensive London caterer that are so tiny you need to gobble down at least five to make one normal-sized pie.

And candles. Justine insists on candlelight everywhere at Christmas, even in the downstairs loo. (Last year, Dad was in there, catching up with the football scores, and the poor man managed to set his newspaper on fire.)

Thank God we’ll be going to Mum and Dad’s in Manchester this year.

At least there, I can escape to my own bedroom if need be.

And Mum seems to be doing better these days.

I suspect my lovely dad spares me the whole truth, but he’s definitely been sounding more optimistic lately. Apparently Mum’s having more ‘good’ days than ‘bad’. For years, her anxiety and agoraphobia have meant she can’t leave the house without Dad for support. But apparently, a few weeks ago, she went out on a shopping trip with their next-door neighbour, Ellen.

After Dad told me that, I went to my bedroom and had a little cry.

I pull down the visor mirror and check my reflection.

With no time for smoothing the kinks, my wayward blonde hair is going commando this morning, which can be quite scary, frankly. I spend an absolute fortune on potions to keep it smooth and groomed-looking.

Luckily, Nathan seems to like me just the way I am.

Settling back in my seat, I glance tenderly at his handsome profile. Dark hair cropped short, manly jawline and slightly Roman nose. (He’d like a nose job but I’m trying to talk him out of it.)

I’m just glad to be with him today, however challenging this climbing ball thingy turns out to be. My stomach turns over with vague dread.

But I tell myself that whatever happens, it’s sure to be an improvement on the Sunday we got up at stupid-o’clock and journeyed to Wales – yes, that’s right, another country – to take part in the world’s premier Bog Snorkelling Championships.

(Yes, you did read that correctly. And no, it wasn’t just an excuse for a drunken jolly. It involved actual snorkelling equipment and a real live, smelly bog.)

All great fun.

Ha-ha!

Nathan said it would be a laugh and a great workout into the bargain but he’d only do it if I took part as well. So I agreed. But only because he offered an attractive inducement. Dinner at a posh restaurant that didn’t only cater for vegetarians. Usually when we dine out, we go to Beansprouts! (That’s their exclamation mark, not mine.) Nathan can obviously take his pick from the menu there and it’s fine by me because I can always find something I like. But this place he was offering to take me had things like fillet steak on the menu and was really rather swanky.

How could I refuse?

Also, I didn’t want my wonderfully adventurous boyfriend thinking me boring for not joining in with the snorkelling shenanigans. Labelling me a stick-in-the-mud.

So I got stuck in a muddy bog instead.

And slap my thigh, but it was hilarious!

The bit in the car where I had to squeeze my chafing flesh into a too-small wetsuit (left by one of Nathan’s skinnier exes) – my, we did laugh.

Then lining up in the pouring rain with other assorted freaks dressed in snorkels and flippers – something to tell the grandkiddies!

And finally, battling along a foul-smelling trench filled with bug-infested bog water with spectators whistling and cheering us on – well, what can I say? Memories are made of this.

Nathan, of course, approached it with the same intense concentration as he would a heat in the Olympics. And he won. Naturally.

Just missing the world record by a whisker was a little disappointing, so obviously he’ll be returning next time to try to smash the winning time. (I’ve told him I have a hair appointment that day.)

Nathan’s satnav finally, after a two-hour journey, brings us to the car park of a large red-brick building in the middle of town.

I have to say, I’m confused.

What are we climbing? There’s not a hill in sight.

I glance around me. Nope. Completely flat.

So what…?

I catch sight of the sign over the main door.

‘Er, Nathan.’

I indicate the sign and he frowns as the penny drops.

‘Okay,’ he says slowly. ‘So not a climbing ball challenge. A climbing wall.’

He glances at me and shrugs. ‘Well, never mind, we’ve come all this way so let’s check it out.’

He gathers up our gear and we head into the building.

As soon as I enter, I can tell this is definitely not for us.

A gaggle of kids are tearing around by the reception desk as their mums try to simultaneously pay and keep them in check. The average age – not counting us – appears to be about nine.

‘Nathan, I don’t think…’

But he’s already gone over to check out the climbing wall that’s visible through a large picture window, so I stand for a while and watch the kids.

The boy causing most of the mayhem is the ginger-haired one in the Harry Potter T-shirt. He keeps dodging behind the girls and yanking their ponytails really hard, making them shout out in pain. He sees me watching and pulls a face.

I’m about to join Nathan and persuade him a nice long walk would be a good alternative. But I suddenly realise we’ve been spotted by the event organiser, a tall, horsy-looking woman in a blue tracksuit with big front teeth and huge glasses.

‘Halloooo!’ She canters across the reception area and grabs our arms. ‘How super! Some grown-ups taking part!’ She’s wearing thick red lipstick, much of it smeared on her teeth. ‘My name’s Mrs Grieves.’ We do a hearty shake of hands. ‘What do you think of our splendid new climbing wall?’

I smile apologetically. ‘It looks – well, super – but I’m afraid we didn’t realise it would be mostly children…’

I glance at Nathan for back-up.

But he seems fascinated by the wall.

It looks pretty scary to me. It’s massive, for a start, with lots of hand and footholds in different colours.

‘So how long has this facility been here?’ Nathan asks, sounding genuinely interested, and my heart sinks.

Mrs Grieves starts giving us an enthusiastic rundown of the facts and figures.

I tune out.

I’m watching a kid, who looks no older than ten, scaling this terrifying-looking edifice with the dexterity of a monkey. He’s almost half-way up, at least fifteen feet off the ground. What if he falls?

He turns slightly sideways then swings his leg upwards, aiming for a blue foothold. But it’s obviously trickier than it looks because it takes him three attempts to get there.

My heart is in my mouth.

What is his mother thinking of? I know he’s in a harness, but if he slips he’ll swing free and collide with the wall, and that could be very nasty indeed.

‘Come on. You’ll love it!’ Mrs Grieves rubs my arm briskly. Her eyes behind the specs look huge.

‘Yeah, we’ll have a go,’ Nathan says. ‘I’ve been wanting to try it ever since I heard about these things.’

My stomach revolts at the very thought but Mrs Grieves seems determined.

The obnoxious ginger kid points at me. ‘That woman’s scared,’ he announces to everyone with a curl of his lip. ‘And her trousers are too small.’

I narrow my eyes at him, suddenly horribly self-conscious and praying there’s no camel toe situation in evidence. (I can’t check now, obviously.)

But that settles it. I’m doing the climb.

I mean, how difficult can it be?

If these kids can scale a bloody wall, surely I can!

Fifteen minutes later, I’m clinging on for dear life, praying that death will come quickly. Sweat is pooling under my arms and trickling into my hairline.

I’m only about ten feet off the ground but might as well be on top of Mount Everest. If I look down, there’s a very good chance I will be sick.

My stomach shifts queasily. I’m not usually such a baby. Honestly. But this climbing wall lark is a real bugger with a hangover.

To be fair to Nathan, I did agree to do it. It’s just I’d thought we’d be having a nice Sunday walk up a hill, which I’ve done with him many times before. Not scaling a climbing wall for the first time, watched by a bunch of nine-year-olds impatient for their turn.

‘Hey, missus,’ yells the ginger Harry Potter fan. ‘Need a leg up?’

His gang of mates snicker and my cheeks burn.

If I can just get my leg up to the next foothold and climb another ten feet or so, I reckon I’ll be able to descend with my pride more or less intact.

Trouble is, I’m wearing entirely the wrong pants for stretching.

‘My grandma did it last week,’ yells Comedy Ginge. ‘And she was much quicker than you.’

Swallowing down the nausea, I glance over my shoulder, searching for Nathan.

But he’s some way off, helping a blonde girl get into her harness.

He hasn’t noticed I’m in difficulties.

My limbs are stretched in unnerving directions and I’m frightened that if I move even an inch, my sweaty hands will slip free of the holds and I’ll be left dangling on the harness like a beetle in distress.

‘Are you stuck?’ shouts Comedy Ginge.

‘No, I’m not bloody stuck,’ I snap.

‘You swore. I’m telling Mrs Grieves on you.’

‘Feel free.’ I glare down at him. ‘And by the way, Harry Potter’s dead.’

He looks at me in horror for a second and I think, Ha! Got you, you little bastard!

Then he shakes his head. ‘Nah! He’s not.’ He draws a big breath and yells at the top of his voice, ‘Mrs Grieves? This one’s stuck.’

‘I am not bloody stuck!’ With renewed determination, I swing my right leg up and to the side.

There’s a loud ripping sound as my trouser seams part company under the strain.

Then three seconds of shocked silence.

Followed by hoots and belly laughter from down below.

Now, everyone in the place is staring.

I’ve even got Nathan’s attention.

Humiliatingly, he has to climb up behind me and talk me down.

Comedy Ginge and his mates give me a round of applause as I beetle for the exit.

Mrs Grieves gallops after me and blocks the doorway.

‘What do you do if you fall off a horse?’ she bellows. ‘You get right back on the old bugger!’ She beams at me with her scary eyes and lipsticky teeth.

‘Excuse me, I’m going to be sick.’

She dives out of the way to let me through and I run for the ladies’.

Just in the nick of time.

Bloody Mrs Grieves.

I should never have let her hustle me into it in the first place.

Mrs Grieves Bodily Harm, more like …

Chapter Two

My face is still brick red in the car on the way home.

To cheer me up, Nathan says he’d find me adorable and sexy however many pairs of pants I split. Then he grins across at me. ‘Two guys walk into a bar. One of them says, “Your round.” And the other one says, “Yeah, so are you, you fat bastard.”’

He creases up with laughter and can’t understand why I’m not joining in.

By the time we arrive back, though, he’s teased me out of my huff and I’m beginning to see the funny side. I’m even contemplating dragging him off to the bedroom. Although when I put my arms round his waist and snuggle up to him for a kiss, it’s clear he has other ideas in mind.

‘I thought we could go out for a run?’

‘A run? Now?’

‘Lola!’ He wags his finger at me. ‘What am I always saying? There’s no elevator to success. You have to—’

‘Take the stairs,’ I supply in a monotone.

I hate that quote of his. It’s so cheesy. He must have learned it on his personal trainer course.

Nathan nods. ‘Run first, sex later.’

Not surprisingly, I’ve gone off the whole idea anyway.

I shrug. ‘You go for your run. I think I’ll stay here.’

Nathan looks taken aback.

I press my stomach. ‘Not feeling too great. Hangover.’

‘Oh, right. Well … if you’re sure.’

‘I’ll get on the cross-trainer for a bit,’ I tell him, to make him feel better.

‘Excellent.’ He kisses my nose and strides off into the kitchen to whiz up a nourishing snack. Then he gets into his running gear.

When the front door slams, I go into the living room and plop down on his cream leather sofa with a sigh.

I feel a twinge of disloyalty thinking it. But it’s so great that, for once, I don’t have to psyche myself up to run five thousand miles or swim the Atlantic.

I sigh happily, lying flat out on the sofa.

He was surprised by my resistance, I could tell. Normally, I go along quite happily with whatever Nathan’s planning. But I’ll never be as passionate about working out as he is, so maybe it’s time I relaxed a bit and stopped feeling I have to join in with every single activity Nathan suggests.

Barb made a very good point the other night.

‘You’re far too obliging,’ she said. ‘Just be yourself. If Nathan doesn’t love the real you – idle bugger tendencies and all – you shouldn’t be together anyway.’

She’s probably right.

From my flaked-out pose on the sofa, I stare up at Nathan’s minimalist ‘design studio’ chandelier. It’s cutting-edge in more ways than one. The long chrome spiky bits worry me sometimes – especially when Sharon upstairs starts leaping about to her aerobics DVD and the ceiling shakes. One squat thrust too many and I swear a nasty stabbing incident could ensue.

I move to the cream leather La-Z-Boy chair and resume my daydreaming.

I’m in a better place now than I’ve been for a long time.

I’m fitter and happier, thanks to Nathan. And I’m even thinking seriously about going for a promotion.

A pay rise would open up so many exciting possibilities. I might even be able to get my foot on the property ladder at last – something that I know would make Mum and Dad so proud. They’ve never seen the flat I’ve shared with Barb for the past year. They know it’s part of a Victorian conversion but I’ve glossed over the fact that it’s actually quite small – mainly because I hate the thought of Justine knowing my home is far from being a palace, which hers obviously is. (She’s always complaining about having to pay her cleaner a fortune because ‘The Gables’ has so many rooms.)

I lean over for the strawberry and mango smoothie Nathan whipped up for me before he left. And right at that moment, a stern vibration zips up my left buttock. Shit! What’s that?

By the time I’ve realised it’s my phone and I’ve been lying on it, I’ve knocked the glass off the side table and onto Nathan’s beige carpet. Leaping up, I watch in horror as it spreads out stickily like a nasty reddish-orange homicidal incident.

It’s Dad on the phone.

We chat as I rush to grab a cloth. He sounds a bit down.

‘It’s nothing,’ he says, when I probe. ‘I’m just not sure your mum’s up to doing Christmas this year after all.’

At once, my heart is in my mouth. ‘Really, Dad? Why? What’s wrong?’

‘Well, you know how it is, love. It always hits her hardest at this time of year.’

I do know. Only too well. To be honest, I can’t remember a time when Mum didn’t suffer badly with her nerves. Whole months can go by when she practically never leaves the house. And Christmas tends to make things ten times worse.

‘She’s seemed better lately,’ Dad’s saying. ‘She even had that day’s shopping with Ellen. They had lunch out and everything.’

‘Well, that’s good. Isn’t it?’

He takes a deep breath. ‘Yes. We’ll get there, Lola.’ He sounds firm. Back to his usual self. ‘Baby steps. That’s what I keep telling her.’

I grip the phone, wishing I were there with him.

Whatever’s happening, you can count on my dad to keep everyone cheerful. He’s given up a lot to look after Mum. In his younger days, he was a big motorbike enthusiast but all that has gone by the wayside.

‘She’s adamant she’s going to do Christmas.’ He gives a low chuckle. ‘You know how stubborn she can be. But anyway, enough about us. How’s my gorgeous daughter?’

‘I’m fine, Dad. Working hard. What are Rob and Justine doing at Christmas?’

‘Well, that’s another possibility. Justine’s offering to have us all at theirs. But I’m not sure…’

I stare up at the chandelier’s hideous spikes and my heart plummets.

It’s not a tantalising prospect. My sister-in-law is so uptight at Christmas, she even gets angry with God if the snow she ordered fails to arrive on time.

Justine gave up her high-powered job as a marketing executive a year ago (Rob earns enough for both of them and she said she wanted to devote more time to the various women’s groups and committees she sits on). I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking she might calm down a bit, but she seems just as frantically busy as ever.

Her drive for perfection and Mum’s nerves are not a happy festive combination.

‘Dad, why don’t we do Christmas at our own places this year? Just this once?’

‘What?’ Dad sounds horrified. Definitely the wrong thing to say. ‘Not spend Christmas with you and Rob? But we’ve never missed a year yet. Oh, Lola, that would really do for your mum, not seeing you and your brother.’

‘Well, come to mine, then,’ I hear myself say. ‘Mum always does it. It’s high time I took a turn.’

‘Really, love?’ Dad sounds doubtful.

His uncertainty just makes me even more determined to show him I can manage it. I’m turning my life around. I’m going for promotion.

I’m becoming a proper grown-up at last.

‘Yes, really. It’ll be fun.’

‘We-e-e-e-ll …’

Come on, Dad. I’ll make it the best Christmas ever.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Oh God, Lola, that would be great!’

His relief is so obvious, I can tell it’s been a real load on his shoulders. And I’m so glad I can relieve him of the worry.

I hang up and start tackling the smoothie stain.

As I scrub away, I think about Mum. Is she really improving? Or is Dad just doing his usual thing of putting a positive spin on a dismal situation? We’ve never been great, in our family, at talking about the emotional stuff. Letting it all hang out, if you like. But when something happens that’s almost too painful to bear, you have a choice. You can talk about it openly and risk scratching at the open wound and making it worse. Or you can keep it all inside, paper over the cracks and get on with life as cheerfully as you can.

In my family, we’ve got papering over the cracks down to a fine art. Mainly for Mum’s sake.

We chat about the weather and the state of the world, while resolutely ignoring the elephant in the room.

It’s just the way we cope.

The fly in the ointment is my sister-in-law. She talks without thinking and is always putting her foot in it without realising what she’s said.

Lately, she’s seemed more controlling and moody than ever.

I only hope she and Mum will rub along okay at Christmas …

Hang on.

I stop rubbing and stare at the vaguely orange patch on the carpet.

They’re all coming to me for Christmas!

Oh my God.

What on earth was I thinking? It’s just not possible.

There’s absolutely no room for them in my flat.

The place is almost too small for Barb and me, without having four other people staying over for five consecutive days, fighting over the one bathroom. Every wardrobe and drawer is full to overflowing. Even the ‘shoe tidy’ in the hallway makes the place look cluttered.

If Dad knew what our flat was really like, he’d never have jumped so eagerly at my offer to host Christmas. But none of the family has seen it yet.

It’s not that I feel ashamed of 5 Rustic Place exactly. Actually, I rather like it. It’s cosy.

It’s just that Rob and Justine live in this huge five-bedroom house on a prestigious gated development near Edinburgh. It’s called The Gables and it’s as grand as it sounds. They each have a study, and there’s even a library and a room dedicated to working out, with a rowing machine, treadmill and other hi-tech machinery. Not that either of them have time to use it much.

The point is, they’re real grown-ups. They do useful things with their lives.

Whereas at the age of twenty-seven, I sometimes feel like a teenager, wondering what I’m going to do with my life.

When Justine sees our Rustic Place flat, her brows will disappear under her glossy fringe, perhaps never to return.

She has a dressing-room in her house, for God’s sake.

While we barely have room to get dressed …

The flat door opens, startling me back to the present.

‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ calls Nathan in a cute American accent. (He’s from Wigan.)

Shit! Is it that time already?

It usually takes well over an hour to do our regular ten-mile run on Sundays. But then, Nathan hasn’t got me slowing him up today, so no wonder he’s back sooner.

I drag the sofa over the mark, planning to head straight for the Stain Devils as soon as I hear the shower running. Then I dash for the mini gym in the next room, leap on the cross-trainer and get started.

Nathan pops his head round the door a second later.

‘Ah, well done. We’ll make a little Ellen Hoog of you yet.’ He gives me a cheery wink and heads for the bedroom.

I slow down to a stop.

Ellen Hoog?

Who the hell is Ellen Hoog?

I leap off the machine and dive into the kitchen, emerging with several sprays which I hope will be up to the challenge. Thankfully, the rest of the stain comes away fairly easily with plenty of toxic chemicals.

I cross-train for another few minutes to work up a bit of a sweat then decide to join Nathan, who’s all lathered up in the shower.

‘Hey, sexy.’ He grins lazily, watching me strip off. I step in, he pulls me against him and I abandon myself to the steamy heat and Nathan’s lovely, slithery caresses. And I wonder for about the ninety-fifth time what on earth this glorious specimen of manhood sees in averagely attractive me.

He manoeuvres me out of the shower and onto the bed and, at that point, my brain ceases to wonder about anything at all.

Later, while Nathan’s in the kitchen throwing together hummus wraps and a mixed bean salad with crunchy seaweed topping, I sneak away and Google Ellen Hoog.

Apparently she’s a member of the Netherlands field hockey team that won gold in the 2012 Olympics.

She’s also a luscious-lipped blonde who wouldn’t look out of place on a New York catwalk.

I peer intently at the photo. Very sleek hair.

Hah!

I bet she has to use heaps of product to get it that smooth.

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