Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read!

Frank, her ex, is a razor-jawed accountant who does underwear modelling in his spare time and accepts women’s adoration as totally his due. He found his match in Barb, though, and they had a stormy year-long relationship, during which time Barb ditched the witchy look in favour of a more floaty, pastel-heavy palette. Then Frank announced he was fed up being ‘emasculated’ and left Barb for an air-head Marilyn Monroe look-alike who no doubt agrees with everything he says.

Whatever Barb might say, I know their split in January hit her badly.

But we never mention her pastel phase.

It’s strictly off-limits.

Which suits me fine, since I’m the last one to bring up my murky past.

‘What did Frank want?’ I ask carefully.

‘Lunch.’

‘So did you go?’

‘No!’ she scoffs. ‘I told him to take a hike. Preferably up a very steep mountain in slippery shoes.’

I grin at her admiringly. ‘Does he still use aftershave like it’s going out of fashion?’

‘Smells like a tart’s boudoir.’

‘You’re so much better off without him,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Although…’

She whips round. ‘Although what?’

I shrug. ‘Maybe it’s time you started thinking – you know – about dating again?’

I’m taking my life in my hands here, but someone has to tell her. Since Frank, she’s had a real downer on men. And I worry she might retreat more and more into her world of deathly black and end up only going out at night when the moon is full or something.

Her Frontal Lobe Theory about relationships is just a stalling tactic, I reckon.

She sighs impatiently. ‘Tell you what, we’ll go out on the pull together, shall we? Fancy it?’

‘No.’ I laugh.

She purses her lips. ‘Well, then.’

We finish our chilli, as the unbearably cheesy and romantic, ‘People will say we’re in love’ swells to an emotional crescendo.

Sneaking a look at Barb, I catch her snuffling into a hanky. ‘It’s the chilli. It’s making my nose run,’ she mumbles.

I sigh. ‘Could you pass—?’

She hands over the box of paper tissues.

I whip one out and blow my own nose. ‘Think I’ve got a cold coming on.’

‘I’ve got just the remedy,’ she says with a watery smile.

The ‘remedy’ turns out to be a wondrous invention called Irish hot chocolate.

It’s basically hot chocolate with a measure or two of Irish cream liqueur and a little island of whipping cream floating on top. It’s incredibly sweet. (Barb’s hand obviously kept slipping when she was pouring the liqueur. I’d say it’s more half-and-half.) But it’s amazing how quickly your taste buds adjust.

We’ve moved on to The Sound of Music by this time and Barb is throwing her whole heart into ‘Climb Every Mountain’, using the floor as her stage and her hair straighteners as a microphone.

Her voice is amazing. I keep telling her she should audition for The X Factor but she says Simon Cowell would just dismiss her as a pub singer.

She’s getting towards the high bit at the end now.

‘Follow every rainbow. Till. You. Find. Your…’

I screw my face up. Is the last note heading for the rafters? Or will she crap out and go down an octave?

‘Drea-ea-ea-ea-ea-ea-m!’

Rafters it is, then.

I start clapping and whooping. I know I’ve had a skinful, so my judgement is possibly a little impaired. But that sounded bloomin’ awesome to me.

She does some little modest bows to her audience of one then sinks to the floor and lies flat, stretching her arms over her head and wiggling her fingers and toes. ‘Ooh, that feels better.’

I grin. ‘Maybe I should try it. I could do with some therapy.’

‘Don’t you bloody dare,’ she comes back instantly.

‘Oh, well, that’s nice.’ I fake a huff, heave myself off the sofa and put on the Scandinavian drama.

Barb scrambles to a sitting position, already glued.

‘I know who did it,’ I say smugly, to get my own back. (Although actually, I don’t know because I haven’t got that far.) ‘Shall I tell you?’

Not taking her eyes off the screen, Barb mutters darkly, ‘If you do, thisroom will become a crime scene.’

Next morning, I’m coming out of the flat on the way to an interview at the jobcentre, when I hear a key turning in a lock up above.

Jasper comes clattering down the stairs. He’s wearing jeans and a black leather bomber jacket.

‘Hi again.’ He offers his hand. ‘I’m Jas.’

‘Lola.’

His handshake feels dry and firm. Sort of trustworthy.

‘Lola. Nice name.’ His brown eyes twinkle at me.

‘Thanks.’

‘Some great singing coming from your place last night.’