Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin: A heart-warming and feel-good read

He shrugs and runs a hand through his blond waves. ‘Well, what I think is best …’ He reaches an arm around my waist and drops a kiss on my neck. ‘Come on, wriggle closer,’ he murmurs.

I smile and hitch along the sofa, snuggling up to him. Perhaps we’ll forget about numbers for a while – a very long while.

‘That’s better,’ he says, tapping my back and returning to the laptop. ‘You can see the screen properly now. Now, high-interest savings.’ He rubs his hands together then peers eagerly at the screen. I study him affectionately, like a mum watching her kid tear the wrapping off a Christmas present.

‘Unless –’ He turns with a sexy glint in his eye and my spirits rise. ‘What do you say to throwing caution completely to the wind?’

‘I’m all for that,’ I murmur, running my hand along his thigh. I wonder what he has in mind? Sex on a week night, perhaps?

He pats my knee and gives me a cheerful wink. ‘Brilliant. We’ll go for investment funds, then, shall we? Let’s live dangerously.’

‘Oh. Right.’

After a while, my mind starts to wander.

I keep thinking about Erin planning her romantic night with Mark. Perhaps I should do something similar. Harrison always says sex is best left for weekends when he’s got more energy, but I’m sure I can persuade him that a little mid-week spontaneity would be nice.

I spring up off the sofa.

‘Where are you off to?’

I wink at him. ‘Wait and see.’

Upstairs, I rummage in my underwear drawer and find my one pair of black stockings. I’m out of practise so it takes me the best part of fifteen minutes to get them on smooth and straight. But when I wriggle into the close-fitting little red dress I bought to wear at Harrison’s work do last Christmas, I’m feeling really quite sexy. Adjusting my hair, I allow some dark tendrils to fall down, framing my face. A slick of scarlet lipstick and an extra coat of mascara and I’m ready for anything!

I navigate the carpeted stairs carefully in my black patent high heels and strike a pose in the living-room doorway. ‘What do you think?’

‘About what, Puss?’ Harrison is focusing hard on the screen.

‘About this dress you chose for me last Christmas?’ I experiment with a sexy pout in profile.

‘Hm?’ he murmurs, still not looking up.

I sigh, feeling a bit of an idiot standing there in my best harlot outfit, knowing I come a poor second to a graphic of the FTSE 100.

‘Harrison!’

He glances up at the urgency in my tone. His face relaxes and breaks into a smile. ‘Very nice. What’s the occasion, Puss?’ He pats the seat next to him.

I wince slightly at the pet name, which has only recently come into being, but I’m heartened by his positive response.

‘No occasion.’ I smile enigmatically and sit down next to him, crossing my legs artfully to reveal just a glimpse of stocking top. ‘I’m not at the restaurant tonight, so I thought we could – erm – celebrate.’

‘Oh? And what did you have in mind?’ He slides his hand up my thigh and waggles his eyebrows suggestively, which for some reason makes me think of Groucho Marx. I shake the image from my head and lean over to kiss him – just as he turns to glance at his watch, which means my mouth totally misses the target.

‘The news is on in a minute,’ he says cheerfully. ‘How about we watch that then nip along the road for a takeaway?’ Clocking my lack of enthusiasm, he tucks a loose tendril of hair behind my ears and says, ‘Keep that lot on, though. You’re looking very sexy, Puss!’

Sighing, I teeter back upstairs and slip into jeans and a jumper. I don’t really mind. It’ll be another night of falling asleep in front of the telly, but there’s something really cosy and intimate about that, isn’t there? I’m so lucky to have someone like Harrison in my life.

Chapter 2 (#u65bde5d2-e61b-5ba4-baf7-3b1f6879337c)

‘What do you think?’ asks Mum, holding out a plastic lemon-squeezer with the sort of feverish excitement she once reserved for Def Leppard concerts.

‘It’s a plastic lemon-squeezer, Mum.’

She doesn’t hear me. She’s too busy dropping it in her trolley along with a bright-green loofah in the shape of the Incredible Hulk and a set of labels for jam-making – ooh, where’s she off to now? Ah, yes, of course, the washing-up liquid.

I stand there, experiencing a horrible panicky sensation like I always do with Mum, as if my insides are slowly deflating. I wonder if things will ever change. I really should be helping her heft that bargain box of twenty-four ‘Skweezee’ bottles into her trolley but I can’t seem to summon up the energy.

‘Right, that should do,’ she says, avoiding my eye.

I can’t help it. I have to say it. ‘You never make jam, Mum, so why the labels?’

‘They’re marked down. And you should never say never!’ She smiles triumphantly and trundles off towards the checkout. My heart gives a painful little squeeze. Mum used to be so vibrant and self-assured when she worked at the hospital. She had an easy way with the staff – firm but always fair seemed to be the general opinion of her. And with her pale-golden hair pushed back in a quirky knot, she managed to be stylish, too – not always easy when you’re wearing scrubs. I remember being so proud of her.

Now, the hair that straggles down her back contains a lot more grey strands than golden, but she refuses point-blank to let me organise for a mobile hairdresser to call round and give her a trim.

Back at hers, we lug the spoils out of the boot and I brace myself to face the house. I should be used to it by now, but the impulse to escape is just as strong as ever. When I finally moved out, three years ago, into a little flat of my own nearby, the relief (and the guilt) was enormous.

She unlocks the door and pushes it open to its full extent and we squeeze through the small gap. Manoeuvring the gigantic load of washing-up liquid, I accidentally knock against the hall table and the tower of boxes perched on top tumbles off, spilling their contents everywhere. (A mish-mash of car-boot sale tat, by the looks of things.)

Mum turns and gives me a frosty look. ‘Tidy that up, will you, dear?’ She pushes on into what used to be the living room but is now just an extension of the chaos in the hallway: boxes and objects piled high, and towers of newspapers everywhere, most of them unread. She has two newspapers delivered every day – one national and one local – and I’m never allowed to throw them out. I used to try sneaking a few old papers in my bag to dispose of at home, but she’s no fool, my mum. She’s got eyes in the back of her head. So now I’ve given up. It’s not worth the bitterness and the hurt silences.

‘Pot noodle?’ she shouts from the direction of the kitchen.

‘I brought some sandwiches,’ I call back, stacking the load of washing-up liquid bottles on top of an identical monster family-pack, bought the last time we were in the shop seven days ago. ‘Ham salad. Your favourite.’

‘Oh, lovely. Bring them through.’

We eat squashed together on a two-seater sofa, an ancient standard lamp with a fringed green shade towering over us on one side. On the other, a chest of drawers is bumped right up to the sofa, and a laundry basket sits on top, containing a tangle of old electrical leads and dozens of paperback books. Perched at a jaunty angle on this pile, looking sad and slightly cross-eyed, is the largest of Mum’s stuffed parrots. This one – a hideous blue, green and pink thing – is sitting in a cage.

Mum has a thing for exotic birds. She says they make her happy. If it weren’t for the man-made chaos in here, you might think she was aiming for a ‘tropical rainforest’ feel to her décor, in that wherever you are in the house – even sitting on the loo – you’re practically guaranteed a sighting of a stuffed parrot.

Mum tucks into the sandwiches with gusto. I’m sure when I’m not there she lives on tea and biscuits and microwave meals. And pot noodles. The oven finally disappeared under piles of junk about two years ago, so now only the kettle and microwave are fully functional. The fridge gave up the ghost about the same time and hasn’t been fixed because Mum refuses to have visitors to the house, apart from me (and that’s only on the unspoken understanding that I won’t criticise her living arrangements) so I try to bring a healthy food parcel every time I visit.

‘How did you get that bruise?’ I ask, and she glances at a big purple mark on her arm.

‘Oh, that.’ She shakes her head dismissively and pulls her sleeve right down. ‘I was climbing over a pile of bedding and my foot got caught in a duvet, that’s all.’

‘God, Mum, you have to be careful,’ I murmur. ‘Anything could happen.’

It’s actually my worst nightmare. That Mum’s hoarding might end up being the death of her. That, one day, a pile of boxes will tumble on top of her, or worse, that she might accidentally start a fire that will blaze all the more fiercely as it devours her monstrous, ceiling-high towers of newspapers and medical journals. What if she can’t get out of the building fast enough?

But she’s immediately on the defensive. ‘Oh, rubbish. The place might seem a bit untidy to you but I’m the one who lives here. I’m used to it.’

‘Yes, but all these newspapers? It’s a fire hazard, Mum. And what if a pile of boxes falls on you and you injure yourself and I’m not here to help?’

She laughs and pats my hand. ‘Honestly, Poppy, you can be so melodramatic at times. I’m absolutely fine. Now, let’s have some tea. And you can tell me all about your new job.’