The Perfect Christmas

Jonathan helps himself to a forkful. ‘I totally get the fifties thing. I love the music. Frank Sinatra. Dean Martin. Elvis. Actually, I’ve just spent an embarrassingly large amount of money on a genuine fifties juke box which is now my pride and joy.’

‘Worth every penny though,’ I say. ‘I feel the same about my vintage shoes.’

We chat happily for a while about all things fifties. It’s great to meet a kindred spirit. Gideon can’t bear the ‘clutter’ in my flat, being more a chrome and black marble minimalist, and Faye tries hard not to wince at the very thought of second-hand shoes. Jonathan totally gets it though and we talk for so long that I fetch more coffees because we’re hogging the table.

‘So,’ Jonathan tips sugar into his second latte, ‘how’s life treating you? Your comedian chap’s doing well, isn’t he? I was reading in the paper that he’s been given his own all-male discussion show.’

I read that too. Apparently it’s called Talking Boll*

ks. Need I say more?

‘We’re not together any more,’ I say, stabbing at the carrot cake with my fork so he can’t see my face. ‘He’s with somebody else now.’

And she’s pregnant. And they’re getting married.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

‘I’m sorry, Robyn.’ Jonathan places his hand over mine, halting the destruction. ‘I didn’t mean to be nosey.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘It was nearly a year ago. I’m fine about it.’

Jonathan doesn’t move his hand. It remains covering mine, warm, strong and oddly comforting. It’s a friendly gesture.

‘It’s not easy though, is it?’ he sighs.

I slide my hand out from under his.

‘How is Anita? Is she still a … um …’

‘A biochemist?’ He pulls a face. ‘Yeah, ’fraid so.’

I’m not sure quite what a biochemist does exactly but I’m sure it’s really important and I tell him so.

‘It is important,’ he agrees, and now it’s his turn to attack the cake by mashing it with his fork.

I say nothing.

‘And I try to be understanding, really.’ I can tell he’s wrestling with something. ‘Like, last night, we had plans to catch a movie. I was making ’Nita supper when she called to cancel with some excuse to do with single-handedly revolutionising stem cell research. What could I say to that? “Well, you try resuscitating the carbohydrates in a dried-out lasagne.”’ Jonathan smiles weakly at his joke. ‘Of course I didn’t say that. Instead, I said, “OK, honey, I understand”, and then moped around feeling sorry for myself.’ Jonathan laughs, awkwardly. ‘God, sorry! I’m doing it again.’

‘We all do,’ I say. ‘I’m the world’s expert.’

By the time that I’ve finished telling Jonathan about the time Pat popped out for tea bags and ended up in Paris with a supermodel (‘Nothing happened, Robs, so it didn’t, I swear on my mammy’s life!’) Jonathan is laughing so hard that other shoppers are casting disapproving looks our way. I’m laughing too because looking back these stories are really funny. And telling them no longer hurts quite as much, so hurrah! I really am over Patrick! My Christmas wish list is right on track; just need a new man to replace him. Such a shame that it won’t be Jonathan.

‘Christ!’ Jonathan exclaims, looking at his watch. ‘It’s nearly three! I’d better be going. My secretary’s probably sent a search party out for me. At least the rain’s stopped.’

‘Oh yeah,’ I say, peering out at the sunshine which had replaced the rain in that way that only ever happens in England in spring. ‘When did that happen?’

‘No idea,’ Jonathan shrugs. ‘I was having far too much fun to notice. Thanks, Robyn, I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.’

My sides are hurting from giggling. ‘Neither can I,’ I tell him.

He smiles, and I notice that his teeth are absolutely perfect. Does this man have any flaws?

‘You’ve snapped me out of my bad mood so I owe you one. How about I come back tomorrow and sign us both up for our classes – me for Business French and you for swing dancing? If you give me your mobile number, I’ll text you to let you know it’s done.’

I would have hesitated, but Jonathan is so upfront and so genuine that I reel it off straight away.

‘Great.’ Jonathan saves my number and pockets his phone, then he leans forward and kisses me on the cheek, a kiss as soft and delicious as a buttery croissant. ‘It’s been wonderful catching up with you. I feel like I’ve made a new friend.’

I can still feel the brush of his lips and I have to sit on my hands to stop myself touching my cheek.

‘Me too,’ I nod. ‘Me too.’

‘I’ll text you,’ promises Jonathan, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and then he’s gone, a tall broad-shouldered figure striding through the crowd.

My hand slowly traces the place where his lips rested only seconds before.

Why, oh why, are the good ones always spoken for?

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_3b6a7122-39a3-5dcf-a433-399c6352c24f)

OK, Robyn, count to ten.

One … You are not going to let her wind you up.

Two … You’re thirty-four, with your own flat, your own business and your own overdraft.

Three … You do not answer to your mother!

Four … Remember that yoga course you did with Faye? Exhale stress and inhale tranquillity.

Five … And repeat slowly, ‘I will not let my mother get to me.’

Six … I’m a natural!

Or at least I am for all of seven seconds before my mother pushes her designer glasses up her nose and gives an exaggerated sigh. When she shuffles the papers and shakes her head for the fiftieth time my yogic calm is shattered.

Maybe I should have gone to more than two classes.

‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

My mother looks up from perusing my accounts. ‘Oh nothing, darling. Just ignore me.’

It would easier to ignore a herd of wildebeest rampaging through my flat.

‘It’s obviously not nothing. You’ve been groaning for the last hour. What’s up?’

‘Your overdraft limit! Perfect Day’s hardly making any profit.’