The Perfect Christmas

‘Sorry,’ says Faye. ‘I’m a sad old married woman who doesn’t get out much. I have to get my excitement vicariously.’ She sneaks a look over her shoulder and winks at me. ‘And that is seriously exciting.’

‘Divine, isn’t he?’ sighs Gideon.

Bradley, sensing that he’s being talked about, catches my eye, beams a big white-toothed Aussie smile and waves. I wave back.

‘He really is just a friend,’ I say. ‘He’s been away for a couple of months too. There isn’t anything going on.’

‘Well, you’re mad not to pursue that,’ says Faye, fanning herself with a bar mat. ‘He’s like something out of Neighbours, and I don’t mean Harold!’

Maybe I should explain myself before you decide that I’m some old slapper who regularly pulls Aussie barmen and drags them home for wild sex. As if. I can probably count my sexual partners on one hand and still have spare finger; not cool these days I know, but that’s just the way I am. Before a man sees my wobbly bits I normally like to know more than his name.

Normally.

But the night I met Bradley was the exception to the rule. To be fair, the circumstances were unusual. It was about five months after Pat and I broke up, and although I was still desperately sad I was past the constant weeping stage.

Or so I’d thought.

I’d had a long day. Mother had been in a vile mood after a row with her latest sugar grandpa, a bridesmaid’s dress had been lost in the post and my computer had crashed, losing most of my files. As I’d dragged myself up the steps from the tube station and wandered down the high street, I’d wanted nothing more than to collapse onto my sofa with a big glass of wine and a trashy magazine. With this aim in mind I’d popped into the corner shop and picked up Scorching! I’d been expecting to see nothing more than the vacuous smiles of the boy band member and his new glamour model wife when a headline leapt from the glossy page and walloped me right between the eyes.

PATRICK MCNICOLAS: BRITAIN’S SEXIEST COMIC INVITES US TO HIS THAMESIDE LOVE NEST

Although I knew this was the psychological equivalent of picking a scab, I couldn’t help flicking through the magazine, gobbling up every purple paragraph and feasting on the glossy pictures of his new apartment. Pat looked so handsome and was obviously incredibly happy, lounging on big squishy sofas with Jo in his arms and clinking champagne glasses with her in a giant hot tub. ‘I’ve never been so in love!’ he bragged. ‘All we need now are the children and our joy will be complete. This is the happiest I’ve ever been.’

Thanks a million, Pat, I’d thought, shoving the magazine back onto the shelf. To have two years of my life dismissed so easily sliced through me like a hot knife through butter. And it wasn’t as though I’d said ‘no’ to the children part, was it? I’d just said ‘not yet’, not while I set up the business. Pat just hadn’t loved me enough to listen.

Blinking away tears of loss and hurt I fled the shop and stumbled into The Feathers, where I’d ordered an enormous glass of wine and downed it in one.

‘Whoa!’ the barman had exclaimed. ‘Looks like you needed that!’ And he’d fetched me another which I’d drunk in a similar fashion. To cut a long story short I’d ended up pouring out my tale of woe to my new best friend, AKA Bradley the Australian barman. Bradley listened sympathetically and told me about breaking up with his girlfriend. And then we’d bonded in that peculiar way you do when bitching about an ex. Eventually the pub closed, Bradley had cleared up and then walked me home.

And the rest you can figure out for yourself.

Anyway, he’s a nice guy and really easy to talk to. He’s not my soulmate but he’s fun and he’s taken my mind off Patrick on several occasions – and it’s not like he’s going to push me into becoming a perfect mother any time soon. There’s nothing more to it than that. Not that you’d ever convince Gideon though. As far as he’s concerned it’s only a matter of time before I book tickets with Qantas and rack off to chuck a few shrimps on the barbie with the sprogs in tow. There’s no way I’m going to mention meeting Jonathan Broadhead yesterday; Gids will die of excitement and Faye will think …

Actually, I don’t know what Faye will think.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ I say to Faye. ‘White wine?’

She nods. ‘The drier the better, please.’

‘Any excuse to see Mr Love God,’ Gideon stage whispers as I thread my way through the evening drinkers.

I roll my eyes.

I walk to the bar and lean against it, trying to catch the eye of the bar staff. Bradley is nowhere to be seen so I wait patiently until a small, tanned woman with a mane of white blonde hair serves me.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Sorry to keep you. Where are the men when you need them?’

Another Aussie! What is it with this pub?

‘I ask myself that question most days.’ I smile, counting out my money. ‘Where are all the good men?’

‘Hanging out with the tooth fairy?’ She passes the wine across the bar and takes my change. ‘They must be somewhere. Gotta live in hope.’

‘Or die in despair,’ I sigh, and, balancing drinks and crisps in my hands, rejoin my friends. It’s one thing to joke about the man famine if you’re a twenty-two-year-old gorgeous Aussie surfer babe and quite another if you’re thirty-four and pretty average on a good day, wearing control knickers and your best frock. If all the good ones really are taken then where does that leave me?

Alone, that’s where, unlike Gideon and Faye, both of whom will be going home tonight to their partners.

Totally alone.

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_b03f5b89-9a9d-54a5-834c-68bcf9c8e74d)

By half ten I’ve drunk my way through a bottle of Blossom Hill, the table is littered with crisp packets and Bradley’s becoming more and more attractive by the sip. OK, so he can’t discuss Chekhov and once said that his greatest fantasy was Jordan naked on a trampoline, but you can’t have everything.

And, anyway, with a body like that who cares about conversation?

I knock back the last of my wine. I’m going to ask him to come home with me. This is what feminists burned their bras for!

I am strong! I am woman!

And maybe a teeny bit pissed?

‘Darling,’ Gideon says, shrugging on his coat. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? I’m going to walk Faye to the tube and then head home for tea and toast.’

At the mention of toast my stomach rumbles, but I ignore it. Gideon and James will cosy up and I’ll feel like a spare part. They see quite enough of me as it is.

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll stay here and chat to Bradley.’

‘Can’t say I blame you,’ sighs Gideon.

Faye gives me a hug. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she promises. ‘We can have a chat about some ideas for Saffron Scott before your meeting on Friday. I’ll ask Si if Davie has dropped any hints.’

‘Thanks, babes.’

‘And Robyn,’ she whispers. ‘Give him one from me!’

Blushing to the ends of my hair I hoist myself onto a bar stool, wishing that I had the kind of endless legs I could cross elegantly rather than short ones that just dangle in mid-air. Catching sight of my flushed face in the chrome beer pumps I decide to order Diet Coke from now on.

‘Diet Coke?’ echoes Bradley, when I place my order. ‘With Bacardi?’

‘No!’ I laugh.

As Bradley serves and chats, I’m distracted by the enormous flatscreen TV at the end of the bar. It’s showing one of those late evening chat shows and Patrick has just loped across the studio and is shaking the host’s hand. I still get a little jolt whenever I see him. It’s weird to be close to someone, to have shared their life in every way, and then be relegated to the position of stranger. I know Pat always cleans his toothbrush under the hot tap and likes the left side of the bed, but none of the other viewers are privy to these details.

Although, knowing Pat, maybe I shouldn’t bet on this.

Repositioning my bar stool so I’m spared watching Patrick charm the socks off the audience, I turn my attention back to Bradley. Physically he looks nothing like Pat. Bradley’s tall with sun-bleached hair and so gym-honed that even his muscles have muscles, whereas Pat’s tall and rangy and hasn’t been to the gym in his life. Running a double love life is enough to keep him fit. Both guys have green eyes but Bradley’s are like rock pools, clear and honest, whereas Patrick’s are the shadowy hue of his beloved Irish peat bogs.

I’m through with complicated men. Who wants to discuss Yeats in bed when they could be having amazing sex?