The Perfect Christmas

‘She said you probably aren’t over me yet,’ Pat ploughs on.

Or maybe not!

My temper starts to bubble like lava in a volcano. Jo thinks I’m still in love with him? The cheek of it! I’ll show her just how over him I am! I’ll arrange such a fantastic celebrity wedding for my ex and his new fiancée that it’ll make Posh and Becks’ look like a budget do!

I try to laugh lightly but sound instead as though I’ve been strangled. Embarrassed, I hastily turn my laugh into a cough. Better he thinks I’m choking than incoherent with rage.

‘Jaysus, are you all right?’ Pat asks, sounding concerned.

‘Fine! There’s just a lot of pollution here by the roadside,’ I improvise wildly, throwing in a couple more coughs just for good measure. ‘That’s better. I’d love to be your wedding planner!’

‘Ah, that’s great so it is!’ Pat says warmly. ‘Now, I have to be honest. I may have led Hester to believe that she was in with a chance of getting the gig. After all, I know first-hand just how much attention to detail she pays to these things and I did have some very specific ideas!’

My eyes widen. When we were together Pat, witnessed my despair on countless occasions when Hester gave me the worst jobs imaginable. Sometimes we’d laughed when there was a funny side (I’d never forget rescuing a very famous A-lister who’d been naked and handcuffed to a bed on the night before his wedding) but more often than not, Pat had seen me in floods of tears over some awful petty task that Hester had insisted I carry out. And he hadn’t been impressed.

‘Pat, what have you done?’

‘Ah, Robs, it was only a bit of fun,’ said Pat. ‘I’m famous now, so I am, and good old Hester was all of a flutter when I called and expressed an interest in her services. I might have asked her to plan an Irish wedding complete with river dancing leprechauns, buried pot of gold and a machine that makes rainbows.

‘A machine that makes rainbows?’

Pat laughs. ‘Indeed. I was most insistent about the rainbow machine. I swore blind Elton and David used one at their last ball, and good old Hester has promised to sort me one. She’s promised that she won’t rest until she finds exactly what I want!’

What poetic justice that the demanding Hester, who once made me scrub an entire church floor with a nail brush, should now be racing around on a fool’s errand. Pat may have his faults but he’s always hated bullies and many a time had been on the brink of telling Hester exactly what he thought of her. I feel ridiculously touched even if I’m slightly alarmed that I’m now arranging the weddings of two ex lovers!

‘I’ll get Jo to ring you,’ Pat says. ‘She already has loads of ideas and she can’t wait to get started.’

‘Great,’ I say weakly. Am I really up for this?

Pat and Jo’s wedding would dredge up painful memories I’ve spent most of last year trying to bury. The question is though, can I put my feelings aside enough to be professional? Smile brightly when inside I feel like sobbing?

Right now I really don’t know.

‘I’m not sure, Patrick,’ I say. ‘August is a really busy time for me.’

‘Aw, Jaysus, Robs, go on! I’ll give you free rein with the budget and recommend you to all my celeb pals,’ carries on Patrick, who truly was born without an empathy gene. ‘Your career will skyrocket. Jaysus! Just think how that would annoy that old bat Hester – once she’s finally admitted defeat with the rainbow machine!’

I laugh in spite of my shock. ‘I must admit that idea’s very tempting! I’ll think about it and call you in a few days.’

Pat whoops and I picture him punching the air just like he used to when he got a gig at the Comedy Store. When he rings off I sigh, knowing he already considers my arranging his wedding a done deal. It’s not really that surprising. I was never very good at saying no to Patrick.

I close my eyes wearily. The traffic is still tearing past and the patrolman still muttering under Dolly’s bonnet, but I hardly register any of this. Instead Patrick’s words buzz around my brain like insistent wasps.

Part of me – the part that really did love Pat once – wants to throw my head back and scream, Why not me? Why wasn’t I good enough? And worst of all: Is this my fault?

The whole scene dips and swims alarmingly. The headlamps of passing cars shimmer and brake lights are shimmering rubies.

The patrolman stares at me in alarm.

‘Don’t cry, love! It’s only a radiator. If you really want to save this hunk of junk, it can be mended.’

But I can only shake my head. Everything’s changed. Everyone’s found their perfect match; Si, Faye, Gideon and now even Patrick.

I can fix the car, but will my heart ever be properly mended?

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_d6e25160-b5a3-5863-9240-b517f476ae11)

‘She’s not going to make it! She’s taci-cardic and her stats are dropping!’

I’m curled up on the sofa watching Casualty. Staying in and watching people die is a pretty odd way to spend a Saturday evening but it beats having to think about my own life. As yet another train crash/bomb blast/terrorist attack takes place on screen I try to feel thankful for my own lot. Things could be worse: I could live in Holby.