Four Christmases and a Secret

‘Definitely!’ I don’t actually mean this, but there really aren’t many people at all at his Christmas parties that you would want to snog, or touch, or even air kiss.

Juliet smiles, and looks down her long nose at me. She has perfect long, blonde, sleek hair and a long, slim, sleek body. Long has never been my thing.

She leans forward, well down, as though she’s greeting a child, and air-kisses.

‘Lovely to meet you, Daisy! How cute!’ Mwah-mwah. ‘Well done! I work in medicine, what do you do?’ It’s not just the words she uses, it’s the way she says them – in a very posh and very serious tone, that makes me feel like a child.

‘Oh, how lovely.’ I have a bad habit of imitating people’s accents when I’m in awe. ‘Medicine, fancy that!’

‘She works in communications,’ chimes in Vera.

‘And you’re a doctor?’ My mother frowns.

‘PR!’ Adds Juliet. ‘In medicine!’

‘Smashing, ha-ha, how clever!’ I say.

‘Christ, so you’re the one they wheel out to apologise when there’s a cock-up? Unexpected deaths and all that.’ Frankie has arrived and is now perched on the arm of the chair next to me. She drapes her arm round my shoulders, though she only has eyes for Ollie. She’s like a cheetah, waiting for her moment. I’m not sure if it’s the moment to leap on Ollie, or the moment to slay Juliet.

My nervous laugh is met with stony silence. Juliet is twitching, Frankie is positively purring.

‘We issue statements to the press, if that’s what you mean.’ Her tone has cooled.

‘Ah that’s what they call them!’ Frankie grins, then glances at her mobile phone, which has launched into a rendition of ‘Stop The Cavalry’. ‘Duty calls!’

‘Splendid.’ I say, to fill the gap as we all watch her sink into a leather armchair, her phone to her ear.

Juliet is not mollified. ‘I spearhead the PR campaigns.’

‘A bit like your job, Daisy, but people adore you, you’re not trying to wriggle your way out of being sued for incompetence!’ Chimes in my mother, who is using a plate of mini burgers as her way into the conversation. Sometimes I could hug her. ‘Daisy’s a journalist now! Canapé?’

‘Ah! Super, thanks.’ I grab a handful and try to move the conversation on from my sadly lacking career. ‘You’re in medicine as well, aren’t you Ollie?’ He raises an eyebrow, which is fair enough. He knows I know what he does, my annual date at Uncle T’s makes it impossible to avoid his accomplishments. But I was just trying to shut my mother up before she started to expand upon my not-so-wonderful career.

‘I thought you were in law?’ A faint frown lines his brow. How is it fair that frowning can be attractive on a man, but a disaster on a woman? ‘A barrister?’

‘Oh no, no, you must have misheard.’

‘Maybe father was confused. I swear he said …’

‘Oliver’s on the specialist register now, so clever, aren’t you, darling?’ Juliet buts in, which is rather fortunate. ‘That’s how we met, at work.’ She giggles and tries to link an arm through his, which is tricky. ‘And what did you say you did, Maisie?’

‘Daisy, it’s Daisy.’ I might have to thump her. ‘Oh, nothing so highbrow!’

‘I wouldn’t say it’s highbrow, just making a living like everybody else.’ Says Ollie. He shifts self-consciously and manages to extricate himself from Juliet’s grasp. ‘Just part of a team. Not exactly rocket science.’ He gives a self-depreciating laugh and Juliet nudges him.

‘More like brain surgery, ha-ha!’

‘Not exactly.’ He looks uncomfortable, and finally manages to lever himself up off the chair. Released, I nearly slither off onto the floor but manage to grab Frankie on the way and scramble to my feet.

‘Nonsense, darling! It practically is!’ She sounds a bit like Vera, I can see what drew him to her.

He has gone highbrow though, all home counties.

‘That’s enough about us though Maisie, what about you?’ She is not to be distracted, even though I swear she’s not listening to a word I say.

‘Daisy works for the Hunslip and Over Widgley Local Guardian.’ Uncle Terence has crept up unnoticed and pats my arm protectively. It’s getting pretty packed in my little corner now, soon our elbows will be squished against our sides and we won’t be able to drink out of our glasses. ‘For now! She’s quietly planning world domination though.’

‘What a mouthful!’ Juliet’s eyes are wide open.

‘Known as HOWL for short.’ Ollie looks amused, and I’m not sure if I should punch him or smile. I smile, then Juliet guffaws. Well, it’s more like a neigh.

What on earth were they thinking when they named the paper that? Why not Over Widgley and Hunslip? Or ditch the Local bit?

‘Oh, my goodness, how hilarious!’ Juliet is gasping for breath, wiping tears from her eyes.

I want to tell her it’s not that funny, but that would be rude.

‘Oh, I’m going to have to tweet that! I really am! Are they on twitter? I’ll tag them!’

‘Still dogging?’ Ollie raises an eyebrow, and glances down at Stanley who is now lying on his back, legs akimbo. The HOWL thing was his fault, so I can’t exactly forgive him for deflecting the conversation.

‘Dogging! They do that here?’ Juliet pauses, mid tweet. ‘Oh my God, I need to tweet that as well! Do they like, advertise in your paper? Or is it really hush-hush?’

‘Ha-ha!’ I can feel myself going red, but I am not going to be belittled. I also would quite like to punch her on the nose or point out to everybody her unusual level of interest in potential dogging sites. Instead I decide to take a mature attitude and ignore her. ‘I help out with animal welfare.’ I tell Juliet, who I don’t think is actually that interested. She’s too busy brushing imaginary fluff off her boyfriend’s shirt. It’s like watching a monkey groom its mate. But at least it is stopping her tapping on her mobile.

‘Oh, you rescue rhino’s, do you? That’s so brave, so, so visionary!’

‘Dogs.’

‘Dogs?’

‘I foster rescued dogs, street dogs, well I don’t actually go and rescue them myself, I help rehabilitate them and foster. I do have an actual job as well you know, I can’t just go racing off round the world.’ Although right now, that might be an idea. In fact it could be quite a good idea. I must make a mental note to think about this one later.

‘Oh. Like woof-woof dogs?’ She looks at me blankly, as though a rhino is every day, but a dog is harder to comprehend.

‘Like Stanley!’ I point to Stanley, whose sleeping on his back routine was a ruse so that I wouldn’t notice him sneak off. He is now skulking under a table with what looks like a turkey leg in his mouth.

‘What is it?’

‘Erm, a dog.’ Surely, she’s not so fixated on safari animals that she can’t recognise a dog?

‘What type?’

‘Stanley is a street dog.’ I say proudly. ‘From Spain. I think. He had fleas, ticks, mange and worms!’

‘Oh.’ She stares, then wrinkles her nose. ‘Have you thought about having him groomed? My mother takes her dog every week.’ She looks at me, horror dawning and takes a step back. ‘You don’t have fleas, do you? I’m allergic.’

‘No! He was sorted when I met him. But I have helped rehabilitate him!’