Four Christmases and a Secret

Since leaving school with a crap set of exam results to my name, I’ve always left the party feeling that my card has been marked ‘could do better’. This is not a jolly start to the festive season.

‘Daisy, darling! You’re here at last! We thought you’d got lost!’ I get a quick hug, and a mwah-mwah kiss. Frankie grins over her shoulder at me. Mesmerised. I think it’s my mother’s new ‘pink rinse’ and animal print jumpsuit that has done it. Or the fact she’s already downed two cocktails.

‘Love the outfit, very on-trend.’ Frankie manages to sound genuine. She winks at me.

My mother preens. ‘Thank you, dear.’ She gives her an up-and-down who-are-you look that confuses some people but doesn’t faze Frankie at all.

‘We’re not late, Mum!’ Anybody would think I hadn’t spoken to her for months, rather than earlier today. ‘And how can I get lost? I come here all the time.’

‘Where is he, then? Where’s your young man?’ Mum peers around me, almost shoving. See, it has started. She wants to mentally measure him up for his morning suit and see how he’d look framed on the mantelpiece.

‘Stephen, isn’t it? Stephen?’ She shouts his name as though she expects him to appear like a genie.

‘Simon! He’s called Simon, but I told you he’s not coming!’

‘Not coming? Oh yes, yes, silly me, I forgot! It’s Frank now, isn’t it? I can’t keep up with you and all these men! Well, where’s Frank?’

‘Frankie not Frank!’ I point at Frankie. Luckily, she is distracted and is staring across the room so doesn’t notice my mother’s disappointment.

Mum, just to be sure Simon isn’t lurking on the pavement, or hiding behind a lamppost, pushes her way out of the door to peer up the street. Treading on Stanley’s paw (sorry, I might not have mentioned – Stanley is a dog) and trapping me against the door jamb.

‘Oh buggering, flaming …’

‘Language, darling!’

The plate of sausage rolls, which I’d very cleverly balanced in one hand, goes flying one way as the dog dives between my legs and my mother dives the other side.

‘Oh my God, who the fuck is that?’ Frankie is oblivious to flying pastry, and the blob of lightly herbed pork that has landed on her head. ‘Fuck me. Well, him, well, oh my God, I think I still believe in Father Christmas!’ She clutches her throat melodramatically with one hand, and my arm with the other. Did I mention she’s a bit hyper tonight? ‘Ditch those canapés, girl and introduce me, so I can go and hang my stocking on his tree! I need to make babies with him!’

‘Frankie!’ I laugh and forget all about Mum for a moment, because this is weird. ‘Who, where? What on earth are you going on about?’ I’m sorry, but nobody in their right mind would want to shag anybody who attends Uncle T’s party. Unless he’s smuggled in a sexy bartender this year, instead of relying just on Mabel who isn’t as young as she was.

‘There!’ She does a low wolf whistle, then blows the tips of her fingers. ‘Smoking. Hot!’ He must be, because she seems to have forgotten she still has a boyfriend.

There are never hot men here though. Ever. It is a family and friends party. In a bookshop, in our village.

I look where she is pointing. At a man who is vaguely familiar, and admittedly quite attractive, in a Robert Downey Junior earnest-with-glasses kind of way. He reminds me a bit of Ollie’s dad, Charles. He must be some distant relative I’ve never met.

He has the faintest of smiles on his face, tugging at the corner of a generous mouth. Which would be slightly effeminate if he wasn’t so definitely male. Oh yes, he is definitely all male. For the first time ever at one of these parties, I wonder if the antlers might have been a mistake.

‘Oh, that’s Oliver. Silly girl.’ Mum stops searching for my missing date and chuckles. I gasp, and the mood music in my head grounds to a halt.

‘What?’I think it came out as a screech, because the conversation nearby has a hiccup. Then they go back to talking. Luckily the sound doesn’t appear to have reached his side of the room though, that’s the advantage of a bookshop – those thick pages swallow up the sound. ‘No way. That is so not Ollie!’ The last time I saw him was at very close quarters. I was snogging him. ‘It can’t be.’ I think this comes out as a pathetic whine. Buggering hell, Ollie can’t be here. Not in person. And he can’t look like that.

This makes it even worse than normal – we’ll now be plonked side by side, like we were as toddlers and compared in real life!

I’ve not seen him for absolutely ages, thirteen years to be precise. He’s been in Africa, or America, or Coventry. Well he’s always somewhere miles away. Doing good on a global scale. Well, he’s not been at Uncle Terence’s parties anyway. Which has been a bonus. At least while Mum and Vera have been going on about his virtues, I’ve been able to imagine him in my head as a pimply, fat arsehole.

‘Of course, it is, dear. Isn’t it lovely to see him?’

Fabulous.

Kill. Me. Now.

He will pity me, not want to snog me. Or he will laugh.

‘He’s got a girlfriend, you know.’

‘Hasn’t he always?’ I say, slightly sarcastically. I can’t quite help myself. Part of Ollie’s upward trajectory is his ability to date gorgeous women. Ollie always has a girlfriend, and I always have to be told about her. Just like I’ve been told about every step of his career since he went to uni.

My mother, and therefore, I, have lived vicariously through every one of the five years at medical school, followed by his two years of placements. I have heard every ‘Oh he’s been so brave when faced with mangled people in agony, I couldn’t do it!’ from his mother Vera, and lots of ‘oh he’s so clever’ and ‘so sad you didn’t do something like that’ from my mother. I have then had to endure ‘speciality training’ (hearing about it, not doing it, but believe me it’s just as bad), and face-fanning (Vera and Mum) when she speaks about the conferences and courses he’s attended. Since he qualified it’s been worse. I haven’t seen the bloody man for thirteen years, which has suited me fine. How could being face to face with the demi-god who I can never match up to help my self-esteem?

Thirteen years is a bit scary though. That makes me old. Well at least old enough to be a responsible adult. Which I most definitely am not.

‘Wow, that’s Ollie the pompous prick?’ Frankie drags her gaze away from him for a second and stares at me. I heat up like an electric blanket, my cheeks positively glowing, and Mum frowns.

I could just go home now.

I might have called him that. Once or twice. To Frankie. ‘He’s, er, changed.’ The endless stories from my mother and his about how well he’s doing, and how many girlfriends he’s got, and when he’s going to become pope (made that bit up, but it’s close – he deserves a sainthood, apparently) have really got on my tits, and definitely made him sound like a pompous prick. And anyway, he might still be a pompous prick, just a hot one.

‘The one who felt you up when you were four?’

‘I never said that! We were six, Frankie, I said he kissed me not felt me up!’ My cheeks are burning. If I blush any harder I’ll be hotter than a chestnut roasting charcoal burner. Thank God I didn’t tell her about the drunken face-eating when we were eighteen.

‘Felt your what?’ My mother has a puzzled expression, which I ignore.

‘Well, whatever he did, he is mine! ‘Scuse me, ladies!’ Frankie steams off in pursuit of her prey and doesn’t hear my mother’s plaintive, ‘Well, actually, I think you’ll find he’s Juliet’s, dear!’

Grrr. How can Oliver Cartwright be gorgeous? Be bloody perfect in every way. He wasn’t when we were kids. He was a bit lanky, sweet and maybe a bit cute, but all arms and legs, and the odd spot, and voice that hadn’t decided how low it was going to be, and a ‘did it at home’ haircut. And bad jeans. Yeah, he had bad jeans.

Frigging hell, he had all that and was still worth some lip action? I must have been very drunk.

I am not going near the man, he will be totally insufferable.

‘You two can have a nice chat, you must have so much to talk about!’ says Mum.

It is all wrong. I’m exhausted, and the party hasn’t even started.

And now my toes are warm and damp.

I glance down. Stanley is nibbling bits of sausage roll from between them.

The last couple of days have been disastrous.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_5f326aed-a8b5-5d64-840d-a2029c2777cd)

The lead up to Christmas, and Uncle Terence’s party has gone like this …

9.30 p.m., 22 December