Calling Mrs Christmas Read online

  Jim takes my hand. ‘Do you think I’ll love you any more if we have steak for dinner every night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe you’re right.’

  I kick him under the table and he laughs. After he’s said, ‘Ouch.’

  The flat’s OK really. The block’s a bit tired. Built with all the style the 1970s could muster, it looks like the sort of square, grey lump that you’d imagine more akin to Stalingrad or somewhere Communist and depressing. The windows need replacing as a howling gale comes in around the edges and our communal stairwell could best be described as functional. I’m sure we could make a bit on the side by renting it out as a set for slasher movies. It would be perfect.

  We’ve lived here for two years now. The landlord’s a bit of a twat too and, as is the way, we have to make two dozen phone calls before he’ll deign to come out and fix anything. Usually, Jim just ends up doing it. We try to make the best of it and have the place as nice as we can. But it’s not home, is it? Not when you’re renting. It’s still always like living somewhere you don’t really belong. I didn’t think this was where I’d be at this stage in my life. I thought I’d be happily married, have my own home, maybe even a couple of kids. I didn’t think that I’d still be scratching an existence in rented accommodation with a baby about as distant a prospect as a trip to the moon. I want to marry Jim. I want to marry him on a tropical beach with colourful flowers in my hair and white sand and waving palm trees. That’s my dream. I don’t want a massive church bash with three hundred guests and a disco. I just want me and Jim and the sand beneath our feet. But how am I ever going to achieve that if I can’t even get a job as a secretary? Which turns me back to the plan in hand.

  ‘So, do you think I should give this business a go?’ I desperately need Jim’s approval, otherwise it’s dead in the water. I don’t have the nerve to do this without his backing.

  He plays with his fork in the risotto. Today he seems more wound up than normal when he comes home from work, as if he could do with a good glass of red. But, for reasons that you’re now well aware of, there won’t be one. ‘We’ve nothing put away now, Cassie. It’s all gone and the credit cards are maxed out.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Jim,’ I say more crisply than I mean to. ‘Surely that makes it even more critical that I do something? I’d try to keep the outgoings to a bare minimum. A lot of the services I’m going to offer won’t need any outlay at all.’

  He doesn’t look convinced. ‘Even if it takes off, it would more than likely stop dead in January.’

  ‘I know. But if it goes really well, then maybe I could carry on doing a similar sort of thing for the rest of the year. Event planning or something. There’s always Valentine’s Day and Easter. Mother’s Day too. It’s just that Christmas is The Big One.’ I touch his hand. ‘I feel that I have to try. It would get me out of the house. Get me involved in life again. I’m going mad being at home all the time. I feel worse than useless.’

  ‘I can tell that it’s got you all fired up again.’ He smiles at me. ‘That’s good to see.’

  ‘Can I go for it? Will you support me?’

  ‘Of course I will. You know that I’ll do all I can. Whatever you do, you’ll be brilliant at it.’

  ‘I love you.’ I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. ‘Thank you for your faith in me.’

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘have you got a name for your brilliant new venture?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ I say proudly. ‘Calling Mrs Christmas!’

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, I get up when Jim’s alarm goes off. While he shaves and potters about, I make him coffee and toast. He’s very surprised by all this. But I hate to disappoint him: it’s not just my desire to make breakfast for my dearly beloved that’s motivated me out of bed today. The truth is that I can’t wait to get to the computer and start doing some work on my business plan. I could hardly sleep last night for thinking about it.

  I kiss Jim goodbye and wave through the window to him as he drives away. Then I take my coffee through to the spare bedroom, which, apart from the desk in the corner, is our general dumping ground, ironing room, gym (unused exercise bike in the corner, which doubles as extra wardrobe space) and computer room.

  Ignoring the mounting pile of ironing, I hit the desk, put down my mug and settle myself in front of the screen. I’m so keen to get started that I haven’t even bothered to get showered or dressed yet. I start to search the internet to see what I can find – decorations, invitations, cards, Christmas cake, mince pies – and I’m not disappointed. Five minutes later, I’m on YouTube and a whole world of previously unexplored festive delights opens up before me. I click, click, click on a multitude of clips and gorge myself on an array of Christmas goodies.

  It’s eleven o’clock when I come up for breath, in which time I have learned how to wrap a present in luxurious style, make a bow for it, dress a tree/table/mantelpiece, create a spectacular centrepiece, do Christmas calligraphy, decorate cupcakes, make and ice snowflake biscuits and knock out my own mince pies. I’m positively brimming over with inspiration and I haven’t even left the flat. I always thought that I was pretty good at doing these things, anyway, but now I’ve taken my Christmas skill set to a whole new level.

  Surfing some more, I then make a list of all the things I think I can offer. It makes me smile when I realise that the list is quite extensive. I have talents that I’ve hidden even from myself. Surely someone will need my services?

  The next time I glance at my watch it’s nearly lunchtime. It’s my sister’s half-day today. Gaby works as a receptionist at a dental practice not far from her home in Leverstock Green. If I get a wriggle on, I can be round at her house just after she gets in and we can have a sandwich together. I can’t wait to tell her my plans as she’s been very worried about me over the last few months and she’ll be delighted that, at last, I’ve found something that I can really get my teeth into.

  I print off my list, run round the shower, throw on some clothes and sprint out of the door. It is a long time since I’ve done sprinting and my smile widens to a grin. Outside, the day is cold, damp and the sky hangs down to the trees, but I have never felt better. My feet fly over the pavement. My heart hammers with happiness. I feel as if I could walk all the way to Gaby’s house on the clouds but sense prevails and I jump into my clapped-out car and drive down instead.

  Five minutes later, I pull up outside her door. ‘Hiya, sis,’ she says as she lets me in. ‘Didn’t expect to see you today. Everything OK?’

  ‘More than OK,’ I tell her as I follow her into the kitchen. ‘I’ve come up with a brilliant plan.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ she says. ‘Want something to eat?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind.’ I love my sis. She never fails to deliver on the food front. Anyone who walks through her front door is instantly fed.

  ‘Cheese on toast?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  She and I have always had a close relationship and, in many ways, she’s more like a mum to me than my sister. Gaby’s the one I’ve always turned to when I’ve been in need. My own mother – my real mother – has always been somewhat neglectful of her maternal duties. All the time we were growing up, she was fairly hands off in her nurturing. She kept a roof over our heads, just about, and paid the bills, sporadically, but other than that, she did little more for us than she absolutely had to.

  Dad left us years ago – I was five and Gaby was eight – and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since. We woke up one day to find him gone and Mum never spoke of him again. We were a single-parent family when they weren’t all that fashionable. The sad thing is that I really don’t remember my dad all that much. We don’t talk about him often now, Gaby and I. The truth is that we don’t even know if he’s dead or alive. When we were younger, Gaby used to tell me things about him. He liked cars and country music. He had yellow fingers because he smoked a lot. And he danced very badly, Gaby said, but that
could apply to any dad. She doesn’t talk about him now. Hasn’t referred to him for years and neither have I.

  When he pushed off, my mum went a bit mental. She didn’t get out of her dressing gown for weeks on end, despite Gaby doing her best to coax her. When she finally did, she put on her lipstick and high heels and then we didn’t see her for dust. Sometimes she didn’t come home until the middle of the night. Sometimes not at all. It was Gaby who, red-eyed through lack of sleep, would get us up and dressed for school. It was Gaby who scoured the cupboards, looking for something for us to eat. I shake the image away. It’s just too painful to dwell on.

  So, as she makes our lunch, I sit on one of her kitchen stools and fill her in on my new business idea.

  ‘Wow,’ she says as she takes it all in. ‘I’m impressed. This sounds like your perfect job. Why did we not think of it before? Since we were kids, you’ve always been the one who loved Christmas.’

  Did I love it? I remember it being just Gaby, me and Mum. It was the one time of the year that we had a lavish meal on the table as Gaby used to put money away from her Saturday job into a Christmas Hamper Club run by one of our neighbours. That was the highlight of the year, that hamper arriving, laden with its luscious Christmas pudding, a tin of ham, cranberry sauce, fancy biscuits and jams and always a tin of Walkers shortbread. Gaby and I used to get all the contents out on our bedroom floor and admire them in awe. Mum would buy us presents – a doll, a book, one year roller skates. We used to meticulously cut out paper shapes to make Mum a card. Quite often on Christmas Day, Mum would get drunk and teary. She would hug us to her and weep into our hair when we just wanted to watch television and gorge ourselves on the contents of the hamper. But it was the one day of the year we could guarantee her being around and, perhaps, I loved it for that reason alone.

  ‘You’ll be brilliant at it. You’ve always put me to shame with your decorations. And you pick the best presents. I don’t know how you do it. You always manage to find the right thing.’

  ‘Hours spent surfing the internet,’ I confess. ‘You think I could do it?’

  ‘No one better,’ she confirms.

  ‘I’m going to get on to it right away,’ I say. ‘No time to lose.’

  ‘Only sixty shopping days to Christmas.’

  ‘Really?’

  Gaby laughs. ‘Give or take a few. I don’t know. Thankfully, I haven’t actually started counting yet.’

  ‘I’m panicking slightly about the timescale,’ I tell her. ‘But I’m trying to see it as a challenge.’

  ‘I’m just glad to see you’ve got your spark back. I’ve missed it.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘You know that I’ll do anything that I can to help.’

  ‘I might hold you to that. You could come in very handy for my mince pie and Christmas cake baking service.’ Gaby is an excellent cook. Her cakes are held in high esteem in this family and she produces them with unfailing regularity. ‘Fancy giving cupcakes a go? They’re still all the rage.’

  She shrugs in acquiescence. ‘Sure.’

  I’m certain she could easily turn her hand to them. Or, at the very least, help me to improve mine. She’s a stickler for perfection. I’m more the slap-it-about merchant. However, I realise that if I’m offering a professional service, that is going to have to change.

  ‘I’ve faffed about with them a bit already. I’ve got plenty of icing nozzles and stuff that you can borrow.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘I’ll dig them out after we’ve eaten.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘If you do get this going, you’ll be absolutely knackered by Christmas,’ Gaby observes. ‘You are both coming to me for lunch again?’

  It’s a habit that we’ve got into over the years since she’s had her own family. I guess that on Christmas Day it’s easier for Gaby to be at home with the kids where they’ve got all their new toys, rather than for us all to be squashed in our flat. This year, though, I feel we’ll need it more than ever. ‘Don’t think that you always have to invite us. Your husband might want you all to himself for once.’

  She guffaws at that. ‘As if!’

  ‘You know what I mean. I don’t like to presume.’

  Jim and I love being with Gaby and Ryan on Christmas Day and we normally try to get here in time to see the kids open their presents. Even though it does mean a ridiculously early start. Last year we actually slept over on Christmas Eve so that we were already here when they woke up. At four o’clock. Maybe we’ll stay in our own bed this year and try to catch the tail end of the paper tearing at about seven.

  ‘It’s a time for family,’ Gaby insists. ‘All of us. Besides, I know that money’s tight this year. Come to us. If this business does take off, you could well be a gibbering wreck by then.’

  I look over at my sister as she’s checking on our cheese under the grill.

  The question has to be asked and I dread it. ‘Is Mum coming?’

  ‘I’ll ask her. But you know what she’s like, Cassie.’ My sister smiles ruefully. ‘She’ll wait to see if she gets a better offer.’

  Mum had us both when she was still a teenager and maybe that was part of the problem. Being a mother when you’re still a child yourself is never going to be easy, is it? I think her family must have ostracised her as there never seemed to be any aunties around and I’ve never met my own grandma. It’s another subject that’s taboo.

  Mum’s only seventeen years older than Gaby and is, therefore, not your typical granny. She’s in her mid-fifties now and wears her clothes too tight, still drinks too much, smokes and has inappropriate boyfriends. Lots of them. If one of her men offers to take her to Spain for the holiday, she’s on a plane quicker than you can say easyJet. If, on the other hand, all of her boyfriends are with their wives, then she’ll be here complaining loudly about her lot and how little she sees of us. I wish she’d take up knitting and sip sherry instead of knocking back vodka shots, and realise, late in life, that she should have been there for us more. But she does none of these things. I know that she’s my mother but, most of the time, I could joyfully choke her. My sister has a lot more patience with her than I do.

  Gaby is still the first person I’d turn to for advice. We’re a lot alike and neither of us is remotely like our mum, so I’m assuming that we took our genes from our dad. My sister is also curvy. Her hair is long and dark, currently dyed borderline black as she started going grey in her late teens. I’m not surprised with all that rested on her shoulders. Thankfully, she struck gold when it came to men and she’s married to a lovely guy, Ryan Healy. He’s cut from the same cloth as Jim and is as steady as the day is long. Ryan works as a train driver for Virgin Trains on the main line into Euston and his family is his life. He’s got a sunny, affable nature and makes my sister laugh a lot. They’ve got two lovely children, George who’s seven and Molly, five. The same sort of age that Gaby and I were when Dad left. I can no more imagine Ryan walking out on his kids than I can see him on stage with Lady Gaga.

  My sister, in spite of our flaky upbringing – or because of it – could write a handbook on perfect parenting. She does everything for her children. I love my niece and nephew more than life itself. They are the children I’ve never had and I see them nearly every day. When I don’t, I miss them dearly. My sister’s house is a small, terraced place just off the green in Leverstock Green. She’s terribly house-proud and has done it out fashionably with that big-flowered wallpaper that’s so popular now in shades of brown and duck-egg blue. They both work hard to keep it nice. Their lawn might be the size of a postage stamp, but Ryan mows it every weekend and the garden’s always full of colourful flowers. The dentist that Gaby works for is just round the corner at the parade of shops. It’s a job that she enjoys but which doesn’t take her away too much from her family, who are her total priority. She has all that I want for myself.

  Gaby puts my cheese on toast down in front of me. ‘You’re a star,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’ She tak
es the stool next to me and I root in my handbag to find my printout. I push it across to her. ‘Calling Mrs Christmas!’

  ‘Wow,’ she says between mouthfuls. ‘Like the name.’ She scans my list of services. ‘Can you really do all this?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I confess. ‘But I’m a fast learner.’

  ‘It looks like great fun. I know a few people who’d book you to do stuff. I bet you’re going to be busy.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Then I turn to her. Suddenly, my euphoria deserts me. ‘I’m frightened, Gaby. This is the first time I’ve ever had a business idea. What if it doesn’t work?’

  ‘Nothing lost,’ Gaby assures me. ‘The only loss would be if you didn’t bother to try it. This is a great idea and, for most things, you can ask for payment in advance. For a lot of the services you’re offering there’ll be only a small layout and if you ask for a deposit, that would secure most things.’