Читать книгу Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read! - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 12

I catch a bus back into Pottersdale, go straight to Nathan’s and snuffle my way around his apartment, packing all my stuff into one of his sports bags. Then I call a taxi. If he wants his bag back he’ll have to come and collect it.

Back at the flat, I go to my room, flump on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. Everything is churning chaotically around in my head, each image jarring against the next like the climax of a horror movie.

Me bouncing into the boss’s office with happy expectations of promotion. The discomfort on Marla’s face when she had to deliver the grim news of my redundancy. Walking out of the office for the very last time. Buying the strawberry chews in a daze (did I actually pay for them? I can’t remember) and walking to the lake. Feeling sure Nathan would make it all better. And then the whole sad farce in the supermarket that proved me totally wrong.

Tears slide down into my hair.

And if all this wasn’t bad enough, there was that irritating hulk of a man lurking at the newspaper stand and witnessing every excruciating detail of my horrible Tannoy humiliation.

Feeling suddenly more furious than upset, I sit up and dash away the tears.

Then I fetch cleaning materials from the kitchen and start blitzing the flat like it has never been cleaned before. I dust everywhere, including the skirting boards, and I even get under the beds and remove the dust bunnies and the old pizza plate from underneath Barb’s.

Half-way through scrubbing the bath, the phone rings and it’s Barb, wanting to know if I’m okay. She’s apparently been trying to get through all morning since she heard about the redundancies, but my phone was switched off.

When she hears about Nathan, she goes very quiet and asks me if I’d like her to nip home right now. But I assure her I’m fine and that I’ll see her later.

I get back to tackling the bath but after a few minutes, my head starts to swim and I really think I’m going to faint.

And then the doorbell rings.

Who …?

It can’t be Barb. She couldn’t have got back already.

Slinking into the living room, I decide to lie low on the sofa until whoever it is goes away.

But a knock on the window puts paid to that plan.

Nathan.

My heart does a giant thud. I’d switched off my phone so I didn’t have to speak to him. But now I’m going to have to face him.

He stares in at me, his hand raised in a sheepish greeting, and then he has the cheek to mouth, ‘Sorry.’

Swallowing hard, I trail to the door, trying not to care that my mascara has no doubt migrated to my chin.

Nathan stands there in his charcoal grey suit and white shirt, tie loosened rakishly, his face contrite and even a little vulnerable.

Bloody typical.

He looks like the new James Bond.

I look like shit.

‘God, Lola, I’m so sorry.’ His arms are stretched wide. ‘I can’t believe we got our wires crossed like that.’

He does actually look devastated.

‘It was probably for the best,’ I tell him icily. ‘At least I know how you really feel about me now.’

‘But I don’t think you do.’ He moves towards me and gently places his hand on my arm. ‘You’re bright and gorgeous and sexy. And I’ve never met anyone like you before. And you know what?’

‘What?’ I try to sound as if I’m not bothered.

But then his other hand is suddenly around my waist, ruining my pathetic attempt at a cold front.

‘It kills me that I’ve made you look so sad.’

I swallow hard, staring at his left shoulder, willing myself not to cry.

‘Lola, look at me. Please.’ He dabs gently with his thumb at a gathering teardrop. ‘You know, I’d absolutely hate it if you weren’t in my life.’

He looks so genuinely gutted, I suddenly find myself wondering if maybe I’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Perhaps he didn’t really want to break up. Maybe it was all, as he said, just a stupid mix-up.

He deserves a chance to explain.

So when he moves towards me, I step back to let him over the threshold, and before I know what’s happening, I’m pinned against the wall and Nathan is kissing me. Not passionately but tenderly, which for some reason is far more erotic, and my cold front is starting to thaw faster than an iced-up freezer compartment blasted with a hair dryer.

I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in, the smell of his skin … that familiar scent of – jasmine?

Reality bursts in on our fledgling reunion.

Either Nathan has taken to wearing a sickly sweet perfume, or that scent belonged to someone else altogether.

I pull away and peer at him. ‘Nathan, what were you talking about to Crystal in that meeting at lunchtime?’

‘Uh?’

I wriggle out of his grasp. ‘Crystal. Why did you want to see her at Freshfoods?’

‘Wasn’t a meeting,’ he mumbles. ‘She just turned up.’

I frown. ‘Molly on customer services definitely said you had a meeting.’

‘It was about the Great Brig Run.’ He shrugs. ‘We’re training together for it.’

‘But I was going to do it with you.’

‘Yeah, but it’s not really your thing, though, is it?’ he says, looking at the floor.

‘Well, it could be.’

His look is shifty. ‘I – um – don’t think Crystal would like it.’

‘Hang on.’ I stare at him incredulously. ‘Are you telling me you’ve been seeing Crystal behind my back?’

‘No, of course not.’ He looks genuinely horrified. ‘But she’s really up for taking her fitness to the next level and she needs my help.’

I laugh bitterly. ‘And I expect mattress bouncing will feature heavily in your exercise plan.’

His awkward shrug tells me all I need to know.

I’m beginning to get the picture. And it’s not a pretty one.

‘So basically, I’ve been dumped because I don’t want to take my fitness to the next level?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s how it looks.’

He sighs. ‘Look, when we met, you’d just joined the gym and you seemed really keen on getting fit. And I thought if I could turn an unfit woman like you into an athlete, I could – well …’

‘Well what?’

He shrugs. ‘Have what it takes to be a good personal trainer.’

My mouth drops open.

‘I mean, you weren’t that unfit,’ he says, back-tracking hastily. ‘Not at all. You just needed – well, someone like me.’

He smiles and kisses my nose.

I do not smile back. ‘So let me get this straight. I was an experiment?’

Nathan looks confused.

‘I was a bloody experiment!’

He laughs nervously. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘No, come on, admit it!’ The realisation is making me feel quite sick. ‘I was your guinea pig.’

‘Huh?’

‘You wanted to see if you had the skill to turn a couch potato like me into a marathon runner!’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite—’

‘Well, I would. Face it, Nathan, I was the sporting bloody equivalent of Eliza Fucking Doolittle.’ I march to the front door and hold it wide. ‘If I were you, I’d leave immediately—’

He hesitates so I hit him with the ultimate threat. ‘Before Barb gets back and puts a curse on you.’

He’s out of the door in a flash.

‘One more thing. If you’re with Crystal now, what the hell were you doing kissing me?’

He raises a lascivious eyebrow. ‘Ever heard of friends with benefits?’

‘Never gonna happen.’

‘You’ll just go to seed now.’ He shakes his head regretfully. ‘Without me to keep an eye on your weight, you’ll start to balloon.’

As I slam the door, I hear him shouting, ‘And believe me, that’s not an attractive look!’

I lean back against the door, trembling with hurt and fury. How could I have been so stupid? Imagining Nathan truly cared about me. If Barb was able to see through his charm, why couldn’t I?

Self-disgust trickles through me. I know exactly why. I’ve been completely blind to Nathan’s faults. The thought that someone as attractive as him would actually want to be with me felt amazing. And he’d seemed to believe in me, far more than I believed in myself.

But it had all been a mirage.

I’d seen personal trainers on TV boosting their clients’ self-esteem and motivation by talking them up, telling them how fantastic they were and what an incredible amount they’d already achieved.

That’s what Nathan was doing with me. And stupidly, I’d thought it meant he loved me.

I swallow on the painful lump in my throat.

Clock Patience.

Where are the playing cards?

I rake through my bedroom drawers. Not there.

But there’s sure to be a pack in our chaotic, walk-in cupboard off the kitchen (also known as the Crap Closet). I clamber past the Hoover and the ironing board and step over a bucket containing used paint tins and stiffened brushes – and finally, I find the brown cardboard box I’m looking for.

Yes, there they are, nestled among an assortment of belongings I haven’t bothered to unpack since I moved in. I draw the cards out of their carton. They’re a little tatty but perfectly useable.

I haven’t played for a long time.

Back in my room, I sit on the bed and shuffle them carefully, enjoying the feel and the sound of the cards sliding together. Then I begin the game, turning them over, one by one, placing them carefully in the shape of a clock face.

And after a while, a familiar sense of calm settles over me.

I play game after game.

There’s a comfort in the rhythm of laying down the cards, and while I’m concentrating on the game, everything else drifts away.

When I hear Barb’s key in the lock, I feel oddly disorientated.

It’s grown dark outside and, glancing at my watch, I see to my surprise that it’s almost six-thirty.

I’ve been playing Clock Patience for nearly three hours.

Barb knocks softly on the door. ‘Can I come in?’

I blow my nose and open the door.

Her face falls when she sees the state of me. ‘That horrible bastard,’ she mutters angrily and my heart sinks. The last thing I want to do right now is go over it all again.

‘I’m really tired,’ I tell her truthfully. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’

She peers at me. ‘Talking helps. You shouldn’t just bottle it all up.’

‘I’m not.’

She shrugs but doesn’t object when I gently close the door and get back to my card game.

Five minutes later, she’s back.

‘Lola?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve made your favourite. Peanut butter and jam on crusty white.’

‘I’m not hungry, thanks.’ It’s the truth.

‘Why won’t you come out?’ she calls despairingly.

I slap down a two of hearts and a six of spades.

‘Erm, because there’s an unexploded bomb in my pants and if I move, the whole place goes up.’

‘Okay, look, I won’t pester you to talk about it.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Honestly, I won’t.’ A pause. ‘We can watch Bargain Hunt on catch-up?’

I slap down the final king.

Damn, damn, damn! That’s the eighth failed game in a row.

I gather up the cards and start shuffling them together, but somehow they slip out of my hands and fan out, some face up, some face down, all over the laminate flooring.

I stare at them with blurry eyes.

If Nathan were here, he’d say I should work through my feelings with some physical exercise. Get out for a long run. Whip up something healthy because we are what we eat.

Bloody frigging Nathan! He’s probably pumping weights and laughing about me with the hideous Crystal right this minute. Bet she loved my complete humiliation in Freshfoods. Well, she’s welcome to him. Sheep’s curd spread and all.

Hope the killer chandelier falls on her.

‘Lola, you’ve got to eat.’

I laugh bitterly. ‘Well, apparently I don’t. Because my arse is ginormous according to Nathan. And everyone at Freshfoods knows about it.’

‘He didn’t say that. Did he say that?’

‘No, but he was thinking it.’

Actually, I couldn’t care less what Nathan thinks of my arse. Because he’s clearly a massive arse himself who deserves no space in my head whatsoever.

Tears blur my eyes.

Trouble is, he keeps sneaking in there, with his killer smile, marathon-toned body and great way with a shoulder massage. And his fantastic apartment, where I was going to be entertaining my family at Christmas, but which obviously won’t now be available to me.

On top of everything else, this feels like the very last straw. Dad will be so disappointed when I tell him Christmas at mine is cancelled.

I give my nose a good old blow then call out to Barb, ‘Is it crunchy or smooth?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The peanut butter.’

‘Er … crunchy?’

Slowly, I get to my feet. My legs are stiff from sitting on the bed playing Clock Patience for hours.

Three wins in a row used to be my target. Bloody didn’t manage it. But I suppose there’s always tomorrow.

In the living room, Barb ushers me with a flourish to the comfiest armchair and throws over the softest cushions. And Bargain Hunt is the best escapism ever. (I keep telling Barb we should go on it, but she’s not keen.) I even manage a bite or two of peanut butter and jam on crusty white.

We drink tea and slag off the contestants, and it all feels comfortingly normal.

(‘Why the hell did they pay that much for a horrible brown vase?’

‘Ridiculous! It’s even got a chip in it. They’ll never get their money back.’

‘We’d do much better than them. We should go on it, Barb.’)

By the time Bargain Hunt finishes, I’m surprised to find I’ve eaten the whole sandwich.

Barb puts on the first part of a darkly brooding Scandinavian whodunnit and we’re riveted to the screen for the next hour.

The credits roll and she glances across. ‘Next episode?’

‘Go on, then.’

For distraction purposes, this is even better than Clock Patience.

After number three, Barb yawns and gets up. ‘Right. Meeting with old Randy-Pants at nine. Better hit the hay.’

Randy-Pants, aka Peter Randiman, is the big boss at Premier Furnishings. He’s the sort who takes a woman’s cleavage far more seriously than her views. I worry that one day Barb will give him a piece of her mind and end up being sacked for insubordination.

I grin. ‘At least there’s one reason I’m glad not to be going into work tomorrow. Old Randy-Pants.’

Barb smiles sadly. ‘It’ll be fine, you know. You’ll get another job. And another boyfriend.’

‘No thanks.’

‘And you don’t have to cancel Christmas just because Knob Head’s apartment isn’t on offer any more.’

‘Well, I can’t do it here, can I?’ Gloomily, I gaze around me at the cosy but cramped flat.

‘Of course you can,’ says Barb. ‘I’ll be at Mum’s, so you can use my room.’

I smile feebly. ‘Thanks. But Justine would actually die if she had to stay here and I don’t want to be jailed for murder along with everything else. Plus, I’ve no money.’

Barb shrugs. ‘You don’t need loads of cash to have a lovely Christmas.’

I shake my head. ‘Sorry, Barb, but that’s a terrible cliché.’

‘No, it’s not. My mum made all the decorations when we were little.’

‘Really?’ I’m dubious, to say the least.

‘Yeah. She stopped short of knitting a tree. But everything else was home-made. And my childhood Christmases were always fabulous.’

‘Yes, but you were ten,’ I point out. ‘Justine’s thirty-five. And she thinks no Christmas morning is complete without smoked salmon and caviar, and the best champagne.’

Barb makes a face. ‘Well, tell her your Christmas morning isn’t complete without a chocolate orange and a two litre bottle of IRN-BRU.’

I smile for the first time in days.

‘Nathan’s an A* twat,’ calls Barb reassuringly, as I head for bed. ‘He’s proof that evolution can most definitely go in reverse.’