Читать книгу Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read! - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 13

I lie around the flat for the next week, trying to shake off my gloom.

It feels weird waving Barb off to work every morning.

She gets this sheepishly apologetic look on her face at having a job to go to, which to be honest just makes me feel worse.

The Scandinavian box set we started watching becomes part of my daily routine.

Every morning, I stand at the door as Barb leaves and call something vaguely motivational as I wave her off. As in: ‘Well, must get down to the jobcentre!’ Or: ‘Hey, it’s jobs day in the Gazette today!’

A sly curtain twitch to check she’s actually driven off. Then it’s into the kitchen for a bowl of muesli (old habits die hard) with a generous squirt of aerosol cream on top and a heap of nicely crushed-up Twirl (up yours, Nathan).

Then it’s into the shady living room (daylight is truly the work of the devil) for a non-stop murder-fest of gruesome proportions. Blood and gore? Dissected brains? Innards tumbling out onto the slab? Bring it on!

Half-way through the third day, though, niggles start creeping in.

I need to look for a job. Otherwise I’ll be penniless by about March.

And if I carry on eating all the carbs in the world, partly to spite Nathan but mainly because it’s so wonderfully numbing, I truly will have the ginormous arse I’m famed for.

Speaking of which, I’ve developed this weird pain in my right buttock. I keep having to wriggle around, trying different positions to ease it. It was on and off to start with. But it’s growing more persistent.

I know my ex is a massive pain in the backside but it can’t have manifested into a physical ailment, can it?

Tonight, when Barb wants to catch up with all the brooding, Danish drama, I’ve got to pretend it’s all new to me.

It’s all going well until a really gruesome bit comes up in episode nine (which I watched the day before yesterday) when I know for sure someone’s about to get a vital part of their body forcibly removed.

‘Ugh, can’t watch this bit.’ I leap up and head for the kitchen, rubbing my buttock. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

When I come back in, Barb narrows her eyes at me. ‘Have you watched it all, then?’

‘No!’ Indignantly, I plonk down a mug and a chocolate biscuit on her side table.

Barb grins. ‘Which episode are you up to?’

‘Um … eighteen,’ I tell her, a touch defiantly. ‘But from tomorrow, it stops. Apart from anything else, I’ve developed this really weird pain in my right buttock.’

She studies me as I wriggle about in my chair to find a comfy position. Then she says, ‘You know what that is, of course?’

‘No. What?’

‘It’s a very serious medical condition.’

‘Oh yes?’

She snorts. ‘It’s called Box-Set Bum!’

‘Oh, ha-flippin’-ha,’ I say grumpily.

‘Or, to use the layman’s term for it: Killer Arse!’

She goes off into hysterics, spilling her tea and wiping her eyes, while I stare at her mutinously. It’s really not very funny.

‘I’ll buy you one of those blow-up rings people sit on when they’ve got painful haemorrhoids,’ she gasps, between snorts. ‘What colour would you like?’

‘Black to match my mood,’ I growl. ‘But I’d rather have a vodka and cranberry to numb the pain.’

Barb obliges and the alcohol definitely helps. Pretty soon, even I’m seeing the funny side of my killer arse.

Next morning, I’m up early, showered and dressed even before Barb leaves for work.

‘I’m going to re-do my CV today,’ I announce. ‘Absolutely no lounging in front of the TV. Those days are over.’

Barb smiles. ‘Good for you. A lot of folk would go to pieces if they’d gone through what you have. It takes determination to get out there again.’

‘Well, you watch, I’ll have landed a job by tea-time,’ I say, sounding a great deal more jovial than I feel inside.

I’d say the main thing that got me out of bed this morning wasn’t determination, as Barb seems to think, but fear.

Stark, stomach-churning terror at the thought of ending up penniless. It’s been rising steadily inside me – like water in a punctured life raft – ever since my world came crashing down. I’ve been doggedly ignoring it. But you can’t bury your head in the sand forever. Eventually, the nasty stuff must be faced.

‘I’m asking around,’ says Barb, on her way out of the door. ‘Seeing if anyone knows of any vacancies.’

After she’s gone, I make myself another coffee and settle down at the kitchen table with my laptop.

A second later, there’s a mammoth crash right outside the flat that makes my heart leap into my mouth. Followed five minutes later by a series of loud scrapes coming from the building’s communal hall.

This is grim.

Someone is clearly trying to drag a dead body wrapped in a blanket up the stairs. (Watching blood-thirsty Scandinavian drama 24/7 will do that to your brain.)

I peer out of the window. There’s a large white van parked right outside with its back doors open. There’s no one about but, clearly, whatever was in the van is currently being manoeuvred up the stairs.

Right on cue there’s another loud grating noise, as if something heavy or awkward is scraping along a wall then being set down on the concrete stairs.

I put my head round the door.

Just in time to see a pair of long male legs in skinny jeans mounting the stairs. The owner of the legs is labouring slightly under the weight of a large black box.

He glances back at the sound of the door opening, gives me a fleeting grin and says, ‘Hi there. Apologies for the commotion. But I think we’re done now.’

I raise my hand, embarrassed at being caught nosing. ‘Hey, don’t worry. Didn’t hear a thing.’

I watch his legs disappear, all prepared to make a hasty retreat if he comes back down.

As I linger, curious, there’s a thud and a foreboding crashing sound followed by a series of passionate expletives. I screw up my face. Whatever was in that box – crockery? – is clearly no longer in one piece.

‘Has someone moved into the flat above?’ I ask Barb on her return that evening.

She disappears into her room. ‘You mean Jasper?’ she calls. ‘Yes, he moved in last month.’

‘Oh? What’s he like?’

‘Bit of a div but harmless enough, I suppose. He’s locked himself out of his car twice since he got here. And he’s always in a tearing hurry, like he’s constantly late for something.’

She pops her head round the door. ‘I did tell you someone had moved in but you must have forgotten. But of course you haven’t been here much recently, what with spending so much time at …’ She tails off, embarrassed at having referred to He-Who-Mustn’t-Be-Mentioned, and retreats back into her room.

My stomach plummets.

Every time I think I’m over Nathan, yet another pesky reminder parachutes in and knocks the breath right out of me.

Mostly, though, I’m doing okay.

It helps to know that the relationship would never have worked.

Nathan needs Iron Woman in his life and I could never be that, however much I trained and sweated. His constant preoccupation with fitness would have driven me barmy within a year. In fact, for the first time ever, I actually find myself feeling sorry for Crystal (on the days I’m not fantasising about tampering with her treadmill so she goes flying off the end). She’ll never be able to keep up with him.

I call out to Barb, ‘Do you know him well, then?’

‘Who? Nathan?’ she asks, coming into the living room.

‘The guy upstairs. Jasper?’

‘Oh.’ Then after a pause: ‘Not really.’

‘Have you met him?’

‘Yeah, a couple of times. He’s a bit weird, though.’

‘Weird?’

‘Scatter-brained. He’s always losing his keys and getting me to buzz him into the building. And, last week, he left his violin out in the rain overnight.’

‘Really? Was it ruined?’

‘No, apparently it was in its case so it was fine. But, honestly, what a dipstick.’

I remember Jasper’s warm, friendly smile that extended to his rather nice brown eyes. He’d seemed really nice to me. But then, I’d only had a ten-second conversation, mainly with his back.

Barb disappears and comes back with her bag of knitting. She slumps down on the sofa. ‘Christ. I know I probably shouldn’t complain. Lucky to have a job and all that bollocks. But that place might possibly be the death of me.’

‘Over-worked and under-paid?’ I frown in sympathy.

She nods. ‘We’re short-staffed after all the redundancies. It’s a nightmare. You’re actually lucky to be out of it.’

I smile, although ‘lucky’ is the very last thing I feel.

I applied for two jobs this afternoon and signed up with a temping agency. But people keep saying this is the worst time of year to be job-hunting because everyone’s more interested in sorting out their Christmas plans and office parties than doing actual work.

‘What are you making?’ I nod at the bundle of red wool and needles she’s bringing out of the bag.

‘Christmas tree decorations.’

‘Mm. Lovely.’

Barb frowns. ‘Yes, I know. Hilarious. But they’ll look great, I promise you.’

I nod in reluctant agreement. Barb is heavily into crafting. She says it’s her way of relaxing and I have to admit, most of the stuff she creates is pretty amazing. She started making her Christmas cards last weekend. The design – a single bauble with rows of red and gold sequins – is beautifully simple but effective.

It’s my turn to make dinner so I wander through to the kitchen and start chopping onions and peppers for the chilli. I’m just putting the rice on when I hear the unmistakeable sound of Oklahoma! starting up in the living room on Barb’s iPod. She starts singing along to ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’.

I grimace.

Things must be bad at work.

Old-style musicals are Barb’s secret vice. Along with her crafting.

The fact she’s indulging in both at once must mean she’s really stressed.

Definitely a night for comfort food on trays in front of the TV.

Looking at Barb in her black garb and black eye make-up, you’d never think she was the world’s biggest fan of musicals. But she is. She adores all the oldies like West Side Story, Oklahoma! and, yes, The Sound of Music. (I’ve banned ‘The Lonely Goatherd’ because I think it stretches the boundaries of human endurance just a little too far. All that yodelling.)

When I take her chilli through, Gordon MacRae is belting out, ‘Oh, the cowmen and the cowgirls should be friends!’ accompanied by a great deal of yee-hah-ing and thigh-slapping.

Barb looks up sheepishly, puts down her knitting and takes the tray. ‘Sorry.’

‘Hey, no problem. Gordon’s fairly cute, as ancient film stars go.’

‘I shouldn’t let work and weasels get me down,’ she shouts, when I’m back in the kitchen.

‘No, you shouldn’t. Sod the lot of them,’ I call back, encouragingly. ‘Wine?’

Obligingly, she whines.

My mind is still processing the weasel part.

I sit down with my own tray and hand her a glass of Shiraz. ‘Weasels? Does that mean you heard from Frank today?’

She curls her lip. ‘He came in and asked for me at reception, the twat.’

Frank, her ex, is a razor-jawed accountant who does underwear modelling in his spare time and accepts women’s adoration as totally his due. He found his match in Barb, though, and they had a stormy year-long relationship, during which time Barb ditched the witchy look in favour of a more floaty, pastel-heavy palette. Then Frank announced he was fed up being ‘emasculated’ and left Barb for an air-head Marilyn Monroe look-alike who no doubt agrees with everything he says.

Whatever Barb might say, I know their split in January hit her badly.

But we never mention her pastel phase.

It’s strictly off-limits.

Which suits me fine, since I’m the last one to bring up my murky past.

‘What did Frank want?’ I ask carefully.

‘Lunch.’

‘So did you go?’

‘No!’ she scoffs. ‘I told him to take a hike. Preferably up a very steep mountain in slippery shoes.’

I grin at her admiringly. ‘Does he still use aftershave like it’s going out of fashion?’

‘Smells like a tart’s boudoir.’

‘You’re so much better off without him,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Although…’

She whips round. ‘Although what?’

I shrug. ‘Maybe it’s time you started thinking – you know – about dating again?’

I’m taking my life in my hands here, but someone has to tell her. Since Frank, she’s had a real downer on men. And I worry she might retreat more and more into her world of deathly black and end up only going out at night when the moon is full or something.

Her Frontal Lobe Theory about relationships is just a stalling tactic, I reckon.

She sighs impatiently. ‘Tell you what, we’ll go out on the pull together, shall we? Fancy it?’

‘No.’ I laugh.

She purses her lips. ‘Well, then.’

We finish our chilli, as the unbearably cheesy and romantic, ‘People will say we’re in love’ swells to an emotional crescendo.

Sneaking a look at Barb, I catch her snuffling into a hanky. ‘It’s the chilli. It’s making my nose run,’ she mumbles.

I sigh. ‘Could you pass—?’

She hands over the box of paper tissues.

I whip one out and blow my own nose. ‘Think I’ve got a cold coming on.’

‘I’ve got just the remedy,’ she says with a watery smile.

The ‘remedy’ turns out to be a wondrous invention called Irish hot chocolate.

It’s basically hot chocolate with a measure or two of Irish cream liqueur and a little island of whipping cream floating on top. It’s incredibly sweet. (Barb’s hand obviously kept slipping when she was pouring the liqueur. I’d say it’s more half-and-half.) But it’s amazing how quickly your taste buds adjust.

We’ve moved on to The Sound of Music by this time and Barb is throwing her whole heart into ‘Climb Every Mountain’, using the floor as her stage and her hair straighteners as a microphone.

Her voice is amazing. I keep telling her she should audition for The X Factor but she says Simon Cowell would just dismiss her as a pub singer.

She’s getting towards the high bit at the end now.

‘Follow every rainbow. Till. You. Find. Your…’

I screw my face up. Is the last note heading for the rafters? Or will she crap out and go down an octave?

‘Drea-ea-ea-ea-ea-ea-m!’

Rafters it is, then.

I start clapping and whooping. I know I’ve had a skinful, so my judgement is possibly a little impaired. But that sounded bloomin’ awesome to me.

She does some little modest bows to her audience of one then sinks to the floor and lies flat, stretching her arms over her head and wiggling her fingers and toes. ‘Ooh, that feels better.’

I grin. ‘Maybe I should try it. I could do with some therapy.’

‘Don’t you bloody dare,’ she comes back instantly.

‘Oh, well, that’s nice.’ I fake a huff, heave myself off the sofa and put on the Scandinavian drama.

Barb scrambles to a sitting position, already glued.

‘I know who did it,’ I say smugly, to get my own back. (Although actually, I don’t know because I haven’t got that far.) ‘Shall I tell you?’

Not taking her eyes off the screen, Barb mutters darkly, ‘If you do, this room will become a crime scene.’

Next morning, I’m coming out of the flat on the way to an interview at the jobcentre, when I hear a key turning in a lock up above.

Jasper comes clattering down the stairs. He’s wearing jeans and a black leather bomber jacket.

‘Hi again.’ He offers his hand. ‘I’m Jas.’

‘Lola.’

His handshake feels dry and firm. Sort of trustworthy.

‘Lola. Nice name.’ His brown eyes twinkle at me.

‘Thanks.’

‘Some great singing coming from your place last night.’

I stare at him in horror. ‘It was that loud?’

‘Well, yes.’ He grins and runs a hand through his curly brown hair. ‘Apparently the people in Norway heard it, too.’

‘Oh, God, sorry!’

‘Hey, don’t worry. They enjoyed it. That top note.’ He shakes his head admiringly. ‘Stunning. It got me thinking, actually. How would you and your flatmate feel about joining my Christmas choir?’

‘Your choir? Are you a musician, then?’

He nods modestly. ‘I’d like to think so.’

‘Do you play an instrument?’

‘Quite a few. Piano, saxophone, trumpet.’

‘Violin?’

He looks surprised. ‘Yes, actually.’

‘And you have a choir as well?’

‘Just for the festive season. There’s only six of us so far but I’m trying to recruit more people. We’ll sing Christmas songs and visit old folks’ homes, kids in hospital, that kind of thing.’

‘How wonderful.’

He smiles and his eyes light up. ‘Just my way of giving something back to the community. Music is such great therapy. It can really lift the spirits, you know?’

I nod, thinking of Barb.

‘So can I count on you and Barbara, is it?’ He looks at me quizzically. ‘To be my new choir members?’

‘It’s Barb actually. I’ll ask her. It was her you heard, by the way, not me.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘But you’ll come too?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

‘Why not? It’ll be amazing. Come on. Give it a go.’

His energy and sense of fun are infectious.

I can’t help thinking it probably will be amazing if Jasper’s in charge. And possibly lots of fun, too.

Fun is a concept that has been seriously lacking in my life for some time now.

Even when I was with Nathan, fun was never terribly high up the agenda. We were always either having early nights in preparation for the big event at the weekend. Or early nights because we were knackered from the big event …

I smile at him.

‘So you’ll do it? Yay!’ He punches the air.

And then, of course, I can’t possibly refuse because he looks so ridiculously delighted.

‘Rehearsal on Thursday night at Pottersdale Community Centre. I’ll give you both a lift. Leaving seven-thirty?’

‘Okay,’ I say, laughing.

He raises his hand and disappears.

Marvelling at the whirlwind that was Jasper, I lock up and put the keys in my bag. I feel suddenly energised. Sort of lighter in spirit with renewed optimism about the future. Meeting some new people and getting to know Jasper might be just the tonic I need right now.

It’s only when I’m half-way along the high street that it suddenly dawns on me.

Bloody hell. I’ve just agreed to join a choir.

Just one minor glitch in my brilliant plan.

I’m a totally rubbish singer.

That’s what my brother, Rob, tells me, anyway.

When we were kids, he used to zap me with his Power Ranger and stuff his fingers in his ears whenever I so much as sang along to an advert on TV.

Jasper described Barb’s high note as ‘stunning’.

If I were to attempt it, I’d definitely stun the populace for miles around.

But not in a good way.

Still, it’s ages till Thursday. Plenty of time to think up an excuse not to go.