Читать книгу No One Cancels Christmas - Zara Stoneley - Страница 9

Dear Mr Armstrong,

It is with regret that I am emailing to inform you that you really are the proverbial pain in the arse. Burying your head in the sand isn’t big and it isn’t clever. If you really are the Anti-Christmas then go ahead and ruin your own Christmas, but grow a pair and think about other people for once. Ditch the attitude, mate. You’re happy to take our clients’ money, so forget your ‘bah humbug’ – deck your flaming halls with jolly holly and answer my frigging emails!

Love and festive kisses, Sarah xxx

Making Memories, Travel Agents

I hit the final ‘x’ with a flourish and sit back. My hand makes contact with something soft and squishy that shouldn’t be there, and there’s a yelp.

‘Ouch!’ Sam has her hand over her nose, and a pained expression on her face.

‘What on earth are you doing, peering over my shoulder?’

She ignores the question and starts to rub her nose, which makes her words come out all funny. ‘You can’t send that, Sarah!’

‘Why not? I’m starting to hate the man.’ Following hot on the heels of the threat of legal action yesterday, I have arrived at work to a second disaster. Will Armstrong might not have been prepared to take me seriously yesterday, but I want to make sure he will today. Even if my approach is not quite as professional as it should be.

‘But you still can’t—’

‘You think I should have put ass instead of arse? Is arse too British? I was a bit worried about that bit.’

‘Bloody hell, Sarah. You can’t say arse or ass. What would Lynn say? Delete it! All of it! Now!’ She’s gone a bit squeaky.

‘Stop pulling my wheelie chair.’ I hang on to the edge of the desk by my fingertips. If I let go now I might whizz across the office and end up in the potted plant. It’s happened before. ‘Do you think it’s too much?’

‘Far too much.’ She’s given up on trying to move me away from my desk and is nodding her head vigorously and rubbing her nose at the same time.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Sure.’ It comes out as ‘dure’. ‘I was fine until you threw your arms out in a finale and hit me in the face with your elbow.’

‘Did I?’

‘You always fling your arms about when you’re pleased with yourself.’

‘Do I?’ I’m pretty sure I don’t, but as I’ve just squashed my best mate’s nose it doesn’t seem the right time to argue about it. ‘But you were snooping. You get more like your mum every day!’ I love Sam’s mum, and she knows I do. But we both know that Ruth is a total expert when it comes to creeping up like a ninja, so she can listen in on private stuff.

‘No, I do not! She listens to stuff that’s none of her business. This is my business. This is work, and you can’t send that. What the hell has happened now?’

She’s right. This is work. She’s also probably got a good point as far as the email goes.

‘You’re right. And there are too many kisses, I hardly know the man.’ I delete one and am careful not to throw my arms in the air. ‘Not through want of trying, mind you. We’d have a flourishing relationship by now if he replied to my calls; instead I can’t even get past first base. Idiot.’

Sam giggles and backs off to her own desk so there’s a safe arm’s-length distance between us. ‘Very funny, but you know I didn’t mean that!’

Even though she’s known me a few years now, Sam, my best friend and lovely workmate, takes me far too seriously. She’s gullible. Or wise. It could be that she’s actually very, very wise and knows that my twitchy fingertips are actually dying to hit ‘send’ on this email, even though it might look like I’m just messing around.

What she doesn’t know is why he’s upset me so much. I’m trying to be cool about this, to laugh it off, but inside it hurts. Inside it feels like a little bit of me is being destroyed, and last night in bed I decided I wasn’t going to let him, a complete stranger, do this to me. To us.

Sam pushes a packet of Hobnobs in my direction. ‘He’s probably scared of you.’

I realise I’m clenching my teeth. It’s what I do when I’m upset. My shrink said it’s important not to do that when I talk, or it will make me sound angry. She also said it’s better to express how I feel. So how does that work? I feel angry, I’m expressing it through clenched teeth. I’m beginning to think most of what she said was bollocks.

I take a deep breath and unclench everything, then take my frustration out on a crunchy biscuit. ‘I am not scary. Real men appreciate the direct approach.’ I try and blow the crumbs out of the keyboard. The letter ‘T’ is already a bit dodgy; if this ruins W and A I’ll have lost one of my favourite words.

‘He might actually be quite nice. I’m going to look on their website. What’s he called again?’ Sam pokes me in the ribs when I don’t immediately answer.

‘Armstrong.’

‘Armstrong, what?’

‘William.’ I sigh, I can’t help myself.

Sam swings round on her chair so she’s facing her own computer again and does some rapid key-tapping.

It stops, and I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming next.

‘Oh wow. He’s . . .’ She pauses, her head tilted as she stares at the screen. Then rests her chin on her hand. There’s a long silence.

‘I can tell you’re struggling.’

‘No, I’m not.’ She flashes me her best headmistressy stare. ‘Have you seen him? I mean look! If I didn’t already have Jake I would be straight over there myself, to hell with crap reviews about his place. Look!’

‘I’ve seen.’ I try and act bored, but the truth is I’ve looked at William Armstrong’s photograph more than once. The man confuses me, because when I first rang him (after seeing that photo on the resort website) I thought he’d be nice, charming. But he wasn’t. He was curt, rude, and muttered something that sounded like ‘I’m going to string him up by his baubles for this’ before putting the phone down on me.

‘But he does look quite sexy, admit it.’

‘Are you for real?’ I’m not going to admit it, even though he does have a certain something about him. ‘Not my type I’m afraid.’

‘Aw, come on, he’s not that different to that guy you went out with before Callum.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Exactly. He looks a lightweight.’ I stare at the image. ‘And smug, like he thinks a lot of himself.’ That guy before Callum spent a hell of a lot of time staring at himself in the mirror and it’s kind of put me off the well-groomed look. I mean, have you ever known a man to be checking himself out while you’re having sex?

I thought he was reciting the alphabet backwards in his head or something, to try and delay the inevitable; turned out he was checking out if his hair gel was holding up. That was it for me. End of.

‘He’s good-looking, so cute!’

‘And he knows it.’

‘Rubbish, how can you tell that from a photo? He reminds me of that guy in The Mentalist.’ She’s staring at her screen and has moved in closer, as though she’s going to start licking it any moment.

‘Mental’s the right word. Who are you talking about now?’

‘You know, I know you do. What’s he called?’ She does some more googling. ‘There you go, Simon Baker. All twinkly-eyed and cute, but a bit naughty.’ We both stare at the images.

‘Pfft.’

‘He’s cute.’ I think she’s back to our Mr Armstrong now, but who knows? ‘Look at those dimples. I bet he’s fun.’ I don’t know which set of dimples she’s going on about, but it doesn’t matter.

‘I am not interested in his dimples, or his cuteness. He is duplicitous.’

‘That’s a very long word.’ I can tell by Sam’s twitching fingers that the online dictionary is about to get interrogated, so I pull her and her wheelie chair away from the desk. Very handy these chairs, a good investment.

‘Well, he is.’ I can’t believe that somebody could portray themselves as so – well, fun and carefree, when in fact they’re rude and curt. ‘His face contravenes the Trade Descriptions Act.’

‘His face?’

‘His face. He is definitely not nice, however cute he looks in that picture. In fact, I bet that’s not even him, or it was taken years ago, and he’s gone all mean and bitter in his old age.’

‘Maybe he’s having a mid-life crisis and realises that his life is meaningless.’ Sam sighs, rests her chin on one hand again and reaches for another biscuit with the other. I roll my eyes. Not at the biscuit, but her fantasy.

‘Running a business is not meaningless.’

‘It is if you always wanted to swim with dolphins, or ride a camel, or drive to Monte Carlo in a Ferrari.’

‘Sam, that’s your bucket list, not his. Do you honestly think he looks like he wants to swim with dolphins?’

‘Maybe not, but you don’t know, do you?’

‘And I don’t care, to be honest. Look, he is taking our clients’ money, giving them a shit Christmas in return, and refuses to talk to me about it properly.’ I don’t know what annoys me most, the fact that he’s totally, single-handedly, ruined what used to be our most popular festive location, or the fact that he is refusing to take my calls, to discuss it. ‘Whatever happened to the customer is always right? He’s just plain rude.’

We’re on the build-up to the festive season, and it’s not just the nasty email that came yesterday: bookings at the Shooting Star Mountain Resort are spinning into reverse. Which is so not how it should be. I mean, it should be the perfect place to spend Christmas. Crackling log fires, massive mug of hot chocolate, sled rides with a pack of huskies and some ho ho ho from Santa as you shove carrots at his real-life reindeer. Not to mention all that après-ski to warm you up after a day rolling about in the snow (I can’t ski, all I can do is roll and face-plant).

‘It should be fan-bloody-tastic. The brochure and website make it look like total magic.’

‘Maybe they’re a bit out of date?’ Sam is looking worried. And I was beginning to think the same. ‘But you don’t need to send him an email like that.’

‘I flaming do! It’s not just that Latterby guy threatening to sue, it’s worse. You know the Wilsons who came in the other day?’

‘Oh yeah, they were lovely. They were so excited about going even though it’s nowhere near Christmas yet, and they were SO loved up.’ Sam has got that dreamy look on her face. She’s pretty loved up herself, with the lovely Jake, and I think she’s subconsciously started to plan the wedding of the decade. ‘Getting married in a winter wonderland, can you imagine?’

I can imagine. ‘Wedding in a Winter Wonderland’ was already on a mental poster I was going to stick in the window after they’d sent me some of the photos. They’d be swathed in rugs, surrounded by presents on the prettiest reindeer-pulled-sledge imaginable. Kissing. All the best bits of Christmas and weddings rolled into one.

They’d be curled up together in front of a roaring log fire, sipping a shared hot chocolate as the snow fell softly outside, and the whole scene would be bathed in candlelight that bounced off the bauble and tinsel-laden Christmas tree.

And they’d be surrounded by friends and family, swapping presents, then gathered round a food-laden table as they tucked into a mammoth Christmas dinner that had absolutely everything. Even the bits you don’t like.

‘Well.’ I blink, and the image disappears. ‘They’re not.’

‘What do you mean, not? They were so perfect together, he was—’

‘Oh, the wedding is still on, just not at Shooting Star. They cancelled first thing and have already rebooked at another resort online.’

‘What?’

‘This.’ I switch screens on the computer and open the video link they sent me. ‘Matt Wilson was looking at reviews and found this online on The Worst Christmas Ever blog. It’s from last Christmas.’

It’s quite a professional video, actually, with captions and music, specifically ‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’, which says it all.

I have already watched it several times; it’s like one of those horror films that you know is going to scare you to death, but you can’t help yourself. You have to see it, even though you keep half turning away and squinting. Then you have to watch the worst bits on a loop.

Sam and I watch in silence. The family are wearing party hats, which is a handy clue, or you really wouldn’t know it was Christmas at all. They are also wearing coats. And scarves. With tinsel over the top.

One solitary marshmallow floats on the top of what might or might not be a mug of hot chocolate, and a vat of mulled wine is poked about in vigorously until a single clove studded orange bobs to the surface.

A child drops a sprout, which bounces across the table like a frog on steroids, and is pounced on by a cat.

The fire looks like it stopped ‘crackling’ two days earlier, and the turkey looks like it’s been on a diet.

And the tree. I don’t want to talk about the tree. Christmas trees should be glorious. They should be the biggest tree you can carry home, and they should have every single decoration on that you can find (I need to stress that you can never have too many). This one is like the orphan of Christmas. It is the tree Christmas forgot.

It has been starved of attention, it is practically naked apart from a strand of scraggy tinsel and a job lot of candy canes.

‘Wow, have you seen all those candy canes.’ Sam points, unnecessarily. ‘Have you ever seen so many?’

‘Nope. And I never, ever want to see that many again.’

The video pans to the window where the snow is falling, and there’s an unmissable sign taped to the glass Boxing Day Party Cancelled.

I close the video down and we both stare at my email. ‘This is so bad. The only people who are actually going to book are the ones that don’t know how to use Google. I don’t want to give up on the Shooting Star Mountain Resort, and strike it off our list, but honestly Sam, what the hell are we supposed to do? We can’t let them book a holiday that we know is going to be shit.’ How could the man be so good-looking, but so totally bah-humbug? What a waste.

‘I know, but, maybe it’s got better since last Christmas?’ I love Sam for her optimism. ‘He might have bought some new decorations?’

I position the cursor over the ‘send’ button and hold my finger up high over the mouse theatrically. Just to see the look of horror on Sam’s face.

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘Sam, the man hates Christmas, he is Scrooge with knobs on!’

Sam is not like me; she is a bit dippy, but she is also kind, logical and sensible. I am not often accused of any of those things. And I am mad, as in very cross. Mr Armstrong is driving me nuts, which is quite an achievement seeing as I’ve never even met the man.

He is upsetting our clients but, more importantly, he is upsetting Auntie Lynn. She was so agitated yesterday when she heard about the latest complaint (I had to tell her, no way can I lie or hide things from Aunt Lynn, though I avoided mentioning a lawsuit), that she cleaned the oven. This is unheard of. That is why Mr Armstrong needs sorting. He’s also upsetting me, but we don’t need to go into that. ‘Do you really dare me?’

‘No, no, I take that back. I didn’t mean it, no dare, just don’t!’ Sam knows that I will rise to any dare, that saying the word ‘dare’ to me is like saying the words ‘hot chocolate fudge cake’ to her. Irresistible.

‘That man needs a kick up the butt. Has he any idea how much commission we’re losing on this? It’s all me, me, me with some people.’

She giggles and waves a biscuit in front of my face. ‘Ha ha, instead of you, you, you? You’re just taking this all too seriously, it’s not personal. Have a Hobnob, they’re chocolate ones.’

I do take it seriously. This travel agency on the high street is my Aunt Lynn’s business, and knowing exactly where our clients are going is our USP. We have gone for small, friendly, and special. Boutique. Auntie Lynn was a bit of a hippy (from what I can gather) when she was younger. As in what I call her pre-me era. The time before she took me in and took the place of my mother.

She loved to travel, to explore the world. Live life in a way that most people only manage through reading books.

She thinks the rest of the world is special.

She thinks holidays are special.

We are, she says, selling dreams, so we have a responsibility to stop them turning into nightmares. Our edge is that we care about our customers; we know that we’re selling a holiday that will suit somebody to a tee.

Except it’s all gone wrong with Will Armstrong.

I used to love hearing about how much people enjoyed their holiday in this place, how much it meant to them. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, as though I was somehow responsible. Aunt Lynn and I would share a secret smile as we read the reviews together. And now Mr Armstrong has buggered it up, and it’s pissing me off.

‘It is personal.’ I narrow my eyes and stare at the screen. ‘This place is one of the first that Auntie Lynn visited and fell in love with. He’s screwing up her happy memories as well as our reputation.’

When my aunt set this business up, it was to promote the places she’d been to. Places she loved and wanted to share. Then, as it grew, she made a point of visiting every location. Experiencing for herself what they had to offer, and more often than not she had taken me along with her. She said we were the two musketeers, though I did sometimes wonder if it would have been better for her if she’d been able to add a third.

Anyway, back to Mr Pain-in-the-arse Armstrong. To give in to temptation and hit send on this email, would be to admit that he has got to me. That he has made me forget my professionalism. It would be easier to just find another, much better resort to recommend.

Except it isn’t that simple.

The lovely log cabins with roaring fires, lashings of hot chocolate and deep white snow outside had sent our customers flocking to the Canadian Rockies for a cosy Christmas. Once upon a time, this place had created memories that could never be replaced. And sometimes we all need memories to hold onto the good times.

‘It’s bloody annoying,’ I know I sound a bit like a spoiled child, but I’m peeved, ‘that place was perfect, not commercialised, and everyone who had stayed there thought the same. They all came back starry-eyed, saying how it had been the best ever Christmas. Until Mr Festivity-bypass got his hands on it.’

Last Christmas had been a bit sparse on the old festive spirit, and even the holidaymakers who’d gone for the ski-ing and snowboarding had written terrible reviews about the equipment and facilities. As an outdoor resort it was pretty bad: as a festive resort it was the pits.

‘To be fair,’ Sam always tries to be fair, ‘it has definitely been slipping the last couple of years; last winter somebody said the huskies kept stopping for a pee instead of pulling the sled, and the mistletoe was plastic.’ She does have a point; the sparkle has been wearing off for a while now. ‘Faded plastic.’

Plastic mistletoe has to be the pits, but faded old plastic mistletoe? I ask you, who’s going to pucker up under that?

She shrugs. ‘We can suggest people go to Lapland instead, or to see the Northern Lights, they’re popular. I wouldn’t mind going there myself. Do you want this last biscuit, or not?’

‘Yes, seeing as you’ve had the rest.’ I reach out. ‘Shit.’ I had wanted the last biscuit, but now I don’t, I really don’t. ‘Holy crap. How did that happen?’ Oh God, why did I position the cursor there? Why was my stupid bloody mouse right where I could catch it with my elbow? Why do biscuits even exist?

‘What?’

‘Shit. Bugger. I am sooooooo dead. I hit send!’ I cover my eyes with my hands, and peep through. Sent. Gone for ever. Even if I delete it from my sent box, I will know I did it. Aunt Lynn will kill me. ‘It’s fine, fine.’ Take a deep breath, Sarah. ‘He won’t read it anyway. He usually never reads my emails.’ Only he did yesterday. I nibble on the biscuit frantically, like a demented hamster.

‘You idiot.’ A packet of Oreo’s appears on her desk as if by magic. ‘Emergency supplies, to treat shock.’

‘Oh nooooooo!’

‘I thought you liked . . .’

Her voice tails off, probably because I’m pointing at my screen. This can’t be happening, I need gin, not Oreos. ‘I’ve got a reply!’

‘It will be auto generated, out of office, or something. Nobody types that quick.’

It isn’t.

Apparently, some people can type quickly.