We'll have a Wonderful Cornish Christmas Page 2

  While it didn’t happen, a three o’clock appointment with her therapist (and aunt) at least gave her a little more thinking time. As Aunt Agatha let her into her second floor flat off Whiteladies Road, Lucy considered just turning off her phone to avoid Melanie’s certain hassling in the event of a no-show, and later playing ignorant or blaming a toilet-related accident.

  ‘So, how are we today?’ Aunt Agatha—or as patients knew her, Dr. Woakes—asked, settling into the creaking leather swivel chair that looked far more comfortable than the sofa on which Lucy always had to sit.

  ‘Life is a complete nightmare,’ Lucy said. ‘I’m single, which isn’t the problem, but because I’m thirty, everyone I meet thinks it is. I’m supposed to go to a party tonight where I can guarantee someone will try to match-make me, probably with someone inappropriate. I’ll get drunk to try to get out of it then humiliate myself. Alternatively, if I’m match-made with someone nice, I’ll get drunk to try to relax, and then humiliate myself. Either way, the result is the same.’

  ‘And you can’t get out of it because why?’

  ‘Because I don’t have an acceptable excuse.’

  Aunt Agatha gave a sage nod. ‘Melanie’s party?’

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘It sounds like a right laugh from what you’ve told me. Didn’t you say last year she had a horse?’

  ‘Someone showed up with one, yeah. They just left it chained up in the back garden with Reginald.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The dog.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I mean, it was a gimmick, and it sounded cool, but she was scared it would kick someone so no one was allowed near it. People spent most of the evening taking selfies with it out of the living room window. Apart from one guy who tried to serenade it.’

  ‘Did it kick him?’

  ‘Bit his shoulder. He wasn’t invited this year, apparently. Although, to be fair, neither was the horse.’

  ‘Why don’t you just go?’

  ‘You know why.’

  Aunt Agatha sighed. ‘You can’t spend your whole life being so serious,’ she said. ‘For better or worse, a good laugh is always worth it.’

  ‘No, it’s really not. Even alone it’s not.’

  For a therapist, Aunt Agatha didn’t seem particularly patient, but then Lucy was getting a friends and family rate of precisely zero, on the condition that Lucy recommend her aunt to anyone she knew who had issues.

  ‘Well, I suppose at least you won’t get wrinkles. People look at me and think I’m fifty years older than I am. I tell them I just enjoy a good laugh. So, what’s your plan for your Christmas holidays this year?’

  Lucy remembered the flyer she had picked up earlier that morning. ‘I’m going to walk around Sicily,’ Lucy said. ‘Just me, a tent, and a backpack.’

  ‘Have you booked your flight yet?’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘Not yet. There are always last-minute cancellations, and Melanie’s always cool with us using the staff card to get a discount.’ She looked up as Aunt Agatha smiled. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just that I heard your parents were going on holiday this Christmas,’ she said.

  ‘Really? They didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Have you asked them?’

  Lucy shrugged. ‘I haven’t spoken to them in two weeks. I keep meaning to call, but at this time of year Mum always makes me her project case.’

  ‘Lucy, I love you as my niece and my sister’s only-born, but sometimes you’re infuriating.’

  ‘As my therapist, aren’t you supposed to support me?’

  ‘Of course, but as your aunt, I’m allowed to tell you when to pull your socks up. Look, you’d better get on the phone quick. They’re leaving tomorrow morning.’ Aunt Agatha leaned forward and winked. ‘And wouldn’t that give you a good excuse not to go to Melanie’s party?’

  Lucy sighed. Part of her felt hurt that her parents had thought of themselves rather than honouring their yearly Christmas dinner when Lucy would reluctantly stop by for a couple of hours during the middle of the day, usually between bouts of solitude. On the other hand, Aunt Agatha was right. She was a rubbish daughter, and had been for as long as she’d been old enough to make her own choices.

  ‘Where are they going?’ she asked.

  ‘Cornwall.’ Aunt Agatha smiled. ‘I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be at Christmas. In a cozy beachside cottage, with my family … fantastic. Well, except for a cold cliff path in Sicily, getting stared at by goats and weird yokels. Come on, Lucy. You should go with them.’

  ‘They’ll still be there next year. Plus, I’ve always wanted to go to Sicily,’ she added, even though it hadn’t even occurred to her until a couple of hours ago.

  ‘Have you checked the Italian weather? It’ll probably just rain the whole time.’ Aunt Agatha gave a handful of papers a professional shuffle and lifted an eyebrow. ‘And will your parents still be there next year? Have you asked Melanie for her thoughts on that?’

  Lucy looked down. It was hard to defeat the logic when it was presented, but the wall she had built around her fragile confidence often dominated her thoughts. Letting in emotions from outside posed a threat to her personal security.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said at last. ‘I should go with them. It’s just … you don’t understand how it feels when something bad happens. No one does.’

  4

  Christmas Party

  Melanie called nine times before Lucy finally relented and picked up the phone.

  ‘So, did you manage to come up with an excuse?’

  ‘I’m still working on it. I’m lying in the middle of Gloucester Road, waiting to be run over by a lorry.’

  ‘Come on, Lucy, what are you afraid of? It’s Christmas!’

  ‘It’s December the seventeenth.’

  ‘Close enough. Come on round. I’m just making the punch. Tescos had Christmas spice on two jars for one so it’s got an extra kick this year.’

  Lucy held the phone away from her ear to let out a sigh. Then she said, ‘Okay, I’ll be over in an hour.’

  ‘Glad rags on, girl. It’ll be a ratio of three guys for every girl. I conveniently forgot to invite those tarts from the hairdressers next door.’

  ‘It might be fun,’ Lucy muttered under her breath as she waited for a bus down Gloucester Road. ‘It might be fun. It might … be fun.’

  ‘Or it might not,’ said an old crone standing nearby, reaching up to pat Lucy’s arm with one ancient hand. ‘If he tells you to take it, just say no. Didn’t you ever watch Grange Hill?’

  Lucy swallowed her confusion long enough to smile. ‘Not for twenty years.’

  ‘My grandkids loved it.’ Then, grinning, the old woman added, ‘If you need a wingman, I’m free tonight. Reg will be watching the game, won’t even notice if I’m not there.’

  ‘My friend’s dog is called Reg,’ Lucy said.

  The old bag cackled. ‘My Reg ain’t much of a dog, not until he gets a couple of pints into him, and then it’s all action. Discovery Channel and all that—’

  ‘Here’s my bus,’ Lucy said hurriedly, stepping away as the bus pulled in. The old woman gave her a crinkled thumbs-up as Lucy climbed on board and sat down, followed by a rather lewd gesture Lucy hoped was just the result of some nervous condition.

  It was a relief when the bus pulled away.

  Half an hour later, she was walking up Park Street, wondering if she should just give up and go into the no-alcohol bar that had just opened up where the record shop had once been, certain she could avoid finding anything to laugh at. As she passed the windows though, she saw it was playing an old episode of Only Fools and Horses on a big screen TV. As Del Boy came into view, likely engaged in some hilarious money-making scheme, Lucy decided it wasn’t worth the risk. She lowered her head and carried on.

  She could hear the music from Melanie’s open windows long before the house came into view. At some point a neighbour would complain, but Melanie always pushed the boat as f
ar as possible before it happened. Plus, she always invited everyone on the street just to soften them up, aware that as most of them were retired none would show up anyway.

  Lucy often wished she had her older boss’s outgoing nature, and had often wondered what had pushed Melanie’s husband to want a divorce. Finally, after a few drinks in the pub one night, Melanie had confessed that her husband had been a closet homosexual, and had left her for a librarian in the Bristol Central Library. She had since seen them, she had told Lucy, playing frisbee in the park, and had once got drunk enough to call them out for a late night drink. That they were so clearly in love had softened the blow, but only made Melanie more determined to rage against the dying of her own light and create as much havoc as possible while she could still endure the hangovers.

  As Lucy reached the steps leading up to the house, she found Melanie standing outside, wearing a slightly resized Elsa-from-Frozen dress. Her boss waved a drink at Lucy and shouted over her shoulder for someone inside the hall to pour another and bring it out. They hugged, and Melanie gave Lucy a drunken pat on the cheek.

  ‘We’re still waiting for the influx,’ she said. ‘So far it’s just me and Max from the hobby store, but we’re expecting an absolute flood of guests to show up at any moment.’

  Max, at least sixty years old and still wearing the tweed jacket he always wore when selling Airfix model kits and fishing supplies, appeared with a drink. He handed it to Lucy, held up his own bottle of Newcastle Brown, and offered a toast.

  ‘To Jesus Christ!’ he said, grinning as Melanie rolled her eyes. ‘The god of holidays and presents.’

  The three of them retired to the downstairs living room, where Melanie did her best to stop Max talking about how virtual model kit apps were gradually stealing his business share. Reginald, not yet banished to the safety of the garden, nestled over Max’s knees and looked happy to stay there all night.

  ‘So, did you invite the horse guy again this year?’ Max said.

  Melanie shrugged. ‘I think that postcard might have got lost in the mail—’

  The doorbell rang, startling them. Melanie jumped up and bounded out into the hall, returning a moment later trailed by five women from the Tesco Metro up the street. Three of them wore Santa Claus costumes, one was still dressed in uniform, and the fifth hugged a twenty-four-box of own-brand lager against a Disney t-shirt.

  ‘Rocking,’ Max said. ‘Seven to one. Unless you count old Reg here, then it’s down to three-point-five.’

  ‘How many has he had?’ asked Angelique, the salty-faced staff manager of the Metro.

  Melanie shrugged. ‘Not as many as he’d like, I bet.’ She lifted her drink. ‘Well, Merry Christmas!’

  A couple of hours later, the party had filled up a little, but with most of the street’s younger workers choosing instead to head to the bars in town, the party consisted mostly of middle-aged women, something which left Max delighted. At midnight a handful of drunk students showed up, having heard the sound of a party from the street. Melanie, much to Lucy’s horror, quickly disappeared upstairs with one, only for the student to reappear a couple of minutes later to say Melanie was being sick on her bed.

  By one a.m., almost everyone had gone. Only old Max was still there, snoring on a sofa with Reginald lying on top of his face. Melanie had recovered enough to nurse down a cup of tea, and Lucy, happy now most people were gone or intoxicated, was playing catch-up with a large glass of the nearly-untouched punch.

  ‘It was a good party, wasn’t it?’ Melanie slurred, leaning on Lucy’s shoulder.

  ‘Nearly the best,’ Lucy said. ‘Only beaten by the year of the horse.’

  ‘Unbeatable, that one,’ Melanie said, then immediately began to cry.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘My children didn’t call me. It’s Christmas, and my children didn’t call.’

  ‘It’s December the seventeenth. Most people still have a couple of days of work.’

  ‘It’s close enough,’ Melanie wailed. She looked about to say something else when a sudden pop like a deflating balloon came from across the room. Reginald’s back leg kicked up, then he settled down again. Max grunted, half rolled over, then started to snore.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Melanie said. ‘That dog’s been eating too many sausages. He just guffed on Max.’

  For some reason, Lucy found this to be the funniest thing in the world. Before she could stop herself, the rasping siren had come from nowhere, the he-yahs of a donkey on a rusty metal treadmill, hooves scraping as it gasped in great hideous groans.

  She slapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Melanie stared at her with eyes wide with shock.

  ‘Good God, is that what it sounds like?’

  Lucy wanted the ground to swallow her up. ‘Sorry. I suppose you can understand now why I’m so serious.’

  Melanie slapped the arm of the chair. ‘That has to be the best laugh ever, but I can see why it might put people off.’

  Lucy’s cheeks were burning. She downed the rest of her punch, then leaned forward and scooped another glassful out of the bowl on the coffee table.

  ‘Four different guys, none of whom knew each other, have given it as their specific reason for dumping me,’ Lucy said, a tear springing to her eye as she gulped down another mouthful of punch, then immediately began to sneeze as the Christmas spice which had congealed on the top got sucked into her nose.

  ‘I suppose they didn’t get to see your real personality,’ Melanie said. ‘Just don’t make you laugh, right?’

  ‘That’s what my dad used to tell them when I brought them home for dinner,’ she said. ‘They always thought it was a joke and would spend the rest of the evening trying. I used to hate it because boys thought I was pretty and were always asking me out. If I’d been a troll it wouldn’t have mattered because everyone would have left me alone.’

  ‘Could be worse. Your husband could be gay.’

  Lucy started to laugh but caught herself at the last moment. ‘I suppose it could.’

  ‘Gay and very happy. Oh God, my life sucks. Come on, let’s drown ourselves in the punch.’

  Melanie leaned forward. Before Lucy could stop her, she plunged her head into the punch bowl. Orange-red liquid sloshed onto the floor. Melanie came up with a piece of melon sticking out of one ear.

  ‘It’s cold,’ she said.

  On the other sofa, Reginald guffed again, and this time Lucy didn’t bother trying to stop herself laughing, even though she was aware that nearby, dogs were starting to bark with distress, and birds were falling from the sky.

  5

  Road Trip

  Some maniac was ringing the doorbell. Lucy hauled herself up out of bed. She lurched zombie-like for the bedroom door, striking her forehead on the frame as she missed the opening by a couple of inches.

  ‘Hang on, I’m coming!’ she shouted, her voice gravelly from the goodbye cigar Melanie had wanted to share, her stomach churning from the kebab she had eaten on the way home. It didn’t matter that from her third floor flat the only person who would hear was the grumpy old man who lived downstairs. As the bell rang again, Lucy thought about just pulling it off the wall and going back to sleep, but the visitor might be someone important. She doubted it, but it might. Perhaps someone had seen her vomiting in the street and thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He could be standing outside with a huge bunch of flowers, already on one knee, ready to propose.

  She leaned against the front door as she pressed the intercom. ‘What?’

  ‘Frances? Is that you? How long are you going to keep us waiting?’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Who else were you expecting at this ungodly hour? Are you ready to go?’

  Twenty minutes later, trying to both sober and clean up under a roaring hot shower while her parents drank tea in her small, embarrassingly untidy kitchen, Lucy silently promised to leave her phone at home next time she went out drinking. Of all the people to drunk-text, why had she c
hosen her dad?

  Obviously guilt had made her do it, and at the time it had probably seemed like a good idea.

  Hi, Dad, it’s me. If you and mum are going down to Cornwall for Christmas, I’d love to come xxxx

  She had passed out before reading his answer.

  Hello, dear. That would be lovely. We’ll pick you up on our way through at about nine.

  Eight-fifteen wasn’t nine, but that was the least of Lucy’s worries. That she had messaged her dad at two-thirty a.m. was bad enough. That she had put four Xs, at least two more than was appropriate to send to a parent, was even worse. Luckily, her dad, Alan, a carpet salesman, wasn’t too up to date with the workings and rules of modern social contact.

  A rap sounded on the bathroom door. ‘Lucy, shouldn’t you be out of there by now?’ came her mother’s voice. ‘After fifteen minutes, the water is no longer benefiting your body with its warming effects and is starting to dry your skin out. Do you want to look like a prune by the time you’re fifty?’

  Lucy groaned. Her mother, Valerie, a lab technician, always had a tidbit of knowledge for something. It was going to be a long journey.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not going to be sick in the back?’ Alan asked as he pulled the car out of the narrow roadside space on Gloucester Road and jerked it into traffic. ‘You can sit in the front if you like.’

  ‘Take this bag, just in case,’ Valerie said, passing a plastic bag over her shoulder. Lucy opened it up, catching an immediate whiff of delicatessen products which made her feel even worse than before. She wished she could just rest her head and sleep, but with her father’s driving, that was impossible.

  ‘Oh, you ignorant sod,’ Alan growled, punching the wheel and hitting the brakes. ‘Did you see that, Val? He just cut out in front of me.’

  ‘You had at least five car lengths, dear,’ Valerie said.

  ‘But he didn’t even indicate.’