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.’
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).
