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
