okay, there might be a tiny bit of me that wonders what it would be like. Just a tiny bit. Just out of curiosity, because after all he was a bloody good kisser. And now he’s cuter than ever. And kind, and I was so tempted to go in for some lip action a few minutes ago.
Frankie strides out of the shop, letting a waft of cold air in, then I hear her whoop and there’s a clatter of high heels on the paving stones as she spots the posh car and Tarquin.
The rest of the party passes in a bit of a blur. At one stage, I lose Stanley and rediscover him sharing a chaise longue with Mabel. They look rather sweet, and they’re both snoring.
I think I have had a vat of mulled wine, enough mini food to make up a banquet sized portion of full-size offerings and several unscheduled stops under the mistletoe.
Ollie goes back to being boring, stiff Ollie with Juliet – who keeps giving me patronising sorry looks, until Uncle T tempts her to try the mulled wine, and she falls into a pile of Great Expectations.
Which makes me snigger, and when Ollie catches me at it the corner of his mouth twitches with what could be a smile. Or wind. Either way, it cheers me up.
Then he and Terence prop her back up and she tries to kiss his face off and plucks at his shirt like a hungry kitten as he steers her out. Probably for a night of passion, if she stays awake.
I bet he’s good at that as well. Bugger. Where did that thought come from? I do not want to think about Oliver and his sexual prowess. Not at all. I do not want to even consider the possibility that I have missed out on some brilliant bonking. Not that he would have been that good when we were eighteen. Or even wanted to. It was just a kiss.
She’s too tall for him though. I mean, look, she’s had to wear ballet pumps and I’m sure she’s a high heels girl at heart. Not that he’s short, he’s just normal height. But she’s definitely too tall. It will never last.
Half an hour later, everybody has gone so I prod Stanley awake and let him hoover up crumbs while I’m waiting for my taxi to arrive.
‘Don’t worry about the job dear girl, that can wait. No checking emails tonight, it’s Christmas.’ Uncle Terence kisses me on each cheek, continental style.
‘Of course, I won’t!’
I will.
‘Next year will be better, my dear!’
‘Of course, it will.’ It has to be. If Ollie can do it, then I bloody well can, too.
I hug Stanley close. Ollie has everything, Ollie has the type of life I had assumed I would have. Seeing him tonight has been a bit of a kick in the gut if I’m honest, it’s hit me just how much I’ve been avoiding facing up to all the things that are wrong with my life.
All the things I could make right, if I tried hard enough.
I’ve let what happened to me when I was eighteen define the rest of my life, define me.
I’ve let one sad, horrible failure stop me from trying. I’ve been kidding myself that I’m happy coasting along, accepting what I’ve got, rather than risk failing again. And even though I can never change what happened in my past, I can change me. What’s going to happen in my future. Can’t I?
I’ve got to get my act together, I really have. I deserve so much more than I’ve got.
I am going to show them. I am going to show bloody Ollie Cartwright, and my mum that I am not a complete failure.
I’m going to prove it to myself.
Very, very late p.m., 24 December (or early 25 December)
I think not knowing about my imminent loss of job could partly be my own fault. Because my data allowance had nearly run out this morning, I was very sensible (this is part of my sorting my finances out strategy) and turned my mobile data off. Then turned my phone off, because what’s the point if you can’t check on Twitter and Facebook? Then forgot all about it as I had so much to do (and the lady in the beauty salon won’t let me near my mobile until my nails are definitely dry).
This is why I have had no notification of my possible change in circumstances i.e. jobless status. Though I have to admit that I was slightly concerned that nobody at all had messaged to wish me a Happy Christmas. I hadn’t thought I was that unpopular at work, or in general.
There is a delay when I switch my mobile back on, while it fiddles about in hyperspace looking for the Wi-Fi, then it goes berserk. Honestly, it is bleating and tweeting like a sheep that has suddenly spotted its lost flock.
I stare, rather drunkenly, as it bleeps and flashes. It is just like cooking popcorn, gradually the time between bleeps gets longer, until it is safe to open the bag.
There’s an unread email. Lots of emails.
There are texts.
Voicemail messages.
I am rather drunk, but I need to read them all, listen to the messages.
Have I really been sacked the day before Christmas? Am I going to start the new year destitute and homeless, relying on my mother (oh my God) to provide shelter and food? Will I have to live in a stable like the baby Jesus (fine, I know he didn’t live in a stable, but I’m drunk, and upset, okay?)?
This is so unfair. Even before seeing Ollie at the party tonight and realising just how pathetic my life really is in comparison to what it should have been, I had decided something has to be done.
I was going to kick off next year demanding a better job, or at least a pay rise, so that I could find a better flat. I do love Frankie, but honestly, my room is so small I end up piling all my books in the corners like mini towers of Pisa. One day they will all lean in so far they’ll meet in the middle then collapse and kill me in my sleep. I had been determined to be more organised, to budget, to change my life.
And now this.
I won’t panic. I will be logical about this and start at the beginning – and not with the most recent, and most eye-catching email with the subject HELLLP MAD COLLIE ON MY HANDS. This one is from Carrie, who runs the dog re-homing centre and is Stanley’s official guardian. She is slightly unhinged, but very well meaning, and I would normally put her top of the queue. I want to help her, and I want to help any dogs that need helping.
I will also prioritise and ignore Frankie’s text ‘Oh my fucking God, send ambulance, won’t be able to walk tomorrow, make up sex is the best! P.S. Did you get the pompous prick’s number just in case?’
No, I can’t ignore it. ‘In case of what?’
‘Injury.’
This is cryptic. I’m not sure if she means hers, or Tarquin’s. I suspect the second, she might be calling on a substitute if he runs out of steam (or something snaps) before she does.
It is very hard to concentrate on possibly
