it’s close – he deserves a sainthood, apparently) have really got on my tits, and definitely made him sound like a pompous prick. And anyway, he might still be a pompous prick, just a hot one.
‘The one who felt you up when you were four?’
‘I never said that! We were six, Frankie, I said he kissed me not felt me up!’ My cheeks are burning. If I blush any harder I’ll be hotter than a chestnut roasting charcoal burner. Thank God I didn’t tell her about the drunken face-eating when we were eighteen.
‘Felt your what?’ My mother has a puzzled expression, which I ignore.
‘Well, whatever he did, he is mine! ‘Scuse me, ladies!’ Frankie steams off in pursuit of her prey and doesn’t hear my mother’s plaintive, ‘Well, actually, I think you’ll find he’s Juliet’s, dear!’
Grrr. How can Oliver Cartwright be gorgeous? Be bloody perfect in every way. He wasn’t when we were kids. He was a bit lanky, sweet and maybe a bit cute, but all arms and legs, and the odd spot, and voice that hadn’t decided how low it was going to be, and a ‘did it at home’ haircut. And bad jeans. Yeah, he had bad jeans.
Frigging hell, he had all that and was still worth some lip action? I must have been very drunk.
I am not going near the man, he will be totally insufferable.
‘You two can have a nice chat, you must have so much to talk about!’ says Mum.
It is all wrong. I’m exhausted, and the party hasn’t even started.
And now my toes are warm and damp.
I glance down. Stanley is nibbling bits of sausage roll from between them.
The last couple of days have been disastrous.
The lead up to Christmas, and Uncle Terence’s party has gone like this …
9.30 p.m., 22 December
Things I have to do before Tuesday evening at Uncle Terence’s:
1 Find my red nosed reindeer Christmas jumper and antlers (urgent or will stand out like sore thumb).
2 Make Buy sausage rolls to take to buffet (can do this in my lunch break tomorrow then if M&S have run out can always go to Greggs and cut large ones into small canapé size. Added advantage of this option – can buy vegan ones which will score points).
3 Send boyfriend message about what time to arrive and tell Uncle Terence I will have a plus one!
4 Buy new festive lipstick that Sunday supplement said was ‘guaranteed to make you smile’ (v. important when spending Christmas with my family, hope have time in lunch break to do this, might have to queue jump in Greggs. Which is top priority, lipstick or sausage rolls?).
5 Find wrapping paper. And sticky tape. (Urgent – top priority!)
My mother is bound to raise my shortcomings at Uncle T’s party, but she will soon be distracted by the scandal of how young Terence’s latest girlfriend is. Even better if he’s married her by now, which he might well have done, it is very hard to keep track. He’s had so many girlfriends, and even more ex-wives, in the last ten years even I can’t remember all their names. Uncle T’s a ‘bit of a one’ according to Mum, but he seems to bring out the fun and twinkly side of Vera. I’d never say this out loud, but Ollie’s dad Charles is a bit scary. It’s hard to believe he and Terence are brothers. I can quite understand Vera needing some light relief.
Charles is a consultant. In fact, the whole family, apart from Vera (who was named after Vera Lynn), are pretty intimidating. They are total over-achievers. Ollie’s got a brother who is a barrister and a sister who is an opera singer. I think I’m the only one that has noticed that Vera has called her children after characters in Oliver Twist, they’re Oliver, Will and Nancy. I suspect she has done this on purpose and it’s her little secret joke. I’ll know for sure if they ever get a dog and name it Bull’s Eye.
I don’t know why we go to the party really, but it can be rather fun, and it is a firmly entrenched family tradition (my father’s words not mine, I don’t talk like that) which only death or marriage will excuse me from (another thing Dad said). Personally, I think getting married is a bit of a drastic solution, and I do love Uncle T, this party less so.
The only negatives to kicking off Christmas with Uncle T are (1) my mother will be there, (2) she will compare me constantly to the hugely successful and perfect Ollie Cartwright, even though luckily, he won’t be there (he never is), and (3) dodging the mistletoe can be a health hazard. Terence hangs it everywhere, as he seems to want everybody to snog everybody else. If he wasn’t so nice and jolly, I’d suspect he had some weird fetish, but instead I will believe him when he says ‘love makes the world go round’.
It was bad enough when we were eighteen. Just the thought of that drunken totally unplanned snog with Ollie is making me feel all hot and bothered.
The only good thing has been that Ollie has not turned up at a single party since our embarrassing encounter. Which is good, and bad. I mean, back then, we actually might have got on, but we live on different planets now. He has ticked every success box going, I have to look back with fond memories of beating him in a Chemistry exam. Since then my life seems to have taken a dive and whilst he lives on planet-perfect, I meanwhile inhabit a galaxy far, far away where everything is disorganised and success can be measured by how many nearly-passed-their-sell-by-date bargains you manage to grab just before the supermarket closes.
Which makes point (4) on my list – the perfect smile part – even more essential. To be used when my mother asks if I’ve changed my mind about marrying Ollie Cartwright yet (as she knows I haven’t seen him since we were students, then how on earth can she still be dreaming about our happy ever after?). I know she will ask though (probably in front of Vera), even though I will have my own, actual boyfriend with me. This is a win, this is the first time in years that I’ve had a boyfriend who has actually agreed to spend Christmas with me and my family.
7 p.m., 23 December
I have had a truly shit day. Christmas has already got off to a dismal start. I already need to strike (3) off my first list. Simon, my boyfriend, rang me at work.
‘Dais?’
‘Simon?’ This is odd. It sounds like Simon, but Simon never calls me at work. He also never calls me Dais.
‘Slight change of plan, darling.’ When he calls me ‘darling’, he’s either after sex, snacks, or is about to say something he knows I won’t like. It is one of his wheedling words. ‘Have to cancel your Christmas dinner with Mom and Pop.’
‘Why? Oh no! What’s happened, are they okay?’
I try to stop staring at the photo of a missing cat on my screen. It’s tricky, it’s got a weird squint that is hard to ignore. I fear for its safety, a cat like this would not remain missing for long
