same time, collide, lose balance and sit down. Then he stands up, holds out a hand and helps me to my feet.
‘Well, er, see you at school, I guess.’ His hand lingers on mine, and we’re close enough to kiss, again.
I nod, swallow. ‘Yeah, you sure will.’ I sound embarrassingly like a cowboy and do a thumbs up which is totally uncool.
‘Have a good Christmas, Dais.’ We both look down at our still-joined hands then let go awkwardly.
‘You, too, Ol. Happy, er, Christmas. Just, er, going to check out the other books.’ I edge up the aisle one way, and he sidles the other way.
‘Good.’
‘Er, right fine.’
‘Think I’ll get another drink, find out when we’re going.’ He points. ‘Might have drunk too much whisky with Dad.’
‘Sure.’
‘That was, er …’
‘Cool, cool, whatever.’ I do not want him to say ‘mistake’, ‘silly’ or anything like that. ‘Just for the mistletoe!’
‘Nice.’ He blushes bright red and is off before the word has even settled in the air.
I look at the books, not seeing them. Then shake my head. In a few months’ time I will sit my exams and then head off to Scotland and a brilliant, exciting few years at uni. And Ollie will move to London and meet a whole new set of friends.
Our futures lie ahead, separate futures.
‘Fine, nice, bye.’ I stare after him. My fingers rest on my bruised lips, and I blink to try to get rid of the taste of him, the feel of his hand on my waist, the sensation that prickled through my body as his teeth clashed with mine, then his tongue skittered over my teeth.
Oh. My. God. I just kissed Oliver Cartwright, and it left me all wobbly and weak-kneed in a way that Josh’s never did. But it meant nothing. Definitely nothing. It is Christmas. We are drunk. It was a goodbye snog.
But an amazing snog.
I shouldn’t have done it. We’re mates, he’s always been just like an annoying brother to me. But now we’ve kissed.
I’ll never be able to look at Ollie in the same way again.
In fact, I’m not sure I’m going to ever be able to talk to him in the same way.
Is it a good or bad thing that we have new and exciting lives ahead of us – in different places?
24 December 2017
‘Oh. My. God! Look at this place!’ Frankie, my friend and flatmate is standing in the open doorway of the bookshop and staring in as though she’s just discovered an alternative reality. She throws her arms wide as though embracing the whole place. ‘This is so fucking quaint. I didn’t know places like this still existed!’
‘You sound like a tourist who’s just discovered Stratford-upon-Avon.’ I can’t help but laugh, despite my nerves. ‘It’s a bookshop.’ Uncle Terence’s bookshop to be precise.
‘Well yeah, but look at those proper wood bookcases, and wow, cute nooks and crannies, and … cocktails!’ She leaps on Mabel, Uncle T’s bookkeeper, who nearly drops her tray in shock. ‘Oh my God, I’m going to orgasm, this is the best Dirty Martini I’ve had in ages.’
Mabel gives her a horrified look and scurries off to the safety of a nearby cranny. Dumps the tray and then heads for the protection of Uncle T.
‘Stop, please stop.’ I’m trying not to laugh. I think Frankie must be on some hallucinogenic drug. I mean, she’s not got much of a filter, she says what she wants, but she’s not normally this full on.
Frankie’s sheet of long black hair swishes in my face as her slim fingers spin the martini glass, and the look of mischief in her eyes is positively dangerous. Most of the time she’s cool and languid, but tonight she is positively buzzing.
She’s had a bust up with Tarquin, her boyfriend, which is (1) why she begged me to let her come tonight, and (2) why she’s ready to party with a capital P.
I am now beginning to realise that agreeing to let her tag along with me to Uncle T’s Christmas Eve bash could have been a mistake.
After all, this is not some swish cocktail bar, this is a bookshop, and I use the word ‘bash’ loosely – it’s more a close friends and family do. I will undoubtedly have known everybody here for most of my life, and there’s a fair chance I will be the youngest attendee by a country mile.
Which is why I agreed to wear the customary Christmas jumper and antlers. No chance of making a fool of myself in front of an attractive man tonight! Only the opportunity to once again be a slight disappointment to my mother, who would very much like a daughter to be proud of. A daughter with an impressive career, a handsome partner, and preferably a bun in the oven. Or at least the knowledge that said oven is nicely warming in preparation.
I have a job on the local rag, Frankie, and an empty womb. Oh, and Stanley – my four-legged date.
Therefore, I am still hovering on the doorstep. I am not ready to party, with or without a capital P. I’m taking a deep breath and pulling my metaphorical big girls pants up, preparing for the onslaught.
‘Here goes, Stan!’ I shoot him a pensive smile, which he ignores, plaster a grin on my face and follow her in. I’ve not got any choice. She’s grabbed the front of my jumper and Rudolf’s nose is being stretched to its shiny limit.
You know how you go in some shops and it hits you, the warm air and soft music, the bright clothes yelling out ‘buy me’ even though you’re broke? Well, Uncle T’s shop is like that. But with books not clothes. And mulled wine and mince pies. And much, much better.
The warmth of happy people, and the sounds and smells of Christmas wrap themselves round me like an old familiar blanket.
Christmas has arrived, it’s officially here. Uncle Terence’s party marks the start of the festive season. The hum of happy people chatting away, the smell of mulled wine, holly and warm pastry assault us and it’s a bit like walking into a Christmas-past time capsule. But with cocktails and canapés.
It takes a moment to adjust to all things festive and nice, after all the chaos that’s led up to it. I’m still adjusting when I’m assaulted. By my mother. My mother is the downside to Uncle Terence’s party. I do love her. Honestly. In controlled situations (i.e. my parents’ home). In small doses. Uncle Terence’s party does not bring out the ‘small dose’ side of her though. It brings out over enthusiasm. She treats me like exhibit ‘A’ – something to be paraded and boasted about. Which was strangely apt last year, when I was working as a barista and she insisted on telling everybody very loudly and proudly that I was a barrister.
Uncle
