All I Want for Christmas: a hilarious and heart-warming romance Page 2

  ‘Excellent, we’ll see you tomorrow then! Matt too!’ Greta beams like a woman who has just solved all my problems. She is also beaming like a woman who is expecting a gift. Did she provide a gift list? If I can’t afford actual coasters, how the hell am I supposed to afford an engagement present?

  Determined to add my name to whatever Matt has purchased for the happy couple, I thank Greta and swiftly leave her office, mumbling something about catching the bank before they close. As I step back out into the chilly air, I stop and take a deep breath which catches the growing lump in the back of my throat. How is this my life? I have no money, no job prospects, an inappropriate jacket for the weather and tomorrow I’ll have to endure a room full of successful people who have their shit together nodding politely while I say that I’m taking a break from Kensington Fox and exploring new avenues, like my lifelong dream of grooming dogs . . . or rabbits, if Greta has anything to do with it.

  I take out my phone and text Angela, asking if she fancies going to this party, then Matt, letting him know that he’s responsible for my missing RSVP, before heading into Charing Cross station to catch my train back to London Bridge. Matt responds first:

  No probs. Glad you’re leaving the couch.

  Shortly followed by Angela:

  Sorry bbz, have plans. Call u later xoxo

  I reply with No worries, but in truth, I’m slightly perturbed. Angela never misses a party, so she must be attending something equally entertaining. Something better. Something she didn’t invite me to. She always invites me. Is she embarrassed to be seen with me now? My paranoia begins to kick in and continues booting the hell out of me all the way home.

  Matt arrives back at the flat just after 7pm to the sight of me tossing clothes from my wardrobe on to my bed. My normally tidy room now looks like a jumble sale.

  ‘Lost something?’ he asks, looking mildly amused.

  ‘I can’t find my Paul Smith shirt,’ I reply. ‘I wanted to wear it tomorrow.’

  ‘Jesus, you’re such a woman. Just wear something else.’

  ‘But I like that one. It shows off my tits.’ I grin and pretend to flick my hair back.

  Matt laughs and begins to help me look. ‘Is it the denim one? Pretty sure you spilled curry on that.’

  ‘No, it’s the yellow one.’

  Matt pauses. ‘You mean the one your girlfriend hates?’

  ‘Yes! I haven’t seen it since we—’ I stop rummaging and look over at Matt, who raises his eyebrows.

  ‘She wouldn’t . . . would she?’

  He shrugs. ‘Well, she did make her feelings on that shirt known to everyone in the bar that night . . .’

  It’s not yellow, Nick, it’s mustard. Vomit-coloured mustard and it’s not your colour. It’s not anyone’s colour! What were you thinking?

  I shake my head, unwilling to believe that she would just throw away a Paul Smith shirt, but deep down, I’m less than certain. She once binned a full-size bottle of Jo Malone perfume that I bought for her birthday because she didn’t like the limited-edition bottle as much as the normal bottle.

  ‘Ask her,’ Matt suggests. ‘I’m pretty certain she’ll admit it if she did. She’s ballsy like that.’

  Matt doesn’t like Angela. He’s never said it outright, but I can tell by the way he tenses up every time she’s around. He’s wary of her and I’ve never understood why, considering some of the women he’s brought round to the flat. Jesus, he once briefly dated an American woman who called him Daddy in a baby voice, regardless of who was in earshot. Angela might be a tad shallow sometimes, but she has a good heart.

  ‘I’m not going to ask my girlfriend if she threw away my shirt,’ I insist. ‘I’ll look like a psycho.’

  He laughs. ‘True, and if she admits it, you’ll have to deal with the fact you’re dating a psycho. Which is worse?’

  ‘I’ll buy a new bloody shirt,’ I mumble, as I begin picking up clothes from my bedroom floor. ‘I’m pretty sure I have store credit from John Lewis.’

  ‘You could buy a bottle of champagne for Greta and Will while you’re at it,’ Matt suggests as he walks into the living room. ‘I’m not doing a joint present, like we’re a couple, mate. That’s just creepy.’

  ‘No problem, Daddy.’

  ‘Fuck off, Billy-No-Shirt.’

  I grab the rest of my clothes and fling them back into my wardrobe, vowing to sort them out later. Right now, I have to figure out how to buy a shirt and a decent bottle of champagne with fifty pounds.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Boys! So glad you could make it!’

  At least I think that’s what Greta says as we walk into Bar Black, but the place is so noisy, it’s hard to be sure. She hugs me – wrinkling my new blue shirt, which might be a little on the tight side since one of the buttons pinged off on the way here, but was seventy per cent off – before thanking me for the gift I’m carrying. I really hope she likes 2018 sparkling rosé. Matt hands her a box containing two Swarovski crystal-embellished champagne flutes and I hate him.

  ‘We’re all in the VIP area,’ she yells, gesturing towards the stairs at the back of the pub. ‘Will is up there, go grab a drink! I won’t be long.’

  We push through the crowds and head up the stairs to the function ‘room’, a cordoned-off area which overlooks the main bar. Until now, I’ve never noticed how pretentious it’s become. When we first started coming here, Bar Black was called Libertines and was far less polished and sterile. Then again, so were we. Part of me misses the comfy patchwork couches and retro jukebox, which have now been replaced with shitty club anthems and slippery bar stools. There are plenty of other bars in London, but this one just feels like ours, even with a strangely designed bar perch lodged up my arse.

  It’s busy for a Tuesday, with most of the clientele arranged in after-work drink cliques, all smelling like a mixture of stress and Tom Ford. It’s the same faces week in and week out. These are my eighty-hour working week, ladder-climbing, self-starting, content-creating, upwardly mobile contemporaries and right now, I’m struggling to feel like I belong. I’m starting to see my world very differently.

  ‘This must be a bit strange for you,’ Matt says, dragging my gaze away from a woman who’s trying to furtively vape into her handbag. He gestures towards Greta’s fiancé Will, who’s chatting with our mutual friend Harriet. ‘I mean, you used to date Greta and now she’s marrying this guy.’

  This guy is Dr William Howard, the forty-three-year-old, Ferrari-driving surgeon that Greta began dating after me. I’ve met him at least ten times, yet I’m not even sure he knows my name.

  ‘Why would it be weird?’ I reply. ‘I mean, yes, we dated, but I’m very happy she found someone. I’m not secretly pining for Greta, mate.’

  ‘No, I know. I just mean because, well . . .’

  ‘What? Because he owns a house in Notting Hill, has a private clinic on Harley Street, a hairline which refuses to recede and I’m just a jobless prick with a girlfriend who might possibly be kidnapping my clothes?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Matt nudges me, playfully. ‘You’ll be alright, bud. Just try and have a good night.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ I reply, taking a glass of champagne from the table. ‘I’m delighted for Greta, you know that. She deserves to be happy.’

  ‘To be honest, I’d marry him for a shot at his car,’ Matt states, waving to Will. ‘No offence, mate, but you have to admit, our Greta did well here.’

  Matt’s right, of course, but I didn’t need reminding what a fucking loser I am in comparison. I’m very aware. Besides, Matt was the one who introduced me to Greta, so really, this is all his fault. I down my glass of champagne and grab another, while Will makes his way over to us.

  ‘Alright, guys, nice to see you!’ Will exclaims, shaking our hands vigorously. ‘Just popping to the little boy’s room, back in a sec.’

  Lit
tle boy’s room? Who says that? I start to feel three per cent better about myself.

  We sit down in a small booth beside Harriet, a pale, delicate woman who was in halls with Matt and Greta. She studied English Lit and now writes bestselling crime novels. I ventured into their little circle second term of my law undergrad and never left. She’s here with her husband Noel, a man who looks like he keeps ancient secrets in his tremendous beard. They’re good people.

  ‘You remember Brian Wilson?’ Harriet asks Matt as he slips off his coat.

  He frowns. ‘From The Beach Boys?’

  She laughs. ‘No, he used to live in the flat above us in Brixton. Skinny guy. Had that cat with the funny ear. You’ll remember him, Nick.’

  I nod. ‘Wasn’t his cat called Phil Wilson?’

  ‘Yes! So, I was telling Greta, I met him in Costa last week! He was back visiting relatives. He lives in France now. Four kids. Makes his own wine or something. He’s done so well!’

  France, eh? Maybe I should move to France? I think to myself, knocking back my third glass of champagne. Surely my reputation hasn’t reached across the Channel. I’d need to learn French though.

  ‘Are you driving?’ Matt asks Harriet, motioning to the bottle of sparkling water in front of her. It’s a reasonable question considering Harriet is notorious for being the first one smashed, but the last one standing. Harriet nods before pushing back her chair to reveal the reason why.

  ‘Twelve weeks,’ she proclaims in her loud Welsh accent, rubbing her non-existent bump. ‘We’ve only just started telling people. No booze, no fags, no sushi, no mayo. I’m also sick as a dog. It’s all very inconvenient.’

  Noel sits there and beams proudly. ‘But it’s come at a good time. I’ve just been promoted, so we can actually afford to move somewhere bigger.’

  ‘Head of digital marketing,’ Harriet boasts on Noel’s behalf. ‘It’s been a hectic few weeks all round.’

  As we congratulate them, I do my best to ignore the little voice in my head, but it’s determined to scold me.

  SEE! This is what grown-ups do, arsehole. Get your life in order.

  Forty minutes and a shot of tequila later, I watch Greta and Dr Better-Than-Me make a short thank-you speech to the crowded room. I see a few familiar faces, but a lot seem to be ‘couple’ friends who will have to pick a side after the divorce. One thing I’m certain of is that no one here has ever stepped foot in an Aldi, whereas I’m on a first-name basis with Greg the cashier.

  ‘We’re so happy you came!’ Greta enthuses. ‘It means so much to us.’

  Will nods and slips his arm around Greta’s waist. ‘Four years ago, this beautiful woman agreed to have dinner with me and four weeks ago she agreed to be my wife. I’m the luckiest man alive. She is magical.’

  Jesus, even women in the bar downstairs are awwing. I mean, Greta’s great and all, but magical? Does she go all Penn & Teller on his ass when they’re alone?

  ‘Anyway, the wedding will be mid-March, you’ll all receive your invites shortly. Now, please eat, drink and be as happy as we are! Cheers!’

  As we all raise our glasses and wish them well, I try very hard to be positive, but being surrounded by impressive people celebrating engagements, babies, promotions and wine-making neighbours from Brixton past is giving me anxiety. I’m trying very hard not to take everyone’s success as a personal affront, but it turns out I’m fairly self-obsessed. I excuse myself and head to the bathroom. Knowing my luck, I’ll end up pissing beside a fucking Nobel Prize winner.

  Thankfully, I’m alone, apart from one cubicle which seems to be occupied by someone with a suspicious sniffing disorder. As I wash my hands, I stare at myself in the mirror, hoping that little voice in my head will provide a rallying pep talk . . . perhaps affirm my worth in the world. Tell me I’m destined for great things!

  Your hair looks crap.

  Bollocks. Defeated, I retreat back out into the hallway, ready to get unnecessarily drunk, but I’m stopped by Greta and an older woman, who’s dressed like she’s running for office.

  ‘Nick! Just the man I was looking for! This is Alice, I thought you two should meet!’

  Why, is she a complete prick too?

  ‘Terrific,’ I respond, shaking Alice’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you. Excellent party, Greta, I’m having the best time.’

  Greta grins at me excitedly, while Alice doesn’t say a word. Who is this woman? Christ, is Greta trying to set me up? I know Angela isn’t here, but I still have a girlfriend. Besides Alice is clearly not my type because Alice is hitting sixty. I’m not adverse to older women, but twice my age is pushing it just a bit.

  ‘So how do you know each other?’ I ask.

  ‘Alice is my neighbour, but also manages Southview Shopping Centre, you know, the mall near your flat?’

  ‘Um, sure – funnily enough, I just bought this shirt there. John Lewis do a decent sale,’ I reply, pointing to my shirt-covered torso and wondering why the hell I just said that when a simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed. Now Alice is looking at my torso and I want to leave.

  ‘Oh wonderful,’ Greta continues, ‘because Alice was literally just telling me about a position she has available. It’s fate!’

  Job talk! Thank God. I unclench. Alice is free to look wherever she likes.

  ‘It’s seasonal work but would be ideal for you.’

  ‘OK, perfect, what—’

  ‘No travel expenses, no stress, you’ve already had background checks done—’

  ‘Background checks? Why—’

  ‘And of course, you’re very personable. Kids love you!’

  ‘Greta, what on earth are you talking about? What’s the position?’

  ‘Santa,’ she replies, grinning at me. ‘I think you’d make a perfect Santa.’

  Chapter Four

  Present Day

  Santa’s grotto at Southview Shopping Centre is less of a cosy, festive cavern filled with gifts, and more of an open-plan, penned-off Christmas area with an impressive, surprisingly tastefully decorated tree, some fake snow and, of course, a huge throne for Santa to sit on. A red carpet covers the floor from throne to entrance, where the queue is already winding around the nearby juice bar.

  You can do this, Nick, I reassure myself, waving to the eager children. You’re employed and spreading Christmas cheer, what’s not to like?

  ‘Vamos! You’re late!’

  Startled, I whip around to see a woman in her thirties, no taller than five foot, dressed like an elf and obviously as enthusiastic to be here as I am.

  ‘You are Nick?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Izzy.’

  ‘Nice to meet—’

  ‘Look, I wear this costume, but I not your servant, OK?’ she informs me. ‘Don’t ask me to help. Last year I have this one crying and that one crying and that’s no my job, OK?’

  I wish she was as charming as her Spanish accent.

  ‘Um, sure. OK.’

  ‘You deal with los niños, I have the money, OK?’

  She waves her little point-of-sale credit card machine at my face, while I nod in agreement. I feel like I’m involved in some sort of heist.

  I sit on my ridiculous throne as Izzy allows the first child and her mother through, nervously telling myself that this will be a piece of cake.

  You’ve been in a boardroom with Deborah Meaden, for Christ’s sake. They’re just kids. Get it together.

  I smile and wave to the approaching child. She takes a step back and clings to her mum’s leg. Excellent start, Nick.

  ‘Keep it under a minute for each child,’ Geraldine had advised at my induction, ‘Name, age, what they want, let the parents take a picture, give them a gift from the sack, then on to the next. I need you smiling and swift. Any questions?’

  ‘Are there boy-gifts and girl-gifts?’

 
‘No,’ she’d snapped back. ‘Gender neutral. New guidelines. Also, lap-sitting is entirely at the parent’s discretion, but the younger kids enjoy it.’

  The small child currently trying to flee from my knee makes me believe otherwise.

  ‘Polly, it’s OK, darling, just look over here! Smile for Mummy!’

  Polly is having none of this shit. I look down at the screaming, wriggling toddler in the furry blue hat and empathise. She holds on tightly to a half-eaten Milky Way. She wants to be here less than I do.

  Her mum pleads with me through thick-rimmed glasses, telepathically impressing the need to make this situation better, but I have no idea how. Polly is the first child I’ve seen today and by the look on my supervisor’s face, she might be the last.

  ‘Oh, now now!’ I say, in a voice which startles even me. It’s like Santa meets Ed Kemper. I try again in a slightly less serial-killer-esque tone. ‘No need to cry, little one. Tell Santa what you would like for Christ—’

  ‘MUuuuUUmmm!’

  This is horrible. An undoubtedly blurry photo is taken as I hand Polly a wrapped selection box, before she’s placed back into her stroller by her flustered, apologetic mother now promising ice cream to appease her. The last thing that kid needs is more sugar.

  I barely have time to take a breath before the next little darling has hurled himself on to my lap. At least this kid is enthusiastic.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask him, staring at the snot bubble which has formed in his left nostril. God, this is grim. I see Geraldine skulking off towards the food court and immediately relax a little.

  ‘David,’ he replies, eyeing up my scratchy, nylon beard. It’s already driving me nuts, given that underneath is three days’ worth of itchy stubble regrowth.

  ‘And how old are you, David?’

  ‘Six!’ He replies with such a gusto, I can’t help but smile. Most adults say their age like it’s shameful secret, but David’s got the ageing thing nailed.

  ‘And what would you like for Christmas?’