Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read!. Catherine Ferguson
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but he was thinking it.’
Actually, I couldn’t care less what Nathan thinks of my arse. Because he’s clearly a massive arse himself who deserves no space in my head whatsoever.
Tears blur my eyes.
Trouble is, he keeps sneaking in there, with his killer smile, marathon-toned body and great way with a shoulder massage. And his fantastic apartment, where I was going to be entertaining my family at Christmas, but which obviously won’t now be available to me.
On top of everything else, this feels like the very last straw. Dad will be so disappointed when I tell him Christmas at mine is cancelled.
I give my nose a good old blow then call out to Barb, ‘Is it crunchy or smooth?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The peanut butter.’
‘Er … crunchy?’
Slowly, I get to my feet. My legs are stiff from sitting on the bed playing Clock Patience for hours.
Three wins in a row used to be my target. Bloody didn’t manage it. But I suppose there’s always tomorrow.
In the living room, Barb ushers me with a flourish to the comfiest armchair and throws over the softest cushions. And Bargain Hunt is the best escapism ever. (I keep telling Barb we should go on it, but she’s not keen.) I even manage a bite or two of peanut butter and jam on crusty white.
We drink tea and slag off the contestants, and it all feels comfortingly normal.
(‘Why the hell did they pay that much for a horrible brown vase?’
‘Ridiculous! It’s even got a chip in it. They’ll never get their money back.’
‘We’d do much better than them. We should go on it, Barb.’)
By the time Bargain Hunt finishes, I’m surprised to find I’ve eaten the whole sandwich.
Barb puts on the first part of a darkly brooding Scandinavian whodunnit and we’re riveted to the screen for the next hour.
The credits roll and she glances across. ‘Next episode?’
‘Go on, then.’
For distraction purposes, this is even better than Clock Patience.
After number three, Barb yawns and gets up. ‘Right. Meeting with old Randy-Pants at nine. Better hit the hay.’
Randy-Pants, aka Peter Randiman, is the big boss at Premier Furnishings. He’s the sort who takes a woman’s cleavage far more seriously than her views. I worry that one day Barb will give him a piece of her mind and end up being sacked for insubordination.
I grin. ‘At least there’s one reason I’m glad not to be going into work tomorrow. Old Randy-Pants.’
Barb smiles sadly. ‘It’ll be fine, you know. You’ll get another job. And another boyfriend.’
‘No thanks.’
‘And you don’t have to cancel Christmas just because Knob Head’s apartment isn’t on offer any more.’
‘Well, I can’t do it here, can I?’ Gloomily, I gaze around me at the cosy but cramped flat.
‘Of course you can,’ says Barb. ‘I’ll be at Mum’s, so you can use my room.’
I smile feebly. ‘Thanks. But Justine would actually die if she had to stay here and I don’t want to be jailed for murder along with everything else. Plus, I’ve no money.’
Barb shrugs. ‘You don’t need loads of cash to have a lovely Christmas.’
I shake my head. ‘Sorry, Barb, but that’s a terrible cliché.’
‘No, it’s not. My mum made all the decorations when we were little.’
‘Really?’ I’m dubious, to say the least.
‘Yeah. She stopped short of knitting a tree. But everything else was home-made. And my childhood Christmases were always fabulous.’
‘Yes, but you were ten,’ I point out. ‘Justine’s thirty-five. And she thinks no Christmas morning is complete without smoked salmon and caviar, and the best champagne.’
Barb makes a face. ‘Well, tell her your Christmas morning isn’t complete without a chocolate orange and a two litre bottle of IRN-BRU.’
I smile for the first time in days.
‘Nathan’s an A* twat,’ calls Barb reassuringly, as I head for bed. ‘He’s proof that evolution can most definitely go in reverse.’
I lie around the flat for the next week, trying to shake off my gloom.
It feels weird waving Barb off to work every morning.
She gets this sheepishly apologetic look on her face at having a job to go to, which to be honest just makes me feel worse.
The Scandinavian box set we started watching becomes part of my daily routine.
Every morning, I stand at the door as Barb leaves and call something vaguely motivational as I wave her off. As in: ‘Well, must get down to the jobcentre!’ Or: ‘Hey, it’s jobs day in the Gazette today!’
A sly curtain twitch to check she’s actually driven off. Then it’s into the kitchen for a bowl of muesli (old habits die hard) with a generous squirt of aerosol cream on top and a heap of nicely crushed-up Twirl (up yours, Nathan).
Then it’s into the shady living room (daylight is truly the work of the devil) for a non-stop murder-fest of gruesome proportions. Blood and gore? Dissected brains? Innards tumbling out onto the slab? Bring it on!
Half-way through the third day, though, niggles start creeping in.
I need to look for a job. Otherwise I’ll be penniless by about March.
And if I carry on eating all the carbs in the world, partly to spite Nathan but mainly because it’s so wonderfully numbing, I truly will have the ginormous arse I’m famed for.
Speaking of which, I’ve developed this weird pain in my right buttock. I keep having to wriggle around, trying different positions to ease it. It was on and off to start with. But it’s growing more persistent.
I know my ex is a massive pain in the backside but it can’t have manifested into a physical ailment, can it?
Tonight, when Barb wants to catch up with all the brooding, Danish drama, I’ve got to pretend it’s all new to me.
It’s all going well until a really gruesome bit comes up in episode nine (which I watched the day before yesterday) when I know for sure someone’s about to get a vital part of their body forcibly removed.
‘Ugh, can’t watch this bit.’ I leap up and head for the kitchen, rubbing my buttock. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’
When I come back in, Barb narrows her eyes at me. ‘Have you watched it all, then?’
‘No!’ Indignantly, I plonk down a mug and a chocolate biscuit on her side table.
Barb grins. ‘Which episode are you up to?’
‘Um … eighteen,’ I tell her, a touch defiantly. ‘But from tomorrow, it stops. Apart from anything else, I’ve developed this really weird pain in my right buttock.’
She studies me as I wriggle about in my chair to find a comfy position. Then she says, ‘You know what that is, of course?’
‘No.