Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read!. Catherine Ferguson
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climbing wall?’
I smile apologetically. ‘It looks – well, super – but I’m afraid we didn’t realise it would be mostly children…’
I glance at Nathan for back-up.
But he seems fascinated by the wall.
It looks pretty scary to me. It’s massive, for a start, with lots of hand and footholds in different colours.
‘So how long has this facility been here?’ Nathan asks, sounding genuinely interested, and my heart sinks.
Mrs Grieves starts giving us an enthusiastic rundown of the facts and figures.
I tune out.
I’m watching a kid, who looks no older than ten, scaling this terrifying-looking edifice with the dexterity of a monkey. He’s almost half-way up, at least fifteen feet off the ground. What if he falls?
He turns slightly sideways then swings his leg upwards, aiming for a blue foothold. But it’s obviously trickier than it looks because it takes him three attempts to get there.
My heart is in my mouth.
What is his mother thinking of? I know he’s in a harness, but if he slips he’ll swing free and collide with the wall, and that could be very nasty indeed.
‘Come on. You’ll love it!’ Mrs Grieves rubs my arm briskly. Her eyes behind the specs look huge.
‘Yeah, we’ll have a go,’ Nathan says. ‘I’ve been wanting to try it ever since I heard about these things.’
My stomach revolts at the very thought but Mrs Grieves seems determined.
The obnoxious ginger kid points at me. ‘That woman’s scared,’ he announces to everyone with a curl of his lip. ‘And her trousers are too small.’
I narrow my eyes at him, suddenly horribly self-conscious and praying there’s no camel toe situation in evidence. (I can’t check now, obviously.)
But that settles it. I’m doing the climb.
I mean, how difficult can it be?
If these kids can scale a bloody wall, surely I can!
Fifteen minutes later, I’m clinging on for dear life, praying that death will come quickly. Sweat is pooling under my arms and trickling into my hairline.
I’m only about ten feet off the ground but might as well be on top of Mount Everest. If I look down, there’s a very good chance I will be sick.
My stomach shifts queasily. I’m not usually such a baby. Honestly. But this climbing wall lark is a real bugger with a hangover.
To be fair to Nathan, I did agree to do it. It’s just I’d thought we’d be having a nice Sunday walk up a hill, which I’ve done with him many times before. Not scaling a climbing wall for the first time, watched by a bunch of nine-year-olds impatient for their turn.
‘Hey, missus,’ yells the ginger Harry Potter fan. ‘Need a leg up?’
His gang of mates snicker and my cheeks burn.
If I can just get my leg up to the next foothold and climb another ten feet or so, I reckon I’ll be able to descend with my pride more or less intact.
Trouble is, I’m wearing entirely the wrong pants for stretching.
‘My grandma did it last week,’ yells Comedy Ginge. ‘And she was much quicker than you.’
Swallowing down the nausea, I glance over my shoulder, searching for Nathan.
But he’s some way off, helping a blonde girl get into her harness.
He hasn’t noticed I’m in difficulties.
My limbs are stretched in unnerving directions and I’m frightened that if I move even an inch, my sweaty hands will slip free of the holds and I’ll be left dangling on the harness like a beetle in distress.
‘Are you stuck?’ shouts Comedy Ginge.
‘No, I’m not bloody stuck,’ I snap.
‘You swore. I’m telling Mrs Grieves on you.’
‘Feel free.’ I glare down at him. ‘And by the way, Harry Potter’s dead.’
He looks at me in horror for a second and I think, Ha! Got you, you little bastard!
Then he shakes his head. ‘Nah! He’s not.’ He draws a big breath and yells at the top of his voice, ‘Mrs Grieves? This one’s stuck.’
‘I am not bloody stuck!’ With renewed determination, I swing my right leg up and to the side.
There’s a loud ripping sound as my trouser seams part company under the strain.
Then three seconds of shocked silence.
Followed by hoots and belly laughter from down below.
Now, everyone in the place is staring.
I’ve even got Nathan’s attention.
Humiliatingly, he has to climb up behind me and talk me down.
Comedy Ginge and his mates give me a round of applause as I beetle for the exit.
Mrs Grieves gallops after me and blocks the doorway.
‘What do you do if you fall off a horse?’ she bellows. ‘You get right back on the old bugger!’ She beams at me with her scary eyes and lipsticky teeth.
‘Excuse me, I’m going to be sick.’
She dives out of the way to let me through and I run for the ladies’.
Just in the nick of time.
Bloody Mrs Grieves.
I should never have let her hustle me into it in the first place.
Mrs Grieves Bodily Harm, more like …
My face is still brick red in the car on the way home.
To cheer me up, Nathan says he’d find me adorable and sexy however many pairs of pants I split. Then he grins across at me. ‘Two guys walk into a bar. One of them says, “Your round.” And the other one says, “Yeah, so are you, you fat bastard.”’
He creases up with laughter and can’t understand why I’m not joining in.
By the time we arrive back, though, he’s teased me out of my huff and I’m beginning to see the funny side. I’m even contemplating dragging him off to the bedroom. Although when I put my arms round his waist and snuggle up to him for a kiss, it’s clear he has other ideas in mind.
‘I thought we could go out for a run?’
‘A run? Now?’
‘Lola!’ He wags his finger at me. ‘What am I always saying? There’s no elevator to success. You have to—’
‘Take the stairs,’ I supply in a monotone.
I hate that quote of his. It’s so cheesy. He must have learned it on his personal trainer course.
Nathan nods. ‘Run first, sex later.’
Not surprisingly, I’ve gone off the whole idea anyway.
I shrug. ‘You go for your run. I think I’ll stay here.’
Nathan looks taken aback.
I press my stomach. ‘Not feeling too great. Hangover.’
‘Oh, right. Well …