Happy Ever After Read online

  ‘Oh…’ I digested all this, feeling rather foolish as the snow swirled and danced.. ‘So, you mean…?’

  ‘I mean,’ Lewis said, ‘that not only are you beautiful, but also funny, self-deprecating, gentle, generous and kind – and I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about you.’

  I was vaguely aware of Sophie and Jem standing in the kitchen doorway, mouths agape, squinting through the snowstorm, watching their Cinderella little sister in tatty jeans and a holed sweater sitting astride the garden wall while Prince Charming paid court.

  ‘Now, are you coming down,’ Lewis grinned, ‘before I turn into the abominable snowman? Or shall I join you up there?’

  ‘You could never be abom-in-in-inable,’ I stammered, smiling into his eyes. He had melting crystals on his eyelashes. ‘And I’ll come down. It’s probably safer. Not to mention warmer and - whoops…’

  True to form, I lost my balance and we both collapsed giggling against the dwarf apple tree. As Lewis kissed me, and the snowflakes melted on our lips, my last coherent thought was that we’d probably live happily ever after.

  Very happily indeed.

  A REAL COOL YULE

  The first stirrings of doubt had crept in when Richard mentioned that he never had a Christmas tree. Of course, because I was head over ears in love with Richard, I didn’t actually say anything – but Christmas without a tree? It just didn’t seem right.

  I didn’t mention the non-tree to my mum because, to be honest, she thinks Richard is a bit of a poseur - well okay, a lot of a poseur - and simply can’t see why I’m as besotted as I am. However, I did make the mistake of mentioning Richard’s lack of a Christmas tree to my best friend Annie as we were late-night shopping.

  ‘… so he has crystallised willow sticks instead…’

  Annie trumpeted with laughter. ‘Of course he does! With a solitary spotlight. And one or two teeny weeny designer decorations in stark white. And I bet he has some sort of really healthy minimalist dessert - you know one dollop in the middle of the plate with a sprig of mint and a drizzle of something expensively exotic on the side - instead of a Christmas pud, and probably no festive telly, and no silly little presents in Christmas stockings and…’

  ‘How did you know?’ I blinked at her.

  ‘Because, Sasha,’ Annie linked her arm through mine, ‘Richard is a complete whiffler.’

  A whiffler is Annie’s polite word to describe people who really don’t deserve polite words.

  ‘He is not!’ I retorted, stung. ‘He’s just really, really cool.’

  ‘Sash, sweetheart, only you could say that,’ Annie grinned. ‘Only someone blindly in love could describe Richard as cool.’

  But he was. Achingly cool. So handsome and stylish. Like he’d stepped out of a supplement for Very Cool People. What he saw in me – the complete opposite of coolness - I had no idea, but we’d been together for nearly three months, and I loved him.

  ‘Richard’s an A-star whiffler,’ Annie continued heartlessly as we pushed our way through the late-night Christmas shoppers. ‘Look what he’s done to you.’

  ‘Made me happy?’ I said with a hint of sarcasm, as we negotiated a scrum of harassed women and noisy children.

  ‘Happy? Is that what you call it? He’s tried to change you out of all recognition. What happened to the cheerful, brightly-clad girl we all knew and loved?’

  ‘I was old-fashioned,’ I said firmly, wincing as someone’s loaded carrier bags barked my shins. ‘All those short skirts and primary colours are so last year. Richard’s just shown me how to dress with style.’

  ‘Cloned you,’ Annie sniffed. ‘Look at you with your bone-straight hair and your dark cut-price cat-walk clothes! You look like every one of Richard’s other girlfriends – bland, boring and unhappy.’

  ‘I’m not unhappy! I needed a make-over. I –‘

  ‘And,’ Annie continued cheerfully ignoring me, ‘look at Richard the Man. Only a top-notch whiffler would wear sunglasses in December.’

  ‘But all the celebs wear them,’ I rushed to Richard’s defence. ‘It’s –‘

  ‘If you say cool again,’ Annie said quickly, ‘I shall probably be forced to abandon you in the middle of the shopping precinct. And celebs wear sunglasses to look like they don’t want to be recognised, but what they really want is for everyone to say “hey – there’s someone famous wearing sunglasses” and – ‘

  I laughed. ‘Okay, but Richard – ‘

  ‘Richard is totally self obsessed and all me-me-me.’

  ‘He’s not like anything that!’

  ‘He’s exactly like that – only you’re too besotted to see it and I’m not going to waste my breath on him any more – but like all good friends, I’ll be around to pick up the pieces when it goes pear-shaped. As it will. Right – now back to the shopping - do you think my gran really wants a hip-hop cd or have I mis-read my list?’

  I was still smarting over Annie’s Richard-character-assassination and didn’t answer. Richard I and I would be together forever, I knew it. This was the Real Thing. I secretly thought that Annie was a bit jealous. Her boyfriend, Doug, was a chunky builder and about as uncool as it was possible to get.

  ‘… and another thing,’ Annie continued as we’d finally translated her scribbled shopping list, exhausted ourselves in the brightly-lit stores, and were making our way home, ‘I can’t imagine why you want to spend Christmas Day with Richard anyway…’

  ‘Because,’ I muttered as we trudged through the bitter wind towards the car park, ‘mum and dad are going to my gran’s because she’s been ill and is just out of hospital, and Richard thought I should meet his parents. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘It’ll be hell on wheels,’ Annie unlocked her car. ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned.’

  ‘… and we have our Christmas meal in the evening,’ Richard – and yes, he was wearing sunglasses - said two days later as we sat in the town’s latest trendy wine bar. ‘I always try to produce something different for supper each year. You know, something suggested by one of the newer celeb chefs.’

  To be honest, I don’t like wine much, I prefer cider, but I sipped slowly from my glass and pretended to enjoy it. I was just happy to be in the wine bar with Richard.

  ‘What? No Christmas dinner? And then not until tea time?’ I tried not to look shocked, while wondering how I’d last all day without a good meal. ‘No stuffing and roast potatoes and sprouts?’

  ‘What a conventional girl you are!’ Richard laughed heartily. ‘All that old fashioned traditional stuff went out with the ark. People eat far too much and spend all day bloated and sleepy. No, this year I thought I’d try sushi.’

  Raw fish? For Christmas dinner? I tried not to let my horror show.

  I peered at Richard. It was difficult to gauge his mood when I couldn’t see his eyes. ‘But you do have all the other things, I suppose? Christmas crackers and presents round the tree – er – willow sticks in the morning, and – ‘

  ‘No crackers, no silly hats, no baubles, no chocolates, no Christmas cards on washing lines, no advent calendars. Absolutely no tat whatsoever! This is the twenty first century, Sasha. Some of us have moved on from twee Victoriana. And we exchange our gifts – one little wildly expensive gift each, usually something jewellery and designer – after our supper.’

  My mouth dropped open and I snapped it shut. One present? Just one? Jewellery? Something designer? And no crackers? No reading out those groan-making jokes and wearing paper hats through dinner? No silly presents? No being awash with gloriously crinkling coloured wrapping paper and getting lovely little things like smellies and books and warm socks?

  This didn’t sound like Christmas to me…

  I’d already bought Richard lots of little presents to hide under the willow sticks. Silly nostalgic presents. From those sort of retro-jokey shops… And for his special present I’d got him a cashmere jumper. Not designer, true, but eye-wateringly expensive. And I’d bought some nice bath foam for his mum
and a silk tie for his dad.

  It wasn’t looking good.

  I was just about to say something to salvage the situation, when this very-made-up, heavily-perfumed, very thin girl, dressed all in black, sashayed up to us. She was wearing huge sunglasses and carrying a small fluffy dog. The dog was lovely. I beamed at it and reached out a hand to stroke it, but somehow got side-swiped as its owner bent and gave Richard massive “Mwah! Mwah!” air kisses.

  There was a clash of sunglasses.

  ‘Surprise, surprise Richard, darling!’ Her voice was what my mum would call put-on. ‘I knew I’d find you here! Old habits and all that!’

  ‘Mimi!’ Richard slid from his stool and practically stroked her.

  Mimi? I bit back a snigger. Was that the girl or the dog?

  Richard sighed almost soppily. ‘Oh, Mimi, angel...’

  They were still sort of patting one another. And that was one question answered. Mimi’s dog and I exchanged miserable glances.

  Richard was ushering Mimi towards the bar. ‘I’ve missed you so much… Simply lived for your texts. You didn’t say you’d be back before Christmas – please tell me you’re back for good?’

  ‘I couldn’t bear to stay away any longer,’ Mimi gushed. ‘And how could I not be with you on Christmas Day?’

  Sushi for three? I was beginning to get a nasty sinking feeling…

  Richard didn’t miss a beat. ‘Oh, Mimi – I’ve missed you so much. What would you like to drink?’

  There was a lot more mwah-ing and Richard got more drinks, and somehow Mimi and the little fluffy dog had managed to edge their way on to a stool between Richard and me. The scent was overpowering, but I smiled manfully and waited for Richard to introduce us.

  As he seemed very keen to hold Mimi’s hands and wasn’t taking any notice of me, I took a gulp of my wine, and did the honours myself.

  Richard peered at me over his sunglasses as if he couldn’t quite remember who I was.

  Mimi screeched with false laughter. ‘Sasha! Sweet name… And have you been keeping Darling Richard out of mischief while I’ve been away? Well, I’m back now, so to be honest sweetie, you know what they say about two being company and all that?’

  I nodded, blinking rapidly to stop the tears falling, the way I do when I’m watching a sad film and don’t want to make a show of myself. ‘I do. It’s a cliché. As you are. You deserve one another. It’s the dog I feel sorry for.’

  And, with my head held high, I marched from the wine bar. Annie would have been proud of me.

  Yes, okay, I burst into noisy, shattered, heart-broken, devastated tears outside, but they didn’t notice.

  I’ll gloss over the next couple of weeks. My heart was broken. My life was over. I know there’s no need to go into details because I’m sure everyone knows exactly how I was feeling. But believe me, Christmas is the worst time in the world to have a broken heart. Everyone else being all jolly and excited and awash with festive joy simply compounds the misery.

  Annie was a star. She didn’t once say “I told you so” and again invited me to spend Christmas with her and Doug and their massive extended families. I said thanks, but no thanks. Mum and dad fussed a lot, but I knew they were just secretly relieved that Richard was no longer part of my life. However, they also worried about me being left home alone on Christmas day.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said wearily, as I had to Annie. ‘I really don’t want to come to Gran’s and depress everyone. I honestly prefer my own company at the moment. I’ll have a microwaved dinner and watch all the funny stuff on television and re-read my Jane Austen’s and when you come back on Boxing Day we can have our Christmas Day then, can’t we?’

  And I’d give mum the bath foam and dad could have the cashmere jumper and the tie and I was sure Annie and Doug would love the retro-nonsensicals.

  It had sounded fine in theory, but to be honest, come the dark and bitterly cold Christmas morning, once my parents had driven away to Gran’s through a howling north-easterly gale, I was dreading the hours and hours of loneliness stretching ahead. The Christmas tree, festooned with childhood baubles and tinsel, and the multi-coloured paper-chains criss-crossing the ceiling, brought Memories of Christmas Pasts flooding in. Happy memories… Very happy memories…

  I wondered if spending the whole day in bed might not be a bad idea.

  In fact, I was just reaching for my Jane Austen boxed-set and a hot water bottle, when someone hammered on the door.

  I pulled it open. The icy wind screamed into the hallway. Mrs Jenkins from next door hovered on the step, her hair awry and a large roasting dish in her hands.

  ‘Electric’s gone,’ she shouted above the storm. ‘Wind must have brought down a power line. Haven’t you noticed?’

  I shook my head. It was okay when I’d filled my hot water bottle.

  ‘Me turkey’s half-way through,’ Mrs Jenkins continued, ‘and I know from your mum that you’re not having a proper dinner having being dumped by that popinjay of yours, and you’ve got a big gas cooker, haven’t you? I wondered if - ?’

  ‘What?’ Confused, I focused on the huge foil-wrapped heap. ‘Oh, yes – yes – of course… Come in…’

  I lit the gas, and between us, Mrs Jenkins and I shoved the monster turkey into our oven.

  ‘Plenty of room for me spuds and what-have-you in there an’ all,’ Mrs Jenkins said approvingly, ‘and I can do the sprouts and things, and carry on steaming the pud, on the top burners. You go and get dressed, Sasha dear, and I’ll go and get the rest of me stuff…’

  As I dressed in my favourite scarlet dress and thick tights – naturally, I’d given up on the Richard-style monochrome look – the door knocker rattled non-stop. Mrs Jenkins had sent the local bush- telegraph into overdrive. Suddenly being one of the few houses in the street that didn’t rely on electricity for cooking and heating had made me Very Popular Indeed.

  By eleven o’clock I had at least a dozen neighbours clustered round the leaping–logs gas fire wishing each other Happy Christmas, drinking sherry and eating mince pies in the living room; several rather bemused children were in the dining room playing with whatever presents they’d bought that didn’t need electricity; and Mrs Jenkins was loudly supervising a scrum of ladies in the cooking of a communal dinner in the kitchen.

  The living room was heaped with everyone’s presents, and the delicious traditional smells wafted through the house, and the sound of chattering and laughter was infectious. I hadn’t thought about Richard and Mimi and their shared designer Christmas for, ooh, at least ten minutes.

  ‘Proper war time spirit,’ old Mr Pedley nodded happily from my dad’s chair, his feet encased in brand new slippers. ‘All pulling together in times of adversity. All the friends and neighbours chipping in.’

  Everyone raised their voices in agreement and reached for more nuts or tangerines or chocolates. The neighbours certainly hadn’t arrived empty-handed.

  ‘Best Christmas we’ve ever had,’ Jan Lewis said as she rooted through the cutlery drawer for enough knives and forks to arm the street. ‘It’s an ill wind right enough. We’d have all been shut inside, on our own, otherwise. Watching the telly just like any other day. This is a proper Christmas. Any more spoons anywhere, Sash? If not, I’ll pop back and get mine…’

  ‘You’ll need your arctic gear if you’re going out there,’ Mrs Jenkins popped her head round the kitchen door. ‘That wind’s got snow on it, you mark my words… Right now, Sash love, if you can help in finding some more chairs and candles – it’s getting really dark and we’ll need candles to see what we’re doing…’

  I saluted with a grin. I was quite enjoying myself, and the smell of the food was making me hungry for the first time since – well, you know only too well since when. It was lovely to be immersed in this merry madness and not have to think.

  ‘Someone else at the door!’ Gladys Beckett yelled from the depths of the kitchen where the scents were now almost too gorgeous to bear. ‘Might be Jan with the spoo
ns. Can you get it Sasha, love!’

  I got it. Pulling the door open, I almost yelped in delight as a flurry of snow wafted in.

  ‘Snow!’ Jan Lewis, wrapped up in a huge coat and three scarves bustled back in clutching the spoons and a tall wild-haired man in a duffle coat. ‘A white Christmas – at last! Perfect! Oh, and this is Dylan. He’s Stan Pedley’s grandson. Found him on Stan’s doorstep – he’s just back from Australia and was supposed to be having his dinner with him – poor lad was frantic when he found the house empty. I told him Stan was here – he’s going to join us…’

  And she bustled away leaving me and the dishevelled Dylan staring at one another in the hallway.

  ‘I’m really sorry…’ he started, struggling out of the snow-spattered duffel coat. ‘I don’t want to gate-crash…’

  ‘Oh, please don’t worry. We’ve got every man and his dog here – and your granddad will be really pleased to see you,’ I beamed, and filled him on quickly on the power cut and the make-do-and-mend impromptu communal Christmas. ‘Come along in…’

  Stan Pedley greeted Dylan with delight, and I poured another glass of beer as the children tore to the window to watch the snow tumbling from the pewter sky.

  ‘Thanks,’ Dylan grinned at me as he took the beer and looked round at the traditional chaos and the flickering candles and the roaring fire. ‘This is fantastic. A proper Christmas – and snow too. I was dreading being alone – and granddad is lovely but – ‘

  I nodded. And smiled a lot. Dylan was pretty gorgeous…

  ‘Grub’s up!’ Mrs Jenkins yelled from the kitchen. ‘We’ll all have to squeeze up a bit round the table…’

  The neighbours all made a noisy bee-line for the dining room and Dylan looked at me and smiled a lot more. Suddenly squeezing up seemed like a really good idea…

  We trooped into the dining room and I almost squeaked in delight at the festive table, at the mountain of traditional Christmas food, and the crackers beside every plate, and the smell of Christmas pudding bubbling from the kitchen.