Am I allowed to thump this supercilious little creep? He’s dressed in a cabin-crew-style blue waistcoat and tie with flying wings on his lapels as though at any moment he’ll have to check the doors for landing and offer around the boiled sweets as opposed to spending his days flogging cheap deals to Benidorm and shuffling his brochures. And he’sstilltalking.
‘Your only option is to transfer onto another holiday if you don’t want this one. You’ll lose your deposit and there’ll be a whopping great admin fee but at least you’d get a holidayof some kind.’ This is said with a note of patronising faux compassion.
By now my cheeks are burning with the effort of not crying in front of him.Whyhave I left this so late?
‘I hadn’t thought about transferring,’ I say weakly, just as the door behind me flies open and the piercing note from its little brass bell makes me flinch. It’s Nari and she’s out of breath.Dammit, I knew she’d track me down.
‘You haven’t done it, have you?’
I try to explain Nathan’s idea, fleshing it out a bit so she doesn’t kill me with the incredulous, harassed stare she’s directing towards me. ‘I might be able to transfer the holiday… maybe we could go somewhere nice in the summer with the money that’s left. Rome maybe?’
Nari’s shaking her head and motioning for me to get out of my seat. Nathan’s bloody loving this.
‘Right. You need a brew. Come on, let’s go. She won’t be needing your help, thank you very much.’ She turns her death stare on Nathan, making him jump up, panicked.
As I’m gathering my things, Nathan stuffs brochures and leaflets for last minute Christmas escapes into a carrier bag. He shoves them towards me before Nari marches me outside.
Nari lectures me all the way to the cafe about how last minute holiday cancellations and transfers are financially crap decisions, and I just nod because she’s right and, frankly, I’m a bit scared of her when she’s got a point to prove. She knows what she’s talking about though; she runs a pretty successful adventure travel blog, boasting over fifty thousand followers on Instagram, and I’ll bet she’s written for more off the beaten track style travel books than any other woman in the industry. So whatever she’s going to say about all this, I’d better just keep schtum and listen to the expert.
The coffee shop windows are steamed up and streaming. It’s one of the big chains and is cosy despite the corporate uniformity. There’s only two free seats right in the middle of the cafe and there are people surrounding them on all sides. I pick my way around the chair legs and bags of Christmas shopping, only stopping to pat the heads and boop the noses of every dog and pup in the place (one Weimaraner, two pugs and a beagle: pretty good dog-booping haul for today – happily, Castlewych is the kind of posh, doggy-friendly place where even the big chains have jars of dog treats by the tills), and I plonk myself down with a huffing sigh. The last thing I want is an audience of earwiggers overhearing Nari’s words of wisdom; she can be pretty brash.
Nari waves from the counter by the entrance, mouthing, ‘Want a muffin?’ before dismissively waving a hand as if to say, ‘Of course she does.’
The baristas are bashing spent coffee grounds into a metal bin and refilling the espresso machines in the blink of an eye. Stream is hissing in great white clouds into the air and countless red cups are being filled with the festive gingerbread lattes that always taste a bit artificial to my (simple) tastes.
I’ve got time to ponder the contents of the carrier bag in front of me, thinking of the surly travel agent’s advice. I edge one of the leaflets out and gaze down at it.
Last-Minute Christmas and New Year Deals Flying from Manchester Airport.
Hmm, do any of the destinations sound appealing? Edinburgh, Stockholm, Dublin, Frankfurt, Tenerife, Solomon Islands… What’s my problem? None of these jump out at me. I shove the leaflet into the bag as Nari appears with a tray.
‘OK, I got a pumpkin spice chai latte with whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkles, or an English breakfast tea with skimmed milk.’
‘You know me so well,’ I say, lifting the teapot onto the table.
‘And two red velvet muffins. And two mince pies. I have a feeling this is a two cake kind of emergency.’ Nari grins with a softness in her eyes. ‘Do you want to tell me what was going on back there? Can youreallynot face the holiday of a lifetime with your bestie?’
‘Holiday of a lifetime, yes, Idowant that, but this one was meant for me and Cole and now it’s here I just can’t face it. I’m so sorry. Let’s go on holiday somewhere else, another time.’
Nari sips her drink, comically leaving a whipped cream moustache on her top lip just so I’ll smile. ‘For a start, I’m only free this Christmas break; I’ve got quite a few trips pencilled in for next year already, so that might not be an option. Look, there’s more to do on Mauritius besides sex and couples’ massages on the beach, you know? We’ll be able to island hop, visit the national park, and see the waterfalls. The food isamazing. And the cocktails!’
I’m already halfway through the mince pie so can only shake my head at all this. Nari sees I’m momentarily speechless and takes the opportunity to present her closing arguments.
‘It’s only a week. You can pack some beach novels, your iPad, your vibrator, and you’ll have a blast!’
The two elderly ladies at the table behind Nari (who’ve been listening intently to every word) suddenly splutter and cough over their ginger snaps and rattle their saucers in shock. That’ll teach them.
Nari sees my dubious expression and gives up. There’s no fight left in her and I watch her kiss goodbye to her dreams of a Mauritian island paradise.
‘What is it?’ she asks me. ‘You’ve been much happier since you moved into your new flat last month, you genuinely looked as though you were moving on a bit, but now… you’ve lost your…oomphagain. Is it just because it’s Christmas, or is it Cole?’ Her eyes flash and she gasps before saying, ‘Oh my God, there hasn’t been a Christmas miracle and he’s finally had the guts to get in touch?’
I admit to Nari that I’ve had my head in the sand about the impending festivities, and now, here I am, dreading the days ahead. And no, I haven’t heard from Cole. There hasn’t been a peep from him since that lovely sunny day in August during my final dress fitting when, like a coward, he’d rung my mobile and shattered my world into a thousand tiny pieces – the only contact we’ve had since was letters sent via his solicitor informing me that I would receive precisely nothing from the proceeds of the sale of the house we once shared and that I was to clear my stuff out ofhisgarage ASAP.
‘He’ll be at his mother’s for Christmas, no doubt,’ I offer with a grimace.
Nari reaches for the only silver lining to be had. ‘Well, at least you never have to see Patricia Jordan ever again.’
They’re welcome to their family Christmas, I think to myself. I always felt horribly out of place at their celebrations. My would-be mother-in-law’s exacting standards were obviously far higher than I could ever have hoped to live up to. Ten years ago, when I was a graduate with a newly acquired teaching degree and freshly in love after four exciting months with Cole and already moving in together, Patricia came to our house-warming party to meet ‘the new girl’. That’s what she called me.To my face.Back then, I had no idea that in real life people actually ran their finger along surfaces disapprovingly looking for traces of dust. But when I met Patricia that day she did exactly that and presented a (only very slightly) dusty Finger of Shame to me with an imperious, smug look I would come to be very familiar with. It had rather taken the shine off our Love Shack house-warming bash.
