one
AMANDA
My suitcase layon the bed like a gaping mouth. Clothes spilt from its sides, an assortment of colours and fabrics, as I attempted to plan my days ahead. Taking the Christmas event booking had been a hot debate amongst my extended family, but the wealthy clients paid very well, and dealing with their nonsense had to be better than dealing with my family’s.
‘You’re actually going then?’ Megan asked from the doorway. She wore one of my hoodies, having stolen it like the feral little raccoon she was. Ever since she’d moved to Edinburgh and taken up residence in my spare room, my wardrobe had morphed into an unofficial charity shop for her. ‘You’re really working through Christmas?’
‘Can you blame me? It’s not like Mum and Dad aim for a Christmas movie-style celebration. Or celebrations,’ I said, rolling a black jumper up and sliding it next to the other perfect fabric rolls in my case.
‘Mum’s going to be so mad.’ Megan strode in and perched on the dressing table stool, sloshing some coffee onto her joggers as she sat. ‘And Dad will do that thing where he pretends not to care, but blame Mum for it until we beg him to change the subject.’
‘Maybe they’ll learn to stop pulling us at both ends like we’re Christmas crackers between petulant children. It’s been years. I’m done being the puppet in between their arguments.’ I placed a sweater dress beside the jumper, another neat little soldier lined up amongst the rest. Clothes that cost far more than I enjoyed spending, but that screamed I belonged amongst my clients.
Even if I didn’t, really.
But half of the job was wrangling millionaires into believing that their money really does buy happiness, and the other half was looking like I deserved my rather hefty paycheque.
My Edinburgh flat tried its best to look festive despite my complete lack of decor. I’d spent enough Christmases believing in the magic and spirit of the season only to be surrounded by anger and resentment, before my parents’ divorce, and after it.
I couldn’t be more done with the whole bloody thing.
But my lack of festive cheer was thwarted the moment you stepped into the external hall. The building’s committee strapped twinkly lights just about anywhere they could be affixed, and a matching wreath on every single door. The corridor looked like a party of elves had vomited all over the place.
And against Megan’s best attempts to sneak in sparkly stuff whenever I went out, I kept the inside clinical. Candles. A plant that always looked a little worse for wear due to my stints away working, and Megan’s lack of watering capabilities.
Megan lifted her eyebrows at me.
‘But youaredoing Christmas, just not with me,’ she pouted, as had swooped in like the Grinch and swept her celebration into a sack.
‘I’m coordinating it, not having fun without you, I promise. It’s going to be long days arguing with suppliers and cleaning up messes, all while slapping a smile on my face,’ I corrected, sliding my shoes into protective bags.
Megan snorted. ‘Sounds like being back home.’
‘But without the emotions. Other people’s messy lives are much easier to deal with than mine.’
‘You hate Christmas, how on earth can you be in charge of someone else’s festive cheer?’ She rifled through the bottles of perfume on my dressing table before spraying her wrist with one of them.
‘I do.’ I pulled on a boot. ‘And it’s much easier to deal with when it pays for several months’ rent. Isn’t that growth?’
‘Bayview Manor.’ Megan tasted the words, like they were slightly sour. ‘Otterleigh Bay. Ten days. Millionaire family. Do they know you’re a Scrooge in heels?’
‘They know I’m an event planner who can conjure ice rinks out of car parks and reindeer out of thin air.’ I pointed at my laptop, which sat open and bursting with spreadsheets and digital notes. ‘They demanded “authentic Scottish festive magic.” And sent a mood board with a stag in a scarf.A scarf, Megan. I’m saving them from themselves.’
She buried a smile in her mug. ‘No, you’re hiding.’
‘There it is.’
Megan forever came in the guise of help or support, but would use that soft voice of hers to chide me into relenting. Not this time. Backing out wasn’t an option, even if I wanted to.
‘You can’t seriously want to spend Christmas alone,’ she tried again. ‘What about Mum and Dad? What about me?’
‘Skipping the annual tour of emotional baggage?’ I asked, counting socks. ‘Stop at Dad’s for eggnog that’s eighty per cent whisky while he complains about Mum and Graham?—’
‘He’s not that bad.’
‘I know his drunken monologue word for word, and so do you. Then we leg it to Mum’s, where she cries into her gin about not having grandkids, and Graham has a meltdown about the roast potatoes.’
‘He didn’t meltdown?—’
