‘Can I phone Marc up and say Happy Christmas?’ asks Vilma, suddenly at my side. She looks younger than her nineteen years.
I forget how young she is. Marc was like a big brother. I vow to phone him and make sure he talks to her.
‘I’d love if you did,’ I say. ‘It hurt me so much when he left, honey, but we had moved apart.’
It’s the only way I can explain it to her.
My sense of betrayal at his leaving had far less to do with him than with my past – Marc’s leaving meant I was on my own and he had been my security blanket. But perhaps he had to leave to free us both to move on? Of course, I can never tell Vilma any of this. I want her to believe in romance.
‘I still think Finn must fancy you,’ Vilma says now. ‘Go on, get him a pressie.’
My eyes swivel to the chocolate body sauce and I gulp at the thought of his beautiful head bent over my body, licking it offme.
I’d love to be able to tell Vilma how groundbreaking this feels but again, I can’t.
‘Something funny,’ she suggests, mistaking my silence. ‘Or foodie things. Something from here. Like cherries dipped in dark chocolate? I love cherries.’
I imagine Finn dangling one over my mouth, feeding me.
‘Biscuits,’ I say quickly. Nobody can feel erotic over biscuits. This madness has to stop. Body butter, indeed. ‘Really special shortbread.’
Which he might ask me to his place to eat...
One of the many things working at Nurture has given me is the ability to put together a wonderful healthy food package. After all, we do tell people how to eat healthily and if I can’t get it together to put a Christmas package of glorious andsugar-free goodies together, then nobody can. So after my shopping trip with Vilma, my basket of gifts for Marin and Nate’s big Christmas party is a combination ofsemi-naughty, but nice. There are the delicioushome-made beetroot chocolate brownies – I know that sounds like an oxymoron, using the words beetroot and delicious in the one sentence, but it’s true. Also, I didn’thome-make them myself, obviously. Somebody elsehome-made them for the beautiful deli and I just bought them and made them look a bithome-made, because I tied them up in the tissue paper and added the ribbon. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? I have also put in Fairtrade chocolates – dark, naturally, because it’s healthier for you – and some really beautiful olive oil. I controlled myself from adding the special booklet on the correct sort of oils because I suspect that everyone in their house already knows that. There is loads of other stuff, including the decidedly unhealthy two bottles of wine I drop in at the last minute. I also stick in some of the grapefruit juice I love, because I have absolutely no plans to be standing on the side of the road trying to hail a taxi on Christmas Eve evening, because I have had a couple of glasses of wine.
‘I can drive you there and back,’ Finn says when he phones later to chat and check if I’m still coming, sounding slightly put out that I didn’t already expect this.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I reply. ‘I’m just dropping in for a couple of hours. You’ll definitely be there longer than me. So don’t drink and drive is my motto. And besides, I might head down to Giselle’s and Stefan’s earlier than I had planned.’
‘Fine, your choice, Sid,’ he says and I feel crushed.
After all my fantasising earlier, Finn hasn’t said a word to me about us doing anything special over Christmas in our conversation.
I feel very stupid for having indulged inchocolate-based fantasies about him now. I am clearly just a friend. I bet he’s found a girlfriend now; he’s too handsome and lovely not to.Biker-boot Sid will just be one of his old pals he occasionally hikes with and if I was said girlfriend, I’d make him ditch all extraneous female friends instantly.
This thought makes me laugh to myself: he isn’t interested in me and yet I still know that if he was, I’d be possessive about him because – well, just because. I think that if Finn was really in my life, I’d never let him go.
But that’s not happening, is it? I mentally let go of the chocolate sauce.
‘There are so many crazy drivers on the road at Christmas,’ I add, putting on my cheerful act. ‘I’d prefer to drive off earlier and avoid the madness.’
The official story – I love having an official story, which means I can hide the real story – is that I’m spending Christmas week with my mother, Vilma and my dear stepfather Stefan and whoever else they decide to invite. The reality is I think I might just do one overnight there, because it seems that Giselle has a load of nearly homeless sculptors and potters who are a bit stuck for somewhere to stay over Christmas. Because Mum has a sprawling back garden with the big shed that’s housed both humans and every sort of art medium going over the years, I’m quite sure she can fit in a couple of potters, but sculptors ... I’m not so sure. They need spaaace. Either way, I’m not entirely sure that Mum will not have loaned out my bed to one of these people and I’m not bunking in with Vilma because she wriggles.
Our work party was two nights ago and some of the office are still nursing hangovers because Adrienne put money behind the till in the little Argentinian steakhouse we went to and copious bottles of red wine appeared on the tables.
‘I am never drinking again,’ was the most repeated phrase the next day, apart from ‘Does anyone have any paracetamol left?’
Adrienne sent most of them home at lunch.
‘It’s my fault,’ she said ruefully. ‘I didn’t expect everyone to go quite so wild.’
‘The owner did play all that tango music after twelve,’ I reminded her. I had no idea there were so many different types of tango music and after a while, everyone – well, obviously not me – was up swinging their legs as if they were onStrictlyand kicking their partners in the shins.
‘Painful sort of dance when performed by amateurs,’ said Adrienne. ‘I always wanted to be good at the tango. I’m very disappointed in myself.’
‘Freddie could hardly walk in a straight line by the time you and he got up,’ I reminded her. ‘You can’t gauge your fleckles, or whatever they’re called, when your partner has to be held up.’
‘True.’
