ChapterOne
HOLLY
November 18th
’Tis the night before Christmas… wait — no, that’s not right.
’Tis the month before Christmas and an undercurrent of drunken carnage crackles through the bar. Infectious laughter vibrates through my favourite Dublin wine bar, Heaven on Earth.The place is wedged. Christmas parties congregate around stylish chrome tables flanking the edge of the dancefloor.The dress code varies from reindeer ears and sexy Santa hats to seasonally sequined little black dresses.
My own little black dress, a strapless Reiss number, is pretty dang spectacular, if slightly brave for a woman with double D cups. I might only be five foot three, but the dress somehow makes me feel two feet taller and six inches slimmer. The corset tie at the back makes it impossible to wear a bra underneath, but the second I tried it on in Brown Thomas, I had to have it.
Saturday night is girls’ night. Or as my two besties, Ashley and Savannah, call it, ‘Sancerre Saturday.’ Apparently, getting sloshed on slightly fancier wine somehow makes, well, getting sloshed more socially acceptable.
The alcohol is slowly beginning to weave its magic through my bloodstream.
The age-old social anxiety that has plagued me since childhood starts to slide from my shoulders like a butterfly shedding its cocoon. The importance of behaving appropriately in public has been impressed upon me since I was a little girl, and even all these years later, I’m still not sure I’ve perfected it. Not to my parents’ standards, anyway.
The first few tinkling bars of Mariah Carey’s iconic Christmas song resound through the room. Women throughout the warm, lilac-lit bar shriek in excitement, flocking to the dancefloor like bees to a sweet, sticky honeypot.
My kitten heels tap beneath the table in a physical urge to join them, but my head knows my body needs a little more social lubrication before I’m brave enough to join in.
Apart from the social anxiety, I’m quite shy, a trait my friends find hilarious, because when I’m with them, I’m anything but.
But then again, it’s impossible to be shy around women who know me better than I know myself. Women who know my every quirk and accept each one of them. Who see my faults and embrace me anyway.
I might be the black sheep of my family but, here with my girls, I’m safely nestled amongst my tribe.
A contented exhale slips from my mouth and directly into the wine glass resting against my crimson-painted lips.
‘Isn’t it a little early for Christmas songs?’ Ashley grumbles, tossing her lustrous auburn hair from her shoulder with a quick flick of her wrist.
‘It’s never too early for Christmas songs,’ Savannah quips from my right. ‘My kids play Shakin’ Stevens all year round. That video where they go to Lapland to see Santa at the toy factory, and those eighties-looking elves,’ she slaps her bare thigh, where her own dress is riding high enough to reveal smooth, toned skin, ‘solid gold entertainment.’
‘No way.’ I shake my head vigorously. My thick, dark hair whips across my face, stinging my cheeks. The movement sends the corseted part of my dress down an inch. I yank it back into place over my bust before the girls burst out completely.
‘You know I love Shakin’ Stevens, but solid gold entertainment is Nate Jackson rescuing crying kids from a burning building, or diffusing a lethal bomb at an orphanage, or single-handedly scaling a skyscraper, topless, I might add, while he saves the world - and the woman he loves.’ A dreamy sigh cascades from my parted mouth.
Nate Jackson is Ireland’s answer to Tom Hardy, apart from the fact that Nate is ten times hotter. With jet black, permanently tousled hair, stubble that promises to burn in all the right places and knowing moss-green eyes that exude a raw, heated promise, he’s my favourite celebrity crush by a clear mile.
And don’t get me started on his perfectly sculpted action hero body.
Nate’s starred in many of my late night fantasies. Even as a teenager, he was my favourite poster pin-up. Now in his mid-thirties, like a fine wine, he’s only improved with age.
Nate might be living in the States, starring in multimillion-dollar action movies, but he’s Dublin born and bred, and the country has elevated him to national treasure status.
‘Oh yes! Nate Jackson is so hot,’ Ashley agrees from my left, her tongue darting out salaciously to lick her lower lip. ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating cornflakes.’
‘You’re practically married!’ Savannah slaps the back of Ashley’s hand playfully. ‘You can’t ogle another man like that!’
Savannah is technically the only single one among us, and she prefers it that way. As one of Ireland’s most successful single mothers, she built an entire brand around her “situation,” as she calls it.
Basically, she fled home from her high-flying job in London, single and pregnant with twins. She point-blank refuses to name the father to anyone. Even Ash and I are still in the dark.
The “Single Sav” blog has over three-hundred-thousand subscribers. Savannah is rapidly becoming a household name promoting prams, bottle makers and formulas. She’s currently designing her own infant clothing range. She’s the biggest champion of single mothers, and an amazing advocate for equal rights and opportunities. Against all odds, she flipped her entire situation on its head.
‘If only. Still no sign of a ring,’ Ashley moons wistfully, glancing at her left hand. ‘Don’t get me started on that one.’
Ashley has been with her boyfriend, Matt, for ten years now.
