Tarkie comes along and Tiff hauls him up on her knee to pat Biscuit. ‘You were a donkey in the nursery Christmas play one time weren’t you, Tarkie?’
He nods. ‘It was crap, my head was good but I didn’t have enough legs. My best one was when I was an alien from outer space flying to see Jesus in the stable on a magic carpet.’
Fliss rolls her eyes at me. ‘The joys of Nativity have only just started for us. Oscar was a one man flamingo troupe this year, how about you, Tiff?’
Tiffany lets Tarkie slide down to the concrete, and gives a swish of her net skirt above her silver Doc Martens. ‘I was head of Mary’s personal shopping team one time. We all had Gucci bags, and I got to borrow Mum’s special glitter clipboard.’
I grin. ‘You have to love teachers, creative casting for the Christmas play is their one way of expressing what they really think of the pupils.’
Fliss wrinkles her nose. ‘You’re going to be another natural high flyer, Tiff, just like your mum.’
Said completely without bitterness butwithan entire shedload of resignedness. And there we’ve hit Fliss’s next hang-up. Libby set her sights on the stars and accidentally reached the moon. All Fliss sees – if she ever actually looks past Libby’s size-six jeans which are a fraction of the size of her own large-fit fourteens – is Libby’s mega-successful business and her ultra-perfect family. Meanwhile Fliss in her own head is very definitely still stuck at Ground Control, with her flight never really expected to take off and two kids who refuse to conform to any parenting app that’s yet been invented.
What Fliss forgets is that she would never in a million years have been happy to take Libby’s trajectory, because she’s a completely different person. Let’s face it, given the choice between teensy trousers or buttercream,in theoryit’s great to say you’d go without and be skinny. But get a hundred per cent real and squishy cupcake in your hand and it’s a whole other story. You’re mostly left with an empty bun case and a bad case of guilty regret before you even get around to thinking about your choice. I mean, who wants to be strong willed and skinny anyway, it’s hideous and boring and everyone despises you for it.
And where Libby’s kids might have been perfect leopard cubs once, they appear to have radically changed their spots lately. But now they’ve both reached their relative thirty-something pinnacles, when Fliss finally stopped to look sideways at Libby, the comparison makes her feel like a failure.
The way Tiff simply absorbs the compliment, she has to get them all the time. ‘That Nativity was ages ago, if it was a current production we’d all have iPads. Most probably I’d be a vlogger and come as myself.’
I pull a face at Fliss because Tiff is so sure of herself she’s hard to warm to. ‘It all sounds very Islington.’
Tiff sniffs. ‘That’s fine then, because that’s actually where the Edmunson-Twiglets are from.’
Damn. But at least I get my chance to ask. ‘And how do you know them?’
Tiff’s sniffing again. ‘Actually we don’t, they’re Mum’s friends not ours.’ Which possibly explains why they’re at opposite ends of the sanctuary avoiding every kind of contact.
Fliss is filling me in. ‘Willow was Libby’s bridesmaid and best friend from school, she’s very new-age intellectual. They’ve got absolutely nothing in common other than they sat next to each other on the first day and stuck together ever after.’
Tiff gives an agonised shrug. ‘She does this thing where she just waggles her hands around in the air and people pay her.’
‘Nice work if you can get it.’ Even after the arrival of the Twiglets, I’m still on the ‘other side’. The dirty look Tiff gives me is a ten on the Merwyn scale … where ten is disapproval to the point of me not even registering. But while Merwyn saves his for times of extreme doggy stress, Libby’s kids have dished out so many since they arrived I’m almost getting used to them.
Fliss steps in. ‘Willow’s a reiki master. She’s spiritual, sugar-free and non-materialistic, the kids too. She couldn’t be more different from Libby, which is why it’s strange they were ever friends. And even more of a surprise they’re here for a blow out Christmas.’
‘No sugar is harsh.’ I can’t personally envisage a life without buttercream or chocolate pudding. ‘I can’t believe we’re in for so much fun.’ Obviously I’m being ironic.
But it’s one of those times I’m kicking myself the minute it comes out because a second later the Donkey Welfare Doreen zooms over with a giant wheelbarrow.
‘We promised you fun, this is where it starts.’ She’s shoving a snow shovel thing at me. ‘That stable over there is full of donkey droppings and wee-soaked straw, your job is to load them into the barrow.’
I’m opening and closing my mouth, because she doesn’t understand. ‘Sorry … we’re not hands-on or interactive visitors, we’re mainly here for the Instagram opportunities. As soon as we’ve grabbed a selfie with the elusive baby donkey you promised us, we’ll be out of your hair.’
‘Nice try.’ She’s actually pushed the muck barrow into my path and barring my way with the spade handle. ‘Big groups like yours always muck out a stable. You’ll be surprised how much you enjoy it once you start.’
Not that I’m being reverse sexist or a helpless female … but where is Bill when we need him? Meaning, with his bashed up Landy and country ways, he might have minded less aboutpicking up poo. Looking round the rest of the party, I’m skimming over the super-pristine Twiglets in their earth tone miniature versions of Willow’s hand-woven Peruvian alpaca jackets, past Fliss and over Libby’s lot who are too stroppy to lift a porridge spoon let alone a mucking out shovel. My eyes finally come to rest where I’d sworn they wouldn’t.
‘Miles?’ Out of all of us, he’s the one with the boots for it. I suspect his spotless Hunters might be so new they’re still tied together.
He lets go of the donkey’s ears he’s tickling and turns around to grin at me. ‘Please … call me Milo.’
Fine. And damn that I ever let go of the pushchair, because even though I’m still hanging onto Merwyn I now also seem to have a shovel in my other hand. I might as well hold it up high and wave it. ‘Fancy giving those fabulous muscles of yours a work out, Milo?’
Truly, it was meant to come out a thousand times less flirty.
I’m waiting for his reply when Libby marches over. ‘Come on, Ivy, we don’t need men, someone hold the dog, you and I can handle this.’
‘We can?’ I’m too flabbergasted to argue, and in any case she’s already powering me into the stable.
