He opens his eyes when his mouth has failed to make contact with my face.
‘Bah humbug,’ he grumbles, heading back over to a giggling Ellie. ‘It’s Christmas, Phoebe! You ought to relax and have a little fun for once!’
‘Ought I, Jim?’ I say brightly. ‘Maybe you ought to go and screw yourself, but I didn’t hear either of us asking for advice.’
I admit this response might be a little strong of a comeback for daytime in the workplace. But it’s effective, because after that, everyone leaves me alone to get on with my tasks in peace.
* * *
The team atHarmonious Spacesspends the next hour waiting for that next hour to pass so they can go home and start their celebrations. I clock-watch so I can go home too, but there will be no celebrations for me. At least not in the traditional sense. I have made a very specific plan to get through the holiday season without too much irritation or thinking about Mitch and how I couldn’t keep his interest. Or absent family. Or how cold it is. Or everything else that makes me feel prickly at this time of year.
Digging it out of my handbag, I open my little black leather diary where I have written myself notes for getting through the next seven days.
Download every horror movie I’ve never seen. I need plenty to entertain me.
Go to the shops and pick up the least Christmassy food I can think of. Chinese noodles. Cheese pizza. Cornflakes.
Buy all of the alcohol. Drink all of the alcohol.
Turn off my phone to avoid chirrupy mass text messages.
Turn off the internet to avoid smug holiday social media updates.
Close all the curtains in my flat to avoid snow, twinkle lights and the sounds of neighbours’ joy.
Wait for it all to be over.
Return to my life as if the holidays had never even happened.
Do not think about Mitch.
STOP THINKING ABOUT MITCH, YOU GOON.
I run my finger down the list, feeling ever more desperate to get done with work so that I can get round the shops as quickly as possible and then home to safety. I’m thinking about whether Mitch is spending Christmas in London and who he might be spending it with. The Mitch thoughts are coming thick and fast today – Ellie is playing some sort of Christmas playlist from her phone and it’s setting them off. I’m about to ask her to turn it down when I hear Marcy’s voice calling me from her office.
‘Phoebe! I need you!’
Glad of the distraction, I jump up from my chair and dash into Marcy’s large, airy studio where she’s pacing around her desk looking stressed. Marcy doesn’t usually look stressed. Part of my job is to make sure she is never ever stressed.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, holding my blackberry aloft, ready to take away whatever’s causing her to be upset.
I like Marcy. She’s one of the few people I genuinely, wholeheartedly like. Not only did she give me a job I love fiercely but she is kind and hardworking and easy and, I don’t know, a tiny bit maternal towards me. In a professional way, of course. Most impressive of all is that she never judges people – she just takes them in her stride. It’s a quality I don’t think I’ll ever possess myself, but one that I admire and covet.
‘Who do you need me to call?’ I repeat, trying to avoid rolling my eyes at the festive cinnamon and winter berry candle Marcy is burning on her desk. Scented candles – another thing to add to the shit list. They’re so expensive! Imagine paying twelve pounds for something that, much sooner than you would ever expect, melts into a useless stinky goop.
‘My dear friend Jemima, you know Jemima?’
‘Jemima Crossley Jones the Bafta winning actress. Um, yes, of course I know who she is.’ I laugh under my breath, because Marcy takes every possible opportunity to name drop her famous friends and clients.
‘Yes, that Jemima! She’s having a design disaster. She’s hosting her regular Christmas eve shindig at the Oxo Tower tonight, but the venue has got the staging all wrong. They’ve done the up-lighting red and she said it looks like a hellscape themed sex dungeon. She’s very upset.’ Marcy shakes her head forlornly. ‘And apparently the centre-pieces are all wrong. They don’t match the table cloths she had imported from Milan. And then there’s the party favours. They were supposed to besmallglass paperweights, but the supplier has sentmediumglass paperweights!’
I just about stop myself from screaming in horror, ‘Not medium! Please, God, noooooooo!’. Instead I say, ‘Do you need me to send Jim over there to sort it out?’
‘Oh no, definitely not,’ Marcy frowns. ‘Ineed to do it. Apparently tons of celebrities are going to be there tonight, so Jemima has insisted it be me that goes. Drat!’
‘Would you like me to come and assist?’
‘No, no, lovely. What I needyouto do is to pick up my Adam from the airport.’ She glances at her elegant gold wrist watch. He’s due to get into Heathrow from New York in about an hour and I was supposed to pick him up because of his leg. Poor thing.’
