Calling Mrs Christmas

  By the end of our first week – a week when we saw each other every night – we’d decided to move in together. Just like that. No ifs, no buts. I knew instantly, instinctively, he was The One.

  I’d had a few relationships in the past, but no one had ever made me feel the way Jim did. It wasn’t that he showered me with flowers or diamonds. Quite the opposite. Present buying isn’t Jim’s forte. He isn’t romantic in a showy way at all, but I watch him sometimes when he’s making me some toast or a cup of tea. I see how much care he takes. He’s knows that I like my toast well done with loads of butter right up to the edges of the bread. He frowns in concentration as he makes sure that the jam is spread really thinly, exactly the way I do it myself, and that it’s cut in triangles, not sliced straight across. He puts his feet on my side of the bed to warm it before I get in. He opens doors for me, walks on the traffic side of the pavement and pulls out my chair in restaurants. To me, that’s love. It’s not roaring down the street in a Ferrari, it’s not skydiving out of a plane with an ‘I LOVE CASSIE!’ banner trailing behind you. I think it’s the constant, quiet things that tell you that it’s real love. And I feel that I am very loved.

  My dad cleared off when I was young. I barely remember him, but something like that leaves its mark and I’ve always felt wary about getting too involved with men. I always expected them to let me down and, invariably, they did. It got to the point where I hardly dated at all, didn’t really trust men. With Jim it was completely different. This might sound mad, but it was like finding the other half of myself. From day one, I knew that I could trust him with my life, that my heart would never be mashed by him. If that sounds corny, then so be it. He is truly my soulmate.

  We can spend hours just sitting reading together or walking through the woods. There’s never any drama with Jim, I don’t have to worry about where he is or who he’s with. Jim isn’t one for nights out on the lash with the lads; he’d rather be at home with me than anywhere else. And that’s all I want too. Just to be with Jim. We’re content in each other’s company. We don’t need the high life, we’re happy exactly as we are.

  If it wasn’t for Jim, I don’t know how I would have survived the last year. He’s been my only brightness, always there with the right words to cheer me up or knowing when a well-timed bar of chocolate would lift my spirits. When I was made redundant, I thought I’d take a couple of weeks off, have a bit of a rest. A ‘career break’ I laughingly called it. After all, I’d been in work constantly since I was sixteen and there was no rush to find something else. I’d been given a month’s salary as a pay-off. Yeah, thanks for that.

  Then, when I’d caught up on the ironing, and the flat was so spick and span that it looked as if Anthea Turner had been through it, and I’d watched all the films I’d been meaning to watch but hadn’t got around to, I applied for jobs. There weren’t as many of them as I’d expected and some, I felt, just weren’t right for me. I was surprised when, having sent off a rash of my splendid CVs, I got only one interview. I was even more surprised when I didn’t get the job. I thought the interview had gone so well. Seems I was wrong about that too. After that setback, a little bit of panic set in. I catalogued all our DVDs and old CDs alphabetically and then applied for more jobs. This time I was less choosy. Got one interview. Got no job. And so it went on.

  I signed on. Was given Jobseekers’ Allowance, went to a workshop that showed me how to present my CV properly and then applied frantically for anything with the word ‘vacancy’ attached to it. Still no luck.

  When the spring morphed into summer and I was still terminally unemployed, I began to lose my nerve. The few interviews I did have went badly. A lot of firms that would normally employ secretaries seemed to have embraced an age where managers did their own donkey work or made use of university graduates who had a degree, thirty grand’s worth of debt and were desperate. Instead of ‘unpaid slaves’, they called them ‘interns’ and insisted the posts were great and necessary work experience for their CVs. But whatever it was, it meant that people like me – who actually wanted paying – went down to the bottom of the pile.

  I don’t mean to sound sorry for myself. But I am. Very sorry. I don’t want to be like this. I look at the television, at the snowy scenes, at the promises of unfettered festive happiness, at the excessive consumerism, and I want to be part of it. I love Christmas. I want to embrace all of its tacky indulgence. It’s my time of year. Perhaps sometimes I let myself get a bit carried away – Jim said the flat looked like a flipping winter wonderland last year – but it’s supposed to be like that. I don’t want to be thinking of getting a meagre Tesco Value chicken rather than a big, fat Kelly Bronze turkey. We can cut back on presents, that’s no hardship. It’s the little things that make Christmas special. But I don’t want to miss out on the atmosphere.

  This is the only difficult part of my relationship with Jim. We never have enough money. We might not aspire to the high life, but we’ve never actually had the money to try it. Funds are always tight. Even when I was gainfully employed we didn’t have a lot left to splash around, and now my not working is a terrible drain on us. Our desires are fairly modest, but I feel as if I’ve been on a budget since the day I was born. We don’t want for much but, sometimes – just sometimes – it would be nice to treat ourselves without having to count every penny. Surely Christmas is one of those times?

  I don’t catch what the advert is for, but there’s a mother on television, dressing the Christmas tree, two mop-haired children and a dog from Central Casting at her feet. Presents are piled around the tree, which sparkles brilliantly. A beautifully set dining room table replete with ravishing food is in the background. Carols soar to a crescendo and Daddy comes through the door to his perfect family and his perfect Christmas. A sigh rises to my throat. Surely there must be someone who needs extra help at Christmas? Doesn’t everyone try to run round doing ten times more than they normally do? There must be a role for me out there. My ideal job, my raison d’être, is organising stuff. What a shame that I can’t get paid for celebrating Christmas!

  Then something inside me clicks and the most brilliant idea hits me like a bolt out of the blue. A grin spreads over my face. I could be a part of this. I don’t have to sit here on the sidelines and let the joy of Christmas pass me by. I can embrace the commercialism and bring in some much needed extra cash. I can do something about it.

  My mind is whirring with the kernel of an unfocussed plan when the phone rings. Jim’s at the other end. That means it must be his lunchtime and here’s me still in my pyjamas. Well, all that’s about to change. No more slobbing around the house feeling sorry for myself, I’m going to launch myself back into the world with a vengeance.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Sorry I couldn’t speak earlier. I was on my break, but something kicked off. It’s total madness here today.’

  It’s total madness where Jim works every day. While we’re talking about money, they don’t pay him nearly enough for the stress he has and what he has to put up with. That’s another one of the reasons why we’re still renting this tiny flat and both drive clapped-out cars. I want to do my bit. It’s not fair on him. I want to get out there again in the big, bad world of paid work. I don’t want our life to be like this, constantly living from hand to mouth. I hate having to accept benefits from the government just to get by. We’re young, we’re resourceful. We shouldn’t be in this situation. I know I can do more. And I might just have a plan as to how.

  ‘Are you OK, Cassie? Still bored?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  I can feel myself beaming widely. It’s as if a terrible fog has suddenly cleared from my head. A light bulb has gone ping-diddy-ping in my brain and it’s burning brightly. I let out a bubbly laugh, a sound that I’d forgotten I could make.

  ‘You’ll never believe this,’ I tell him. ‘But I have just come up with the most brilliant idea.’

  Chapter Three

  By the time Jim comes home in the evening, I’m buzzi
ng. I pounce on him the minute he swings through the door of the flat, twine my arms around him and give him a big kiss.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I like a welcome home like this.’ Even though he looks weary, he takes me in his arms and returns my kisses. ‘What have I done to deserve it?’

  ‘You’ve just been you,’ I say. ‘All these months I’ve been a terrible moody cow and you’ve stood by me.’

  ‘You’ve lost your confidence, Cassie,’ he says softly. ‘That’s all. You’ll get it back.’

  ‘I have,’ I babble. ‘I’m just so excited about this idea.’

  ‘Tell me about it again. I couldn’t concentrate properly at work,’ he admits.

  When I talked to Jim on the phone I rushed through my explanation of my plan, babbling like a loon. To be honest, it was all just forming in my brain as I was speaking and I must have sounded like a mad thing. As always, when he’s at work, I could tell that Jim had only one ear to the conversation. Now that I’ve had time to mull it over properly and put some thoughts down on paper, I still think it’s a great idea.

  Jim drops his bag to the floor and I help him take off his jacket.

  ‘I was watching television this morning.’ As I always do. ‘It was nothing but Christmas ads.’

  ‘Already?’ Jim looks as if he has a heart-sink moment.

  ‘It’ll be upon us before we know it,’ I remind him. ‘That’s why I have to act fast.’

  ‘It seems to come round more quickly every year.’ He puffs out a tired breath. ‘So what’s the master plan, Dr Evil?’

  ‘I want to offer a complete Christmas planning service,’ I remind him.

  Jim untangles himself and we go through to our titchy kitchen where I’ve got dinner on the go. It’s Wednesday and we’ve got tuna risotto, which, if humanly possible, is even less glamorous than it sounds. Just think, if I could get this business off the ground, we could upgrade to prawns! We could eat meat more than once a week.

  ‘What on earth does that involve?’

  ‘Everything,’ I say, excitedly. ‘Putting up trees, writing cards, baking mince pies. I could buy presents and gift wrap them. I could put Christmas lights up outside houses. Well, maybe you could do that bit.’

  He raises his eyebrows at that.

  ‘A lot of people are into that whole over-the-top decoration now and it’s a total pain, putting lights up and taking them down every year. That would be a great service. I could do their food shopping, organise parties. That’s just for starters. I’m sure there’s a lot of things that I could do that I haven’t even thought about yet.’

  ‘Hmm…’ He rubs at the shadow of stubble on his chin.

  ‘You know what it’s like,’ I rush on. ‘Everyone has eight million things to do before Christmas. If you’re not careful, then it just becomes a lot of hassle rather than being the most wonderful time of the year.’ I remember to pause for breath. ‘If I could take the pressure off people, for a small fee, then it’s a win-win situation. Some people will pay anything for the perfect Christmas.’

  Jim looks thoughtful. ‘You love doing all that stuff anyway.’

  ‘I do.’ I used to adore getting ready for Christmas. My favourite job in the world is wrapping presents. And I think I’m good at it. Good enough, with a bit of polishing, to provide a professional service. ‘I’d try to offer everything to take the stress out of Christmas. So all the client has to do is pay up and have fun.’

  ‘It sounds like an awful lot to take on, Cassie.’ There’s a concerned frown on his brow.

  ‘I know. But I have to act fast. People lose all sense when it comes to money at Christmas. If I’d ever had the cash to spare I’d have bought in help myself. I’ve just never seen anyone offer it. Certainly not round here.’

  Jim purses his lips. ‘That’s true enough.’

  ‘It’s a niche market that I think I can explore.’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t just be better off looking for another office job?’

  ‘I’ve tried that, Jim. There’s nothing out there.’ I stir the risotto and add some more herbs to try to inject some excitement into it. ‘I’ve got my name down for seasonal work at a dozen different shops, but I’ve heard nothing yet. Even retail outlets are cutting back. Where there are vacancies they’re filling them from a list of regulars. No one even wants me as a shelf-stacker.’ He knows how hard it’s been. ‘At least I could try this. If it doesn’t work out, I’ve not lost anything but my time.’

  ‘Starting your own business is always tricky. You know what it’s like out there at the moment. The current climate is hard for everyone.’

  ‘This will be for a short period only. It’s purely a seasonal thing. Everyone goes raving mad at Christmas. We all like a bit of festive escapism. Buy now, pay later. Batter the credit card. We’ve done it ourselves. That’s what it’s all about.’

  Not to put too fine a point on it, I’d like a bit of that action too. I can’t sit here on my bottom all through the winter, eking out our measly income and feeling miserable. If I can work hard for the next couple of months, cash in on Christmas, then we’ll at least have a little bit more money behind us to start the new year. If it goes well, I could maybe think of another business idea or, at worst, go back to the Job Centre with my head held high.

  ‘You could look at commuting into London,’ Jim suggests. ‘There must be jobs up in town.’

  ‘I’d have to leave at some ungodly hour in the morning, get home late at night. The cost of the rail ticket is extortionate now. With your shifts, we’d never see each other.’ Plus, from what I’ve heard, I think that the city of London is probably suffering from intern overload too. ‘I’m also frightened of rejection again,’ I admit to Jim. ‘At least with this, I sink or swim on my own merits.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about. You’ve had a tough time, Cassie. I don’t want you to take on too much.’

  I chew my fingernail. My first doubt creeps in. ‘You don’t think I can do it?’

  He wraps his arms around me and hugs me tightly. ‘Of course you can do it. It’s simply a question of whether there’s the business out there.’

  ‘I’d like to try.’

  ‘Let me go and have a quick shower, then we can talk some more about it.’

  Jim is always conscious that he smells of the Young Offenders’ Unit, which is a pungent mix of teenage boys, institutional food and despair. I think he also likes to wash work out of his hair the minute he comes home. I don’t care what he smells like, I just feel safe in his arms.

  While he hits the bathroom, I fiddle about, pulling the table out from the corner of our living room that doubles as a dining room, and then set it. One thing about my being at home is that we do now eat together at the table rather than slum it with a tray on our laps, watching the telly in a stupor. The only downside is that by the time Jim comes home I’m usually pacing the floor with anxiety. Waiting for someone seems so much worse when you haven’t been anywhere yourself.

  Catching sight of myself in the full-length mirror in the hall as I bustle about, I realise that the last few months haven’t been kind to my appearance either. I’ve let myself go, no doubt. I’ve never been slim, but now I’m definitely curvier than I should be. Too many hours spent on the sofa. No visits to the gym. To economise I gave up my membership months ago. To save money I’ve also not had my hair cut since January and it now graces my shoulders. Jim says he likes it longer, but I can see that it’s out of condition and, at the very least, the ends need trimming. Thankfully, there’s no grey showing in my brunette hair – not like my dear sister who’s been dyeing hers for years – so I don’t feel the need to have it coloured yet. My complexion is usually good – very peaches and cream – but now my skin looks dull, tired. My green eyes have lost their sparkle. I felt pretty once, but not any more. I huff sadly at my own reflection.

  Jim’s standing behind me. ‘You still look beautiful to me.’

  ‘I feel old and fat and forgotten.’

/>   ‘You’re none of those things,’ he insists. ‘You’re my gorgeous girl.’ He hugs me and I rest my head against his shoulder. What would I do without him?

  ‘You must be starving.’ Jim gets a free meal at lunchtime and he tries to fill up then, but I know the food is not all that it might be. ‘Sit yourself down. I’ll get dinner.’

  I shoot into the kitchen to sort out the risotto. When I had my brainwave, I was actually motivated to go to the supermarket and buy the tiniest piece of Parmesan cheese I could find as a treat to liven it up. I grate some on top and make the dish look as respectable as possible with a sprinkling of parsley.

  ‘Hmm. Looks lovely,’ Jim says as I put it down in front of him.

  It doesn’t, not really. It looks exactly like what it is – a dish knocked up quickly and on the cheap. But he’s always so incredibly kind and encouraging.

  ‘It won’t always be like this,’ I say and tears spring to my eyes.