Dream a Little Christmas Dream

  ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I …’ He screws his face up as though trying to grab hold of an appropriate answer to give, clearly having difficulty controlling his morning brain. ‘I just have somewhere I need to be,’ is all he can offer me.

  ‘Well that is just shit!’ I yell, throwing the covers off me and storming out of the room to the loo.

  Quite simply I need a pee and to defuse my anger away from the situation. By the time I skulk back into the room, Brett is up on his feet and throwing on yesterday’s clothes.

  ‘Now what are you doing?’ I ask desperately, utterly confused as to how we’ve got our wires crossed and dreading explaining his absence to my mum.

  ‘Going home.’

  ‘But why?’ I whine.

  ‘I told you, I can’t go today. I need to be somewhere else.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I’m so sorry. You know I love your crazy mum but I just can’t get out of this.’

  ‘You haven’t even told me what you’re doing.’

  ‘Baby,’ he says, coming over to me and grabbing my hand. ‘This is totally my fault. I promise I’ll make it up to you all.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say miserably, knowing that nothing good can come from me kicking off any further. I’m not his mother and I’m certainly not about to drag him to Kent kicking and screaming against his will so that he can see mine.

  ‘I’ll leave now and give you time to get ready.’

  ‘OK,’ I mumble, completely defeated.

  ‘Please don’t make me feel bad,’ he begs.

  I sigh into the ground, not wanting to say that I’m fine with him not coming with me, but also not wanting to be a totally unreasonable bitch. If he’d have remembered about today there’s no way he’d have made other plans, right?

  This is truly just a mistake and miscommunication.

  It’s got to be …

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ he says softly.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Love you,’ he says, cradling my head and planting a kiss on my forehead.

  ‘You too,’ I say with a small smile as I watch him leave and feel a heavy weight crash down on me.

  ‘Honestly, I think he’s going to dump me,’ I find myself saying into my phone half an hour later as I hastily run around the flat getting ready to leave – there’s something about going to see my parents that always puts me into a panic. No matter how much time I leave to get my shit together, I’m always scrambling to get myself ready and rushing out the door. In this instance, I’m in even more of a flap because ever since Brett left, my mind has been in overdrive and I’ve ended up getting myself into a totally anxious tizz.

  ‘Sarah!’ Carly groans. ‘You promised you wouldn’t be a twat.’

  ‘I said I’d try my best.’

  ‘True. I forgot twatdom comes easily to you,’ she chuckles.

  ‘Oi,’ I squeal, as I sit on the bed and start wrestling with my skinny jeans.

  ‘All right. Tell me why you think the Adonis that is Brett Last is about to call time on your perfectly happy relationship,’ she demands. ‘You didn’t say anything about it yesterday.’

  ‘We couldn’t hear each other over the Oxford Street madness,’ I explain. It might have been weighing on my mind, but I didn’t think shouting out my woes in front of strangers would help to calm my worrying mind.

  ‘True. Go on then. What’s he done?’ she asks, clearly chewing on her breakfast (I’m guessing a toasted sausage sarnie with ketchup and a light spread of English mustard).

  ‘He’s been acting weird,’ I state, finally doing up the button on my jeans.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yep, you’re really on to something there,’ she mocks, throwing in a little laugh to let me know she thinks I’ve totally lost it.

  ‘No, it’s hard to pinpoint without sounding absolutely crazy.’

  ‘Maybe you are,’ she fires back.

  ‘He’s being cagey,’ I start, looking at my clothes in my wardrobe and wondering what top to wear.

  ‘Men are,’ she replies matter of factly.

  ‘He’s been leaving early for work and getting back late.’

  ‘It’s Christmas – it’s a busy time.’

  ‘He cancelled on coming to see my mum and dad today,’ I tut, pulling out a jumper and throwing it over my head.

  ‘Sweetheart, have you just heard yourself? You’d cancel on your mum and dad if you could.’

  ‘I know, but …’ I stammer, knowing that she’s right – if there were an option that didn’t end with me being left in living hell by not going along, I’d definitely cancel.

  ‘Someone called the other night and he avoided their call and then turned his phone face down on the couch.’

  ‘Could’ve been a cold caller? Or his mum – I’ve seen you do the very same thing on multiple occasions to your own mother,’ she replies without a hint of concern.

  ‘But it’s what people hiding something do!’ I moan.

  ‘Is that an actual fact or something you’ve read about online?’ she asks, sounding doubtful over my interpretation of it all.

  ‘He didn’t come back here the other night after his work’s do.’

  ‘Probably because he doesn’t actually live here.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I think this is all in your head,’ she says bluntly, stopping me from sounding even more pathetic.

  I sigh in frustration. Why do none of these niggles ever sound as big and dramatic as they feel when I voice them out loud?

  ‘You’ve been dreaming, haven’t you?’ she asks.

  ‘Noooo …’ I say, knowing where this part of the conversation is heading – she’s going to tell me that it’s categorically all in my head and that I’m a total nutcase of a girlfriend.

  ‘You fucking have, you little liar.’

  ‘OK, fine. Yes. Yes, yes, yes – my dreams aren’t helping matters,’ I sigh, rolling my eyes at the room.

  ‘No wonder you’re fuelled with insecurities.’

  ‘But it’s more than that,’ I moan.

  ‘Sarah Thompson, snap out of it, you big fanny,’ she laughs – actually laughs at my woe as though nothing I’ve told her is in the slightest bit troublesome. ‘You’ve got bigger things to worry about – go make yourself presentable for your mum.’

  ‘God, I don’t care what I look like – I’ve got to explain why my boyfriend hasn’t come along to our fake Christmas dinner,’ I say, picking up yesterday’s socks and giving them a sniff. They’re passable for another day’s wear. I put them on, then go on a hunt for footwear.

  ‘It’ll be fine – but making sure you look good will soften the blow,’ suggests Carly.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘Skinny jeans and a snowman jumper.’

  ‘Eeeeeeessssh.’

  ‘What? It’s a Christmas gathering – I’m meant to look festive and foolish.’

  ‘Just do your hair and send them my love,’ she says before wishing me luck and putting down the phone.

  I’ll be honest, she’s done nothing to lessen my anxiety over my potential impending break-up (and let’s face it – you don’t piss off the in-laws if you want them on your side forever more …), although she has made me feel like a tit now too.

  I feel sick as I scroll through the contacts on my phone and call my mum.

  ‘Sarah?’ she answers straight away, sounding jolly.

  ‘Morning, Mum,’ I say, finding a matching pair of biker boots and quickly sliding them on.

  ‘Have you not left yet? You know what traffic is going to be like this close to Christmas. It’ll be rammed if you don’t get a move on.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Mum. I’m just about to leave,’ I lie, noticing my hair in the mirror and realising there’s no way I’d get away with the messy do without a lecture or ribbing comment. It used to be that Mum continuously c
riticised me over my appearance and job choice because she wanted me to bag a man. Now, however, that’s increased ten-fold as she has one single focus and that’s to get Brett to make an honest woman of me (whatever that means – because, as far as I’m aware, there’s no wiping my colourful slate of a past clean).

  God, she’s going to be devastated when he dumps me, I realise.

  ‘So why are you calling?’ she asks, sounding confused.

  ‘I just thought I’d give you some warning – Brett’s not coming with me,’ I say, screwing up my face and waiting for the ear bashing that’s undoubtedly to follow.

  ‘He’s not,’ she states.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘No, I mean, I know he’s not.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, he’s just phoned.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry he’s had to cancel,’ I say, surprised to hear Brett’s gone out of his way to soften Mum’s attitude towards me. Perhaps I’m being a bit hard on him.

  ‘Not to worry, I haven’t even started cooking yet,’ she says, as though she’s shrugging and totally unperturbed by the change of plans (not at all like my controlling mother). ‘Such a nice man. Honestly, Sarah – I don’t know how you managed it. See you soon,’ she says, putting down the phone.

  Well, that was a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one … Deciding to stick with my messy ponytail, I grab hold of my Mulberry bag (I treated myself to a steel-blue Bayswater as an early Christmas present), chuck in my essentials, snatch up my car keys and get ready for an afternoon in the countryside.

  7

  On the drive to Mum’s, I find myself stewing over the morning’s events, feeling like my head has swung back to worrying over the future of my relationship and whether Brett is trying to find an easy way out without hurting me. It’s unlike him to be scatty and change plans last minute, especially when it’s something important like lunch with my family so, deep down, I know I’m not making something out of nothing, despite what Carly says.

  ‘Look at you!’ My mum beams at me as soon as I open the door of my car. They usually buzz me in the gates and then wait for me to scramble my stuff together and knock on the front door before they even acknowledge my existence – never am I greeted at the side of my car like they’re about to offer some superbly efficient posh valet service.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ I say, awkwardly side-stepping out of my Mini while dragging across my handbag from the passenger seat.

  I’ve barely even stood up straight before my mum has engulfed me into a hug. Now, in any other household a hug from your own mother is normal and nothing new, however, my mum does not hug. Not like this. Not with … what even is this?

  Love?

  Weird.

  ‘You OK? Everything OK with Dad?’ I ask, suddenly panicked that one of them has been diagnosed with a terminal illness – that’s the only explanation I can muster for such an outpouring of affection.

  ‘All good. Your dad’s just pruning the plants out back.’

  ‘Aren’t they all dead already?’ I ask, escaping her grasp and making my way to the boot to collect the sack-load of presents I have for everyone (mostly Mavis Rose).

  ‘They will be soon, but your dad’s discovered all sorts of tricks to keep them alive longer. Clever man.’

  ‘Great,’ I say, still terrified that she’s about to announce that she’s seriously ill – she’s never this nice to any of us. ‘Max not here yet?’

  ‘Going to be late.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I know – one child of their own and they’re late to everything. Honestly, I made sure we were never late to a single event when you two were younger. His time-keeping is abysmal.’

  I smile. That’s more like it. She’s clearly not at death’s door. ‘Can’t be helped.’

  ‘Yes,’ she sighs. ‘Well, come on in, I’ll make you some tea. You still drinking peppermint? I’ve got these new teabags I saw in Waitrose – thought you might like them.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I smile, enjoying the fact that she’s gone to that little extra effort for me.

  ‘Such a shame Brett couldn’t make it,’ she says as she makes her way through the front door of my childhood home and towards the kitchen. ‘He sounded awfully apologetic when he called. Bless him. You’ll have to take some turkey back with you so you can make sandwiches this week – and some mince pies.’

  ‘There she is,’ sings Dad as he comes through from the garden with grass stains on his trousers, waving a pair of shears in the air. He puts them down on the counter and hugs me.

  I feel myself sighing as the familiar musky smell of his aftershave wafts up my nostrils, instantly comforting me.

  ‘What have I told you about putting those dirty tools down in here when I’m about to cook!’ Mum gasps.

  ‘Sorry, dear,’ he apologises, pulling a cheeky face in my direction.

  ‘Now go get out of your gardening clothes – we have guests,’ Mum orders, shooing him out of the kitchen while picking up his shears and placing them outside the back door.

  ‘Guests?’ I laugh. ‘Since when?’

  ‘It’s only Sarah,’ Dad agrees, on his way to change, shaking his head at her lunacy.

  ‘Just make an effort, dear,’ she demands, opening the oven and letting the mouth-watering smell of roasting turkey escape.

  The gate buzzer blasts through the house, declaring the arrival of Max, Andrea and Mavis Rose.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I say, pushing the button on the intercom and heading for the front door, eager to get a glimpse of my niece as they drive in.

  It’s scary how much Mavis Rose has changed over the last year. I try to see her once every two weeks (at least), and each time it’s as though she’s learnt to do something new or has a deeper understanding of life. Seriously, sometimes she has such a thoughtful and pondering expression on her face that I’m sure she has a greater grasp of what we’re doing on this planet than I do.

  ‘Oh my gosh, look at you,’ I say, opening the door and spotting the Christmas Pudding outfit that they’ve cruelly dressed her in for our amusement.

  ‘Don’t you look scrummy,’ I add, unlocking her seatbelt clasp and pulling her out.

  ‘Give Aunty Sarah a kiss,’ Max calls, climbing out of the car and walking round to us.

  ‘She doesn’t do that!’ I gasp, looking at her sleepy little cherub face.

  ‘She does,’ smiles Andrea, getting out of the passenger side of their huge child-carrier of a car and giving me a hug. ‘She might just need warming up first. Are you going to give Aunty Sarah a kiss hello?’ she asks Mavis Rose softly – her voice an octave higher than normal.

  I pucker up my lips to give her some encouragement.

  Mavis Rose looks from my eyes to my mouth, her face full of a complex expression, clearly summing me up. She knows she’s seen me before – she knows I’ve made her cackle with laughter and no doubt recalls that I’m the best aunty in the whole wide world ever (actual fact).

  I’m about to give up and say I’ll try again later, however it seems ten seconds is all the little beauty needs. She leans her head towards me and places her lips on mine. Granted she doesn’t pucker up, but it doesn’t matter. It was a kiss. The intention was there.

  My heart melts.

  ‘Oh my gosh, I could eat you,’ I squeal, squeezing her tiny frame into mine.

  ‘Where’s Brett?’ Max asks, closing the boot of the car after collecting a small bag of presents – let’s face it, gifts are never going to be the same again now that we have a little princess to spoil.

  ‘Something came up,’ I say, pursing my lips, hating the fact that I can’t expand on this further.

  ‘Oh?’ he asks, sending a little frown in Andrea’s direction, which I wish I hadn’t witnessed.

  ‘Never mind. Sure we’ll see him soon,’ Andrea says, putting her hand around my waist and kissing Mavis Rose on the cheek.

  Oh my god.

  They
think he’s going to ditch me too.

  Fuck!

  If it weren’t for the utterly delightful Mavis Rose, I’d have spent the entire afternoon drowning in my misery and grunting at everyone. But her laughter and enthusiastic animal noises are enough to keep a smile plastered on my face and a lightness in my heart.

  Although, one thing that does cause me to almost wobble from my semi-stable state of avoidance is my mother, who spends the entire five hours I’m in her company continuing to be uncharacteristically nice to me. It’s a total mind-fuck.

  Where have the sarcastic comments and digs about my appearance disappeared to? I mean, I’m aware that my hair looks a total mess (it only gets worse once Mavis Rose has had a few yanks of it), but she doesn’t mention it once. Not once! What’s got into her?

  Seriously, I don’t know what she’s playing at, but my mum being nothing but charming is enough to totally freak me out. I’m relieved when I get back in my car (with a box filled with treats for Brett) and head back to the flat.

  8

  The following days zoom by (thankfully), due to us having to tie up deals before Christmas and having to have merry schmoozes with our contacts at various channels to keep them on board. Before I know it, it’s Wednesday and my last day at work. Kindly we’ve been given Christmas Eve off (everywhere in production is slowly becoming dead and unresponsive so it makes no sense to be in the office when the rest of the industry have left for the holidays), and we’re even allowed to slink off at midday to ‘get ourselves ready for the festive days ahead of us’. How flipping lovely.

  That being said, Brett still has to work – it’s not like Red Brick Productions to treat their staff to an extra day paid holiday just for the hell of it, so I spend the afternoon on my own in the flat, wrapping up Christmas presents, soaking in the bath and wondering how and when Brett is going to finish with me. With Christmas only a day and a half away, he’d be pretty cold to do it now but, likewise, breaking someone’s heart at this time of year when they’re with family, friends and have time free to stuff their faces with food and wine is possibly the kindest thing someone can offer you when they’ve ripped your heart out and discarded you back on to the shelf of doom.