Christmas Every Day Read online

  Sarah had her phone out, searching Google. ‘Ashley, there are over a hundred thousand people living in the Newark and Sherwood area. That’s a lot of doors.’

  ‘There are ways to narrow it down,’ Jamie said, grinning in Lucille’s direction.

  ‘Exactly!’ Ashley said. ‘Like, um, I won’t knock on any of your doors. And, um…’

  ‘She’s probably living somewhere isolated,’ Jamie added. ‘She values her privacy highly. Start with houses that don’t have any close neighbours. And she’s a bestselling author, so can afford an expensive house, with top security. Look for gates, cameras, that sort of thing. A lot of that type of homes have older people living in them, so knowing her general age will also help.’

  Ellen gave Jamie a hard stare. ‘Are you seriously suggesting Ashley starts scoping out every big house in the area looking for a reclusive author?’

  He shrugged. ‘It can’t do any harm.’

  ‘Sending an obsessed fan snooping around local houses with top security?’ Ellen replied. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’

  We heard updates from Lucille next, who had entered a five-K race. Kiko showed us the holiday she’d found – not quite climbing Mount Everest, but hiking as far as the base camp.

  ‘I mean, I’m never going to actually go. I couldn’t just up and leave, could I? For three whole weeks? It’d be impossible for Adam, managing the kids and the house and cooking and shopping and everything—’

  ‘And everything that you do, every day?’ Sarah said. ‘It’s three weeks. Adam and the kids’ll survive.’

  ‘Ooh, no.’ Kiko let out a giggle. ‘I mean, I’m just having fun looking. I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself knowing I’d left them to struggle. And what about his work?’ She paused, looking at our faces.

  Nobody spoke.

  ‘That would be ridiculous! Wouldn’t it? I mean, I’m me. I don’t do things like that.’

  It was up to Kiko whether she went or not. She was right – there was no point going if she spent the whole time writhing in guilt and worry about the family she’d left behind. But I had to wonder if, once she got there, and stepped off that plane into the mountains, she’d suddenly find it a lot easier to leave her guilt behind.

  ‘Twenty-one days, Kiko.’ Sarah held up three fingers to represent the three weeks. ‘They’ll survive.’

  ‘And have a better mother at the end of it,’ Frances said. ‘What kind of a role model are you to those girls? Do you want them to be women who get out there and live their dreams, or not?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course I do, but I was thinking maybe a weekend in Snowdonia instead,’ Kiko whimpered. ‘It’s still a mountain.’

  We moved on…

  Jamie had made white chocolate and ginger ice cream. It was outrageous. There was nearly another fight over the last scoop. He’d not yet baked with Sarah at the café due to a work situation he couldn’t tell us about.

  ‘Don’t you just love a man who makes a good dessert?’ Ashley asked Sarah, licking her spoon. ‘What more could you want?’

  ‘Quite a lot.’ Sarah frowned, seemingly oblivious to Jamie’s crestfallen face. ‘And after the dates I’ve had this month the list has grown even longer.’

  ‘Well? Don’t make us beg for details.’ Lucille smirked in Jamie’s direction. ‘Tell us everything.’

  ‘Not much to tell.’ Sarah shrugged. ‘The first bloke was at least twenty years older than his profile picture. Not that I’m averse to an older man. Even if he did look as though he’s spent every minute of those twenty years eating deep-fried food, swilling beer and slobbing. But I’m not interested in men who don’t own up to who they really are.’ She glanced at Jamie, who was taking a long drink from his beer bottle and staring at the ceiling.

  ‘Unless it’s for work purposes, of course. Like Jamie.’

  Jamie choked on his beer.

  ‘So I told him that. I marched straight up to him and said, “Lying to catch criminals is fine. I could be interested in a man who does that.”’

  Kiko ran to fetch Jamie a glass of water. Sarah ploughed on regardless. ‘“Lying to catch women is not. It makes me think you view women as something to be caught. You, sir, are a dud.” And I marched straight out again. All right, Jamie?’

  Jamie continued wheezing, waving his hand in a ‘carry on’ gesture.

  ‘Date two?’ Sarah grimaced. ‘Date two should have been christened Dud.’ She paused for dramatic effect.

  ‘Date two, otherwise known as Nottinghamshire’s greatest dud, was not alone.’

  ‘He didn’t bring his mother?’ Ellen gasped.

  ‘His ex-wife.’

  We all gasped.

  ‘It’s messed up on so many levels I didn’t know where to start. I told them both that, actually: “How dare you even sign up to a dating website under these circumstances? What kind of woman would be okay with this? You” – and here I pointed at his supposedly ex-wife – “need professional help. Sharpish. This man will never find a girlfriend you approve of – that’s not the problem here. Get some counselling right away and save shelling out for your kids to have it later.” And then I scarpered before she launched her fork at my eye.’

  Ashley leaned over to pat Sarah’s arm. ‘Never mind. Keep looking. Love can turn up in the funniest places.’

  Somehow, we all managed to resist pointing at Jamie. Sarah took another order for drinks while we squeezed in one more update. Frances.

  ‘How was the wild swimming, Frances?’ I asked.

  She showed us a picture, of her in a swimsuit with a towel wrapped around her shoulders and goggles pushed up on her head, surrounded by a crowd of young men in wetsuits. ‘Cold. Muddy. Tiring. Invigorating. Marvellous. But once was enough. It took three days to get the grit out of my crevices.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  ‘I tried to book a sky-dive but they wouldn’t cover me on the insurance because I’m dying. Aren’t we all? I told them, surely that’s the best time to do it? If I crash-land it’ll save the NHS a whole lot of money it can’t afford. But they wouldn’t budge. So my next challenge is the Big Zipper.’

  ‘Do you mean the big dipper?’ Ellen asked. ‘The roller coaster?’

  ‘I do not.’ Frances snorted. ‘The Big Zipper, I said, and that’s what I meant. The fastest zip-wire in the world. Over a mile long and reaching speeds of one hundred miles per hour!’

  ‘Sounds fantastic,’ Kiko said.

  It did. It sounded fantastic. I hoped I wouldn’t be eighty-four years old before I grew the guts and the gumption to get out there and take some risks. I made a mental note to start badgering Kiko to book that trek. To persuade Sarah to ask Jamie out.

  The next morning brought with it more bad weather, leaving The Common Café empty of customers. I pottered about behind the counter while Sarah played KerPlunk with Edison. This gave me plenty of time to practise my opening line in my head:

  So, Sarah, have you ever thought there might be someone worth dating at book club?

  Sarah, you must have noticed that Jamie is completely nuts about you…

  Look, Sarah, you’re a lovely woman, he’s a lovely man when he isn’t kicking people’s butts…

  ‘Why don’t you ask Jamie out?’ I blurted, when Edison went upstairs to fetch his jumper.

  ‘What?’ Sarah squinted at me. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘Well, you’re looking for a man. And you could do a lot worse.’

  ‘I’m aiming a bit higher than “could do a lot worse”. Recent events have revealed I could do a lot worse than just about every bloke in Middlebeck. Including Yellow Mickey.’

  ‘Well, yeah, but Jamie’s good-looking. And decent. He’s got a good business. And his desserts are amazing. He’s categorically not a dud.’ I came out from behind the counter and sat at her table.

  ‘Sounds like you should ask him out.’

  ‘I’m not looking for a relationship. And even if I did like Jamie – which I don’t, in that way, if I did w
e wouldn’t be having this conversation – he clearly isn’t interested in me.’

  ‘Why not?’ Sarah grinned at me. ‘You’re good-looking. And decent, when you aren’t beating people up…’

  Before I could answer, Edison scampered back in demanding a KerPlunk rematch. But that was fine – I’d planted the idea in her head. Surely next time Sarah saw Jamie she would see why he wasn’t interested in me.

  The rain intensified throughout Sunday night, hammering on the windows and doors while I lay in bed imagining rivers running through the roof. I could have got up to look, but I wasn’t up for that information at three in the morning.

  Ellen had the names of a few local roofers waiting for me on Monday. ‘Ignore what my dad says. Don’t let him pressure you into anything. He can be a nasty bully. It’s the main reason we don’t see him often, and when we do it’s in small doses. Especially since Mum left. Stick at it and you’ll have that house a home again in no time.’

  After seeing the kids safely into school, I called the first one on the list. Three hours later he came round and quoted a figure that made me snort tea out of my nose. Deeply offended, he stalked back to his van and revved off before I could apologise.

  A second guy could fit me in some time next September. Another deemed the whole house a health and safety disaster, refusing to work without a hefty ‘contingency fee’ to cover the additional risk.

  The other two never returned my call.

  I started to grow a little suspicious.

  And when Fisher turned up uninvited for dinner at the Camerons’ on Thursday, asking how things were going with my ‘nightmare renovation’, my suspicions swivelled over in his direction.

  ‘I heard you’ve not found a roofer. I expect most reputable tradesmen consider it more hassle than it’s worth.’ He stuffed a roast potato in his mouth. ‘Let’s be honest, those piles of rubbish are probably the only thing keeping it upright.’ He broke out into enormous guffaws.

  ‘Grandpa Fisher, it’s not allowed showing chewed-up food. Mum says its disgustering,’ Billy pronounced.

  Fisher was laughing too loud to hear him.

  But he wasn’t laughing when he followed me out into the hallway after the meal. Instead, he leant in close and murmured, ‘It’s a good offer I’ve made. But I’m a businessman. The market’s dropping and my offer will reflect that. You could hand over all the worry and hassle and be in a brand-new luxury apartment by June. Think about it.’

  I backed away out of the door, droplets of his greasy breath lingering on the back of my neck all the way home.

  19

  Friday, I popped into the café and asked Sarah if she could search for roofers on her phone. By that evening I had a decent quote from a family firm in Nottingham, a cheerful assurance that the job was straightforward and a promise that it would be done by the end of the following week.

  Did Fisher think I was a fool?

  Or did he want me to know he was making things difficult?

  I called round to Mack’s to let him know about the roofer. He welcomed me in as far as his kitchen. ‘Did you use the builders in the village? Parsons?’

  ‘Parsons wouldn’t do it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I think Fisher convinced them, and every other tradesman round here, not to.’

  ‘Why would he do that? Don’t you work for his daughter?’

  ‘He wants to buy the house. I can’t guess why. Maybe there’s some buried treasure hidden in there somewhere,’ I said.

  Mack looked thoughtful. ‘He was sniffing around this one a few months back, wouldn’t let it go. Tried swinging his weight around. But I made it clear I wasn’t interested. I thought he’d got the message but then he pushed a card through my door a few weeks ago. Even if I was selling I wouldn’t let him have it on principle. Not until I knew what he was up to, anyway.’

  ‘Perhaps he wants to convert them into a holiday let.’

  ‘But there’s plenty of other places he could buy that need a lot less work. Why here?’

  I shrugged. ‘Hopefully he’ll give up when he realises I’m here to stay.’

  Mack raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re staying?’

  ‘Yes, neighbour, I am. So you’d better get used to me.’

  ‘Now, that, neighbour, will not be an easy thing to do.’

  He caught my eye. The smile there sent a roll of delicious warmth through my insides. Was that smile flirting, or friendly? And how could someone like me, friendless (and flirtless) for so long, tell the difference?

  How about the fact that he’s married? I scolded myself later, when his comment pushed its way back into my head for the third time that minute.

  Sunday morning, Sarah pulled up just before six in her rickety old MPV. After jamming everything we could into the boot and back seat, we headed off to a local car boot sale and spent the rest of the morning trying to look as if we were seasoned hagglers who couldn’t be taken for a ride.

  ‘Remember,’ Sarah said, ‘these people are vultures. They’ll try every trick in the book. Everyone will coincidentally have a few quid less than we want for the item. Hold the line. And some of these guys are like Yoda. Don’t look ’em in the eye.’

  ‘Have you done this before?’

  ‘I’ve watched Bargain Hunt. Same difference.’

  We had a reasonably successful morning, although Sarah was the only one of us managing to hold the line. Once custom had trickled off towards lunchtime, we sold a nearby trader all the leftover items for a round fifty quid. I returned home with enough to cover the roofer’s bill, with a reasonable amount left over. Snuggling into my duvet that night, I imagined all the ways I would spend my spare cash. A new pair of jeans, a slap-up meal, a skip…

  In the end, I caught the bus into Mansfield to buy a smartphone. Which I did, eventually, once I’d wandered around reacclimatising to concrete, constant noise, strip lighting and people pushing past. Was it only four months ago I’d been pounding pavements, stressed and lonely, always rushing, never quite getting anywhere? I caught my reflection in a window, and had to double-check that this woman with a healthy glow was really me.

  Today, I could see New Jenny – go for it, independent, can-do Jenny – emerging from behind the outgrown hairstyle and hand-me-down coat. And New Jenny required a decent phone. New Jenny had numbers to add to her phone contacts that weren’t that of her sister’s housekeeper.

  New Jenny blew the rest of the money on a pair of silver shoes with the highest heels she’d ever seen.

  And now she was going to have to go to that darn wedding or she’d just spent her last penny on shoes she’d never wear.

  That evening, still high on adrenaline, the thrill of new possibilities and town-centre car fumes, I fired off a wedding acceptance email to Richard’s secretary. Ta-da! New Jenny and her plus one would be deee-lighted to celebrate the wedding of her evil twin and ex-secret-boyfriend.

  Half an hour later my new phone rang. By the time I’d figured out how to answer it, gulping down a mouthful of scalding jacket potato, I felt a little flustered.

  ‘Jenny Birkenshaw?’ a clipped voice asked. Before I had a chance to say ‘yes’, despite it being about the shortest word possible, the voice continued: ‘Martha Marsh. Richard Abernethy’s personal assistant. I’m calling regarding your wedding acceptance. I believe you neglected to include the name of your guest.’

  ‘Urrrr… yes. You believe correctly.’

  ‘I need the name of your guest, Ms Birkenshaw.’

  ‘Right. Okay.’ New Jenny waved toodle-oo and left Old Jenny to get on with it.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Can I have the name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I held my breath. Think. Think. Think. Think of a name… you can always say they got ill at the last minute and couldn’t come.

  ‘Now, please?’

  For goodness’ sake, Jenny, just say the first name that comes into your head!

  ‘Mack.�
�

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘My plus one’s name is Mack.’ Could she hear me cringing?

  ‘And is Mack his or her full name?’ Martha Marsh asked, dripping with sarcasm.

  ‘Mack… Macintyre,’ I blurted.

  ‘Mack Macintyre,’ she repeated, slowly.

  ‘Yes, Martha Marsh,’ I replied, even slower. ‘His name is Mack Macintyre. Highly appropriate for the Scottish wedding of the year, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘What an interesting coincidence. I’m sure the bride and groom will look forward to meeting Mr Mack Macintyre.’

  ‘And so they should.’ I hung up, before I could say anything even stupider.

  Rats.

  Where did I put the rest of that potato?

  And really, it wasn’t a problem, I’d simply call them the day before and say he couldn’t make it. Who knew? By 20 July I might have an actual, real-life plus one to bring. Which would be massively preferable to going to what must surely be Most Awkward Wedding Ever alone. If I was going to spend it trying to somehow reconnect with my mother, I could do with some back-up.

  For a brief second, an image popped into my head of me in my gorgeous new shoes, nodding graciously to Zara while hanging off Mack’s arm. Her eyes bulging at how devastatingly handsome he looked in his suit. Richard speechless with envy and regret. Mum helpless to resist Mack’s MI6 interrogation techniques, revealing the whole of her family history before we get to dessert.

  My phone beeped with a message:

  You terminated the call before I informed you that all guests must provide a photograph for the guest book. Black and white, head and shoulders portrait, minimum resolution 300ppi. By 6 June. MM.

  Great. Now all I needed to do was find a black and white, high resolution, portrait photograph of an imaginary man. I could ask the actual Mack… but I’d be willing to bet no such photograph even existed.

  I found out later I would have lost that bet.