Mistletoe & Bastards

  Mistletoe & Bastards

  A Christmas Novella

  Lindy Dale

  © Secret Creek Press 2014

  1

  If there’s one thing that drives me to drink about Christmas, it’s over the top friends who believe the entire world should feel the way they do in regards to the festive season. And right at that moment three of them were sitting across the table, doing their best to make me gag into my lunch.

  “Five sleeps till Christmas,” Kirby chirruped, her blonde waves bouncing with enthusiasm as she addressed us. “Are we, like, getting together or what?”

  I stared at my ditzy friend, feeling my body sag in despair at the very thought of having to sit and play nice over a Christmas-themed tablecloth. I was sure we’d put a veto on mentioning the C word in my presence. Had she forgotten?

  “Time’s running out,” Kirby continued, “and I sooo want to do that Secret Santa thing. Plus, I have a totally cute Christmas dress to wear. It has jingle bells sewn around the hem. It’s, like, red— of course — with fur trim on the collar.”

  Fur? In summer? I groaned inwardly. Honestly, when Kirby started gushing over ‘cute this’ and ‘divine that,’ I questioned our friendship — especially if said gushing occurred in the same sentence as ‘themed apparel’. Sane people didn’t do Christmas wear in public unless it was hidden away as underwear and even that was stretching the friendship. Yes, I could cope with the odd tree shaped brooch or some ridiculous light-up Santa-shaped earrings but a whole outfit with bells?

  Give me strength.

  Kirby looked questioningly across the table at me. “Mel?”

  I took a long slow sip of my coffee and tried to temper the words that were about to fall from my mouth. Kirby was such a darling — despite making me mental most of the time — I couldn’t hurt her feelings. Not about this anyway. Her opinion on most other things was always open to being put right. Especially when she spoke about One Direction or 5 Seconds of Summer. We weren’t exactly teenagers.

  “Do we have to?” I asked. “I’d be just as happy with a bottle of red and some nibbles. It’ll still be a catch-up. Secret Santa is for children.”

  Kirby put down her double decaf frappuccino. Her eyes grew so big I thought her eyelash extensions might pop off. Across the table, Sasha and Millie appeared equally flabbergasted. Sasha had stopped mid-bite of her sandwich and was looking at me like I’d declared I was going to streak down Hay Street if the Western Force didn’t win the Super 15 next year and Millie was shaking her head and tutting. These were my friends, and they all loved Christmas. To say one didn’t wish to be involved in the hoo-ha was tantamount to treason. Especially where Kirby was concerned. Next to shopping and knowing the brand name of every piece of clothing on the planet, Christmas was Kirby’s favourite hobby — if a holiday could be classed as a hobby. She had an entire shelf in her linen cupboard filled with decorations that only appeared once a year. Mine, conversely, was filled with wine. And that got used on a daily basis, especially when people started talking about Christmas.

  “Honestly, you’re such a Grinch, Mel. We can do drinks and nibbles any time. We, like, do it every Friday as it is.” Kirby pouted. “Just because you don’t like Christmas doesn’t mean we, like, have to suffer. And Millie can’t go plonking on now she’s pregnant. We, totally, have to make this special for her, too. It’s her last Christmas as a childless person.”

  She made it sound like Millie was about to become homeless or something. Which in turn made me feel like a bitch, an unusual occurrence, given I felt little about anybody or anything.

  I gave a sidelong glance to Millie. There was no way she’d think Secret Santa was special, would she? Out of all of us, Millie was the one who understood me best, despite our rather rocky start at friendship. She got that I didn’t like to have my personal space invaded, that I couldn’t suffer fools at the best of times. Millie was the only person able to make me see reason when I wanted to go on a rant about the injustice of one thing or another. She’d have to get why I didn’t go in for this Christmas carry on.

  “What do you think, Mil?” I asked.

  “I think it’ll be fun. Everyone can come to ours. I’ll cook a traditional dinner. In my new oven. In my new house. With my gorgeous husband.” Millie puffed out her chest proudly. It seemed the nesting bug had invaded my one possible ally. Next she’d be suggesting we wear reindeer jumpers in the middle of summer heat so we could co-ordinate with Kirby’s outfit.

  I should have known better than to ask, of course. Millie had been behaving oddly ever since she got back from her wedding in Bali. Her burbling and cooing was most uncharacteristic, not to mention nauseating. I’d put it down to the insane rush of hormones that must have overrun her body now she was pregnant with twins. It couldn’t be that Millie had joined the dark side. Hopefully, after the babies were born in eight weeks time she’d return to her sensible, sane self. The one I knew probably thought Secret Santa was a silly idea, too. But for now, I guessed I’d have to suck it up.

  “But it’s such a lot of effort and the boys won’t appreciate it anyway,” I said. Which was code for ‘your cooking sucks’. Millie had serious issues with cooking.

  “But I want to do it. It’ll be a chance for me to try out my grandma’s pudding recipe.”

  “I bet it’s one those ones where the fruit’s drowning in alcohol.” Sasha gave a little sigh. “All the old time recipes are like that. You could get pissed just eating dessert.”

  “Oohhh. I, like, totally adore Christmas pudding,” Kirby said. “Do you do brandy custard?”

  Millie nodded.

  Were they listening to themselves? Firstly, Millie couldn’t have pudding laced with booze, being pregnant and everything, and secondly, she couldn’t cook to save herself. “Ah, steaming chicken and vegetables for three children doesn’t exactly prepare you for preparation of a full on Christmas feast, Mil. Besides, I’m positive you have to soak the fruit for weeks beforehand. What about if I donate one of those yummy homemade ones from Fresh Prov?”

  “But I want to do something for everyone.” Millie gave a blasé wave of her hand. “It’ll be fine. How hard can a pudding be?”

  That was like asking how long a piece of tinsel was.

  “Do it then, if you really want to but it’s a big ask, especially when the boys eat like a famine’s about to be announced. It means you’ll effectively be making food for twenty, not six or eight. Have you ever even cooked a turkey?”

  Millie appeared affronted. “I most certainly have! Well, I sort of have. I’ve watched Mum and I know how to make stuffing. And I can do gravy from the packet. It’s easy.”

  Let’s hope we weren’t going to have a dinner of stuffing, gravy and bread rolls. I wondered if I should have a caterer on standby, just in case. It wasn’t wise to leave the menfolk without food for too long. Not when red wine was involved. And if Millie was cooking, the odds of the feast being ready prior to New Year’s Eve were slim. Sam would have been better off buying her a chef, not a house.

  “I can go food shopping with you,” Sasha said. “We don’t want you lifting too many heavy things in your condition.”

  “And I can do the decorations and the table and everything,” Kirby added. “I need the practise for the business. Who knows when wedding planning might, like, totally morph into me being the event co-ordinator of the year?” She expelled an excited giggle.

  “Thanks Kirbs,” Millie replied, “Just as an aside I will be paying you this time. You did enough at the wedding without payment. If you want your business to be a success you have to start charging.”

  At least, Millie hadn’t lost all her senses. Kirby did need the money. Her severance package
from David Jones wouldn’t last forever.

  “Can I do whatever theme I, like, want then?” Kirby asked. “‘Cause I have this totally awesome idea that I saw on Kirstie’s Handmade Christmas.”

  Sasha straightened, putting her coffee cup back in its saucer. Her eyes began to sparkle like it already was Christmas. “Was that the episode with the mince pies and the jewel-encrusted Christmas crackers?”

  “No, the card episode.”

  “Oh yes, yes.” Millie gushed. “I loved those invites, not that we have time for them or the cake, I’ll just send out a text to everyone. But the tree…I haven’t done a tree yet. We could do that! And those cute decorations Kirstie did.”

  “It’ll be glorious.”

  “Like, totally magical. I have the picture in my head already. Have you considered like, fake snow? A snow machine?”

  Baffled. That was the only word to describe my feelings at what I was hearing from my three best friends. Baffled. When had they turned into women who watched inane TV shows about making stuff? When did they even have time for that?

  I had to put a stop to this before we became the laughing stock of, well, the entire world. “Stop. Stop Now.”

  There was silence.

  “Listen to yourselves. You can’t be fucking serious.”

  Yes, I know I was sounding more and more like a party pooper but, honestly, it was bad enough they were making me do Christmas. Did I have to suffer talk about craft as well? And snow machines?

  “Have you forgotten that there’s a perfectly good Christmas shop in David Jones which has perfectly acceptable Christmas items? Jesus, Kirby. It’s twenty metres from where you used to work!”

  “I love the handmade touch. And I totally have the time.” Kirby exclaimed. “It’ll be, like, awesome fun!”

  “As would helping Millie pick out crystal snowdrops from David Jones. Tasteful, classy snowdrops.”

  Three sets of eyes turned in my direction, their glares giving me the impression that the only thing they’d be doing with crystal Christmas ornaments would involve my chest and a couple of stabbing motions.

  Shit. Even I knew when it was time to back down and being confronted by a pregnant woman, a girl who’d almost stabbed her husband with a BBQ fork and one who looked more innocent than Barbie but clearly wasn’t, was definitely that time. I held up my hands in defeat.

  “Okay. Okay. So when’s this fabulous night going to be then?”

  “Friday’s good for me,” Sasha replied, her face breaking into a grin.

  “Me too,” said Millie. “That gives me a few days to get the food organised. It can be a practise for Christmas day. We’re having the family over.”

  Kirby nodded. “I’ll, like, email everyone about who to buy their Secret Santa gift for. I can draw them out of a hat. And I’ll get started on the decorations, like, straight away. Is Thursday okay for the set up, Millie? I’m free in the afternoon. Ohmigod, this is like going to be so much fun—”

  About as much fun as having Womble trying to shag you. Though at this point, sleeping with Womble was a more favourable option than attending a Christmas party with homemade touches.

  “—Shall we say fifty for the gift?”

  “Let’s make it a hundred,” Millie said.

  “A hundred!” I spluttered. Now, they were being insane. “What happens if I get Womble as my recipient? I can’t spend a hundred dollars on him. He’s an imbecile. He’d think I was trying to get into his pants. You know how obsessed he becomes if he gets any form of positive attention.”

  “Hmm. I could rig it so Millie gets him, I s’pose. She’s married now. He can’t think she’s after him now she has Sam.” Kirby whipped out her Smartphone and made a note for herself.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Speaking of lowlife, we’re not inviting that slut Courtney, are we?” Sasha asked. “Because I’m not having her ruining my Christmas.”

  The entire table groaned.

  The Sasha-slash-Courtney-slash-Simmo love triangle saga had begun to wear thin. While I loved Sasha and absolutely supported her in the divorce — mostly because Alan was an utter knob and Courtney was a slut — I was getting a little tired of having it brought up in every conversation.

  Kirby packed her Smartphone in her handbag, turning to Sasha. “You know Courtney will, like, totally show up whether we invite her or not.”

  “And it is Christmas,” Millie justified.

  “And if we invite her she might, like, keep Simmo away from you.”

  Sasha bit the corner of her lip. “I guess. He has been rather annoying since the divorce papers were served. He won’t be able to beg for mercy if she’s clinging to him like a limpet.”

  “We can, totally sit them at the other end of the table.”

  “But not next to Sam,” Millie announced rather emphatically. “If that cow goes within twenty feet of Sam, I’ll be the one in jail for murder.”

  Which didn’t leave a whole number of options for seating arrangements.

  I wonder if Millie ever considered doing a ‘kiddie table’?

  *****

  On my way back to the office, I stopped for the first time ever in the David Jones Christmas shop. I don’t know why I did, seeing that I was allergic to the thought and would most likely break out in hives, but I did it anyway.

  As I wandered through the glittered cave, ducking my head to avoid the crystal icicles suspended above me, and flicking my eyes over the rows and rows of shiny things I’d never paid attention to before, I began to think about why my friends — or the populace in general — liked Christmas so much. It was a chance to be with family they didn’t see often, I guess, to do special things for their friends, to show how much they cared by spending huge amounts of money on gifts and witnessing the delight, or otherwise, as they were unwrapped.

  For me, Christmas held no such allure. For me, it represented years of family fights culminating in the day my father had left the house to buy cigarettes, never to be seen again. My mother had been carving turkey and serving potatoes for the fifteen guests at the time. She carried on for the entire afternoon as if he was sitting at the other end of the table, which was most awkward, and at age nine, I’d not only felt embarrassed by the display but also extremely hurt. I’d always been daddy’s girl. His leaving felt like a personal rejection, one that led to a lifetime mistrust of men.

  Especially, one particular person. Johnny.

  I walked along a row of shelving, stopping to pick up a glass bauble with a cheeky porcelain elf inside that seemed to be grinning at me in the exact same way Johnny loved to.

  God, he got under my skin. I’d tried hard not to let him but ever since I’d kissed him at Sam and Millie’s wedding, he’d been invading my dreams. Some nights I’d wake up practically orgasmic after he’d been in my head. Then I’d lay there all night worrying about this paradox of me liking him but knowing it went against every boundary I’d ever set for myself. Johnny was a letch and a sleaze and so desperate he’d hook up with anything that had legs. It meant nothing when me told me he loved me. He told every woman in Perth that in the hope they’d cave and go to bed with him. Yet, there I was, weak and pathetic, thinking about Johnny’s gorgeous face and rugged body. Again. Constantly.

  I put the bauble back in its box and walked further along the row trying to force him from my head.

  Argghhh. Why I’d ever locked lips with him was beyond me. What I did know for certain, though, was that I had no intention of ever doing it again. Not even if he actually turned into Leonardo diCaprio in his sleep.

  Okay, well maybe then.

  Leonardo was incredibly hot.

  2

  “Deck the hall with boughs of holly… Fa la la la la la la la la…”

  ‘Tis the season with too much jolly… Blah, blah blah.

  I sat at the makeshift bar, nursing an empty glass of red and looking at the festive scene around me. This year’s work Christmas do was like a suited version of Saturd
ay night at the Hornet’s clubrooms — music blaring, girls singing badly and old guys in the corner reminiscing with their ties flipped over their shoulders so as not to dip them in their drinks. Then there were the young ones downing shots along the other end of the bar. Not to mention, my P.A. Julie, who was doing her best to latch onto the bike courier. He had to be about, oh, twenty years Julie’s junior. It was worse than watching Simmo make eyes at that big stuffed bear in the clubrooms after he’d had a few.

  Shaking my head, I gazed into my glass. It was like being in a nuthouse at this time of year but I supposed the Christmas season was like that. People behaved in unpredictable ways. They used the photocopier to take pictures of their bums; they wore ridiculous outfits around the office that they wouldn’t be seen dead in any other time of the year; they sang Christmas tunes even if they couldn’t sing. Bloody loons. They were all insane.

  “Hey Mel.”

  And case in point.

  I looked up from my glass as Johnny sidled up to the bar and sat down on an empty stool beside me. He’d changed from his office attire and was wearing a pair of dark denims and a deep red t-shirt that, despite the fact it showed every rippling muscle in his torso, was overshadowed by the slogan, Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is your list of naughty girls…

  Fabulous. All I needed was for Johnny to jump on the festive bandwagon. Who the hell was I going to not give a shit about Christmas with now?

  “Are you kidding with that t-shirt?” I asked, ignoring his cheery hello. “Do you purposely get off on making women loathe you?”

  “You don’t hate me.”

  “I think you underestimate the level of dislike I have for you, Johnny. I’m good at keeping it hidden.”

  Johnny let me have his sexiest smile. My insides quivered even though I told them not to.

  “You kissed me. More than once if I remember correctly.”

  And hadn’t that been the mistake of the century. Sure, I couldn’t deny Johnny was a great kisser and there was something about him that heated up every inch of me when our lips met, but he was such a fool, an idiot and soooo immature. Seriously, the man had just whipped a Santa hat from god knows where and was sitting next to me adjusting it on his head. I knew it was probably another of his lame attempts to pick up women and I had to give him points for persistence but I could never be with a man like that. I’d spend my entire life cringing in corners.