A Christmas Kiss Page 3

  ‘And I rolled out the pastry on my own and cut out the shapes.’ His niece, Annabel beamed proudly.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve been having fun. And have you been helping, Alf?’ Alf responded by wagging his tail so fast, his whole body shook.

  ‘Alf’s been trying to eat everything,’ said Joel.

  ‘Sounds about right.’ Zander smiled at his faithful dog who was gazing up at him with his one adoring brown eye – injuries sustained as a puppy had meant the vet had no option but to remove his other eye as well as part of his tail. Zander didn’t like to think about it, and was always thankful that Alf’s ebullient personality had shone through, snuffing out all traces of his previous trauma.

  ‘Stand back, you two, and let your Uncle Zandie through the door; you’re letting all the warm air out.’ His sister bustled down the hallway, wiping her hands on a tea towel, her shiny black hair escaping from its ponytail. ‘Come in, Zandie; it’s freezing out there,’ she said above the Christmas music that was wending its way down the hall and out into the neat front garden.

  The children scurried back towards the kitchen, with Cynthia in hot pursuit, allowing Zander to step into the warmth. Alf stuck close by, sniffing at his dad’s trousers. ‘Thanks, Steff, it’s pretty nippy out there now; I wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed before the night’s out.’

  ‘Well, it’s forecast, though I do wish it would hang on until we’re all safely over in France.’

  Oh, Lord. His stomach clenched as he followed her down the long hallway, past a wicker basket full of shoes. He stopped momentarily to hang his coat on the newel post of the staircase, being careful to avoid the pine garland, trimmed with fairy lights that was wrapped artfully around the bannister.

  ‘Smells good in here.’ He looked around the post-baking detritus of the kitchen. There was a dusting of flour on the floor, with soggy patches where Alf and Cynthia had tried to lick up any sticky bits of stray mincemeat – That explains why Alf’s beard is suddenly greyer than when I dropped him off this morning. On the pine dresser, Emma Bridgewater pottery jostled for space with a collection of Christmas cards, party invitations and a variety of festive decorations – some clearly this year’s handmade offerings from the kids. The final flourish was a further pine garland that ran along the top, twinkling with warm white lights.

  Zander loved to spend time at his sister and brother-in-law’s home; it was chaotic but homely and cosy. All squashy sofas and plump cushions, the term shabby chic could easily have been coined for it. And there was always a trail of delicious smells emanating from the kitchen which was definitely the beating heart of the home here. He’d always hoped he’d have somewhere just like this himself one day, filled with love and happiness … and a gaggle of children. An image of Mel suddenly popped into his mind, jarring with his thoughts. In fact, whenever he thought of her, his mind conjured up sharp corners and hard edges; nothing soft or homely. She was cold and shallow. Vapid, even.

  ‘We’ve been in a last-minute mince pie baking frenzy; I hadn’t realised we were heading off to Carcassonne when I offered to bake thirty of the blimmin’ things for the school Christmas Fayre. And I’d clean forgotten all about it until one of the mums reminded me at the school gates tonight. I’m going to drop them off with her first thing in the morning before we set off.’ She feigned mopping her brow. ‘Panic averted.’

  ‘Look, Uncle Zandie, I made these all by myself.’ Seven-year-old Joel held up some suspicious looking offerings that could only just pass for mince pies.

  ‘Wow, they look amazing.’ Zander smiled at the eager expression on his nephew’s face.

  ‘Here, have one.’ Joel thrust one of the heavy lumps into Zander’s hand. ‘They’re super-yummy, aren’t they, Mummy?’

  ‘They most certainly are, darling.’

  ‘Thank you, they look it, and Alf certainly seems to think so, judging by how much he’s drooling.’ Zander took a bite – watched closely by Alf – wearing an expression that said they were just as Joel had described. ‘Mmm mm.’

  ‘And I only picked my nose once while I was baking, Uncle Zandie. Just once.’

  Zander’s face dropped and he stopped chewing, at a loss for what to do with his mouthful.

  ‘You picked your nose loads more than that, Joely,’ said Annabel. ‘I saw you. And you ate some of it, too.’

  Zander glanced across at Steff, who was trying but failing to suppress a giggle.

  ‘I did not! Well, only two times at the very most.’

  ‘Coffee, Zander?’ asked Steff. ‘Help wash your mince pie down.’

  He swallowed his mouthful. ‘I think I better had. Thanks for the warning, by the way.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She filled the kettle and set it on the Aga. ‘If it’s any consolation, every time I caught him with his finger up his nose, I made him wash his hands.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  ‘Watch this, Uncle Zandie.’ Joel patted him on the arm.

  Zander turned to see his nephew touching the tip of his nose with his tongue.

  ‘Bet you can’t do that,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Hmm. I don’t think I can.’ He attempted to copy his nephew. ‘Nope, can’t do it.’

  ‘Boys are so disgusting,’ said Annabel.

  ‘And that’s not all; wait till you see this, Uncle Zandie. Wait, wait, wait you’re going to totally love it.’

  Zander watched with morbid fascination as Joel stuck out his tongue and popped the tip first in one nostril, then the other.

  ‘Impressive.’ He gave Joel a thumbs up.

  ‘Urghh! That is so gross,’ said Annabel.

  ‘None of my friends can do that.’ Joel wiped his nose with the back of his hand and grinned.

  ‘I’ll bet. It’s some party-piece you’ve got going on there, young man; you’re going to be quite the hit with the girls when you’re older.’

  ‘Urghh!’ Annabel and Joel chorused.

  ‘And where’ve you been taking my nephew to learn such tricks?’ Zander asked Steff.

  ‘Gets it from his father.’ She gave a mischievous grin.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Oh, while I remember, Alf’s had his tea.’ At the word “tea” the Labrador’s ears pricked up. ‘Just with you being late back, he and Cynthia were looking at me, sucking their cheeks in, trying to convince me they were starving.’

  ‘Sounds about right – and sorry for being late, s’just—’

  Steff splayed her hands. ‘Hey, no problem, I just thought I’d better let you know in case Alf tries to con another meal out of you.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time, would it, buddy?’

  Alf replied with a wag of his tail.

  ‘Come and sit down, Uncle Zandie, then you can have a look at my baking – you can have some, too.’ Annabel pulled out a chair at the scrubbed pine table and patted the seat. Zander did as he was bid and she set a tea plate in front of him. He smiled, she was definitely a chip off the old block. “Gently bossy” is how their mum used to describe Steff, which suited her perfectly; and now Annabel, too.

  ‘You can have a mince pie with a star on the top, one without, or one with some icing – it’s lemon flavoured,’ she said pointing to a range of wire cooling racks with the pies set out on them. ‘And I’ve sprinkled edible glitter over them, so they look extra Christmassy.’

  ‘They look very professional, Bells. Are you sure your mum didn’t make them?’

  Annabel’s face flushed with pride. ‘Nope, I made all of them; Mum hardly helped me at all, did you, Mum?’

  ‘That’s right, Bells did pretty much all of it herself. I think we’ve got a little Mary Berry on our hands. She made the Christmas pudding a couple of months ago, and the Christmas cake.’ Steff placed a steaming mug of coffee on the table in front of her brother. She grabbed one for herself and flopped onto the patchwork cushion of the slightly battered armchair that sat beside the Aga. ‘Phew!’ She blew a straggle of hair out of her eyes.

  ‘Which one would you
like to start with, Uncle Zandie?’ asked Annabel.

  ‘Erm, I quite like the sound of the one with lemon icing, thanks.’

  While the children were distracted, Zander quietly slipped Joel’s mince pie into his trouser pocket. It popped out straight away and was quickly hoovered up by Alf.

  Before he knew it, half an hour had passed and Zander still hadn’t mentioned that he wouldn’t be joining the rest of the family in Carcassonne; the more he thought about it, the more he was dreading the inevitable grilling from Steff. He knew what she’d say, and he knew she’d be right, but he just didn’t have the strength to hear it.

  ‘So are you all packed up and ready to leave first thing in the morning?’

  ‘Er—'

  At that moment, John arrived home, setting the dogs and kids chasing down the hall in great excitement. It didn’t escape Zander’s attention how Steff’s face lit up and her eyes sparkled as her husband walked towards her, pulled her to him and pressed a kiss to her lips. Zander felt a sudden pang of – what? Loneliness, self-pity, envy? No, he thought. It was none of those, it was despair at himself, his crap choices and his pathetic life. And it was time he did something about it.

  ‘Right, that’s my cue to leave.’ After the initial flurry of hellos, Zander took a last sip of his coffee.

  ‘Don’t rush off on my account,’ said John. ‘You’re more than welcome to join us for dinner.’ He set his briefcase down and unfurled his scarf.

  ‘Yes, why not stay, there’s plenty of beef casserole and dumplings to go round,’ said Steff. ‘And there’s a massive apple crumble for afters.’

  Zander felt his stomach rumble; his sister was a fabulous cook and always made enough to feed an army. And her apple crumble was to die for; all soft apple with the perfect tang of tartness and a hint of cinnamon. As for her custard; thick and creamy, speckled with vanilla, and there was usually a trickle of toffee sauce, too. Mmm. He almost succumbed when he realised he’d be quizzed about tomorrow.

  ‘Please stay, Uncle Zandie,’ said Annabel.

  ‘Yes, please stay for dinner. I’ll even let you have another one of my mince pies,’ said Joel.

  Zander did his best not to laugh at the face Annabel was pulling behind Joel’s back. ‘Much as I’d love to, I really need to get back.’

  Once outside in the crisp evening air, Zander gave a sigh of relief, his breath hanging in a plume of condensation, suspended in the glow of the lamp above the door. That was one hurdle over and done with; the next was telling his mother. He wasn’t looking forward to that. ‘Right, young man, it’s absolutely freezing, let’s get you home,’ he said to Alf. ‘Time to put plan B into action.’ The pair made their way down the path and out onto the street. In the time he’d been indoors, a thick frost had crept over the gardens and footpaths, making them sparkle in the soft light of the Victorian street lamps.

  The pair headed towards Zander’s car. ‘The only thing is, I don’t have a bloody plan B.’

  4

  Livvie

  Livvie glanced up at the clock; it had been just over an hour and a half since Donny had left. In that time, she’d taken herself into the kitchen – the only room that had no evidence of his indiscretions – where she’d sobbed and sobbed until she had no more tears left to cry. Now, her head pounded and her heart ached with an unpalatable combination of hurt and humiliation; his cruel snipe about her weight before he left still smarting.

  What had happened to the fun-loving Donny she’d fallen for; the one with the permanent smile and boyish charm? When they’d first met, she’d been drawn to him like a moth round a flame, eagerly anticipating their dates, her heart thrumming with excitement. Though from this vantage point, it was hard to believe there’d been a time when her face had ached with laughter because of his seemingly endless supply of jokes and funny anecdotes. They’d dried up long since, fast becoming a distant memory, along with the permanent smile. The Donny she was familiar with now was a colder, coarser version of himself, and Livvie didn’t like him one bit.

  With a sniff, she pulled out another tissue from the box and blew her nose, just as a text pinged through on her iPhone. It was Bryony in her usual cheery tone, hoping everything was going well. She’d signed off with a mixture of happy, party emojis. Livvie felt her throat tighten as fresh tears threatened. She resisted the urge to call her friend and pour her heart out, not wanting to put the dampers on her evening. Bryony had been excited that Josh had booked them a meal at the new fancy restaurant that had opened up in town, followed by VIP seats at the cinema for a viewing of the latest blockbuster starring Nicole Kidman and Keanu Reeves. She’d been bubbling away about it for the last couple of days and there was no way Livvie could throw a bucket of icy-cold water over that; she knew that Bry would feel torn between wanting to go out on her date with Josh and the urge to comfort her best friend.

  ‘What a mess.’ She pushed her phone out of the way and heaved a sigh. To say the day hadn’t exactly panned out how she’d hoped would be an understatement. By now the preparations for the meal should be well under way with delicious aromas of chopped onions, garlic and mushrooms for the duxelles floating around the flat, the table should be set for a romantic dinner for two, while Michael Bublé’s smooth tones would be playing gently in the background. The wine should be chilled to perfection; ready for her to pour a glass for Donny who was due to burst through the door at any minute. She’d even bought some new underwear for the occasion; he regularly grumbled about her usual choice of trusty M&S knickers, so she’d pushed the boat out – and her self-consciousness to the back of her mind – and picked up some of the tarty stuff he seemed to prefer.

  Instead, here she was, five days before Christmas, sobbing her heart out, hardly daring to face the future. Her spirits slumped along with her shoulders. If she was honest with herself, Livvie had known she and Donny had been drifting apart for a while; that their relationship had been hanging on by a tiny thread that had been getting stragglier by the day. The cheeky-chappy banter she’d once found funny had begun to grate and it had gradually begun to dawn that he was using her. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d contributed to the rent or the household bills; he’d bring in a four-pack of beer and some family-sized bags of crisps, referring to them as a treat for her as his way of distracting her from the fact that he barely dipped his hand into his pocket and paid his way. She’d let it pass; not wanting it to cause an argument.

  One evening, when she’d worked late owing to a private viewing by a local minor “celebrity”, she’d returned home, hoping that Donny would at least have brought something in for dinner. But, true to form, there he was, sprawled on the sofa, beer can in hand, watching the football, grumbling at the length of time he’d had to wait for his food. When she’d commented that he could at least have made beans on toast, he’d flown off the handle.

  ‘It’s not just you who goes out to work you know, Livvie. I’ve been flogging my guts out today, doing proper stuff, not swanning around in a frock shop, fawning over stupid women like you do.’

  ‘There’s no need to shout; I know you work hard, but I don’t just swan around, there’s much more to working in a wedding gown shop than you think. I have to—’

  Donny held his hand up to silence her. ‘Spare me the details. Anyway, you’ve totally spoilt the surprise; I was going to order a takeaway from your favourite restaurant, save you having to cook and do the washing-up.’

  That comment had irritated her on so many levels; he was a chauvinist of the highest order. But Livvie was too tired for an argument. Instead, she pushed down her annoyance and focused on the more palatable part of his words. ‘I’m sorry, that’s really thoughtful of you. Just ignore me, Mrs Harris has been a right old bag today, treating Bry and me like dirt in front of the customers.’ She flopped down on the arm of the sofa. ‘A Chinese takeaway would be lovely.’

  A little victorious smile hovered over his lips. ‘Yeah, well, the number’s on the sideboard; I’ll
have sweet and sour spare ribs, duck spring rolls and chicken egg fried rice. Oh, and tell them to chuck in some of them prawn crackers, they go well with beer.’ He leaned forward and slurped noisily from his can.

  Livvie cringed inside and, difficult as it was, she resisted the overwhelming temptation to grab his beer and tip it all over him. Silently seething, she stalked over to the sideboard, snatched up the menu and called in the order. How much longer can I put up with this?

  Half an hour later when the doorbell rang, it was obvious that Donny had no intention of moving from his place on the sofa. ‘That’ll be the takeaway,’ he said, his eyes never moving from the TV screen.

  ‘I’ll get it, shall I?’ Seeing as though your arse has taken root there.

  ‘Yep, you be a good little woman.’ He followed that up with a loud belch.

  Ughh! Revolting pig! To this day, Livvie didn’t know how she hadn’t run over and jumped up and down on his nuts. Instead, she bit her tongue and went to fetch the food. ‘I’ll pay for it, too, shall I?’ she said to herself as she stomped to the door.

  Yep, looking back, the rot had well and truly set in some time ago. She’d been fooling herself, trying to hang onto a failing relationship that she hadn’t been happy in or felt comfortable with for, well, easily the last year. Turning a blind eye to things that had really started to niggle her. And, no doubt, Donny was feeling the same. Actually, who was she trying to bloody-well kid; of course he wasn’t happy, why else would he be screwing around with any women daft enough to let him get into her knickers. She’d been a mug; but not anymore.

  The thought of Christmas day suddenly loomed in her mind, making her heart sink. They’d been invited to her sister and brother-in-law’s house for dinner. ‘Ughh!’ That thought made Livvie’s blood run cold. Cheryl and her smarmy husband Gavin had the sort of house that made you feel it didn’t want you there. As soon as you stepped through the front door, the off-white walls and cream carpet screamed OCD at you. It was a shoes off at the door type of home, with the said shoes being exchanged for slippers from a box that was kept tucked out of sight in a cupboard under the stairs. Livvie wasn’t keen on wearing footwear that somebody else’s sweaty feet had been in – and there was no way Cheryl would offer the same courtesy at her flat which made Livvie even less inclined to do it – so she’d started to take her own fold-up party slippers; Cheryl’s face was a picture the first time Livvie had turned up with them.