A Christmas Kiss Page 4

  ‘No slippers for me thanks, Chez, I’ve brought my own.’ Livvie produced a velvet pouch containing a cute pair of velvet slippers from her bag, waving them at her sister.

  ‘Oh.’

  As Livvie slipped her feet into them, she was aware of Cheryl’s eyes burning into her; she’d be dying to snatch them off her so she could give them a thorough inspection before granting a seal of approval. Livvie wrestled with a smile; was it wrong to get so much pleasure out of telling her sniffy sister she didn’t need her stupid slippers? No, she told herself, this was way too much fun.

  ‘And you know I don’t like “Chez”.’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot.’ Livvie bit back the urge to use “Chezza” instead; Cheryl liked that even less. Chezza, Chezza, Chezza!

  That was the most Livvie had ever smiled at her sister’s house. As a rule, from the very moment she arrived there, her carefree spirit was sucked out of her and replaced with a tightly knotted ball of anxiety. Everywhere gleamed and sparkled like it was a freshly decorated show home; not a thing was out of place. Livvie regularly wished she’d perfected the art of levitation as she tiptoed down the hall into the pristine living room. Even sitting on the sofa, with its precisely placed cushions that managed to ping up everywhere as soon as she sat down, brought her out in a sweat. And it was clear that Cheryl couldn’t relax with the slightest hint of disorder and itched to drag Livvie off the sofa and plump the rogue cushions back to perfection before re-aligning them – Livvie often wondered if she used a ruler and a spirit level to do it.

  She marvelled at how her ten-year-old nephew Ryan managed to survive in such a hostile environment when it seemed to bring out a clumsy side of Livvie she only ever had when she was there. It was so bad, she’d even wondered if the house was deliberately booby-trapped to make things go wrong for her. Like the last time she’d been given the “royal approval” to visit and the handle had dropped off the teacup she was drinking from, sending tea splashing all over the newly-fitted cream carpet. Though it clearly wasn’t her fault, the expression on Cheryl’s face said otherwise; it still made Livvie shudder.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry.’ Livvie felt distraught as the hot liquid soaked into the thick pile of the wool carpet.

  ‘Funny how that hasn’t happened to anyone else.’ Cheryl’s expression was tight as she watched Gavin rush off for a bowl of soapy water.

  ‘But I didn’t do it on purpose, look, the cup separated from the handle, which I’m still holding.’

  ‘Well, all I’m saying is that I don’t see how it could be the fault of the cup when it’s from a very expensive set and it’s never happened before.’

  Oh, of course it would be bloody expensive, God forbid you had anything in your snooty house that the rest of us common folk would own. ‘All I did was hold it, heard a crack and then the cup ended up on the floor. You and Gavin saw it for yourselves.’

  ‘Yep, Liv’s right, we both saw what happened; the cup’s obviously faulty.’ Gavin earned himself a frosty glare from his wife.

  There was always so much tension in the air; no wonder Ryan hardly ever ventured down from his bedroom.

  ‘Ughh.’ Livvie had another thought: their mother – Delia – would be spending Christmas day there too, with her never-ending comparisons of her two daughters; Livvie never came out of those looking good.

  ‘I honestly don’t understand it,’ Delia had said the previous year. ‘I’ve brought you girls up identically and yet you’re so different.’ They were sitting around the table at Cheryl’s house after Christmas dinner.

  Oh, Lord, here we go. Livvie’s heart went into freefall straight down to her velvet slippers.

  ‘There’s our Cheryl with her beautiful, immaculate home, a good job as a legal executive, married to a very successful solicitor, and on top of all that, they’ve given me the most adorable grandson. Anyone could say she’s living the perfect life.’

  Adorable, my arse, thought Livvie, he’s a spoilt little shit! She could hardly bear to look at her older sister, who was sitting opposite with a smug expression on her face. As for “the perfect life”, it’s about as far removed from perfect as I can imagine. There’s nothing homely or happy about this place.

  ‘And then there’s Olivia.’ Her mother turned, fixing her youngest daughter with a steely glare. Delia was on the wrong side of half a bottle of sherry and was sporting the tell-tale signs: a flushed face, glassy eyes and a vicious tongue.

  Livvie groaned inwardly and braced herself. Here goes, I’ve got a feeling I’m not going to like this.

  ‘What can I say?’ The disappointment in her mother’s voice made Livvie’s heart twist. ‘Who’d have thought the two year age gap between the pair of you could make such a difference. But it does. Livvie’s the complete opposite to Cheryl, with her chaotic flat, her dead-end job in a little frock shop, and that waste of space she calls a boyfriend, with not even a glimmer of hope of starting a family – not that I would recommend that with him, mind you. Honestly, Liv, anyone would think you made such terrible choices deliberately, just to upset me.’

  Livvie could feel her face prickle with anger. ‘Do what to upset you, Mum? Not live the life you want me to?’

  ‘Mum does have a point, Liv,’ said Cheryl, barely concealing a smirk. ‘You could make more of an effort with your life choices. Take Donny, for example, why isn’t he here with you, celebrating Christmas day with his girlfriend?’

  Livvie’s eyes were drawn to the supercilious expression on Gavin’s face; that and his bulbous nose that had turned a vibrant shade of puce thanks to today’s generous quota of claret. ‘I’m afraid I have to agree,’ he said.

  ‘What is this, “Pick on Livvie” time? For your information, Donny’s having Christmas dinner with his gran over on the other side of town.’

  ‘That’s what he tells you,’ said her mother. ‘And have you met this grandmother in question? Hmm? And why weren’t you invited to join them?’

  Panic reared in Livvie’s stomach. ‘Not yet, no; and I wasn’t invited because Donny knew I was coming here.’

  Gavin held up his hands. ‘Hey, no need to sound so defensive, we’re just looking out for you.’

  ‘Gav’s right. We don’t want to see you hurt, and even you would have to admit that Donny comes across as a bit of a freeloader.’ Cheryl was visibly smirking now. But deep down, even a year ago, Livvie knew there was more than a hint of truth in what they were saying. Yet, despite this, some perverse part of her couldn’t help but defend him.

  ‘Look, I know Donny’s not everyone’s cup of tea—’

  Gavin snorted. ‘You can say that again.’

  Livvie ignored him – and the urge to kick him under the table – and continued. ‘But I know he cares for me; and he does all sorts of thoughtful things I don’t tell you about.’ In truth, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything thoughtful for anyone other than himself. ‘And you’re right, Mum, Cheryl and I are different but – and don’t take this the wrong way, Cheryl – I wouldn’t want to be like her with her high-pressure job and perfect home, or wear my hair and clothes so … so … precisely.’ Livvie tiptoed around the words she’d really like to say – She walks around all buttoned up and covered up, with a face that would sour milk, and she’s so uptight, she looks like she’s got a broom stuck permanently up her arse! – but she kept those thoughts to herself. She braved a glance across at her sister whose smile had dropped and who was now glaring at her.

  ‘And I most certainly wouldn’t want to dress like you, or wear my hair like you.’ Cheryl arched a combative eyebrow.

  Livvie puffed out her cheeks and sighed, wondering if there was any point in continuing to defend herself. It never got her anywhere and it looked like today wasn’t going to be any different. She was just going to have to try and get used to being constantly compared unfavourably to her sister, and accept that she was the black sheep.

  Though they shared the same hazel eyes and thick auburn hair, that’s whe
re the similarity ended. Where Livvie’s locks were a mass of unruly curls – and usually piled haphazardly on top of her head – Cheryl’s were cut into a precise, blunt bob with a heavy fringe and straightened to perfection. And, unlike Livvie who embraced her natural curves, Cheryl was stick thin, thanks to her strict adherence to whatever trendy diet she was following. It resulted in her face being bony and sharp; some would say it looked cruel. As far as clothes were concerned, Cheryl’s capsule wardrobe of beige, black and white stood in stark contrast to Livvie’s passion for bohemian clothes in bold, vibrant colours, many that she’d made herself.

  ‘All I’m saying is that our Livvie could do with taking a leaf out of our Cheryl’s book; the way she—'

  ‘I think Livvie gets the point,’ said Gav, topping up his glass of claret. ‘Now dinner’s all finished, I think I’ll head into the lounge. He stood up and left the table, taking his glass with him; he’d clearly had enough of the bear-baiting and was keen to get started on his usual Christmas tradition of drinking himself stupid for the rest of the day – much to his wife’s disapproval.

  5

  Zander

  Zander pulled into the driveway at the side of 4 Milton Gardens. Mel’s car had gone but lights blazed from every window of the smart Victorian villa he’d called home for the last eight years. It rattled him that she had no regard for global warming or taking care of the environment, or even wasting money; he’d lost count of the times he’d mentioned that she could perhaps consider turning a light off when she left a room she had no intention of returning to for a while. He felt his mood dip as he recalled her words. ‘Stop being such a Scrooge, Zander; you’re always nagging, “turn this light off, turn that light off, turn the heating down, put this in the recycling bin, put that in the recycling bin”, nag, nag, nag. There’s more to life than constantly worrying about the environment, you know. You’re becoming a real bore’.

  Zander was pulled back to the present by a whine from the back of the car, followed by a snort as Alf stuck his nose through the dog guard. ‘Yep, you’re right, fella, time to venture inside; see what chaos awaits us.’

  With a feeling of dread, he pushed open the front door and stepped into a wall of warmth. ‘Bloody hell, it’s stifling!’ The temperature stood in stark contrast to the biting cold outside. Typical Mel, always had to have the radiators bouncing hot; she’d sooner open a window than turn the heating down.

  He unravelled his scarf and took in the mess of the hallway which was littered with an assortment of discarded shoes – mostly Mel’s, but there appeared to be an unfamiliar pair of male ones. Alf gave them a thorough sniffing before trotting along to the kitchen. Zander followed. ‘Mel,’ he groaned. The room reeked of stale cigarette smoke and was littered with the detritus of a hastily prepared meal – evidently his girlfriend hadn’t been alone if the amount of cups and crockery was anything to go by, or the small bowl that had been used as an ashtray. That annoyed him more than anything; she knew he didn’t like her smoking in the house, never mind inviting some stranger –or strangers – to join her. He went over to the island in the centre of the room. Something vivid and sticky had been spilt down the full length of one of the cupboard doors; it looked like it would leave a permanent stain. Her disrespectful attitude was really beginning to grate on him.

  The living room was no better. Zander’s eyes were drawn to a little dish he’d brought back from a holiday in France; it was perched precariously on the arm of one of the leather sofas, and was now full of cigarette butts. He tutted as he went to pick it up, noticing what looked like a splodge of nail varnish on the seat next to where a pile of clothes were strewn – had they been put there to hide it, he wondered? On closer examination, it would appear that someone had tried to pick the nail varnish off, taking the top layer of the leather with it; presumably that’s why they gave up, he thought. To top it off, there was what looked like a cigarette burn in the carpet.

  Fuming, he shook his head. ‘What a bloody mess, eh, Alf?’ The Labrador stopped his exploration of the new scents in the room and looked up at him, his tail wagging ten-to-the-dozen. ‘That woman must take me for a fool.’

  ‘Right, that’s it. Time to relax now, Alf.’ Zander had spent the last hour trying to restore some semblance of order to his home. The first thing he’d done was to turn the radiators down and throw open a couple of windows. The bedroom and en-suite bathroom had been as he’d expected: full of Mel’s chaos. He’d started at the top and worked down, pushing her clothes and shoes into bin bags and dumping them in the utility room. The kitchen had proved quite a challenge and, once all of the washing-up was done and rubbish thrown in the bin, he’d taken a closer look at the stained cupboard door; it would need to be sanded down and painted over. But the biggest disappointment had been the living room. The cigarette burn was in a very obvious place and he suspected the leather of the cushion would be permanently marked by the nail varnish and would need to be replaced. ‘This has got to stop.’

  Pouring himself a glass of wine, Zander, closely followed by Alf, headed for his study where he fired up his laptop. He was feeling restless, too restless to sit in front of the television and watch TV or a movie. But he had the overwhelming urge to get away. Get away from this large, empty house that only served to remind him of the bad choices he’d made. He found himself thinking of Clara again. Quiet, gentle, easy-going Clara – on the face of it, at least. His family and friends had all loved her; everyone had expected him to marry her. Not do what he did. His stomach clenched at the thought. How would things have been if they’d stayed together?

  The thought that he still needed to call his mother ran through his mind, triggering an involuntary sigh. He’d been putting it off, trying to find the right words, building up the courage to pick up the phone.

  He clicked on the mail icon of his laptop and watched the emails slide into the inbox. Amongst the mix of junk, newsletters and adverts, an email from “Quaint Country Cottages” leapt out; it was the company who managed the rental of his holiday cottage in Lytell Stangdale in the middle of the North Yorkshire Moors. He clicked on it, hoping it wasn’t telling him of some problem or other. Thankfully, it was a round-robin, informing their clients of their festive opening hours.

  Zander sat for a moment, drumming his fingers against his chin. ‘Lytell Stangdale. I wonder…’ Alf looked up from his position, curled up by his dad’s feet, and wagged his tail. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking, buddy?’ He reached down and rubbed the Labrador’s ears, which increased the speed of the tail wagging.

  Earlier that year, Zander had been visiting his cousin, Beth, who was a GP at a surgery in Danskelfe, the next village to Lytell Stangdale. He’d been sitting in the Sunne Inne on the Saturday lunchtime, enjoying a pint of local beer, absorbing the community spirit of the place, when he’d found himself roped into a local fundraiser – he hadn’t realised when he’d agreed to it that it would involve him taking his clothes off for a calendar shoot, but that was by-the-by. He smiled at the memory.

  He’d been visiting the area to check on the property he’d purchased with a view to renting out as a holiday let. Dale View Cottage was an achingly beautiful thatched longhouse, typical of the area, and, despite the fact that it had needed a massive amount of work doing to it, Zander had fallen in love with it on the spot. Indeed, it had been a labour of love restoring it to the standard it was today.

  He had fond memories of that weekend and, despite having to get his kit off, he’d been tempted back several times since, struck by how friendly and welcoming the locals were. Each time he’d found himself laughing and chatting in the pub with Jimby Fairfax – whose idea the fundraiser had been – and Ollie, who was Jimby’s best mate. Camm, whose looks betrayed his gipsy heritage, had been a regular, too, as was local architect Robbie. Yeah, they were a great bunch of blokes and Zander felt like he’d known them for years. His mind roamed over the memories of his visits there; he’d always thought Jimby’s sister Kitty was cute, but she
was off-limits, being married to Ollie. ‘Shame,’ he said aloud, his mind moving on. Kitty’s friends were hilarious; sassy Molly whose wicked sense of humour always made him chuckle; he didn’t wonder that she lived with someone as easy-going as Camm. Then there was glamorous, purple-haired Violet who was a dead-ringer for a young Elizabeth Taylor; she was recently married to Jimby. On the face of it, Zander thought you wouldn’t put the two of them together, yet the reality was that they complemented one another perfectly. Yep, he mused, they were a nice bunch of down-to-earth folk.

  Before he knew it, Zander found himself looking at the “Quaint Country Cottages” website and, in particular, the listing for his own property. His spirits suddenly lifted. ‘Perfect!’ Thanks to yesterday’s cancellation of a booking that took in the whole of the festive period, the property was empty. He pushed up his shirt sleeve and checked his watch, his mind racing over an idea that had started to bloom out of nowhere. He glanced out of the window, remembering that Steff had said snow was forecast; it hadn’t started yet.

  ‘Alf,’ he said, flipping down the lid of his laptop, ‘pack your bags, buddy, we’re heading off to the North Yorkshire Moors.’ Alf jumped up and trotted after Zander who had headed to the spare bedroom where his suitcase, all packed for Carcassonne, sat on the bed. ‘Right,’ he said rubbing his chin. ‘I only need to make a few adjustments to this, then we’re good to go.’