Dreaming of Christmas Read online

  ‘I really don’t think I can, Jules. I’m sorry. It’s all too fresh. I’d only make myself miserable, or I might end up trying to push him off a balcony or something. Either way, I’d ruin it for everybody else.’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t. You’ve got to get on with your life, Zo. He behaved like a heartless moron, but you’re bigger than that.’ Juliet’s voice was low and her tone supportive. ‘Anyway, I’ve got an idea. What’re you doing tomorrow night?’

  ‘Um… nothing special.’

  ‘How about meeting up for a drink? I finish work at six. It’s only half an hour on the train down to you. I could be there for seven. That way you can sleep on it first. Promise me you won’t make any hasty decisions.’

  ‘All right, I promise.’

  Although deep down inside, the idea of seeing Grant again filled her with dread.

  Chapter 2

  Next day at work, Zoë was too busy to spend much time thinking about the invitation to Austria, but she had done more than enough worrying overnight. In fact, although she had finally drifted off to sleep in the small hours, she had tossed and turned for ages first. Of course Juliet was right. It was time she got on with the rest of her life, but the idea of not only seeing Grant again but being cooped up with him in a hotel for a week was both intimidating and infuriating.

  His announcement last Christmas that he had found another woman and was leaving had come as a bolt from the blue – or as near as made no difference. Yes, there had probably been a few little doubts in her mind, but nothing she could put her finger on. Considering she was a journalist, it rankled with her that she had been so blind to what was going on. Of course, she had been aware that her workload meant she had been seeing less and less of him over the last few years of their relationship. And his business trips away – often involving weekends as well – had been getting more frequent, but she had never seriously thought he might have somebody else. The tragic fact of the matter was that she had loved him in spite of everything, and losing him really had broken her heart. Beneath the anger she still felt towards him was bitter grief. How would she feel about seeing him again?

  Then, sometime in the small hours, she had suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, eyes wide open, at the thought that he would almost certainly turn up in Austria with his new woman. The idea of meeting her was immensely unpalatable. With that thought lodged in her mind, it had been a long night.

  Consequently, she wasn’t feeling at her chirpiest the next morning as she shared a taxi with Ron the photographer en route to an interview with a B-list movie actor hungry for publicity. Her lack of enthusiasm, however, was more than compensated for by her companion. Ron was positively bouncy.

  ‘Like the new jacket, sweetheart?’

  She hadn’t noticed. She turned her head and took a look. It was a brown leather bomber jacket and it looked pretty good on him. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, as long as you didn’t concentrate too much on what he was like underneath the skin. As far as she was concerned, Ron was an acquired taste – rather like creosote or silage. She nodded her head and told him what he wanted to hear.

  ‘Very nice. Expensive?’

  ‘Five hundred quid.’

  ‘Blimey, Ron, did you win the lottery?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’m doing a bit of work on the side. And it pays well.’

  ‘Wedding photography?’

  ‘No, very different. Here, take a look.’

  He pulled out his phone and scrolled through a whole heap of photos until he found the one he wanted.

  ‘What do you think of that, sweetheart? Good, eh?’

  Zoë took the phone from him and squinted at it. With the taxi weaving in and out of the traffic in the streets of east London, it wasn’t easy. She held the phone closer to her eyes. It took a few more seconds before she suddenly realised what she was looking at.

  ‘For God’s sake, Ron, that’s disgusting.’

  She almost threw the phone back at him and rubbed her hands on her coat in an attempt to remove the contagion. He looked not only unapologetic but positively buoyed, by her comment. There was a broad lascivious grin on his face.

  ‘These folk pay me well, and they pay the girls well too. If you ever want to supplement your wages, just say the word. With your face and figure, I’m sure it could be a nice little earner for you.’

  ‘Oh God…’

  * * *

  The actor – whose name was Dan Greenfinch – had come across the Atlantic to London to co-star in a low-budget movie about zombies invading Canary Wharf. His face looked seriously weathered, and when Zoë and Ron were shown into his trailer to interview him, her first impression was that he had maybe already applied zombie make-up. It subsequently transpired that he hadn’t and Zoë didn’t envy the make-up artists if he had to appear in a non-zombie role. The actor – ‘Call me Dan’ – did his best to be hospitable by asking her if she wanted a ‘line’. This was not the first interview she had done with showbiz folk, and she now knew what was intended by this invitation, so she hastily shook her head.

  ‘Thanks, I’m working.’

  ‘Mind if I do?’

  ‘No, go ahead.’

  She then had to sit there while Call-me-Dan snorted a line of cocaine up his nose. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Subsequently, as he answered her questions, he spent most of his time rubbing his nose, snuffling and sneezing. She shuddered surreptitiously.

  The interview took about half an hour, and then Ron spent another half-hour taking a load of photos of the actor. Once she had finished and Ron had gone off with the PR girl to take some shots of the set, Call-me-Dan indicated that he rather liked the look of Zoë. As she was shaking hands with him, he gave her a lecherous leer and informed her that sex with him would undoubtedly be the high point of her life to date. For once, Zoë was grateful to Ron. This was the fifth time in four months that she had been propositioned by celebrities, and the photographer had been happy to provide her with a very effective way of refusing, without fear of being bothered any further. Keeping a straight face, she told Call-me-Dan she regretted she would not be able to accept his kind offer.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the all-clear from the doctor yet.’

  She didn’t say any more, but comprehension dawned on the pockmarked face in front of her, and she was able to leave unmolested. Unless she counted the sensation of disgust she carried with her all the way back in the taxi.

  She spent the next couple of hours writing a two-thousand-word piece entitled ‘Zombies vs Canaries’. Just after lunch, she sent it through to Damien, the editor, and waited for his verdict. She didn’t have to wait long. The phone on her desk buzzed almost immediately, and he was as succinct as ever.

  ‘Zoë. Get in here. Now.’

  She made her way along the corridor to his office, knocked, and went in without waiting for an answer.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Damien?’

  As usual, he was sitting with his back to the window so as to dazzle and intimidate anyone who came to sit opposite him. He was wearing his usual blue striped shirt with a white collar and cuffs, the collar open and the sleeves rolled up. He wore the same thing every day, and opinion in the office fell into two camps. There were those who believed he had a stock of the shirts, one for every day of the week, while others – amongst them Zoë – felt sure he had just the one and never took it off.

  ‘Yes, Zoë. Come in. Sit down.’ She did as instructed and he immediately launched into a critique of her piece. The crux of the problem could be summarised as ‘You didn’t like the guy, did you?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. He was a slimy piece of pond life, and if the next time I see him is on my deathbed, it’ll be too soon.’

  ‘Listen, Zoë, nobody says you’ve got to like these people. I don’t like many of them, but that’s not the point. His film company has just paid for six full-page adverts in HC magazine and two of our subsidiaries. That pays the bills, and that includes your salary. While I admire you
r prose, describing him as having “the personality and complexion of a fly cemetery biscuit” is not only insulting, it’s probably actionable. So go back over it, tone it down, and for God’s sake try to sound as if you like him. All right? Got that?’

  Zoë spent the rest of the afternoon doing as she had been instructed. At the end of the day, before going off to meet Juliet, she emailed the piece to Damien with one line: Sanitised for your convenience. Zoë.

  * * *

  As she sat at a table outside by the river that evening, waiting for Juliet to appear, Zoë sipped her Prosecco and turned the conundrum of Billy’s invitation round and round in her head. On the one hand, the idea of seeing her ex again was challenging, but at the same time, the thought of a week in a luxury hotel on the ski slopes had considerable appeal. She was still no nearer a conclusion when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked up and smiled.

  ‘Jules, hi. Wow, you look great.’

  ‘From the surprise in your voice, I assume I looked like crap last time you saw me.’ Juliet was smiling back at her.

  Zoë jumped to her feet and they hugged warmly.

  ‘Not crap, but weary. Mind you, only a few days after Grant’s bombshell, I don’t suppose I looked too brilliant.’ She waved Juliet into a seat. ‘I got a bottle of Prosecco. Will that do?’

  ‘It’ll do perfectly. You know me so well, Zo.’

  They both sat down, and Zoë removed the bottle from the cooler and filled their glasses, secretly rather proud that she managed to do it without mishap. She had a bit of a reputation for spilling stuff. As she set the bottle back in the cooler, she looked across at Juliet and raised her glass.

  ‘Cheers, Jules, and I’m delighted to hear your new job’s working out.’

  ‘It’s a breath of fresh air after the relentless pressure of A & E. Most of the patients I see these days are anaesthetised, and none of them are roaring drunk. But you’re looking a good deal better too, Zo. It’s been a tough year for you, but it looks as though you’re getting over it now.’

  Zoë made no reply as she pushed Juliet’s glass across the table to her. This was mainly because she didn’t really know what state she was in or what to say about it. Instead, they talked about their lives over the months since they had last met, and Zoë gradually let herself be persuaded into agreeing that things were maybe looking up – a bit. After a while, Juliet turned the conversation round to Billy’s invitation.

  ‘So, what about Christmas? I presume you’ve had time to think things through.’

  Zoë nodded. ‘I’ve certainly done a lot of thinking, but I’m not much closer to making a decision.’

  ‘But you haven’t definitely dismissed the idea – that’s good. Listen, I’ve been thinking too, and here’s the way I see it. Grant behaved like a total arse last Christmas and he broke your heart, but there’s no need for him to screw up your whole life. He left and that’s that. You need to move on and show him you have a life without him. You need something to dream about. Start dreaming of Christmas – next Christmas, not last Christmas. This offer of an all-expenses-paid holiday is exactly what you need. After all, you love skiing, don’t you?’

  Zoë nodded. She and Grant had taken a year out after university to run a chalet in the French Alps, and both of them had emerged as keen and proficient skiers as a result. Or, to be precise, she had emerged a skier and he a snowboarder.

  ‘I know, Jules, but it’s the thought of seeing him again…’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me you still have feelings for him? Not after what he did to you.’

  ‘No… Oh, I don’t know. I loved him dearly. I really thought he was The One. I suppose there’s a part of me somewhere that still thinks of him like that.’

  ‘Like the poor little dog that’s been whipped but still comes back to its master?’

  ‘When you put it like that, I know it sounds lame, but I just don’t know how I feel. Besides, he’ll no doubt turn up with his new woman, and I’m quite sure I don’t want to have anything to do with her.’

  They talked on and on as the sun dropped lower in the sky, turning the waters of the Thames blood red. Gradually, prompted by Juliet, Zoë began to come round to believing that her friend was right. It took a couple of hours, but eventually, she managed to make up her mind.

  ‘You’re right, Jules.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Why should I turn down the chance of a week’s skiing in the lap of luxury just because my ex is going to be there? Enough time’s passed. I need to put Grant behind me and move on, don’t I? I think I can manage to be civil for a week, and if he can’t, then we just won’t speak.’

  She eyed the now empty wine bottle and wondered to what extent it had contributed to this decision. Would she regret it in the morning?

  ‘Great.’ Juliet sounded relieved. ‘And don’t forget, I’m going to be there on my own as well, so we can stick together. So that’s a yes, then?’

  Zoë took a deep breath. ‘All right, yes, Jules, I’m up for it. It’ll be good to see Billy and the others after so long. I’ll email my acceptance as soon as I get home tonight.’

  ‘Terrific. I’ll do the same.’ Juliet held out her glass and clinked it against Zoë’s again. ‘Cheers! Here’s to a week – more than a week – in the lap of luxury. By the way, you realise this means we’re going to need something smart for the Christmas Eve ball?’

  ‘Cheers, Jules, and thanks for bullying me into it. And yes, I suppose I’d better think about going dress shopping. I’ve hardly bought a thing this year. Why don’t you and I meet up in town when the pre-Christmas sales start, and go shopping together?’

  ‘Great idea. I wonder if the others will all dress up.’

  ‘I’m sure they will – especially Imogen.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from her? I haven’t heard a word since uni.’

  ‘Not a sausage. Mind you, we did have a fairly major falling-out right before we all left, didn’t we?’

  Imogen had not been the easiest of people to share a house with. Apart from her obsessive occupation of the bathroom and her ability to drain all the hot water in the house at one sitting, the main problem had been that she was a fully committed social climber – one of those people who are never satisfied with their lot. Allegedly from a very well-heeled family – although nobody had ever seen or heard from them – she had managed to get on everybody’s nerves. Even normally pacific Juliet had come close to emptying the remains of a can of stale beer over her head after one of her more outrageous utterances.

  ‘I think I heard somewhere that she’d got married a few years back, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, maybe this means we’ll get to see the husband. I bet he’s filthy rich. Mind you, I suppose she might decide not to come.’

  ‘And miss an all-expenses-paid holiday in a luxury hotel?’

  Zoë nodded to herself. The other thing about Imogen had been her allergy to spending money. Juliet was right. If it was free, Imogen would be up for it.

  ‘Ah well, we’ll see. It’s been almost ten years. Maybe she’s mellowed.’

  ‘You think?’

  Juliet didn’t sound too convinced, but after a pause, she smiled across at Zoë.

  ‘Mandy and Martin’s little girl must be, what, five now? It’s still funny to think of them with a child. And it’ll be fun to meet up with Lorna again. Her bedpost must have so many notches in it by now, it’s probably about to collapse under the strain.’

  Zoë giggled at the thought. Certainly Lorna’s bed at number 23 had been well used, and they had all grown very familiar – and fed up – with the grunts and groans emanating from there on a regular basis. Zoë had lost count of the number of men she had seen emerging from Lorna’s bedroom in the grey light of dawn, looking as if they had just done ten rounds with a prizefighter.

  ‘I wonder if she’s got herself a serious partner now, or if she’s still playing the field.’

  ‘No doubt we’ll get to hear all about it. I did hear that she’s
got a new job – sounds like a big step up – so maybe she’s like you and losing herself in her work. Anyway, Zo, I can’t wait. So for the next few months, we can both start dreaming of Christmas. Next Christmas, remember, not last. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Under the table, Zoë’s fingers were firmly crossed.

  Chapter 3

  It was one day in early November that Zoë made a big mistake.

  She was chatting at the coffee machine with Rudolph, from the lifestyle and fashion desk – generally known around the office as Rudolph the Brown-Nosed Reindeer for his habit of cosying up to his superiors. In a moment of distraction, she happened to mention where she was going for Christmas. Later that afternoon, she was summoned to Damien’s office. Suspiciously, he was smiling. This was always something of a rarity, and it normally didn’t bode well.

  ‘So, Zoë, I gather you’re going skiing this Christmas.’

  ‘Yes, Damien, that’s right.’

  She gave herself a mental kicking, but it was too late now. The cat was out of the bag.

  ‘And it’s all courtesy of an old friend of yours from your student days?’

  ‘Erm, yes.’

  ‘One William Fischer, I believe?’ He didn’t wait for her reply. ‘Or to apply the epithet bestowed upon him by the world’s media, the reclusive founder of WF Computers. Right?’

  ‘If you say so, Damien.’

  ‘I do say so, Zoë. Well, I’ve been doing a bit of thinking. You’ve been here for almost six months now, and we’re very pleased with the way you’re working out. It would be nice to see you in a more responsible position – naturally with a pay rise and a few perks, maybe a car. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’