Zara Stoneley - No One Cancels Christmas

‘It will be auto generated, out of office, or something. Nobody types that quick.’

It isn’t.

Apparently, some people can type quickly.

Dear Sarah,

Thank you for your recent correspondence. How nice to hear from you again! (I suspect this is sarcasm.) Unfortunately, in this part of the world there is no sand to bury one’s head in, therefore one has to use snow, which rather freezes the brain and leaves one temporarily incapacitated and thus incapable of carrying out simple tasks such as responding to phone calls.

I am currently reviewing our ‘flaming halls’ and other client requirements, though as far as I am aware ‘growing a pair’ has never featured on any feedback form.

Many thanks for your interest in our resort, and we look forward to welcoming you here in the future.

Regards. Will Armstrong (The Anti-Christmas) .

Shooting Star Mountain Resort

‘Well at least he’s got a sense of humour.’

‘Hilarious.’ Dry I think they call it. I’m busy typing as I speak. What a cheek! Welcoming, huh, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

Dear Mr Armstrong,

Many thanks for your prompt response. If you are not currently suffering from brain freeze it would be very helpful if you could spare the time to pick up the phone so we can discuss our requirements.

Our clients have reported a far-from-warm welcome – in fact, it has been coined ‘frosty’ in one instance – and there has been little in the way of flaming recently, in fireplaces or halls. The only feature in your brochure that you seem to provide, is snow. Maybe a new, more specific, feedback form would be in order?

‘You can’t send that!’ Sam is back peering over my shoulder, dropping crumbs down my cleavage.

‘You said that before.’ I drum my fingers on the desk, well away from the danger zone of the mouse, and wriggle the crumbs out of my bra. ‘You know what I’m seriously tempted to do, though?’

Sam raises on eyebrow, and surreptitiously nudges the mouse out of my reach. ‘I don’t like the sound it, whatever it is.’

‘Go.’

‘What do you mean, go?’

‘Go there. To the resort. He said he’d look forward to welcoming me in the future, so maybe that’s the answer. I mean, he can’t ignore me if I’m standing in front of him, can he?’ I minimise the email screen and log on to the booking system. ‘I could see for myself just how welcoming Mr Brain-freeze is and whether there’s any hope of salvaging some magic. And if there’s not, I’ll cancel all the bookings our clients have made and move them.’

‘No! You can’t just go, we’re busy, you’re busy!’ Sam is staring at me. ‘Anyhow, all the good resorts are booked up now, so you can’t move people if it really is that crap. It’s too late.’

‘Well, I’ll think of something.’

‘You have got to be kidding!’ Sam frowns, then bites the side of her thumb. ‘Have you totally lost your marbles this time?’

She might have a point. But not one I intend to concede to. ‘I could be the undercover hotel inspector, poking about in his dark corners and uncovering the truth. I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a sleuth.’

‘You said you wanted to stand in front of him, so he can’t ignore you.’

The girl has a point. ‘Stop being picky. Anyway, that’s after I’ve poked about and written a witty and scathing piece about the state of his ski-lifts and skirting boards.’

‘Skirting boards?’

‘That’s where the dust gathers, apparently.’ Not that I’d know; I’m not a big-on-dusting kind of girl.

‘Do log cabins have skirting boards?’

‘Sam!’

‘Sorry, just trying to help.’

‘Anyway, I’d get a staff discount.’ Always look on the bright side, as my Aunt Lynn likes to say, and the one very bright side to working in her travel agency is that I get to travel on the cheap.

‘They should be paying you to go there.’ Sam taps a few buttons on her computer, then draws a deep breath. ‘Listen.’ I don’t really need to listen, I know the crap reviews off by heart, but she’s going to read them out to me anyway. ‘ The worst Christmas we have ever had. The only good bit was the hot chocolate—’

‘– until they ran out of marshmallows.’ I finish the review for her. ‘But I could always take some with me.’

She ignores me. ‘I mean, who runs out of marshmallows? It’s like . . . like . . .’

‘Running out of wine?’

‘Like a margarita without the salt round the rim.’

‘Serious stuff, then.’

‘Well, you’d feel cheated, wouldn’t you? And how about this one? Cosy this place is not – unless you’re related to a polar bear, it was warmer out than in .’ Sam glances up to check I’m still listening. ‘ The website promises husky-drawn sleds, and the nearest we got was being allowed to take the dog a walk . Aw, I quite like the idea of that. Jake’s thinking about teaching Harry to pull a sled, but there’s never any snow here, is there?’ I refrain from commenting. Cute as her boyfriend’s dog Harry is, I’m pretty sure sled dogs are usually twice his size. ‘And this one’s from last Christmas, Guide refused to take us ski-ing because it was snowing! Cheese fondue was ace, let down by untidy dining room and rude waitress. Amazing place, just a shame the new owners have let standards slip. A magical Christmas this was not. ’

‘So, I should go, shouldn’t I? Look, that place used to be the best on our books; it was magical, fabulous, festive – you know, all those F words.’ I’ve run out, but she knows what I mean.

‘And now it’s a flop, Sarah, but it’s not our job to put places right, is it? We just recommend somewhere else. You don’t have to actually go there.’

‘Aunt Lynn used to.’ I think I might be sounding a bit sulky.

‘To check places out, see if they were holidays she wanted to sell. Not put them right. Oh Sarah, why not just drop it, find somewhere better?’

‘Because . . .’ Well, partly because I’m stubborn and don’t like to admit defeat. ‘It’s not just Auntie Lynn that loved it.’ I take a deep breath as the prickly heat of tears in my eyes takes me completely by surprise. I mess around with the paperclips on my desk so that I don’t have to look at her. ‘It was where she and I spent our first Christmas together.’ There’s a lump in my throat that shouldn’t be there, and I’m blinking faster than the lights on a faulty pelican crossing. I swallow, hard. ‘I want to thump Will Armstrong.’

‘Oh hell. Why didn’t you say? Not the thump bit, the Christmas bit, I mean.’ Sam squeezes my hand and I pull away slightly, because sympathy always does me in. I don’t want to end up in tears, not here, not at work. Well, not anywhere, really. Crying is something I learned not to do a long time ago. It’s pointless.

Our first Christmas at the Shooting Star resort had been magical. Which I suppose is what Auntie Lynn intended.

She’d never been that close to her sister, my mum, they’d been too different. Camembert and brie, as Lynn liked to say, and the subtle differences had run deep. Mum had married young, had me, taken me off on magical mystery tours in a camper van. Lynn was single, resolutely childless and loved to spend time in unexplored corners of the world. They both had wanderlust, but their lust and their wandering had taken them in very different directions.

Up until then, I’d hardly known Aunt Lynn; our paths had never really crossed until that Christmas.

The Christmas when she’d been there to try and save my little family, and instead had been left with me when my parents had left. Without me. For a ‘spot of adult time’ as Mum had laughingly put it, and I’d never seen them again. That jokey comment and her tinkling laugh are the last I remember of her.