Zara Stoneley - Four Christmases and a Secret

After all, this is not some swish cocktail bar, this is a bookshop, and I use the word ‘bash’ loosely – it’s more a close friends and family do. I will undoubtedly have known everybody here for most of my life, and there’s a fair chance I will be the youngest attendee by a country mile.

Which is why I agreed to wear the customary Christmas jumper and antlers. No chance of making a fool of myself in front of an attractive man tonight! Only the opportunity to once again be a slight disappointment to my mother, who would very much like a daughter to be proud of. A daughter with an impressive career, a handsome partner, and preferably a bun in the oven. Or at least the knowledge that said oven is nicely warming in preparation.

I have a job on the local rag, Frankie, and an empty womb. Oh, and Stanley – my four-legged date.

Therefore, I am still hovering on the doorstep. I am not ready to party, with or without a capital P. I’m taking a deep breath and pulling my metaphorical big girls pants up, preparing for the onslaught.

‘Here goes, Stan!’ I shoot him a pensive smile, which he ignores, plaster a grin on my face and follow her in. I’ve not got any choice. She’s grabbed the front of my jumper and Rudolf’s nose is being stretched to its shiny limit.

You know how you go in some shops and it hits you, the warm air and soft music, the bright clothes yelling out ‘buy me’ even though you’re broke? Well, Uncle T’s shop is like that. But with books not clothes. And mulled wine and mince pies. And much, much better.

The warmth of happy people, and the sounds and smells of Christmas wrap themselves round me like an old familiar blanket.

Christmas has arrived, it’s officially here. Uncle Terence’s party marks the start of the festive season. The hum of happy people chatting away, the smell of mulled wine, holly and warm pastry assault us and it’s a bit like walking into a Christmas-past time capsule. But with cocktails and canapés.

It takes a moment to adjust to all things festive and nice, after all the chaos that’s led up to it. I’m still adjusting when I’m assaulted. By my mother. My mother is the downside to Uncle Terence’s party. I do love her. Honestly. In controlled situations (i.e. my parents’ home). In small doses. Uncle Terence’s party does not bring out the ‘small dose’ side of her though. It brings out over enthusiasm. She treats me like exhibit ‘A’ – something to be paraded and boasted about. Which was strangely apt last year, when I was working as a barista and she insisted on telling everybody very loudly and proudly that I was a barrister.

Uncle Terence, who knew better, thought it was hilarious and kept asking how the coffee bean interrogation was going, and whether I was dealing with many mug- ings , and if the serial killer liked his coffee like his victims – all ground up. That last one was a bit eurgh , but it kept him entertained all evening.

Anyway, unfortunately, I am not exactly an overachiever on the career front (unlike Ollie Cartwright – but more about that later), do not yet own ‘property’ (unlike Ollie), and am a total disappointment on the getting hitched and producing offspring side (Ollie hasn’t done that either), so Mum struggles, over exaggerates or makes things up.

Since leaving school with a crap set of exam results to my name, I’ve always left the party feeling that my card has been marked ‘could do better’. This is not a jolly start to the festive season.

‘Daisy, darling! You’re here at last! We thought you’d got lost!’ I get a quick hug, and a mwah-mwah kiss. Frankie grins over her shoulder at me. Mesmerised. I think it’s my mother’s new ‘pink rinse’ and animal print jumpsuit that has done it. Or the fact she’s already downed two cocktails.

‘Love the outfit, very on-trend.’ Frankie manages to sound genuine. She winks at me.

My mother preens. ‘Thank you, dear.’ She gives her an up-and-down who-are-you look that confuses some people but doesn’t faze Frankie at all.

‘We’re not late, Mum!’ Anybody would think I hadn’t spoken to her for months, rather than earlier today. ‘And how can I get lost? I come here all the time.’

‘Where is he, then? Where’s your young man?’ Mum peers around me, almost shoving. See, it has started. She wants to mentally measure him up for his morning suit and see how he’d look framed on the mantelpiece.

‘Stephen, isn’t it? Stephen?’ She shouts his name as though she expects him to appear like a genie.

‘Simon! He’s called Simon, but I told you he’s not coming!’

‘Not coming? Oh yes, yes, silly me, I forgot! It’s Frank now, isn’t it? I can’t keep up with you and all these men! Well, where’s Frank?’

‘Frankie not Frank!’ I point at Frankie. Luckily, she is distracted and is staring across the room so doesn’t notice my mother’s disappointment.

Mum, just to be sure Simon isn’t lurking on the pavement, or hiding behind a lamppost, pushes her way out of the door to peer up the street. Treading on Stanley’s paw (sorry, I might not have mentioned – Stanley is a dog) and trapping me against the door jamb.

‘Oh buggering, flaming …’

‘Language, darling!’

The plate of sausage rolls, which I’d very cleverly balanced in one hand, goes flying one way as the dog dives between my legs and my mother dives the other side.

‘Oh my God, who the fuck is that?’ Frankie is oblivious to flying pastry, and the blob of lightly herbed pork that has landed on her head. ‘Fuck me. Well, him, well, oh my God, I think I still believe in Father Christmas!’ She clutches her throat melodramatically with one hand, and my arm with the other. Did I mention she’s a bit hyper tonight? ‘Ditch those canapés, girl and introduce me, so I can go and hang my stocking on his tree! I need to make babies with him!’

‘Frankie!’ I laugh and forget all about Mum for a moment, because this is weird. ‘Who, where? What on earth are you going on about?’ I’m sorry, but nobody in their right mind would want to shag anybody who attends Uncle T’s party. Unless he’s smuggled in a sexy bartender this year, instead of relying just on Mabel who isn’t as young as she was.

‘There!’ She does a low wolf whistle, then blows the tips of her fingers. ‘Smoking. Hot!’ He must be, because she seems to have forgotten she still has a boyfriend.

There are never hot men here though. Ever. It is a family and friends party. In a bookshop, in our village.

I look where she is pointing. At a man who is vaguely familiar, and admittedly quite attractive, in a Robert Downey Junior earnest-with-glasses kind of way. He reminds me a bit of Ollie’s dad, Charles. He must be some distant relative I’ve never met.

He has the faintest of smiles on his face, tugging at the corner of a generous mouth. Which would be slightly effeminate if he wasn’t so definitely male. Oh yes, he is definitely all male. For the first time ever at one of these parties, I wonder if the antlers might have been a mistake.

‘Oh, that’s Oliver. Silly girl.’ Mum stops searching for my missing date and chuckles. I gasp, and the mood music in my head grounds to a halt.

‘What?’I think it came out as a screech, because the conversation nearby has a hiccup. Then they go back to talking. Luckily the sound doesn’t appear to have reached his side of the room though, that’s the advantage of a bookshop – those thick pages swallow up the sound. ‘No way. That is so not Ollie!’ The last time I saw him was at very close quarters. I was snogging him. ‘It can’t be.’ I think this comes out as a pathetic whine. Buggering hell, Ollie can’t be here. Not in person. And he can’t look like that.