Jenni Keer - The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows

She smiled at her boss – a man she’d admired from behind the Apple Mac for so long that her neck had adopted as its default position the slight angle necessary to view his delicious face without it being obvious. Suddenly, her tidy, ordered, quiet life had changed. The whirlwind that was a proper romantic relationship brought with it an infuriating chaos but also gave her much-sought-after company. And anyway, she had time to domesticate him.

Hopefully, all the time in the world …

‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ said Maisie, as she unwound her mile-long knitted scarf, and finally liberated the chunky bright green coat buttons straining across her ample bosom. ‘There were no unpleasant scenes and no hysterical screaming.’ Largely because the screaming and shouting had been conducted in her head.

Nigel peered over to the door, watched as she disappeared back into the hall to hang up her coat, and waited patiently to hear more of the tale.

‘Actually, that’s not true.’ Her golden curls bounced up and down like slinky springs as she returned to the room. ‘Finding Gareth in the basement was a decidedly unpleasant scene.’ She shrugged. ‘So I now have no boyfriend and no job.’ Her sun-soaked expectations of the summer had curled up in a dark corner and were shivering with cold.

That afternoon, she’d been sent down to the archives to research the names of chief brewers from years gone by as the brewery looked to relaunch a historic ale. Entering the basement, she heard the huffing and puffing often associated with lifting down heavier box files from high shelving, but as she got closer, there were an awful lot of squelchy noises that didn’t fit the scenario. The naked bulb hanging from the high concrete ceiling failed to light the back row adequately and, as she turned the corner, she recognised the Hollister polo shirt she’d bought Gareth for his birthday. He was not only showing the new girl from HR around the archives but also giving her a guided tour of his tonsils. Maisie’s world stopped for that moment. She squeaked and dropped her notebook, Gareth turned and flushed traffic-light red, and the young girl slid out from under him and made for the fire exit.

Maisie brushed the unpleasant memories from her cluttered mind as she sat primly in her upholstered armchair. Time to move on, she told herself, and bit back treacherous tears.

Nigel took another nut from the ceramic bowl in front of him and popped it in his mouth. They made eye contact across the low-backed sofa where three aubergine satin cushions were set at precise forty-five-degree angles. The question he hadn’t asked hung in the air between them.

‘I could hardly stay. He’s my boss. Hashtag awkward ,’ Maisie said, in her defence. ‘It’s fine. Another job will come along. I might even look for something different. Four years in the same office has been suffocating. You have to pick yourself up and embrace new things.’

Nigel looked momentarily worried, probably because the bowl in front of him was empty, more than an overriding concern for her crummy job and relationship statuses. He shuffled through the tummy-high sawdust, lay on his back and stuck his stumpy legs in the air. Never one for convention, he slid underneath his wheel to place his tiny limbs on the exterior of his well-nibbled exercise device, and a low droning rattle began as he scampered like mad, almost as if his tiny life depended on it.

Maisie Meadows wasn’t a why me? kinda gal. Gareth’s betrayal and her subsequent resignation were both upsetting but not insurmountable. However, as she placed a silver cracker across the solitary white dinner plate, she acknowledged this wasn’t how she’d planned to spend Christmas Day – alone. The original plan, Christmas dinner with Gareth at the local gastropub, had been struck through the calendar with such force the pen had ripped the paper. So, it was just her and Nigel, and he would remain in his cage until after the meal because she didn’t trust him with her Brussels sprouts.

Cutting herself off from Wickerman’s, she had also inadvertently cut herself off from her social life. She no longer wanted to be with the mutual friends she’d shared with Gareth, and because her absolute best friend and sister, Zoe, was as far away from Maisie as she could geographically be, she had no one to discuss her Christmas wish list with or share a laugh about her unrealistic New Year’s resolutions. As if in response to her thoughts, there was a scuffling from the corner of the room. At least she had Nigel.

An expensive Merlot breathed next to the hob, where she steamed a single portion of vegetables. A chicken breast fillet wrapped in maple-cured bacon – like an oversized pig in a blanket – roasted merrily in the oven with four crispy roast potatoes. There was already a half-drunk glass of pale cream sherry on the go and, as she sipped it, the leathery fruitiness added to the festive aromas swirling around the room.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have family. Goodness – she had more than enough to go around. Both parents were still alive and kicking, although should they ever find themselves alone in the same room, the kicking would be seven shades of something unpleasant out of each other. And she also had three older siblings. Problem was, she couldn’t even remember the last time they were all together. Part of it was logistics – they were scattered across the globe – but most of it was more … complicated.

Several years ago, she received separate Christmas dinner invitations from her parents. Not prepared to undertake the forty-mile round trip to keep them both happy, nor to accept one and refuse the other, an amicable solution was reached that had endured ever since. Christmas Eve with Mum (because she did the most fabulous stockings and even at twenty-five Maisie refused to relinquish the tradition) and Boxing Day with Dad and whichever lady happened to be hanging adoringly off his jaunty elbow at the time.

Her smart strawberry kitchen timer buzzed to announce her Mini-Me banquet was ready, so she stood it back on the worktop in a line of matching red appliances. (The kitchen was the first room she’d painted when she moved in the previous year; a study in monochrome with accents of scarlet – she’d even persuaded the landlord to go halves on a beautiful black and white chequerboard floor.) Ten minutes later, she sat down to her seasonal feast, flicked out the pure white linen napkin and let it drift gently down to her knees. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she toasted into the air as she sipped the sweet, plum-flavoured wine and then promptly burst into tears. There’s only so much positivity a person can muster in the face of such life-changing circumstances, especially when emotionally lubricated with a couple of glasses of sherry.

In recent weeks, the television had bombarded her with images of picture-perfect, happy families gathering to share banquet-sized meals of gastronomic perfection. The culinary aspect she could do standing on her wavy blonde head, but where were all the people she cared about? Because there had been a time, many moons ago, when her life had mirrored these saccharine adverts, long before the Meadows family members were scattered to the four winds.

The last family Christmas she could remember, Maisie had been six. Mum had woken at silly o’clock because the ostrich-sized turkey had to go in at half five and then she’d busied herself with table-laying, present adjustment and tree titivation. She always maintained once she was up, she was up. With all the crashing and banging drifting up the stairs, a bleary-eyed Maisie stirred to find Father Christmas had been. Her pillowcase was stuffed with exciting, oddly shaped parcels and the pine-green fabric stocking at the end of her bed was overflowing with sweets and treats. She stumbled her slippered feet downstairs to show everyone her Sylvanian Rose Cottage – which proved what she’d said all along – she had been a good girl this year. (No one knew about the hair-pulling incident at school. Not even Santa, apparently.)