Georgie Carter - The Perfect Christmas

‘Happy Christmas, Robyn,’ says Faye, joining me at the French doors and clinking her mug against mine.

‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ I say. ‘It’s a very happy Christmas.’

‘Any special reason why it’s such a happy Christmas?’ she asks with a raised eyebrow. ‘Anything you want to share with your best friend?’

I laugh. Faye is about as subtle as Wile E. Coyote tipping an Acme anvil onto the Road Runner.

‘Come on, Robs! Are you thinking about you know who in there?’

‘I was just thinking what a crazy year it’s been,’ I say, sidestepping the you know who comment.

‘I’ll say,’ Faye agrees.

Her blue eyes meet mine in the reflection of the glass door. I lean my head against her shoulder, soft in the palest cream cashmere.

‘You’re a dark horse keeping him to yourself. He’s gorgeous! How long have you two been an item?’

I laugh. ‘No comment.’

‘There’s so much chemistry I practically get an A-level just watching you both.’

My cheeks are possibly the same colour as my mulled wine. Faye’s right; the man who’s accompanied me to this Christmas party is great. In fact, he’s better than great. He’s funny, kind, thoughtful and every time I catch his eye my knees turn to melted butter. Lob into the mix a fit muscular body, merry dancing eyes and a sexy curly mouth and there he is – the perfect package.

Speaking of packages … I look down at the package in my hand. The paper is red with white reindeers and glittery stars, and the wrapping is … bad, like a two-year-old put it together. But it’s the thought that counts.

As if reading my mind, Faye motions to the gift. ‘Are you going to open that?’

‘What? Now?’ I say, with a cheeky grin.

‘It’s traditional to open gifts on Christmas Day, isn’t it?’

I hesitate, and I’m not sure why. Then I tear into the wrapping to reveal … a can of bug spray.

Instantly, I burst out laughing.

‘What kind of present is that?!’ yelps Faye, a horrified look on her face. ‘Where’s the romance?’

I smile to myself. ‘I think it’s pretty perfect, actually.’

‘Robyn?’ Faye asks. ‘Be honest. You like him a lot, don’t you?’

I swallow. In the steam on the window I trace a heart with my forefinger before wiping the pattern away. When I sense his gaze on me all the nerve endings in my body fizz as though they’ve been dipped in Alka Seltzer. I almost combusted when he accidentally touched my elbow on the way into Faye’s lime green front door. It’s nothing short of a miracle all that’s left of me isn’t a pair of smoking L.K. Bennetts.

‘Yes,’ I say softly, admitting it to myself as much as her. ‘I like him. I really like him.’

‘Then take a chance,’ Faye advises. ‘Tell him how you feel.’

Should I take Faye’s advice and go for it?

‘I’ve got some mistletoe, if that would help,’ she adds.

One by one I’ve been crossing off all the items on my list … here is something I haven’t crossed off yet.

Am I brave enough to take a chance and see if this really could be the perfect Christmas?

April (Eight Months Earlier)

I have always loved weddings. As a kid I used to spend ages wrapping my Barbie up in loo roll and conducting long, intricate ceremonies in which poor Barbie was joined in holy matrimony to the cross-eyed Action Man I’d picked up at a jumble sale. Barbie always looked distinctly unimpressed with her groom, whom, I seem to recall, didn’t have a willy. No wonder Barbie was fed up. These days, in my book, lacking that particular body part makes Action Man a strong contender for the title of Ideal Husband. My ex-fiancé, Patrick, would have been a lot less trouble without that particular part of his anatomy.

That’s why I made the promise to myself last Christmas. My Christmas wish list which covers all aspects of my life – career, finances and love – all perfect by next Christmas. I gave myself twelve months to turn it all around. Including, most importantly, forgetting about Patrick McNicolas.

Unfortunately, that’s not possible today. He is one of the ushers at Adam and Samantha’s wedding.

It’s because of him that I’m in hiding. OK, not hiding exactly, actively avoiding describes it better, but the end result is hopefully the same.

Maybe behind a potted bay tree at the reception isn’t the best hiding place. I breathe in and turn sideways. Hmm. I’m not convinced this helps. The plant is a gigantic specimen but my fuchsia pink dress doesn’t blend in. I couldn’t stick out more if I jumped out naked and started to dance the can-can.

Why didn’t I wear my emerald outfit? At least I’d have been camouflaged. There’s so much greenery in this room that I could have taken my pick of plants and avoided Patrick all evening. I could even stroll out onto the terrace and blend into the shrubbery if I really had the urge.

Looking around, the answer is obvious. As wedding planner, I’m officially responsible for the pinkest wedding reception in the history of the colour pink. From the balloons to the flowers to the bridesmaids’ dresses, everything is pink. I’ve even included myself in the colour scheme, great for matching the table decorations but not quite so great for going unnoticed.

I will talk to Patrick later, I tell myself, ducking my head when he turns around. I’ll paste on a smile and talk about trivia. But it won’t be easy: he’s seen my wobbly bits for heaven’s sake! Not to mention that he’s the man I nearly took to be my lawful wedded husband – until he decided to play away, that is. I’m not sure if I’m up to discussing the weather with him just yet.

Not that Pat will want to discuss the weather. He probably can’t wait to gloat about – I mean, introduce me to – the slim redhead who is the ‘plus one’ on his invitation.

Getting over Pat by Christmas is going to be hard. Maybe I should push it back to the next millennium.

I’m really not in the mood for his games. Not when I’ve got a missing DJ and a confetti-eating flower girl to contend with. Besides, I don’t know if I’m ready to meet the latest member of the Patrick McNicolas fan club. I cancelled my subscription long ago.

Pat’s a stand-up comedian, which I used to find romantic, especially when he proposed to me on stage. His combination of intelligence verging on geekiness, and lilting Irish accent was seriously appealing, and I found myself accepting, much to the delight of the audience. I suspect Patrick was thrilled as much by the laughter and applause as he was by my saying yes.

Here we are, one cancelled wedding and one broken heart later, and I’m doing better. Yes, I’m hiding behind a tree, but I’m not ripping off his gonads and stuffing them down his throat.

This is progress.

It’s a constant relief to me that I still adore weddings, despite having my own special day wrecked in spectacular fashion. Becoming a cynic would have been career suicide. But right now I’m not here to discuss my personal life. I’m here to work and I want everything kept on a professional footing.

I peek through the foliage and feel a glow of pride at the perfect scene. I’ve pulled it off. Even if I do say so myself, this wedding reception is looking pretty damn professional. Well done me.

The elegant drawing room of Taply Manor is festooned with pink and white fairy lights. The tables are draped with crisp white cloths, freckled with pink confetti and set off with deep pink damask napkins. The centrepiece of each table is a vase crammed with waxy white lilies, fat pink roses and bright pink teddy bears with ‘Adam and Samantha’ embroidered across their tummies. The bride insisted upon this particular detail even though I wasn’t convinced. But, as my best friend Faye pointed out, it is their wedding. And Sam was right, the bears actually suit the whole fluffy pink theme. Phew!