Belinda Missen - One Week ’Til Christmas

If only I’d caught his name. Or, you know, his number.

Idiot.

* * *

Estelle’s home sat at the end of a narrow cobblestone mews with honey-brown brick buildings on either side, glossy white window frames, and bulbous shrubs. I’d never been happier to see her front door than I was today. I dropped what was left of my takeaway cup into a galvanised rubbish bin, wiped a sticky hand down my front and grabbed at the brass knocker.

‘Shiiit!’ Estelle roared with laughter as she swung the door open full tilt. ‘You know you’re not meant to swim in the Thames, right?’

‘It wasn’t me.’ I pressed past her into the hall, knocking down a photo frame in the process. ‘Some jerk in a hurry to get to his look-at-me car wasn’t looking where he was going, and I ended up in the gutter.’

‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘Nothing broken?’

‘Only my ego.’ I pressed at the tacky spot on my jeans. There was no way they’d be escaping the wash tonight. ‘And I think we gave the bus driver a spot of angina.’

‘Is there an article in there about handsome men who bowl you over?’ she asked. ‘You know, for the paper?’

‘I didn’t say he was handsome,’ I grumbled.

‘No, but I’m not entirely convinced by your faux outrage, either.’ She bit the inside of her lip as she watched for my reaction.

‘All right, you got me,’ I said with a defeated laugh. ‘He was attractive. I suppose it’d make a decent story, wouldn’t it? What to do when your lady parts scream yes, but the raging torrent in your pants pats you on the shoulder and says no.’

‘And that’s just the gutter water.’ Estelle followed as I pushed my roller case into the living room. ‘Look at you, still travelling around with that tattered neon-green thing.’

‘Still,’ I said, pulling a paper bag from my backpack. ‘But, hey, I remembered the bread! It survived the gutter-pocalypse.’

‘Tell you what, you shower and clean up while I find some wine,’ she said. ‘I want to hear all about this guy.’

I woke with a start. My face was mashed into a cushion on the sofa and my breath blew back on me like a vineyard that had been freshly razed. If my guess was correct, I hadn’t moved since we’d uncorked bottle number three last night which wasn’t long after we realised the pizza box was empty and we’d debated getting dessert delivered just to see the Deliveroo boy again.

My brain scratched its nails down the blackboard of my skull.

Last night had been a long overdue catch-up. It had been six months since I’d last stayed with Estelle and, while we messaged each other constantly over social media, nothing could make up for the bone-crushing hugs and shared stories that came complete with pulled faces and bad impersonations.

Neon numbers on the microwave told me the city was about to tip over to the afternoon hours, which explained why Estelle was nowhere to be seen. I did not envy her having to disappear to work if she felt half as bad as I did. While I’d planned on being up early to get out and explore the city, a thumping head reminded me that I needn’t be in too much of a hurry. My day would simply start later and maybe I could even take in some Christmas lights when the sun dipped into the night.

I grabbed a coffee and walked upstairs to my bedroom to find my phone still plugged into the charger and ringing wildly. As it turned out, four missed calls and five messages meant that something was rotten in the State of Victoria.

It was my boss, Edwin. His incessant calling meant one of two things. Either he absolutely hated my last submission and I’d have to rewrite it to within an inch of its life (farewell to today’s plans), or he was about to ask me for something. I wasn’t sure which was the lesser of the two evils.

Right now, I had two options. One was to ignore him, and that would be fair. I was on holiday, I’d submitted all my pieces, and I was done for the year. Or, I could answer. Realistically, I knew what I had to do because the longer I hesitated, the larger the sinking feeling grew in the pit of my stomach.

Sighing, I answered his call as I reached for my jeans. After dinner last night, before the bloom of alcohol took over, I’d managed to wash and hang the gutter-damp clothes. They’d been spread across the bannister, hung off the backs of chairs and the heater in my room and now, not only were they dry, they were perfectly toasty.

‘Isobel, thank God you’ve answered,’ Edwin said with all the relief of a burst dam.

‘Oh, no,’ I grumbled. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing, nothing. I haven’t done anything, but I do need a huge favour.’

A begging Edwin was my favourite kind. Actually, not really, but it did give me a little wriggle room for bargaining.

‘You do?’ I ventured.

‘How was your night last night?’ he asked. ‘Head out on the town?’

I shrugged at the mirror, turning gently to make sure my clothes looked okay. There was no clumped washing powder on my pants, which was a good start. I switched my boss to speakerphone, threw on a shirt, and dabbed at my make-up while wriggling my feet into ankle boots with far less grace than Cinderella had with her glass slipper.

‘Can’t say I did, no,’ I said. ‘Just stayed in and had dinner with a friend.’

‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘Listen, this favour.’

I sighed. ‘Here we go.’

‘Don’t be like that. You’ll love this one, I promise.’

‘You say that about all the terrible jobs, Ed,’ I said, tucking my passport away in the top drawer.

‘I do not,’ he balked. ‘Okay, maybe I do.’

He really did. A miracle pet story ended up being a revived hamster that had choked on the head of a Lego minifigure. A film premiere saw me vomited on by a washed-up soap star and my number being passed around like it had been written on the back of a public toilet door. It got so bad that I had to change numbers the following week. Oh, and the cooking contest at the local women’s association? I found myself the unwitting centre of a stolen recipe scandal. It was always the ‘one last thing’ jobs that went to pot, not the relatively safe travel reporting.

‘So, what is it?’ I asked. ‘Adding, with just a gentle reminder, that my holiday began at midnight, so I’m now very much ready to embrace my time off.’

‘All right, so, you know how readership has been lagging the last twelve months?’

‘You’ve mentioned that at the last four or five meetings, yes,’ I said. ‘And in big, bold neon Comic Sans letters in emails.’

‘Okay, well, I think this might really help give us a boost,’ he continued. ‘And you’ve been asking me for more interview experience.’

‘I recall something like that, yes.’ I pinched the bridge of my nose. I knew that would bite me in the arse eventually.

‘I’ve just got a call from a friend who owes me a favour. He’s managed to wrangle us a fifteen-minute interview slot with Tom Bracken. Season one of his telly series, Countershock , was a ratings bonanza. Everyone loves a war hero covered in blood, sweat and mud, right? Sexy. He’s riding high on critical acclaim and heading into a theatre season early in the new year. There are half a dozen film projects lined up plus a possible superhero franchise. Basically, he’s everywhere including your grandmother’s fantasies.’

‘That’s gross.’ My grandmother was filthy enough as it was. She didn’t need the extra encouragement. I dithered about for pen and paper to make a note but, frustratingly, couldn’t find anything.

‘I suspect his success is purely down to screaming girl theory because I’ve seen him in action and, I’ll be honest, he’s no Olivier.’