Catherine Ferguson - Mistletoe and Mayhem - A cosy, chaotic Christmas read!

We chat about the weather and the state of the world, while resolutely ignoring the elephant in the room.

It’s just the way we cope.

The fly in the ointment is my sister-in-law. She talks without thinking and is always putting her foot in it without realising what she’s said.

Lately, she’s seemed more controlling and moody than ever.

I only hope she and Mum will rub along okay at Christmas …

Hang on.

I stop rubbing and stare at the vaguely orange patch on the carpet.

They’re all coming to me for Christmas!

Oh my God.

What on earth was I thinking? It’s just not possible.

There’s absolutely no room for them in my flat.

The place is almost too small for Barb and me, without having four other people staying over for five consecutive days, fighting over the one bathroom. Every wardrobe and drawer is full to overflowing. Even the ‘shoe tidy’ in the hallway makes the place look cluttered.

If Dad knew what our flat was really like, he’d never have jumped so eagerly at my offer to host Christmas. But none of the family has seen it yet.

It’s not that I feel ashamed of 5 Rustic Place exactly. Actually, I rather like it. It’s cosy .

It’s just that Rob and Justine live in this huge five-bedroom house on a prestigious gated development near Edinburgh. It’s called The Gables and it’s as grand as it sounds. They each have a study, and there’s even a library and a room dedicated to working out, with a rowing machine, treadmill and other hi-tech machinery. Not that either of them have time to use it much.

The point is, they’re real grown-ups . They do useful things with their lives.

Whereas at the age of twenty-seven, I sometimes feel like a teenager, wondering what I’m going to do with my life.

When Justine sees our Rustic Place flat, her brows will disappear under her glossy fringe, perhaps never to return.

She has a dressing-room in her house, for God’s sake.

While we barely have room to get dressed …

The flat door opens, startling me back to the present.

‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ calls Nathan in a cute American accent. (He’s from Wigan.)

Shit! Is it that time already?

It usually takes well over an hour to do our regular ten-mile run on Sundays. But then, Nathan hasn’t got me slowing him up today, so no wonder he’s back sooner.

I drag the sofa over the mark, planning to head straight for the Stain Devils as soon as I hear the shower running. Then I dash for the mini gym in the next room, leap on the cross-trainer and get started.

Nathan pops his head round the door a second later.

‘Ah, well done. We’ll make a little Ellen Hoog of you yet.’ He gives me a cheery wink and heads for the bedroom.

I slow down to a stop.

Ellen Hoog?

Who the hell is Ellen Hoog?

I leap off the machine and dive into the kitchen, emerging with several sprays which I hope will be up to the challenge. Thankfully, the rest of the stain comes away fairly easily with plenty of toxic chemicals.

I cross-train for another few minutes to work up a bit of a sweat then decide to join Nathan, who’s all lathered up in the shower.

‘Hey, sexy.’ He grins lazily, watching me strip off. I step in, he pulls me against him and I abandon myself to the steamy heat and Nathan’s lovely, slithery caresses. And I wonder for about the ninety-fifth time what on earth this glorious specimen of manhood sees in averagely attractive me.

He manoeuvres me out of the shower and onto the bed and, at that point, my brain ceases to wonder about anything at all.

Later, while Nathan’s in the kitchen throwing together hummus wraps and a mixed bean salad with crunchy seaweed topping, I sneak away and Google Ellen Hoog.

Apparently she’s a member of the Netherlands field hockey team that won gold in the 2012 Olympics.

She’s also a luscious-lipped blonde who wouldn’t look out of place on a New York catwalk.

I peer intently at the photo. Very sleek hair.

Hah!

I bet she has to use heaps of product to get it that smooth.

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