The Christmas party, as always, is at the Mercer Hotel, in their function room. We’ve been having it here for so long, I think they actually give our family a discount. I’m surprised my parents aren’t pushing for me to have my wedding here actually.
‘Aw, it’s kinda cute,’ Dylan says as we walk into the function room.
The room looks perfectly festive. Tables are scattered around the edges, with a little decorative Christmas tree in the centre of each. They’ve got good lighting game here, with twinkly stars in the ceiling, and a large, kaleidoscopic disco ball, bouncing different colours around the room.
On the stage there’s a Michael Bublé tribute act who, despite looking nothing like the man himself, is belting out perfect covers from his Christmas album. Still, you can’t have it both ways, can you? You can be born looking like a singer or you can have a voice that sounds like theirs, but the chances of having both are slim. Best you get the guy who sounds like Bublé, rather than someone who looks like him but can’t sing to save his life.
‘You’ve got a big family,’ Dylan observes.
‘I guess, but I couldn’t name most of them. A lot of the people here are just family friends. Oi, Hannah,’ I say, noticing my cousin walking little Angel across the dance floor on her feet.
My cousin looks up at me but then she notices Dylan next to me. I’d say she was perfectly frozen, were it not for the slow, rhythmic blinking of her eyes.
‘Dylan, this is my cousin Hannah,’ I say as we walk over. ‘Hannah, this is—’
‘Dylan King,’ she blurts, sighing. I’ve never seen my cousin lose her cool before. I’m not sure if she’s dumbstruck, starstruck or lovestruck – maybe a combination of the three. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello,’ he says, the cheeky smile of his ever-present.
‘Is Leo here yet?’ I ask her.
‘Not yet,’ she replies, looking at Dylan instead of me. ‘He went to gran and granddad’s to help out with something first.’
‘Oh, OK,’ I reply. ‘Well, I’m going to go and introduce Dylan to some more people. If you see Leo, let him know I’m here.’
She nods, watching us as we walk away.
‘Are all your family big fans?’ he laughs.
‘Probably just my cousin – don’t get excited,’ I warn him. ‘Shall we get a drink?’
Dylan nods.
‘Just an orange juice for me,’ Dylan tells the barman. I fire him a surprised glance. ‘I don’t want to peak too soon.’
I really appreciate him behaving.
‘Mia…’ I hear my Auntie June’s voice from behind me.
‘Auntie June,’ I say brightly. ‘Hello.’
She scrunches her face at my enthusiasm to see her.
‘All right, Mia. No one likes a sarcastic person.’
‘Hello,’ Dylan says to her politely.
‘Hello,’ she replies. ‘You want to be careful talking to this one.’
My Auntie June points me out to Dylan with her eyes.
‘You know what happened to her last night? She was in a car accident. She’s been going around with musicians.’ My auntie says the word musicians like they’re a terrible crowd to be in with, like drug dealers or the mafia. ‘Last night, they all pile in a car, drunk, and smash into a wall. It’s a miracle she’s alive.’
‘It was a tree,’ I correct her.
‘It was bloody stupid,’ she replies, like it doesn’t matter either way. I suppose it doesn’t.
I find it funny, that she doesn’t recognise Dylan. June isn’t the kind of woman who is up-to-date with pop culture anyway, but I suppose Dylan doesn’t look very rockstarry tonight. He just looks normal – normal, but great. He’s wearing black trousers and a white shirt with a black waistcoat. He’s got his shirt buttoned up and his sleeves down to cover his tattoos. It might just be my imagination, but I feel like he’s trying to keep his inked hands hidden too. He looks really smart; he’s scrubbed up really nicely.
I, on the other hand, am wearing one of LA Mia’s dresses. It’s short, dark and sparkly (which is probably how I’d describe LA Mia). My engagement ring keeps catching on it; in fact, it’s really starting to bother me. Were I the superstitious type, I might think LA Mia was trying to send me a message, showing me that my old life is comfortable and my new one is just getting in the way. That’s daft, though, right?
‘So, are you someone’s plus one?’ my auntie enquires. ‘You want to watch yourself around this one – nothing but trouble. She’s been known to steal men – taken men.’
‘I’m right here, you know,’ I point out.
Dylan just laughs.
‘Mia,’ my mum says as she and my dad approach us.
‘Mia,’ my dad says.
‘Birth mother, sperm donor,’ I say jokily, greeting them in a way I feel is as warmly as they greeted me.
‘Oh, hello,’ my mum says, noticing Dylan. ‘This is your musician friend?’
‘Dylan King, nice to meet you all,’ he says, shaking hands with all three of them.
‘Excuse me for a moment,’ my auntie says, darting off as her cheeks flush.
‘Well, it’s nice to meet you too,’ my mum says.
‘I brought you a Christmas present,’ he tells her. ‘A case of champagne for the party. I had the bar staff put it on ice. Let me know if it’s not enough, I can get more.’
‘Well…’ my mum starts, touching her hair nervously. ‘That is so very kind of you.’
Of course she’s charmed. She’s female.
‘Now, just a second…’ my dad says. ‘You weren’t taking very good care of my daughter last night now, were you?’
‘Wow,’ I blurt. I don’t think I’ve heard more than eight different words from my dad since the nineties. It gives me a fuzzy feeling in my heart, to hear him looking out for me like this. He might be the strong, silent type, but it shows that he does listen, and he does care.
‘I’m watching you, young man,’ my dad warns him, pointing at him.
‘OK, down boy,’ I say, laughing it off awkwardly. ‘Thanks, though.’
‘I’ll go and tell the rest of the family you brought a guest,’ my mum says, ushering my dad away. I imagine the next time she comes over, she’ll leave my dad at the other side of the room.
‘Ooh, look, there’s my granddad, you have to meet him,’ I tell Dylan, taking him by the hand, dragging him across the room to where my grandparents are.
‘Hello,’ I say brightly.
‘Hello, Mia,’ my gran replies, her gaze immediately falling to my feet. ‘I see you thought trainers were a good idea.’
‘Gran, I was in a car accident, my foot is all messed up – did you expect me to turn up in stilettos?’
‘If I know my granddaughter like I think I do, yes,’ she replies.
‘I heard about the crash,’ my granddad says. ‘Horrible business. You OK?’
‘Just bruised,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Are you OK, son?’ he asks Dylan.
‘Me?’ Dylan asks, surprised. ‘Bruised too, but that’s all. We were both so lucky.’
‘You were,’ my granddad says. ‘Good to hear you’re both OK. It just goes to show, you can’t trust anyone.’
I smile at him. He’s the first person who hasn’t blamed us.
‘Where’s Leo?’ I ask. ‘Hannah said he was with you guys.’
‘He nipped home to get changed,’ my granddad says. ‘We had a bit of bother with the water, he took a look for us.’
‘Oh, OK,’ I say. ‘Well, I’ll go introduce Dylan to some more people. See you in a bit.’
We’re halfway back across the empty dance floor when Dylan stops me.
‘I’m beginning to think you’ve made this fiancé up,’ he laughs.
‘Oh no, you’ve figured me out, nothing gets past you,’ I say sarcastically.
‘He pretty handy then, your fiancé?’
‘Handy?’ I repeat back to him.
‘Yeah, you know, like a manly man who does jobs and shit,’ Dylan explains.
I cackle.
‘That’s like something my gran would say – “Ooh, that Leo’s handy”.’
‘All right, all right,’ he says. ‘It sounds like he is.’
‘Shit,’ a voice booms over the PA system. Everyone stops what they’re doing and looks at the stage, where Fake Bublé has stopped mid-song. He was in the middle of ‘Holly Jolly Christmas’ – the backing track is still playing in the background.
I hear a gasp at his language – I’d put money on its being my gran.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says into his microphone, composing himself. ‘But… you’re Dylan King.’
Suddenly all eyes are on Dylan, and with most of the people here knowing who he is, the room comes alive with chatter. Standing with him in the middle of the dance floor, I look around at the crowd. I feel like I’m in a scene from The Walking Dead, stuck in the middle of this room, surrounded by zombies who are about to swarm us.
‘You have to sing a song,’ Fake Bublé insists.
‘Erm, isn’t that what we’re paying you for?’ I remind him.
‘It’s fine,’ Dylan laughs. ‘You’d be surprised how often this happens.’
Dylan, bless him, climbs up onto the stage and takes the microphone from Fake Bublé. They confer with each other quietly before Fake Bublé goes off to change the backing track.
‘Hello, ladies and gentlemen,’ Dylan says into the mic, ever the professional. ‘My name is Dylan King and I guess I’m going to sing a song for you.’
Everyone cheers.
‘On one condition,’ he adds. ‘Mia?’
‘Huh?’
‘Come on, Mia.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, give Mia Valentina a big round of applause.’
I slink over to the stage to ask him what he’s doing, only for him to extend a hand to pull me up.
‘Dylan, what are you doing?’ I whisper, standing onstage next to him. I’m a writer, not a performer, always have been, always will be.
‘So, Mia and I do a mean rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”,’ he tells the room full of my nearest and dearest. ‘Music, Bublé!’
As the long intro plays I try and talk him out of it. No one wants to hear me sing. He isn’t having any of it, though, and once the intro is up, I know I have no chance but to play along.
In my head I’m channelling my inner Cerys Matthews, attempting my take on her husky voice. I probably sound nothing like her but, I have to admit, I’m having fun. I might be imitating a star but Dylan is just Dylan, with a voice that is unmistakably his. Like, if someone were to play you a Dylan song you’d never heard before, you’d just instantly know it was him. I guess that’s why he’s a star and I’m not. Another way you can tell he’s a star is the easy choreography he’s ad-libbing – the way he holds his microphone, the way he dances with me, the way he works the crowd.
We finish our song to a huge cheer from the crowd. I feel my cheeks blush a little, even though I know they’re cheering Dylan and not me.
‘Can… can I sing a song with you?’ Fake Bublé asks him.
‘Sure you can, man,’ Dylan laughs. ‘Your choice.’
Fake Bublé excitedly hurries over to the mixing desk to pick a song, before hurrying back.
‘It’s not a Bublé song,’ he tells us. ‘I hope that doesn’t shatter the illusion.’
‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ I assure him. I don’t think he has anyone fooled.
I carefully climb down from the stage as the pair start their duet of ‘You’ve Got a Friend in Me’ by Randy Newman and Lyle Lovett.
The first person to catch my eye is Leo. He looks amazing, in his black shirt that looks fit to burst under the stress caused by his broad shoulders and bulging biceps. One thing that has, without a doubt, not even come close to wearing off over the last four years, it’s my attraction to Leo. I still fancy him so much, and tonight, as always, the second I clap eyes on him, I want to rip his clothes off. One of my favourite things is when I’m set to meet him in a public place somewhere, and I’ll spot him before he spots me, and I’ll just stare at him, unable to believe my luck. I remember one time he was in town having his hair cut, so I walked to meet him. As I hit the town centre I turned a corner and came face to face with a man who took my breath away. It all happened in a split second, but I felt this overwhelming attraction – which I hadn’t felt for anyone other than Leo since the day we met – and the only feeling that hit me harder than this attraction was guilt, that I was checking out some random man in the street. Then I realised it was Leo, with a new, shorter haircut, and I felt not only relief that I hadn’t checked out a stranger, but great to know that I was so, so attracted to my own boyfriend. I thought this stuff was supposed to wear off but I can’t ever imagine that happening with us.
I smile, excited to see him, just like I always am, but then I see the unimpressed look plastered across his face, a look he just can’t seem to hide, and then I remember he’s mad at me.
‘Hey,’ I say, approaching cautiously.
‘Hey,’ he replies. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not too bad,’ I tell him. ‘Just achy.’
‘I saw your duet,’ he tells me, nodding towards the stage.
I laugh awkwardly.
‘Yeah… I didn’t really want to, but I didn’t want to ruin the fun,’ I tell him.
‘Sounded like it was a regular occurrence for you and your buddy Dylan,’ he says.
‘This was only the second time,’ I laugh. ‘And I feel like it has a shelf life. No one wants to hear this song for at least 11 months after Christmas.’
‘Why did you bring him?’ he asks.
I feel the muscles in my face tense up.
‘He doesn’t really see his family and it’s Christmas and, well, we’re friends now, you know? And I don’t have too many of those.’
‘You’re friends?’ Leo repeats back to me. ‘I thought he was just a job?’
‘You have friends at work, right?’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘It’s not different either,’ I point out.
Leo sighs.
‘I just don’t know how you can be friends with him,’ he says.
‘You don’t know him,’ I point out. ‘He’s a good person.’
‘Is he just misunderstood?’ Leo asks sarcastically.
‘He is actually,’ I reply. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘No problem here,’ he replies. ‘You must really like him.’
‘I do really like him,’ I reply quickly, but then I pause and backtrack. ‘Well, you know, not like you’re implying I do, just as a friend.’
‘Did you take your engagement ring off before his party?’ he asks me, seemingly out of nowhere.
‘What? No! I took it off after the accident. I was scared they’d need to cut it off if my finger swelled up,’ I insist.
‘OK,’ he replies. ‘I’m going to go get a drink.’
Shit. Does Leo really think there’s something between Dylan and me? Because, of course there isn’t. We’re just friends, and what Leo forgets is that I’ve always got on with men better than women, and I’ve always had male friends (that’s why I can’t find a bloody bridesmaid to save my life), and it’s never been a problem before. I am perfectly capable of having a male friend I’m not at all romantically interested in, and it offends me that he thinks otherwise, especially after we’ve been together all this time, after I’ve changed my entire life just to be with him.
I do a lap of the room, but with Leo giving me the silent treatment, propping up the bar, and Dylan onstage forging a bromance with Fake Bublé, I realise I have no one to talk to.
When the song finishes, Fake Bublé pinches himself, remembering that he is a professional, here to do a job.
‘It’s been an honour, sir,’ he says, offering Dylan a hand to shake.
‘You’re welcome, man,’ Dylan says, pulling him in for a hug. Fake Bublé can’t hide his happiness.
‘While we’re between songs…’ my mum says, making a beeline for the stage. Please, God, no one give that woman a microphone. She gestures at Fake Bublé, who hands over the mic without a fuss. ‘I just wanted to say how wonderful it is to have everyone here. You all show up year after year, and it’s just so wonderful to see you all. Thank you to Dylan, for that impromptu performance – and for the champagne,’ she says, raising her glass. ‘If everyone wants to make sure they have a glass…’
Waiters and waitresses rush around the room, hanging out glasses of fizz. I look over at Leo, who turns a glass down, gesturing at his small glass of what looks like a neat spirit from where I’m standing.
‘Merry Christmas,’ my mum says, raising her glass.
‘Merry Christmas,’ everyone echoes.
As torturous as this annual event is, my mum is right; it’s nice when everyone gets together, and the fact that we can fill a room with people who love each other – no matter how crazy we drive each other sometimes – is a big deal, and something to cherish. If my near near death experience has taught me anything, it’s just how precious life is, and I don’t want to waste another second of it on bad terms with Leo.
‘Hey,’ I say as I approach the bar. ‘You not fancy the champagne?’ I’m making casual conversation, just to get us talking.
‘I don’t want anything from him,’ he replies, pointing at Dylan.
I watch as the barman clears the empty shot glasses from in front of him.
‘They’re never all yours,’ I say in disbelief.
‘Why not?’ he asks.
‘Because, for a big, buff, bloke, you get really pissed really quickly,’ I laugh.
‘Not like your buddy, Dylan, huh? What did you call him the other day? A high-functioning alcoholic?’
‘Someone say my name?’ I hear Dylan laugh awkwardly behind me.
Unsure what else to do, I make polite introductions.
‘Leo, this is Dylan. Dylan, this is Leo.’
‘It’s good to finally meet you, man. I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Dylan says, offering Leo his hand to shake.
Leo just laughs. I can’t believe he’s being so rude and embarrassing me like this. I’ve spent so much time banging on to Dylan about what an incredible fiancé I have, and here he is, acting like a stroppy little kid. Well, fine, if he wants to be childish, I’ll show him childish.
As Fake Bublé launches into a cover of ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’, a few couples make their way onto the dance floor.
‘Do you want to dance?’ I ask.
Leo scoffs at me hurtfully, as though to say ‘as if’, but then he realises I’m talking to Dylan and his face falls.
This clearly isn’t Dylan’s first time at the rodeo. .
‘Erm, is that a good idea, Mia?’ he asks quietly.
‘Yes,’ I reply confidently.
‘You wanna cut in, man, you just give me a shout,’ Dylan tells Leo as I drag him towards the dance floor.
I take Dylan’s hands and place them on my hips before wrapping my arms around his neck.
‘Look, I’m usually down for a bit of trouble-causing,’ Dylan starts, slow dancing with me. ‘But… I mean, that’s what this is, right? You’re trying to make him jealous?’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ I admit. ‘All I know is that, since the accident, he won’t talk to me. He’s so mad at me, he’s struggling to look at me.’
‘Give him time,’ Dylan insists. ‘He’ll come to his senses. I mean, look at you. You’re amazing.’
‘Thank you,’ I tell him sincerely.
Before I know what’s happening, Leo is pushing between us, grabbing Dylan by the back of his shirt, escorting him towards the door.
‘Leo, Leo…’ I say, hurrying after him. As he stops to open the door it gives me a few seconds to catch up, but I get too close too quickly and Leo accidentally bumps both me and Dylan as he opens the door. We both wince in pain, the slightest touch having a huge impact on our tender bodies.
‘Look at you,’ Leo says once we’re out in the hallway. ‘Look at both of you, all bashed up, crying in pain every time you move.’
‘Leo, we were in a car accident,’ I remind him angrily. ‘I’m sorry we don’t all have the same muscle mass as Superman.’
‘That’s my point,’ Leo snaps back. ‘That’s what I’m so angry about – that you were in the accident in the first place.’
‘Listen, man, you’ve gotta believe me, there’s no way I would’ve let Mia anywhere near that car if I’d known Finn was drunk,’ Dylan insists, approaching Leo.
‘No, you listen, man, Mia is my fiancée – mine. She’s my world. And you might not give a shit about your family, or your own life, but you don’t fuck around with other people’s.’
I appreciate what he’s saying, but the territorial, aggressive way he’s saying it is making me uncomfortable. And those remarks can’t be making Dylan feel very good about himself.
‘I think we all just need to calm down,’ I say.
‘Calm down?’ Leo says. ‘Mia, you could’ve died.’
‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t think it hasn’t been at the back of my mind all day, every second I was on the train, every time I crossed the road.’
‘So, what are you still doing around him?’ Leo asks me. ‘Why have you brought him here?’
‘Because he’s my friend,’ I say, slowly and loudly so he can absorb it.
Leo just looks at me for a second.
‘You need better friends,’ he tells me, storming off.
‘You were right about him, he’s a regular Prince Charming,’ Dylan jokes once we’re alone.
‘I really don’t know what’s wrong with him at the moment, I’m sorry he roughed you up,’ I say.
‘Ooh, that Leo’s handy,’ Dylan says in a woman’s voice. ‘I fucking felt how handy he is. He picked me up like I was a fucking pillow. He might be a twat but, with muscles like that, I can see why you’re with him.’
I laugh. I hope he’s joking.
‘I don’t suppose it will be easy to find a hotel so last-minute that isn’t extortionate, but I don’t really want to go home. Can I stay in one of your guestrooms, please?’ I ask.
‘Of course you can,’ he replies. ‘Your bed is still made up from last night.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘Can we get out of here now?’
‘Sure. I’ll call for my car.’