Angie
Wednesday, 19 December
A rapping begins at the door and I wake up, startled. Where am I?
I know I heard something.
I instantly remember last night.
‘Nick,’ I whisper.
‘Err. What?’ comes his slow reply.
The rapping occurs again.
‘Dad!’
Nick launches from the bed in one move, standing behind the door in all his naked glory. I drop my head face first into the pillow.
‘Yes, lad.’
‘I… I… brought you both a cuppa.’
I raise my head to view Nick’s look of horror.
‘Well, that’s… very kind of you, Alfie.’
‘I’ll leave the tray outside your door… OK?’
What the hell is happening here? My own son has made his father and the unknown date a morning brew?
‘Cheers… are you heading out to school now?’
‘Not quite. I need a shower first.’
‘Nick.’ I beckon him from the bed. ‘Don’t open the door. Don’t!’
I’m begging. I feel so guilty for our actions last night and this act of adolescent kindness is sending me into a spin.
‘I’ve left sugar and milk on the tray for your friend.’
I face-plant on the pillow, again. Could this be any worse? My ex-husband naked at the door, talking through it to our son, and me wishing that the bed would swallow me whole. Could it get any worse?
‘I hope you used protection!’ choruses Alfie as he moves along the landing, heading for the bathroom.
‘Oy!’ calls Nick, his eyes wide.
I hear the bathroom door bolt close.
I’m up in search of my clothes before Nick has time to ease the door open to check that the coast is clear.
Skirt. Knickers. Bra. I snatch at the items, ticking them off my mental list as I go. Blouse?
What the hell?
My mind goes into overdrive. Grab your stuff and go! Get out of here… I stop dead. Nick is collecting the tray delivery as if we’ve ordered room service.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask sharply, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
‘He’s made us tea.’ His expression oozes with pride. I’d love to be sharing his moment of parental achievement, I seriously would, but what the feck am I supposed to do? Return to the duvet and drink sweet tea alongside my ex-husband and enjoy our son’s generous nature, or cheek, depending on how you view it?
‘Angie… he’s in the bathroom taking a shower… he can’t see you.’
‘But he knows I’m still here.’
‘Yeah, but not actually you.’
In my world it is slightly more worrying that my son can willingly accept that another woman can fill his father’s bed.
Nick lays the tray on the duvet and climbs underneath.
‘Suit yourself, but I’m drinking it while it’s hot.’ I stand, my clothes balled and clutched in my arms, watching as he adds sugar and takes the white tea and leans back against the pillows.
What was I doing before Nick spoke? Oh, yeah, blouse! I fuss about looking under the bed corner, beside the velvet ottoman and wardrobe. Nowhere.
‘Here.’ Nick pours milk into the black tea and adds a spoonful of sugar before offering me the mug.
‘Nick… where is my…?’ I suddenly remember. A flashback from the previous evening in the lounge hits me like a thunderbolt. Why, oh, why did we stay downstairs for so long before racing up the staircase? We both knew sex was on the cards. We should have been more careful.
‘What?’ Nick stares from his offering to my stricken face.
‘It’s by the sofa arm.’
‘What is?’ Replacing the ignored mug on the tray.
‘My blouse!’
In seconds, I have dropped my bundle of clothes and am heading for the door. It feels like a special-agent moment except that my wobbling flesh is on full show and I’m peering around a bedroom door onto an empty landing.
‘Angie, wait…’
Too late. I’m out of the door, covering my nakedness as best I can, which is difficult given the proportions of my curves. The bathroom door is firmly closed. I tiptoe across the landing towards the top of the staircase. I can hear the Mission Impossible theme tune playing in my head. I can do this. There and back in three seconds. I can do this as well as Tom Cruise. I dart down the stairs, duck as I pass the frosted-glass front door and head for the lounge. Once inside I dart to the three-seater sofa and scour the surrounding floor. Nothing. I know it should be here; I remember Nick unbuttoning it, slipping it from my shoulders and dropping it to the floor. I lower myself, reaching under the edge of the sofa in case it got pushed underneath. Nothing. I’m on all fours in seconds peering underneath the sofa. What a bloody sight I must look! Nothing. Sitting back on my haunches, my mind whirling. What the hell have I done with it?
I hear a noise upstairs. I freeze. Oh, no! This can’t be happening; it just can’t!
I hear the stairs creak.
I slowly rise on my haunches. I begin to pray. Please don’t let my only son find me naked in the lounge – this will put him off women for life!
The lounge door begins to move slowly. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t look.
The dog walks through, stares up at me and… my blouse is hanging from his mouth!
I feel faint.
‘Rolo, come here,’ I demand in hushed annoyance, grabbing at my clothing. The dog gives an undignified look before continuing on his way to the kitchen. I scurry out of the door, duck past the frosted front door and return up the staircase to safety.
I’m halfway up the stairs, just enough for the Mission Impossible theme tune to fade, when I hear the bathroom bolt snap open. And there he is, my son, with a blue towel wrapped around his nether regions, towel-drying his hair as he walks from the steaming bathroom.
I freeze and catch my breath, just below the bannister level. My hand clutches my discarded blouse to my front. I halt as his hand towel is rubbed back and forth with force, flopping before his face and then revealing it before repeating the rubbing action as he walks.
I daren’t exhale.
The dog rushes past me from below, pushing me aside to chase after Alfie.
‘Rolo-baby!’ Alfie laughs as he moves along the landing towards his room. I hear his bedroom door click shut and his thrash music comes to life.
I hurry to the top stair, peer around the bannister and charge through Nick’s bedroom door.
I stand behind the door, my heart pounding like an Olympic runner. Mission complete, never impossible!
‘Got it?’ asks Nick, sipping his morning tea.
I wave my blouse in his direction, but instantly feel cheap for succumbing to such childish behaviour.
*
Nina
Today there’s to be no chit-chat. No lingering. I will not complain about the festive music looping overhead. My head is banging thanks to the cocktails and my low mood has returned, but at least I’m in work, unlike Shazza.
Instead, I keep my head down and my hands busy for the entire morning, despite the heavy snowfall and relentless snow clearing. I harness Gertrude and successfully lead her to the nativity stable for the day, feed both her and Arthur without any head-butting incidents occurring. Using the label gun, I tag a pile of netted Fraser firs and stack them neatly, ready for customers to peruse. I’m not risking the likelihood of the boss sending me to ‘elf’ at the grotto for a second day, I simply can’t do forced joviality today. I manage to sell three Nordman firs, a Blue spruce and two Norway spruce in between yard tasks.
As I lug a six-foot tree across the yard, the crunch of tyres on the snow distracts me. The cars have a lighter sound but the Ranger Rover sounds solid.
My heart jumps into my mouth. Today of all days?
I quickly glance around the yard; other staff are available but, today, I’ll serve him. I continue to refill the labelling gun as he parks and strides in my direction. As I look up he’s smiling directly at me; his eyes glisten as the sides of his temples gently crease. Behind him in the parked car, there’s a shadowy outline sitting in the passenger seat. Wow, he has some nerve!
‘Hello… Nina,’ he says, with a slight hesitation.
‘Hello. Can I help?’ What a ridiculous question, but a standard cliché covers my sudden attack of nerves perfectly. I can’t slip up and say his name. I just can’t.
He stands a little nearer than I expect; a fresh citrus smell of cologne envelops me. I literally have to raise my chin to view his face. He has a strong presence, unlike other men. Should I step backwards? Or should he?
‘The other day, I dropped by and a young lady explained about the trees…’ He instinctively looks towards the stacking area where four definite piles of spruce are available for customers to peruse. ‘But she confused me as regards the various types…’ He stops, looks towards the parked vehicle and turns around before pulling a face. ‘She wants a traditional-smelling tree.’
Great – wife-to-be mentioned already. Though full marks for his honesty and commitment. I’m pretending she doesn’t exist, purely for my own gratification. I’ll take the smallest of delights wherever I can and, given today’s sour mood, this could be the nicest five minutes of my day.
‘So, you’ll be wanting the Norway spruce, then. It has what you described as the traditional needle fragrance – which most people associate with Christmas,’ I explain, walking him across to the huge display of Norway spruce, pointing out the details on our display boards. My heartbeat is rapid, my throat is drying but I continue as if nothing is out of the ordinary. And yet, it is. In my head the entire solar system has simply realigned itself in awe of us conversing. ‘They are easy to look after, have a nice overall shape and fine needles, which will hold for weeks as long as you water it every day. A popular choice…’ As I’m explaining he’s listening intently, but his eyes are flitting about my face as if scanning my features. ‘It’s the traditional Christmas tree that was made popular by Prince Albert introducing it to the royal household.’
A coy smile interrupts his even dark features.
‘Seriously, you know the history of each species?’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve worked here long enough to give a detailed history if a customer requires it. They are all very different.’ I give a laugh. ‘It’s my job.’
‘Well, yes, but the other young lady…’
‘Shazza.’
He nods.
‘She simply showed me the four and explained that they were different but it lacked…’
‘Detail?’ I suggest. ‘Yeah, Shazza can do that sometimes. Oh, no, all four spruce trees are different, in fact, actually, technically speaking; they aren’t all spruce, that’s incorrect… We actually have two spruce and two fir trees. There is a difference…’ I fall silent; his eyebrows rise as if requesting I continue. ‘Well, for instance, this is a Blue spruce. See how the individual needles are sharp and pointy.’ I lift the nearest branch of the Blue spruce to show the needle shape, and then walk a short distance to the Fraser fir. ‘Whereas this Fraser fir has individual needles that are flat and soft along each branch. I think the difference is quite apparent. It was one of the first things I noticed when I began working here. I rarely find that the general public spot such detail.’
‘I never knew that.’ He laughs, looking from one tree species to the other. ‘So, the Norway spruce is a true spruce with sharp pointy needles?’
‘Oh, yes. And it’ll have the traditional fragrance of Christmas too.’
‘Sold, then.’
‘So, what height are you looking for?’ I say, walking back towards the Norway spruce. ‘As our trees are sold by the foot.’
‘I see. I’d say…’ he looks along the yard, comparing the displayed sizes for each tree ‘… something about that height.’
‘Five foot. That’s a nice size. It won’t dominate a room but it won’t be too small that it’s lost within a large room, if you get what I mean?’
He smiles; his eyes crinkle and his bottom lip protrudes slightly.
‘You have to take lots into consideration when buying a Christmas tree.’
‘I hadn’t realised.’
‘Have you never purchased a real spruce before?’
He slowly shakes his head, causing the tumble of curls to softly bounce.
My insides begin to ache. Why is he so lovely? Why is he getting married to the beautiful blonde? Why didn’t we meet before he had chance to make wedding arrangements, or have babies, or build a life with someone else?
‘The type, the size, the room it will decorate, the position within that room, surrounding heating and lighting. Is the stand suitable for the chosen tree? Can it hold enough water or will watering several times a day be necessary? And…’ I falter, on seeing a flicker of humour in his face. Has my enthusiasm gone overboard or is the detail purely an excuse to continue to serve him? Either way, it must seem comical from his point of view. ‘Anyway, all are factors that you should take into consideration before buying a Christmas tree.’
‘Well… I can answer some but not all of those questions…’ he mutters, glancing across to his parked vehicle.
Wow, she’s never far away from his thoughts, is she? How beautiful to have such a commitment to another person. How lovely to be the centre of someone’s world. To know that they are forsaking all others… even when buying a Christmas tree.
‘Would you mind, if I went and…?’ He points towards the vehicle.
‘O-of course not,’ I stammer, taken aback that he should feel the need to ask. It’s her tree, after all.
I watch as he strides away from me; his wide shoulders ease towards a narrower waist. His leggy stride smooth and rhythmical, he walks like a panther. If only he weren’t attached. If only he were truly single, Lord knows what I would have said or suggested, but maybe I’d have taken the chance to flirt. Flutter my eyelashes and gauge his interest, but it would be simply wrong to chase or outwardly suggest such an attraction to a guy who has days until his marriage.
I watch him walk to the passenger door, open and speak whilst pointing towards our display trees.
If he were single, I might have even been tempted to suggest a drink myself. I stall at my own ideas, shocked that I would consider such an approach when I’ve always waited for men to ask me. Yet here is a man so utterly different from anyone I’ve previously met, even more so because he’s not free he’s taken. Damn!
He steps backwards, opening the passenger door far wider than is necessary, and offers a hand to her. What beautiful manners! I’m dumbstruck to watch an older lady vacate the Range Rover in an awkward fashion, given the height of the vehicle. Her blue mac, tied at the waist, is the only shape I can see until her brown ankle boots finally touch the snow-covered ground.
I instantly look away. It’s not the blonde woman, his wife-to-be.
I busy myself by pulling a five-foot Norway spruce from the pile and stand it upright so that, despite the netting, the customers can see what a beautiful and healthy spruce is before them.
Having gently led her by the arm, and gingerly walked her over amidst the snow, he arrives back at our Norway spruce display.
‘Nina, this is my mother. She might as well answer for herself rather than me interpret what she wants. Mum, this is Nina…’ I don’t hear his explanation, I simply stand in awe as he talks her through the different species much in the manner that I did with him several minutes before. Wow, he was listening. The mother appears delicate, aged by poor health rather than years. I watch as she hangs on his every word. How lovely. ‘So, there seems to be a lot to take into consideration.’
I nod and smile warmly at the lady’s inquisitive gaze. They have the same eyes, which dart about the spruce.
‘It’s for the lounge, isn’t it?’ he asks her.
‘Yes, the usual corner… but standing on the floor, not on a table,’ she says, looking up at him. ‘I want a proper Christmas tree, not that old plastic thing that keeps leaning and toppling over.’
‘Yes, I know… you can have what you want.’
‘And this one has a nice smell?’ she asks, suddenly switching focus from him to me.
‘Oh, yes,’ I say, grabbing a netted branch, my hand crushing the needles before bringing my open palm towards her to smell.
‘Yes… that’s a proper one.’ Her face lights up with joy. ‘Yes, one of those.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asks her.
She gives a brisk but definite nod.
‘That would be thirty-five pounds,’ I offer, wanting them to know every detail before deciding.
‘That’s fine,’ he says quickly, turning to the elderly lady. ‘I’ll walk you back to the car, then organise the payment.’
A quick look around the yard, and I shout over to Zach.
‘Zach, could you carry this spruce across, please, so that…’ I hesitate; I nearly say his name but correct myself ‘… this gentleman can assist the lady back to their vehicle?’
Zach comes running over, hoists the netted spruce onto his shoulder and follows the pair towards the Range Rover.
I walk towards the cashier’s cabin, knowing that he’ll follow in a moment to settle the bill. I wait at the bottom of the steps and watch as he slams the passenger door securely once she’s inside.
How lovely. How caring and attentive.
I check my reaction. How could I have been jealous of this lady? I need to get a grip.
Zach helps him to position the tree in the rear of the vehicle before the boot slams down. A round of thanks is exchanged and Zach jogs off back to his yard tasks. Luca strides towards me, digging inside his jacket for a wallet.
‘All done?’ I say breezily as we climb the steps.
‘She’s over the moon. She’s wanted a real Christmas tree for a couple of years so that’s made her day,’ he says, smiling.
‘Perfect.’
I rarely walk customers over to the cashier’s cabin but make an exception on this occasion. Kitty looks up from her orders and smiles first at him, then me.
‘Could you take for a five-foot Norway spruce, please, Kitty?’ I say, as if he can’t speak for himself.
I watch as his long fingers open the wallet and count out the crisp notes. I notice there’s no little picture under the plastic window section, just a selection of plastic cards in the leather slots.
Within seconds, he has a till receipt and Kitty is thanking him.
Is it necessary for me to stand and stare?
‘Well, thank you, Nina… you’ve been most helpful,’ he says, turning from the counter.
‘My pleasure.’ I beam.
Kitty’s eyebrows lift and her coy smile is suppressed.
I lead the way exiting the cashier’s cabin, to stand upon the wooden steps.
‘Just remember to gradually introduce it to the house, maybe stand it in a porch or a garage for a day or so allowing it to acclimatise to the temperature change. Stand it in water to allow the spruce to hydrate during that time and it will be beautiful until Twelfth Night.’
He nods.
I nod.
A lingering silence occurs. I shift my stance. He copies.
‘So, thanks again… you were most helpful,’ he says.
‘Thank you.’
He takes his leave. I stand and casually do nothing, pretending I’m not watching his retreating figure. Instantly, my warm glow fades, and continues to wane with each of his strides. Why can’t I find a guy like that?
He suddenly stops in his tracks, turns around and stares directly at me, nods, smiles and continues on his way.
Shit!
A sixth sense, telepathy or what? Either way he has no doubts I was watching. I want the earth to open wide and swallow me whole. Ah, well, that’s probably the last I’ll see of him before his wedding day. If nothing else he knows that I was watching his final departure, his solitary purposeful walk like that of a panther.
*
‘Any ideas, Nina?’ asks Jackie as we sit around the snug at lunchtime.
I’m in a world of my own but Kitty, Zach and Bram are all staring at me.
‘Sorry, I wasn’t following the conversation.’
‘I was asking for ideas that could bring in additional sales.’
‘Oh.’ My mind is blank.
‘We’ve got the grottos, introduced the reindeer, the carol service procession is happening in a few days and the florist lady arrives from tomorrow onwards to create decorative wreaths while customers wait but…’ She pauses. ‘We need something a little… special.’
‘Aren’t the Christmas trees enough?’ I ask, perturbed that our beautiful crop is being undermined by her suggestion. ‘The farm won the British Christmas Tree Association’s prize award – surely that holds some kudos with the public?’
‘It does but… nowadays customers want more than a recognised prize or good reputation, don’t they?’ says Jackie.
‘They want novel ideas that they can get excited about. I think we’re missing that here,’ says Kitty. ‘We’re great at what we do, but it is the same old same old every year.’
I watch as Zach and Bram nod slowly. Am I hearing them correctly? Do they not see the magic of this place? The beauty of Christmas surrounds them and yet they want more!
‘So, Nina, any ideas?’ asks Bram.
‘You’ve got such a creative mind, I bet you’ll come up with a corker of an idea, just like the interview questions for Santa,’ adds Zach. ‘So, what would you like here at Christmas Tree Farm?’
‘What would I like more than anything in the whole world?’ I say. Firstly, I’d like to move into one of the log cabins over the Christmas break and, secondly, to post the unopened Christmas present to my dad.
‘There’s two things, but you’ll probably say no to the first but laugh at the second.’
‘We won’t… tell us,’ says Jackie, eagerly leaning forward on the opposite sofa.
So, I did.
*
Holly
‘Holly?’
I look up to see the concern in his eyes.
‘I know it’s going to happen, that’s obvious, but it really is a huge step…’
‘There’s no rush.’
‘I know that, but still.’
Alfie’s arm tightens around my shoulder; he really is older than his years. We haven’t discussed where or when, but taking the next step is definitely in our future.
‘We agreed, no pressure. At least we won’t get caught out like your mate Demi.’
‘How do you know that?’ I say, surprised he’d bring her into our conversation. I’m shocked; Demi only mentioned her experience a few days ago.
‘Like Spud keeps stuff to himself, yeah! He was bragging in PE theory class, reckons they were so drunk she could hardly speak.’
‘Alfie!’ I twist around from under his arm to view his face. ‘Seriously?’
‘Honestly, from what he was saying she was out of her face on drink.’
I want to cry for my friend that details of her are circulating the school yard. What a mess, but what does she expect, putting it about as she does purely to be liked by the boys? I take comfort knowing I won’t be discussed during a lesson; Alfie’s not like that.
‘Remember that lesson where we had to put the condom on the banana?’ I ask, blushing with the memory.
‘I had to partner Sally Brown. She refused to touch it, let alone help me unroll it onto the banana.’
It wasn’t my finest hour. I cringed and balked at the prospect but at least I understood how to do it properly, unlike others who simply blew the condoms up and threw them around the classroom.
‘Alfie?’
‘What?’
‘The same goes for you, you know? If you feel unsure…’
‘I’ll say. I’m just unsure of the embarrassing stuff.’
‘It’s sex – apparently embarrassing stuff is pretty much guaranteed,’ I jibe.
Alfie laughs.
‘I’m being honest,’ he splutters.
‘I know.’ If I’m taking this next step in the next few weeks, I want to be with someone as caring as Alfie. I just wish Demi had waited till she’d met someone who cared for her.