On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
The orangutan and the scrubber
22nd December
The sound of excited voices mixed with the Christmas songs that played from the radio in the corner of the office. The noise had been slowly building all morning. Greg lifted his head from the computer screen, distracted. His lips curled up at the excited buzz stirring around him. His eyes twinkled with delight as he surveyed the room and colourful array of Christmas jumpers that everyone customarily wore on the last day of work.
He’d gone with a bright green tight-fitting jumper, with crazy Father Christmas’s doing all sorts of things from mooning to humping Mrs. Christmas. It had been Gemma’s bright idea, saying it suited him down to the ground. As far as he was concerned, Paul’s jumper won the prize for the funniest. Thinking initially he’d made no effort, it was only when he turned and faced him and the caption blazoned across the front “Happy Birthday Jesus” caught his eye that he cracked up laughing.
The decorated walls and desktops full of Christmas cheer really couldn’t compete with those milling around. Everyone was counting the minutes down until one o’clock and freedom.
Greg rubbed his hands down his trouser legs. The little ball of panic sitting heavily in his gut had him check the wall clock. His hands jittered at his sides. Only thirty minutes before he could finally finish off his Christmas shopping and present wrapping. He couldn’t wait for it to get started. He bounced till his chair squeaked in protest.
He was ecstatic that Martin had decided to keep with the old boss’s traditions. Giving them all a Christmas bonus of an additional two-weeks paid leave over the holiday period, finishing on a half day.
He absentmindedly raised his hand and rubbed his aching eyes. He cursed none too quietly as he winced. He dropped his hand to the desk, but not before he caught Louise’s smirk. He gave her a toothy smile, trying not to look down at the putrid sage-green jumper. A jumper that was far too tight for her ample figure and had the reindeers dance on her rolls of fat.
He looked back at his computer, trying not to think about the last three days. To say his colleagues and friends had been shocked that he’d been assaulted by Vic was an understatement, but it still hadn’t stopped the teasing he’d had to endure.
Greg shuddered, recalling the visit Gemma had paid him Monday night while he’d still been suffering the after-effects of the punch and the alcohol. Aaden had had to restrain her from adding to his woes. She’d been that furious at him for finding out secondhand from a friend, who’d been in the bar and who had witnessed the whole thing. This was not, she informed him, how to find out your besty had been assaulted.
She had literally come down on him like a ton of bricks. And Aaden had made it worse by howling with laughter. Tears had run down his face the whole time she’d reamed Greg’s backside. After she’d left with plans to catch up tonight, Aaden’s humour had continued to grate. His “it served him right’ had gone down like a lead balloon.
He huffed and blew his fringe out of his eyes. He didn’t want to think about the epic sulk he’d had, flouncing off to bed early. Fidgeting with his pen, he lost track of time recalling it hadn’t been a total waste. Not sure if it was his sulk or just that Aaden was open to his suggestion about Christmas Eve, but the easy agreement to Joe’s plans still caused him to flush with excitement and his ears to burn. His brain kept harking back to all the possibilities. Hell, he was surprised he’d been able to work this morning after Brad had come to talk to him last night. He’d explained about Joe’s setup and how the cameras captured the whole room.
Greg nibbled his lip, thinking about his plans for this evening. He maybe should have mentioned that he’d invited Nick, Greg, and Brad to come along with him and Gemma tonight to Aaden. Not that he was a hundred per cent sure, yet, if they were coming. After the fallout from Sunday, he figured he was still in Martin and Stuart’s bad books. And it was not just because he couldn’t come to work on Monday. No, it was their lack of response to their repeated phone calls that had both Martin and Stuart spitting mad. His own ears still rung from the lecture he’d received.
Rubbing at the back of his neck, he toyed with his mouse with his other hand. He sensed Louise’s stare, but he did his best to ignore it. He folded his lips together, ensuring his purple bruised eyes stayed on the computer screen in front of him, directing his attention towards the figures he’d been inputting. Figures he was having to re-input to ensure there were no other errors with any of the other work he’d done.
The doubt he’d inadvertently input the wrong data was now gone. Though it still didn’t make it any easier at work. He was still getting a few odd looks from his work colleagues. And it didn’t help with the whole “you have to keep shtum, Greg” conversation Brody had had with him. He was not to engage in conversation about what had happened on the Friday before last. That if Louise mentioned anything or anyone else did, then he was to keep note of what they said, but not get into a “he said, she said” debate.
He sighed. That was all right for them because they weren’t the one with a guilty sign flashing above their heads.
Were they? No, they bloody weren’t.
Having a plan didn’t help him day to day or with the urge to belt the living daylights out of his work colleagues to make them confess.
His hand twitched over the mouse as he clicked on the CRS Excel spreadsheet. The submission of the data was planned for the middle of January, which meant they couldn’t execute their plan to catch Louise, or whoever it was, until then. Aaden had questioned Brody at the time about how he could help when he’d surely be back at work by then. He’d evaded answering but had assured both Martin and Stuart that he would sort it all out for them, no matter what.
Brody’s assurance, he noted, had left Nick with an odd expression that Greg had yet to challenge him on. But with the disasters that seemed to happen when they all got together, he’d been distracted from asking. It would seem the fates were allowing Nick to fly under the radar. He made a mental note to talk to Gemma about it when she came to his at tea time. She was better than the gestapo at getting information from people. And he needed to remember that if he wanted to keep himself safe.
He rolled his eyes, regretting it when they ached. He heaved a heavy sigh when those same secrets flooded his mind. Secrets he was sweating bullets over, frightened of letting the cat out of the bag, again. His big mouth had already got him in trouble with Aaden and had gone and upset Brad. Now, all he’d need to make a perfect shit trifecta was for Gemma to find out he was holding back on her.
Greg locked that thought away, trying to think positively, not wanting that thought to be put out there. He already had enough to consider with Gemma coming to his home and not Aaden’s, so he wouldn’t have a barrier between. His stomach jumped right on board with the idea of pretending not to be in when Gemma arrived. His brow furrowed when he knew he wouldn’t do that to Gemma.
“If you scowl at the computer screen any harder, I’m sure it’s going to question what it’s done wrong.”
Stuart’s lazy drawl had Greg’s head fire up. His eyes danced with humour at the laughing white snowman emoji, with googly eyes, bobbling about in front of his face. The bright blue jumper matched Stuart’s navy fitted trousers. The scent of Stuart’s Diesel aftershave wafted over the fragrances of cinnamon coming from the Christmas air fresheners hanging around the room. The rich scent fitted the raw masculine power that seemed to emanate from Stuart. Even the humorous jumper didn’t detract from the strength.
Greg gave himself a little shake. “Sorry, I was thinking about something.” He gave Stuart a half smile, only then noticing the smug satisfaction that had been sadly lacking since Sunday. Greg felt his cheeks shift into a smile. Shifting closer to Stuart, he whispered, “Did someone get lucky last night?”
Greg giggled when Stuart moved even closer and leant down. His breath ghosted Greg’s ear as he whispered back.
“That would be an understatement. Let’s just say, Joe might find it hard to sit down today. Oh, by the way, make sure you dress appropriately for Sunday evening. I want to make sure I get a good eyeful.”
The husky words left Greg speechless, and his mouth dropped open. Red-hot heat spread up his neck and had him wonder if he resembled a fire engine. He watched Stuart wink before he strolled away, whistling tunelessly.
Greg buried his head in his hands, noticing they trembled ever so slightly. He tugged at his hair. He hoped the pain would stop a very obvious problem from sprouting at Stuart’s bold statement. He shook his head as he realised Joe had finally unleashed his plan and that it had worked. Greg blinked slowly when that thought sunk in.
Oh dear Christ, it is really going to happen.
He swallowed the large ball, of what he wasn’t sure, that stuck in his throat. He coughed, licking his lips.
Well, now it would seem, they only needed Brad and Martin on board. He looked over to Martin’s closed office door. He hadn’t seen him all morning. Greg wondered if he’d even come into work today.
The sound of a chairs squeaking brought his attention back to the office around him. The array of people in their outdoor clothes had his gaze move back to the clock. “Woo-hoo, party time.” Greg exclaimed to the room, getting a few high fives, as he stood after saving his documents and switching off his computer.
He tidied away his things, locking his files in his desk drawers. He pocketed the keys and grabbed his own turquoise leather jacket. He’d gone with black trousers, so his jacket really popped when it was zipped up and hid his jumper.
He lifted his rucksack. His aim was to collect, wrap, and hide Aaden’s presents in it this afternoon when he got home. The last couple of weeks helping and practically living at Aaden’s had left him no time to finish his Christmas shopping. And though he had some gifts sorted, they weren’t wrapped. It was part of the reason he’d decided to go home this afternoon so he could finish off the last few things he needed to do.
His face stretched into a large grin, thinking about how grim Aaden had looked when he’d said he wasn’t coming back till Christmas Eve. It didn’t do his ego any harm, knowing Aaden wasn’t in the least bit happy about the separation.
Greg shouted a farewell and “see you Sunday” to everyone as he rushed out the door. The biting cold slap of the wind took his breath away for a minute. He exhaled, and diving head first into the wind, he strode towards town.
Greg raced from one shop to the next, his arms bulging under the weight of the bags he carried. The flush of satisfaction when he got back to his car was still with him when he arrived home and parked on the drive. He caught sight of the time and realised he had a couple of hours to spare before Gemma arrived.
He hopped out of the car and unpacked his boot. He waved at his next-door neighbour as he lugged the bags up the path. He kept his gaze fixed on his front door, not wanting to get caught in the “you haven’t been around lately” conversation. He liked Mrs. Dawson, but her nosy intrusion could be a little too much, especially when he didn’t have time to stop and shoot the breeze with her, like now.
He unlocked his front door. His nose wrinkled up at the smell of disuse. He dropped his bags at the bottom of the stairs, removed his coat and hung it up on the coat rack. All the while trying to hold his breath, he went into the front room and opened windows.
He ignored the chilly air filling the room and the layer of dust he could see coating everything. He blew his hair out of his eyes as he moved around the house, opening even more windows before heading to the kitchen.
He halted in the kitchen doorway. His nose rebelled along with his stomach at the awful stench permeating the air. “Christ almighty, what the hell is that stench?” Greg took a breath and pinched his nose before running around the kitchen, pulling open cupboards, searching for the culprit.
The vegetable rack offered the answer. Greg eyed what had once been a bag of mushrooms and was now a bag of putrid slime. He hesitated to touch the bag. “Come on, you silly sod, it won’t bite.” His hand continued to hover while his brain thought that maybe Gemma could be persuaded to move it for him. The thought died quickly when he remembered asking her to get rid of a spider. She had decided he could wear it instead. Greg shuddered, remembering the feel of legs scuttling over his arm.
No, he was going to have to do this himself. He held his nose tighter as he lifted the dripping bag. Greg heaved when he had to release his nose to open the back door. He fumbled with the lock on the door, holding his breath. His lungs screamed at the length of time it was taking. He thrust the door open and inhaled the icy cold air. He didn’t care how it stabbed at his lungs. He just prayed it would help remove the stench from his nose. He ran out, threw the lid open on the wheelie bin, and dropped in the bag. The squelching sound as it landed had him jump back and slam the lid.
Greg darted back inside. Shivering, he closed the door.
He lifted his hand to push back his hair. Pausing, he cursed up a storm at the stench of rotting vegetables that had his hand smell like something had died on it. His lips curled in disgust as he held his arm away from his body and went to the kitchen sink. He quickly washed his hands with disinfectant soap. He gave them a good sniff before drying them off.
Greg turned from the sink and looked at his kitchen. The stains on the floor had him grabbing his Jif spray and getting to work removing the remaining mushroom yuck. He wiped down the dusty sides. He moved from the kitchen to the lounge, swapping out his wet cloth for a duster. He steadily continued through the house.
He harrumphed in each room. The state of his house pushed a thought to the front of his mind that he’d been paying no attention to. They might not have talked about living together, but any suggestions he made about coming home were vetoed before he could finish talking. He was, for all intents and purposes, living with Aaden.
And see what happens when you don’t come home? Your house smells worse than Dave.
His childhood friend had a rather unfortunate problem with his body odour. As in, he didn’t wash properly, and he smelt like year-old dirty washing, mixed with rotten cheesy vegetables. Greg shuddered, trying not to think too hard about how many times he’d considered asking his mum for a gas mask to wear to school.
As he carried his shopping bags upstairs, he compelled his mind away from the smellovision it was trying to create. He dropped the bags onto his large double bed on top of the dark brown duvet. Sniffing up, he went and shut the open windows when all he could scent was iciness of the air.
He walked to the bathroom and shut the remaining open window. His gaze landed on the bottle of fake tan sitting on the shelf next to the window, above the bath. He remembered how excited he’d been to try it. His normal brand had been sold out, and the sales girl had talked him into trying a new one. He recollected she said it would give a soft sun-kissed glow to his skin.
He caught his pale reflection in the mirror and huffed out a sigh. He hated being pale. His eyes wandered back to the bottle. He looked at the bathroom that also needed a clean. He chewed his lip, shrugging.
He could kill two birds with one stone. On that thought, Greg went back into his bedroom and stripped. He looked down his naked body. He raced back to the bathroom when the icy air in the bedroom had his skin starting to resemble the skin of a plucked chicken. He firmly shut the bathroom door and checked that the heated towel rail was turned on. The heat pumping out of the radiator brought a smile to his face. Pleased that he’d thought to keep the heating on timer so that it came on several times throughout the day to keep the house warm and the pipes from freezing.
He walked to the bathroom shelf, picked up the tanner, and opened the box. With a shrug, he threw the instructions in the bin. He’d used more fake tan than he’d eaten hot breakfasts. He didn’t need some instruction leaflet that took an hour to read to tell him what he needed to do. He was already time constrained without wasting anymore.
Greg turned the nozzle to on and stepped into his shower. He didn’t want to get any spray on his tiles. He twisted and turned, making sure to cover the whole of his body. He grabbed his luffa that had an extra-long stick attached, just for this purpose. He sprayed it, making sure to cover it before rubbing it down his back. Lastly, he covered his face, making sure to put an extra layer on so he got a nice deep sun-kissed glow.
He stood wafting his arms, letting himself air dry before stepping back out. He put on rubber gloves and lost track of time cleaning up around him, making sure not to squirt any water on his body.
The sound of his phone ringing distracted him. He peeled of his rubber gloves. He pelted out the bathroom, checking he wasn’t leaving any footprints as he ran to get his phone. He grabbed his phone and pressed answer.
He panted. “Hello.”
“Hello, yourself. It lives. I thought you might have been a figment of mine and your dad’s imagination.” The sweet dulcet tones of his mother’s voice had Greg giggle and give an exaggerated eye roll. That immediately had his hand lift to rub at his throbbing eyes.
“I text you every day, Mum. So you can stop that right now. And okay, you haven’t physically laid eyes on me, but you haven’t made any effort to visit me, either.” Greg accused, knowing his mother hadn’t been invited to Aaden’s, yet. After the fiasco with Vic, the longer she didn’t get to see him, the better it was for all concerned. He knew Gemma had been bad, but his mother would go off like a rocket the minute she saw the damage to his face, and he wasn’t quite ready for that.
“Tut, tut, dear boy. You know I’m still awaiting an invite to your new beau’s pad. And before you start on about ‘it looks more like a war zone than a house,’ can I remind you that yours was pretty much the same when you bought it?”
Greg shuddered at the memories of what the previous tenants had done to the place before he’d bought it. He pulled his thoughts away from bashed-in walls and stinking carpets, covered in God knows what.
“That may be the case, but I needed you to help me peel all those disgusting carpets out of here…” Her raucous laughter stopped him.
“Yes, I remember. However, I’d really like not to be reminded, thank you. I still have nightmares at what was possibly crawling in them.” Her squeamish squeal had him laughing this time.
“What did you want, Mum? I have to get ready for Gemma coming. I don’t mean to rush you. Oh, by the way, before I forget.” Greg paused and braced himself. “Brad, the guy I was talking to you about, has invited me and Aaden for Christmas dinner. Err, and I kinda said yes. It won’t upset your plans, will it? It’s just that this will be his first real Christmas, and I want to help him celebrate.” He rushed on, knowing his mum would understand, but still, it was Christmas, and he’d never not gone home before.
He’d shared some of Brad’s story when it had hit the local and national papers after Brad had gone to court.
“Yes, I understand, but you won’t be able to get out of New Year.”
He heard the slight edge of disappointment in her voice as she carried on speaking.
“And I expect you to bring Aaden. It’s about time I met the man who’s made my son light up brighter than any Christmas tree we’ve ever owned.”
Greg was glad his mother couldn’t see his full-body flush at her words. Her observation had hit the nail right on the head. And it was true. The light inside him could rival his mother’s obsession with Christmas lights. Lights that competed with any department store display.
He let her chat on about his dad and the surprise trip to Las Vegas she bought as his Christmas gift. His dad was meaner than Scrooge when it came to buying gifts, and his mother had learnt the hard way. If she wanted a nice gift, then she had to buy it and use her husband as an excuse.
He ended the call, chuckling at what would be another battle of wills when his father saw the bill for Vegas because his mother didn’t do cheap.
As he went back into the bathroom, Greg halted.
His hand rose and hovered near the mirror. The whites of his eyes stood out starkly against the sky blue of his irises. His eyes widened until they looked to be eating up the whole top of his face. A face that, to his disbelief, was the colour of burnt orange. A burnt orange that was competing with the bold bright ginger of his hair glowing under the bathroom lights.
He stepped closer to the mirror, hoping it wasn’t quite as bad as his eyes were telling him. His lips flapped open, then shut. No words formed. Shocked into silence, Greg blinked slowly.
His hand touched the mirror as if it was a mirage in front of him. He felt the cool surface under his fingertip, which drew his attention to what had recently been a pale finger and now resembled a dark burnt-orange segment.
He tried to get a word out. The loud mewl had his eyes dart around the bathroom before they landed back on him. He took a breath, trying to calm his pulse. A pulse that had decided it wanted to run away and hide. Racing as far away from the thought of what the rest of his body looked like.
The fear had his tongue glue itself to the roof of his mouth, making it impossible to swallow. With trembling legs, he stepped back, allowing the mirror to catch sight of the upper part of his torso when he was too scared to look down at himself.
A bubble of hysteria cut of his air supply. Greg coughed and spluttered, glancing away from the disaster that stood staring back at him from the mirror. His silent cry turned into a wail as he dashed to the shower. His trembling fingers worked on turning it on full, and he stepped in before it heated. He squealed but didn’t move as he let the water wash over his body.
His mind conjured the scene from the movie Bride Wars, where Anne Hathaway’s character ended up with the spray tan from hell. Tears gathered in his eyes and spilt down his cheeks at the reality that he resembled the awful colour she’d been.
His teary eyes watched in distress the orange water pooling at his feet. He fumbled for the shower gel and luffa. Forgetting he’d used it to put on his tan, he started scrubbing. Only when the water started to run a darker orange did it twig what he was doing.
He wailed, convinced he might have woken the dead when his ears rang.
“Why me, I ask you? How do I end up in these fucking ridiculous situations, I ask you? Aren’t I good person? Don’t I like to help others? Yes, I do. I’m always the first to help. So why the fuck is the universe messing with me? First Vic, now this. Where will it all end?” Greg ranted, shouting and wailing at the steamy shower walls as he scrubbed and rubbed until his skin was raw.
He was not sure how long he’d been in the shower. His wrinkled skin said it had been a while when he tilted his head at the loud bang of his front door shutting.
Greg cursed, remembering too late that Gemma knew where he kept his hidey-key. He frantically turned off the shower and jumped out, dripping orange water over the red-tiled floor. He grabbed a dark brown bath sheet of the radiator and tried to cover as much of his body as he could.
He wailed at his reflection before he could stop it. He only looked a fraction less burnt orange and a little more bright orange.
His head flew up as Gemma screeched, bursting through the door wielding her umbrella, as if ready for battle.
Gemma thought her heart was gonna stop when a loud wail of distress seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. Grabbing hold of her brolly, she charged upstairs. Her five-foot frame vibrated with unleashed aggression. Her shitty week had her ready to kick someone’s arse, and that meant whoever was tormenting Greg right this minute was going to find she was an expert at opening a can of whoop arse.
When the bedrooms showed no sign of life, Gemma burst through the door of the closed bathroom.. “Where is he? Let me at the fucker,” Gemma yelled. She searched the tiny bathroom for whoever had caused Greg to wail. Her eyes skimmed over Greg not focusing on him but rather on the tiny empty bathroom. Finding no one, she turned her attention back to her dripping wet… burnt-orange friend.
Her eyes glued themselves to the vision in front of her. She couldn’t quite believe that anyone in real life could have skin that colour. She clamped her lips together, but to no avail. The tears rolled down her face as she dropped her brolly with a clatter. Gripping her sides, she bent forward and howled with laughter.
She choked past the laughter. “Oh… my… God… good… lord… save me… now. You look like you’ve escaped from the jungle. All you need now is to find the rest of your orangutan family.” The words stopped on a breathy inhale before the laughter started again.
Gemma couldn’t quite grasp how Greg had managed to find that one spray tan that had him look more like an orange-u-tan, than orangutan. She wiped at her eyes, uncaring she’d just wiped all her makeup across her face.
After the week she’d had at work, Greg was absolutely the best medicine she could have wished for. All her worries seemed to have disappeared under a cloud of orange steam. She tried to look contrite when Greg’s orange face glared at her. It only set off another round of laughter when the whites of his eyes glowered.
Lifting her finger, she tried to rein in the giggles. “Gimme a sec.”
Unable to contain it, Gemma let out all the laughter building inside her. She hoped it would stop when she felt her eyes start to swell with all the tears she was crying. Then she realised it didn’t matter if her eyes swelled. No one was going to see her. Because there was no possible way she would persuade Greg to go out looking like the extreme version of the “you’ve been tangoed” adverts that were popular in the nineties.
“I’m sorry. Really, I am, but I have to get it out. I think I’ve finished now. I hope you have plenty of alcohol in because I have a feeling we’re gonna need it. If not to help get that off your skin, then to dull the pain of trying to scrub that shit off. I really want to say right now ‘I told you so’ but I’m not goi—”
“You just did,” Greg interrupted, his finger stabbing the orange air between them as he continued. “You cow bag, don’t think I didn’t hear what you just said. I may be bright fucking orange, but I haven’t lost my hearing.”
Gemma felt the laughter start to bubble as she fired back. “You better hope Aaden has lost his sight or his marbles by Christmas Eve if we can’t dampen down the brightness that is your new skin colour. I have to ask. What the fuck were you thinking?” She pointed to his orange chest while she sucked her lips between her teeth at the despair on her friend’s face.
“Don’t bother answering. I’ll be your new scrubber. Come on. I’ll get the alcohol. You run the bath. Acetone can remove nail polish. Then alcohol should surely help soak that shit off your skin.”
Gemma spun on her heels and headed back downstairs. She needed a moment to stop the laughter from escaping when Greg had turned round to reveal his back. Somehow, he’d missed a big chunk of skin, making his back look more like a jigsaw puzzle. Only he was missing a nice burnt-orange piece of fake tan to fill the gap.
Chuckling all the way downstairs, she pushed up the black sleeves of her blouse, thinking she might need one of Greg’s old tops. Even with it being black, her boyfriend would kill her if she ruined it. He’d paid a small fortune for her Tommy Hilfiger blouse.
Rolling her eyes at thoughts of her boyfriend, Gemma pushed the thought away and focused on Greg’s dilemma instead. She went to the cupboard and dragged out several bottles. She sighed at the change to her plans. The she remembered Greg’s orange face. She grinned at the empty room, finding she wasn’t all that bothered at all, especially when she considered how much mileage she could get out of this situation.
An evil glint filled her eyed as she grabbed her phone out of her handbag, shoving it into the back pocket of her black skinny jeans. She clinked her way back upstairs, eager to see if her mind had been exaggerating how bad Greg had looked or if he was really ready to become an extra for the old tango ad’s.
She hummed what she thought was the theme tune from the tango adverts. She walked to the bathroom with a spring in her step, wondering if the other guys were going to be coming tonight because she would hate for them to miss this.