Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read!

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When the front door slams, I go into the living room and plop down on his cream leather sofa with a sigh.

I feel a twinge of disloyalty thinking it. But it’s so great that, for once, I don’t have to psyche myself up to run five thousand miles or swim the Atlantic.

I sigh happily, lying flat out on the sofa.

He was surprised by my resistance, I could tell. Normally, I go along quite happily with whatever Nathan’s planning. But I’ll never be as passionate about working out as he is, so maybe it’s time I relaxed a bit and stopped feeling I have to join in with every single activity Nathan suggests.

Barb made a very good point the other night.

‘You’re far too obliging,’ she said. ‘Just be yourself. If Nathan doesn’t love the real you – idle bugger tendencies and all – you shouldn’t be together anyway.’

She’s probably right.

From my flaked-out pose on the sofa, I stare up at Nathan’s minimalist ‘design studio’ chandelier. It’s cutting-edge in more ways than one. The long chrome spiky bits worry me sometimes – especially when Sharon upstairs starts leaping about to her aerobics DVD and the ceiling shakes. One squat thrust too many and I swear a nasty stabbing incident could ensue.

I move to the cream leather La-Z-Boy chair and resume my daydreaming.

I’m in a better place now than I’ve been for a long time.

I’m fitter and happier, thanks to Nathan. And I’m even thinking seriously about going for a promotion.

A pay rise would open up so many exciting possibilities. I might even be able to get my foot on the property ladder at last – something that I know would make Mum and Dad so proud. They’ve never seen the flat I’ve shared with Barb for the past year. They know it’s part of a Victorian conversion but I’ve glossed over the fact that it’s actually quite small – mainly because I hate the thought of Justine knowing my home is far from being a palace, which hers obviously is. (She’s always complaining about having to pay her cleaner a fortune because ‘The Gables’ has so many rooms.)

I lean over for the strawberry and mango smoothie Nathan whipped up for me before he left. And right at that moment, a stern vibration zips up my left buttock. Shit! What’s that?

By the time I’ve realised it’s my phone and I’ve been lying on it, I’ve knocked the glass off the side table and onto Nathan’s beige carpet. Leaping up, I watch in horror as it spreads out stickily like a nasty reddish-orange homicidal incident.

It’s Dad on the phone.

We chat as I rush to grab a cloth. He sounds a bit down.

‘It’s nothing,’ he says, when I probe. ‘I’m just not sure your mum’s up to doing Christmas this year after all.’

At once, my heart is in my mouth. ‘Really, Dad? Why? What’s wrong?’

‘Well, you know how it is, love. It always hits her hardest at this time of year.’

I do know. Only too well. To be honest, I can’t remember a time when Mum didn’t suffer badly with her nerves. Whole months can go by when she practically never leaves the house. And Christmas tends to make things ten times worse.

‘She’s seemed better lately,’ Dad’s saying. ‘She even had that day’s shopping with Ellen. They had lunch out and everything.’

‘Well, that’s good. Isn’t it?’

He takes a deep breath. ‘Yes. We’ll get there, Lola.’ He sounds firm. Back to his usual self. ‘Baby steps. That’s what I keep telling her.’

I grip the phone, wishing I were there with him.

Whatever’s happening, you can count on my dad to keep everyone cheerful. He’s given up a lot to look after Mum. In his younger days, he was a big motorbike enthusiast but all that has gone by the wayside.

‘She’s adamant she’s going to do Christmas.’ He gives a low chuckle. ‘You know how stubborn she can be. But anyway, enough about us. How’s my gorgeous daughter?’

‘I’m fine, Dad. Working hard. What are Rob and Justine doing at Christmas?’

‘Well, that’s another possibility. Justine’s offering to have us all at theirs. But I’m not sure…’

I stare up at the chandelier’s hideous spikes and my heart plummets.

It’s not a tantalising prospect. My sister-in-law is so uptight at Christmas, she even gets angry with God if the snow she ordered fails to arrive on time.

Justine gave up her high-powered job as a marketing executive a year ago (Rob earns enough for both of them and she said she wanted to devote more time to the various women’s groups and committees she sits on). I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking she might calm down a bit, but she seems just as frantically busy as ever.

Her drive for perfection and Mum’s nerves are not a happy festive combination.

‘Dad, why don’t we do Christmas at our own places this year? Just this once?’

‘What?’ Dad sounds horrified. Definitely the wrong thing to say. ‘Not spend Christmas with you and Rob? But we’ve never missed a year yet. Oh, Lola, that would really do for your mum, not seeing you and your brother.’

‘Well, come to mine, then,’ I hear myself say. ‘Mum always does it. It’s high time I took a turn.’

‘Really, love?’ Dad sounds doubtful.

His uncertainty just makes me even more determined to show him I can manage it. I’m turning my life around. I’m going for promotion.

I’m becoming a proper grown-up at last.

‘Yes, really. It’ll be fun.’

‘We-e-e-e-ll …’

Come on, Dad. I’ll make it the best Christmas ever.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Oh God, Lola, that would be great!’

His relief is so obvious, I can tell it’s been a real load on his shoulders. And I’m so glad I can relieve him of the worry.

I hang up and start tackling the smoothie stain.

As I scrub away, I think about Mum. Is she really improving? Or is Dad just doing his usual thing of putting a positive spin on a dismal situation? We’ve never been great, in our family, at talking about the emotional stuff. Letting it all hang out, if you like. But when something happens that’s almost too painful to bear, you have a choice. You can talk about it openly and risk scratching at the open wound and making it worse. Or you can keep it all inside, paper over the cracks and get on with life as cheerfully as you can.

In my family, we’ve got papering over the cracks down to a fine art. Mainly for Mum’s sake.

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.