Chapter 11 #2
‘A conga line at least,’ Lucy jokes. I think of Meribelle and her Gucci doing the conga, the Macarena, getting on down to the cha-cha slide. ‘Sounds like a duff party. I’m sorry. Told you so though,’ she says, sticking her tongue out at me.
‘Told me what?’ I enquire.
‘Don’t go back for seconds. I know I only met him once or twice, but I never could see you with a serious finance sort,’ she says.
‘Lucy, we went out for a year,’ I remind her.
‘Yeah, but that’s a university relationship.
It exists in a bubble of cheap rent and even cheaper alcohol.
Do you want to know what I remember about him?
’ she says. I shake my head. ‘We had food and he ordered you some breaded brie shit. He didn’t even ask what you might want. He just ordered for you.’
‘He did?’ I say, trying to rewind back to the memory.
‘Red flag for me but I don’t really like men telling me what to do. If someone ordered a burger for me and I didn’t want a burger then I’d throw it back at him.’
‘Which I feel would make for a very successful date,’ I say.
‘Well, this all confirms what I thought, finance people usually live in the echelons of their own self-importance.’
Thinking back to how he lied about my real job, this is perhaps true, but there is also no denying that we bumped into each other for a reason.
And if you think about all the people you could bump into on any day, in any city, it feels as though there was a reason to drift back into each other’s lives, a sort of magic and coincidence you can’t quite explain.
I keep going back to our year of dating too and all the good parts of being together.
We went on a city break to Dublin, he supported me through the time when my aunt passed away, and we had a lot of fun together.
A fun that we’ve relived in recent days, a spark we’ve re-ignited.
I think back to his body angled over mine, a synergy, realising how well we still fit together.
Sexually, he’s delicious and he’s giving off this strong Suits energy that’s suave, mature, alluring.
I realise I’m thinking all of this but still swaying.
‘You should be single with me, get an ugly cat and we can go out every weekend. Order what we want, when we want,’ Lucy says.
‘Why does the cat have to be ugly?’ I ask.
‘Because they’re always the most unloved ones. All the love you have in that beautiful heart of yours, channel it elsewhere.’
I smile and blow her a kiss, extracting the compliment from her words. I do another strange swaying but spinning dance move and turn towards the fences by the field, my head tilting slightly as something gets my attention. ‘What’s that?’
Bizarrely, they look like a set of aluminium speakers, wrapped in white material, but I can’t see any wiring. They sit on red-framed stands rested against the fence.
‘They’re the netting machines,’ Lucy says. ‘For the trees – so people can take them home all slim and compact. You thought me and the trees may be the star attraction here but really people stand there for ages and watch the netting machines.’
I suddenly realise what she’s talking about.
‘Ohhh! The net thingies for the trees. I love those!’ Lucy looks at me, laughing, as if she’s not sure if I’m drunk or genuinely excited about this apparatus.
It would be the latter. I get excited about these in the same way I do about the machine in the supermarket that slices your bread for you.
They are both genius feats of engineering.
‘Can we put something through it so I can see it in action? My clutch?’ I hold up my bag.
‘Nah, that’s too small.’ She looks over at the trees and then over her shoulder.
‘They’ve got the big trees out. You’d have to help me,’ she says, pushing one of the funnel-shaped machines away from the fence.
And that is the beauty of a friend like Lucy.
She’s only had a few shots of alcohol but there is something about her that will always exude fun and can-do.
This is how she will make her friend happy this evening.
She goes over to the fence and picks a massive tree.
‘It needs to go in trunk end first,’ she says, dragging it through.
‘You go fluffy branch end and push the bastard in.’
This must look odd to any outsider but I am very excited, falling over myself as I try to get hold of the treetop. ‘You ready?’ she says. ‘I grab the wood, you yank.’
‘Oi, oi…’ I say, and we both explode into fits of giggles.
‘Three, two, one and…’ I don’t know what happens next.
But Lucy yanks incredibly hard and, because I’m still laughing, I seem to hold on to a branch of the tree a little too firmly because I lose my footing and slip.
Into the funnel. My face lands in a sea of pine needles and I scream as she continues to yank.
‘LUCY!’ I say, half-shrieking, half-giggling. I can’t see her as I seem to be halfway through this funnel, my arm still attached to this tree and I can hear Lucy’s jingly shoes and the sound of her in absolute hysterics.
‘Oh my God, you were supposed to let go. I can’t…’ she says, bending over to have another laugh.
‘It’s… help… pricks… all over my face…’ Naturally, a comment of that nature doesn’t help and I can hear her stumbling around in laughter and then fumbling for her phone. Is she taking photos? ‘You’ll have to pull me out.’
‘I can’t, it’ll bugger the netting. I’ll have to pull you through…’ She’s still giggling. Meanwhile, I strangely understand how it feels to be a baby mid-delivery and stuck in your mum’s birth canal. ‘Can you breathe?’
‘Well, I’m not underwater.’ I start laughing at this point. This evening seems to be a comedy of errors, from the ice sculpture to this. All I can hear are her jingly shoes trying to get in the right position and the sound of her exerting herself.
‘HEAVE!’ I scream, and she stops to have yet another laugh.
And just like that, I find myself on the other end of the funnel, still holding on to this blessed tree but wrapped snugly in layers of white netting.
The force with which she pulls me through means I land on the ground with a thud. ‘Fucking OOWW…’
Of course, my pain comes secondary to Lucy’s amusement and, even though my vision is obscured by layers of webbed netting, I can still hear her howling. And then, strangely, the sound of my own voice saying HEAVE. The cow filmed it, didn’t she? I do hope she has scissors to get me out of here.
‘JESUS CHRIST!’ The voice comes out of nowhere, echoing around the place. It is Christmas but I suspect the man himself has not made an early appearance. It’s a man’s voice and he doesn’t sound particularly happy or amused. ‘Lucy, please tell me that’s not a customer.’
‘Chill your beans, bossman. It’s my friend. It was an accident,’ Lucy explains, not particularly bothered that the person standing over us is her boss. Oh dear, is this going to get her fired? I am still laughing but also feel darts of worry for my friend. Is he a nice boss? Will he get the joke?
‘That’s what they always say. Have you been drinking?’ I hear him say. Oh my God.
‘It’s Christmas,’ Lucy explains.
‘It’s machinery. Your friend could have died,’ he says, clearly not pleased.
‘It’s not a wood chipper,’ Lucy retorts.
‘I am very sorry, it was all my idea,’ I pipe up. It might be a little bit funny that this person netted up like a mackerel is starting to talk. I hope he’s laughing and will start to get the joke.
‘Are you OK, miss?’
‘I landed a bit awkwardly but I’m OK. I really am sorry.’
I hear the sound of the machine creaking and his heavy footsteps circling around me. ‘Lucy, in that drawer there’s a cutter. Pass it here.’ I start to hear the sound of snipping. ‘Miss, I am conscious that I don’t want to cut your clothing or your skin so do tell me if I’m too close.’
There is something about his voice now that he’s stopped telling Lucy off that is soothing, a low register with a touch of earth to it.
He rests his hands on me to gain purchase and turns me and my tree friend around.
His figure comes into view a little more and I feel my body go taut.
I’m not sure if it’s the firmness of his grip or the fact that a blade is so close to me.
And then I suddenly see light, a hand comes in to push the branches of this tree away from my face. I look up. You’re shitting me.
Santa?