Finding Christmas Joy

Chapter 1

‘Alex?’ the man asked, quite possibly for the second or third time, judging by the tone of his voice. ‘Your thoughts?’

I adjusted my ‘interested, compassionate and competent’ face and tried to guess what I was supposed to be thinking about.

To be clear, I am, the vast majority of the time, interested in what my clients have to say.

I have built a successful business by listening so carefully to what people tell me I can wade through all the nonsense, exaggerations, lies and deflections until I uncover the pertinent information I genuinely need to know.

‘I think…’ I scanned his face, noting the deep creases framing bloodshot eyes, the weary sag to his shoulders. ‘From what you’re telling me, the first priority should be scheduling in some time to relax.’

‘What?’ He screwed up his face, as if baffled. ‘What does that have to do with anything I’ve said?’

I gave a sage nod. ‘Michael, it has to do with everything. Right now, you’re in no fit state to revive a failing company, let alone fix the rest of your life. Your brain is fried, your body not far behind. When did you last have a day off? Stopped worrying about all this? Had fun?’

‘There’ll be plenty of time to have fun once we’ve stopped my business falling apart.’

‘Do you trust me?’ I asked, glancing at the time.

I really shouldn’t have taken this call today, but Michael had signed up for the Platinum Package and that included an emergency meeting within twenty-four hours of him requesting one.

As distracted as I was now, I would be far too tired to tackle his multitude of problems tomorrow.

‘Because if you don’t, I can refer you to several business coaches who will tell you what you want to hear for half the price. ’

Michael rubbed a hand down his face, sighing. ‘Yes. I trust you.’

‘Right. Then before our next meeting, you need to spend a minimum of three hours enjoying yourself. Something active, preferably with good friends.’

‘I don’t have friends to do activities with.’

‘Then find some. I look forward to seeing the photos.’

I signed off, shut down my laptop, rolled my cream leather chair away from the enormous glass desk so I could look out the window at the view and took a few deep breaths.

Michael fell into the category of about a quarter of my clients, who I labelled ‘Complex’. Someone who had somehow built up a multimillion-pound business while almost entirely lacking in life or social skills.

I thought about the poster I’d seen in the gym a couple of days ago. I’d taken a photo with the intention of sending it to my boyfriend, Nico. Maybe Michael would actually find it helpful.

Having remembered, I quickly sent Nico the image. The poster read:

WANTED: FRIENDS

Lonely gent seeks authentic friends to

share life’s ups and downs together.

I added the caption, ‘Saw this and thought of you,’ with a laughing emoji.

It was a running joke between us that Nico was one of those people who made friends everywhere.

The ‘off’ phases of our seven-year on-off relationship tended to be triggered by him being too busy seeing friends or me being buried in work.

It was only after sending it that I bothered to read the smaller print underneath the headline. This managed to make whoever was bold enough to admit they had no friends so publicly seem less pitiful and more like the kind of person who could hold a half-decent conversation.

Please note:

This is not a job; there will be no money exchanged. I’m not wealthy and won’t be leaving you anything in my will. If you don’t like me, don’t come back.

Platonic only. I am too old and ugly for romance.

No bigots or bad-mouthers. I’m an open-minded person, but if you’re not a decent human being, please don’t bother.

I WILL BE AT TUCKER’S CAFE, BIGLEY, EVERY THURSDAY FROM 11 TIL 2.

Why not come and say hello?

Why not, indeed? I thought as I left my office and walked down the hallway to my giant bathroom overlooking the acre of garden behind my stunning brand new, eco-friendly house.

I had plenty of reasons not to go, I told myself while stepping into the shower.

Because I’m far too busy running my wildly successful business.

Because I’m a rising television star, nominated for an award at a glitzy ceremony, which I will be attending this evening with my gorgeous boyfriend.

Because my new-found popularity means I have more people wanting to be my friend than I know what to do with.

Because, I mused as I dried off and slipped into a robe, the last thing I want is an authentic friend.

I’d tried that once before and it hadn’t gone well.

After hearing nothing from Nico by the time Jen had arrived to do my hair and make-up, I sent him another message.

The car will be here at 5, please be here by then.

One of the things I appreciated about our relationship was the lack of pressure, but this was the single biggest night of my life and I was already antsy without stressing about my notoriously unpunctual boyfriend being late.

The British TV Awards were being held in an arena on the outskirts of Birmingham.

Potentially annoying for all the Londoners used to everything being on their doorstep, but a bearable ninety-minute journey from my house nestled in Bigley Country Park, an offshoot of Sherwood Forest, in Nottinghamshire.

By the time Jen had worked her wizardry on my trademark coppery layers, and somehow made my face appear nearer a healthy twenty-six than it’s chronically neglected thirty-six, I was anxious enough to call him.

‘Yo.’

‘Are you on your way?’ I asked, having placed Nico on speaker so I could simultaneously attempt to wrestle into the constricting underwear the stylist assured me would make my modest curves appear sumptuous rather than saggy.

‘Um, yeah, about that.’

I froze, knicker-type-things halfway up my thighs. I’d heard this dismissive, super-chill tone from him before. Five times, in fact – which was uncoincidentally the number of times he’d dumped me (the four times I’d ended things, I’d had the courtesy to do it in person).

‘It’s the awards tonight. Don’t do this to me now. I can’t turn up solo.’

‘Come on, babe, this is how we roll, you know that. Once we’re not feeling it, we wish each other well and move on.’

‘Okay.’ I did know that. It’s why we’d worked for so long. ‘But can’t you postpone your non-feelings until tomorrow? Spend one last, fabulous evening with me, for old times’ sake. Please.’ I tried not to sound as agitated as I felt.

‘You’re not getting needy on me, are you?’ Nico said, a hint of irritation behind his playful laugh.

Needy was our definition of a curse word, but come on – I couldn’t walk down the red carpet on my own. ‘You know what, tonight I do need you. You promised to come, and it’s not okay to bail without giving me enough warning to invite someone else. That’s not about feelings, it’s about respect.’

He made the mistake of pausing long enough for me to hear a giggly voice in the background. ‘Baby, come on, I’m waiting.’

Or, knowing Nico, it was a calculated move to avoid having to tell me himself.

Crap.

That was that, then.

I hung up, jiggled the knickers into place and collapsed onto my emperor bed, hanging my head off the edge to protect my fancy hair.

There was literally no one else I could ask at such short notice. I had no other men lurking in my address book, because Nico had been more than enough for me.

Other people proudly brought their mum along to these things.

My mother rarely went outside, let alone left the run-down suburb of Leicester where we’d lived since I was born.

Even if she could be bothered, she’d do it wearing an old tracksuit, her hair matted, roping some poor person into wheeling her oxygen tank while she shuffled down the red carpet on her walking frame, cracking the type of jokes that would have me cancelled before I made it onto the stage for my acceptance speech.

Dad would have been even worse. I could imagine the headlines after he was caught pickpocketing from a national treasure like Dame Judi Dench or David Tennant.

My sister had four kids to look after.

I thought about other people I knew. The rest of the production team, who were either going already or not. Clients were a definite no. There was Rhonda, the barista I sometimes chatted to when picking up my matcha tea. Maybe I should have asked Jen before she left.

Being in the public eye was still fairly new to me.

I was one of the ‘experts’ on a show called Winning at Life.

It was a fairly standard life-coaching reality show, and we had worked with a group of self-professed ‘losers’ over the course of the initial series – three months, in real time – supporting them to make positive changes in their home, relationships, work, spare time, general life skills and, of course, their appearance.

We tossed about phrases like ‘bringing out the gold’ in people, ‘cheerleading’ while providing whatever support, resources and occasional borderline bullying they needed to ‘win big’.

I’d been invited onto the show after helping the producer’s wife relaunch her personal training business and had ended up being something of an unexpected hit, hence the British TV Awards nomination for ‘Rising Star’.

People didn’t like me because I was a ‘winner’.

They loved me because I was open about having once been a loser.

I’d first cried in the third episode when meeting a young woman, Shari, who had spent most of her youth caring for her seriously ill mum.

She’d sacrificed her education, her social life and her own emotional health.

This nineteen-year-old could cook a nutritious meal from scraps and complete life admin with her eyes closed, but she’d never been to a party, on a date, or even had a fun day shopping.

My story wasn’t identical to Shari’s, but I knew what it was like to try to scrape enough pennies together to pay the internet bill, so you had a hope of getting your homework done.

I’d originally been cast and edited as a cool, no-nonsense badass.

The clip of me sitting at Shari’s rickety kitchen table, clutching her hand while we wept about those little girls who’d lost their childhoods far too soon had become one of the TV moments of the year. I was now a badass with a heart.

I might have felt guilty about my parents seeing it, except they never watched my show and the only condition they suffered from when I was growing up was chronic selfishness.

Maybe I should ask Shari, I mused. The media would lap it up. If only she didn’t live in Inverness. Even a helicopter couldn’t get her here in time.

I felt another prickle of anger that Nico had done this to me last minute.

I would have been more upset about him breaking up with me if I wasn’t so stressed about the award ceremony, and if I didn’t expect him to be messaging me looking to reunite soon enough.

Oh, and if I loved him with any more depth than the inevitable fondness that comes from being part of each other’s lives for years. I might have a cry about it tomorrow.

Then it hit me, thinking about the show, and the persona the crew had created for me. I was an overcomer, a warrior. A woman who had risen from the rubble of her lousy childhood and built a fabulous life of her own doing.

I would go to the ceremony on my own and be proud about it. Why did I need someone to hold my hand on the red carpet? So my date bailed? Big deal. After all, I’d decided years ago that I was my own best friend, cheerleader and the only person I chose to trust, and that was how I liked it.

Decision made, almost believing my own spin, I grabbed the corsetty-bra part of the shapewear and put it on.

Adjusting it, I stopped. After pausing for a moment, in a blessed second before my emotions hit, my fingers reskimmed the side of one cup.

And again.

I took the bra off and felt the bare skin.

Poked, pressed, examined.

When was the last time I had examined my breasts?

As alarm skittered up my body, my throat dry, dread exploding in my skull, overriding every coherent thought beyond ‘I have a lump in my breast’, I had never felt so alone.