Chapter 8
‘As Edgar, the John Lewis dragon discovered, I can’t fight this feeling any more,’ Josh belted dramatically from his kitchen, exploding forth from the entrance, wearing a tinsel crown of his own making.
He deposited a scorching tray of freshly baked mince pies on the coffee table, narrowly missing a tangled mess of Christmas lights.
‘Niche. Not everyone knows about the John Lewis Christmas ads.’ I knew that first hand from my many years abroad, trying to get access to YouTube via dodgy data connections.
Josh ignored me, of course; nothing was getting between him and his beloved cultural references.
I was curled up on his sofa in my fluffiest Christmas jumper – complete with a squirrel, because every Christmas jumper needs a squirrel – scanning his extensive collection of holiday DVDs for tonight’s Moviethon winner.
‘It has to be Scrooge the Musical,’ he announced, throwing down his Ya Filthy Animal oven gloves and collapsing onto his IKEA sofa with such force that I nearly bounced out of my seat. ‘Best. Christmas. Musical. Ever.’
‘But not the best Christmas movie?’ I asked, still trying to decipher how we had got onto the careful delineation of Christmas movie sub-categories this early in the evening. We hadn’t even opened the prosecco yet.
‘That is and will always be The Holiday,’ he declared, flinging his hands up as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Jack Black is my ideal husband.’
‘A surprise to us all,’ I agreed. ‘What about Love Actually?’
He groaned. ‘It hasn’t aged well, and I’m not just talking about the political incorrectness. The storylines are… bizarre. Did we really need Martin Freeman discussing traffic while faking sex acts? Or Keira Knightley getting married at eighteen?’
‘It’s still on the list.’ I held up the DVD case.
‘Well, duh! We can’t not watch it. It’s a Christmas classic.’
‘Just an ageing one.’
‘There is the gorgeous Liam Neeson storyline.’
‘We need Kate, and we need Leo, and we need them now,’ I quoted effortlessly.
Josh grinned.
‘Okay,’ I began again. ‘But why are we watching DVDs as if it’s 2005? Haven’t you heard of streaming?’
He looked at me as if I’d suggested setting fire to his Christmas tree.
‘You try to find The Grinch on a streaming platform at Christmas. Or Miracle on 34th Street; the classic or the Richard Attenborough one! You’re more likely to find Santa’s workshop before Christmas Day than those masterpieces. ’
‘Ooh, The Santa Clause,’ I said, holding up the nineties classic DVD. ‘Another that hasn’t aged well.’
‘It’s doing better than The Santa Clause 3, at least.’ His nose wrinkled in disgust.
‘We don’t speak of The Santa Clause 3.’ I threw Josh the DVD case.
Josh pushed himself up, humming ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ as he did so, and went to his ancient DVD player to set it up.
I glanced around at the explosion of tinsel, paper chains, and snowflakes dangling precariously from the ceiling, courtesy of an illegal amount of Blu-tack.
Tinsel draped every window, mirror, and frame, and the Christmas trees – there were multiple – were each decorated in a different colour scheme.
His flat looked like Santa’s Grotto had thrown up on it.
‘I see you opted for fake trees over real this year.’
‘I can’t be dealing with hoovering every five minutes,’ Josh protested. ‘I love the smell, but I can get artificial candles and diffusers for that.’
‘And here was me thinking you were all about the authentic Christmas.’
‘Darling, I work in retail – we go for sparkle and shine far more than authenticity,’ he laughed darkly. ‘If I wanted authenticity, this,’ he gestured grandly at the Christmas chaos, ‘would be replaced by nativity scenes, praying, and bloody misery. Now, eat a mince pie.’
Laughing, I grabbed two, ignoring the plates entirely.
Together we sat back down on the sofa, and he began the route through old trailers for early noughties Disney films and the enforced ‘You wouldn’t steal a handbag’ piracy video.
‘So how goes the hunt for your replacement?’ Josh asked, settling in to watch the anti-piracy trailer with his mug of home-brewed mulled wine. He was right, his house did smell just like Christmas, with or without a tree.
‘As well as can be expected.’
‘So not going well at all.’
‘Pretty much,’ I laughed. ‘Every time I try to talk to Pim about it, she shuts me down or changes the subject.’
‘Is it that she’s averse to change or is she simply ignoring the fact that you’re leaving?’
‘Both. Neither. Who knows with Pim? All I know is that I have to find my replacement before I leave, otherwise Pim Hardcastle is going to fall apart.’
‘That’s on her. She’s a grown-ass woman, let her live in the real world for a change.’
‘Excuse me, don’t you have an assistant?’
Josh rolled his eyes. ‘I have three. But they don’t work for me, they’re my co-workers, not my slaves.’
‘Your minions, basically.’
‘I prefer Christmas elves.’
‘Of course you do,’ I said, snuggling into a blanket as Josh pressed ‘Play’ on the screen selection and the movie began.
‘I think I’m just going to have to ignore Pim—’
‘Like she ignores you,’ Josh cut in.
‘And just interview the applicants myself. I’ve got a few lined up this week.’
‘Good plan. Take the initiative and screw Pim! Or, better yet, hire someone truly awful as the ultimate revenge of a disgruntled employee.’
‘But I’m not disgruntled,’ I corrected. ‘I’m only leaving because a great job opportunity has come up.’
He rolled his eyes again, and pressed ‘Pause’ before Tim Allen had finished giving his terrible speech at the Christmas party.
‘Look, if you’re not disgruntled, you should be. She took you away from your family.’
The word ‘family’ stung, pulling at the ever-present ache of being an orphan. I fought to keep my expression neutral.
Josh noticed. ‘Okay, she took you away from your friends, then – who are like family. She underpays you, never praises you at all, and then treats you like you have two brain cells when really you’re the brains of her whole operation.’
‘Hardly. She has that freelance publicist sometimes.’
‘Whom you deal with, not her.’
It was true – I did most of the talking on Pim’s behalf. After eight years of handling her schedule, her bills, and even her well-being, from her laundry to her prescriptions, I knew her better than she knew herself.
‘She’ll fall apart when you leave, no matter who you hire,’ Josh said.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.
‘And not because you’d sabotage her. You’re too decent for that – I’d do it, but you wouldn’t.
The irony is she won’t realise what she’s lost until you’re gone.
Funny how people never appreciate what they have until it’s gone. ’
‘A bit like Scott Calvin in The Santa Clause 3.’
‘I thought we agreed never to acknowledge The Santa Clause 3.’
‘I know, I know. But the lesson was so perfect it had to be brought out for that moment.’
‘C’est vrai,’ Josh said, glancing at me with an almost mischievous smile.
‘Oh, you speak French now, do you?’
‘Didn’t I tell you Zach’s learning French?’
I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to get into a discussion about his life with a married man.
‘No, you didn’t.’ I kept my tone flat, not encouraging any more details.
‘Well, he is,’ Josh said quietly, pressing ‘Play’ on the movie again.
We fell into a comfortable silence for a time, watching Scott Calvin’s antics: burning the turkey, taking his son to Denny’s, failing miserably at bedtime stories, and then the loud clatter.
‘What would you do if you heard Santa on your roof at night?’ Josh asked, casually brushing mince-pie crumbs off his trousers onto the floor.
‘Probably call the hotel manager,’ I replied, making him laugh as he remembered my transient living situation.
‘You nomad!’
‘Santa doesn’t visit hotels. I know this because, when I wake up on Christmas Day, there are never any presents at the end of my bed.’
‘What does Pim do about Christmas?’ he asked as I nestled deeper into his sofa.
‘Not much. She says she’s too old for sitting and unwrapping presents so I typically give her one and then all the other gifts – which she buys herself – she just leaves me to hide and then hand them over on Christmas Day.’
‘What a delightful day you both have.’ he said dryly. ‘Tell me she gets you something.’
I focused on the screen, watching Scott Calvin squeeze down a chimney with the help of nineties bad CGI. ‘She gives me a hundred of whatever currency the country we’re staying in has and tells me to go wild. I got some fantastic perfume one year, and a year’s Prime subscription the next.’
Josh’s silence spoke volumes.
‘She’s never been one for the personalised, handmade effort, Josh,’ I added, my voice softer. ‘Nor is she particularly good at shopping for anyone but herself.’
‘I just don’t know what you see in her.’
‘She’s my boss, not my life partner.’
‘Hmm!’ Josh gave me a judgy side-eye. ‘You’ve never even been in with a chance of getting a life partner since you’ve been with her. Another catastrophe, as the men of the world have been missing out on pursuing you.’
‘I have dated while working with Pim.’
‘And how many times do you go on second dates with the people you’ve “dated”?’ He lifted his fingers in quotation marks. ‘I’m guessing none.’
The challenge in his voice was unmistakable.
It wasn’t as if I’d sworn off relationships, I just hadn’t made room for them. That felt different. Practical, owing to the way I lived, sensible, even.
But hearing Josh frame it so plainly made me feel uncomfortable. He wasn’t being cruel; he was stating a fact. The fact that he’d noticed that this was how my life looked from the outside unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. ‘There is hardly a chance, what with work and moving on so quickly.’
Josh didn’t seem to think this was a valid argument, but that was hardly surprising, given the furthest he had travelled for work was Lapland on a trip for ‘inspiration’. Even then he had managed to shack up with a pilot and a husky handler – at the same time. Respect.
But not wanting to discuss my non-existent dating life, or my desire to finally have one, I cleared my throat.
‘I’m not happy,’ I began, leaning forward to hand out the last two mince pies to each of us. ‘… with the fact that we’ve still not found our Christmas costumes for the Great British Pudding Race,’ I said, shoving the last mince pie in my mouth all in one with no shame.
Josh sat up then, immediately animated by Christmas planning.
‘I’ve found the perfect Grinch costume for Alex and, of course, I’m set for my Die Hard re-enactment; I even have a semi-bald cap, I’m that dedicated to my performance,’ Josh shared. ‘I’m just struggling to find the perfect Cindy Lou Who and a Jovie costume.’
‘Well, for me, I’ll just go full-Elf costume and then add some typical Jovie touches.’
‘You’re just going to sing “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town” everywhere you go?’
‘Pretty much, yep! And we’ll add copious amounts of blusher and highlighter to Megan’s nose to make her look like a proper Who of Whoville.’
‘We got this,’ Josh said, lifting his hand to high-five me and I returned it. ‘And if we don’t, I have the perfect two-person reindeer costume on standby.’
‘Never,’ I said.