The Day After Christmas
The Day After
‘Argh… my stomach,’ groaned Felicity, shifting her position on the sofa. ‘I swear I’m never eating another morsel ever again.’
‘Now do you get it?’ her boyfriend James said from the other sofa, reaching for another Pringle. He was blond. Blue eyes. Broad. Built. All the B’s.
‘Get what?’
‘The whole Christmas thing?’
‘I’m starting to,’ she admitted grudgingly, tipping the last Malteser into her mouth and hurling the empty bag in the general direction of the bin.
‘I’m fairly sure that counts as a morsel,’ said James.
‘Oh, just shut it, you.’
‘Er, rude.’
But James was giving her the biggest grin. Suddenly Felicity’s stomach, which had been chock-full of Christmas cake just moments before, felt all empty and fluttery. In the best way. Felicity simply couldn’t remember ever being this insanely happy before. This man was like pure distilled magic.
Which was quite strange really.
Felicity was a bona fide card-holding badge-wearing grinch of the highest order and to even feel anything remotely approaching happiness during the Christmas season was nothing short of miraculous.
For the past few years, all Felicity had done at Christmas was hide away at the animal rescue centre where she worked, where she didn’t have to talk to another human and certainly didn’t have to endure any – horror of horrors – festivities of any kind. And now look at her.
Even hosting their first Boxing Day dinner together in James’s gorgeous house had gone better than expected.
Her long-lost brother, Tristan, had brought along his boyfriend, Pete, who had turned out to be an absolute hoot and at least shared some of Felicity’s lingering disdain for certain elements of the season (‘never mind sprouts, piccalilli is the actual spawn of the devil’).
Somewhat miraculously, her friends Sophie and Bex had been on their best behaviour too. Mostly, anyway.
Bex didn’t even mention Adam, Felicity’s ex-boyfriend, who Bex just happened to be marrying in a few months’ time.
Everyone else studiously ignored the subject in true British style and Bex, to her credit, was making an extra effort to be attentive and even helped cook the dinner, which was very un-Bex-like behaviour.
Despite Bex’s attempts at “assistance” while carrying a glass of red wine in each hand, the bubble and squeak ended up a tad burnt, and there hadn’t been any leftovers as such – always the nicest part of Boxing Day or so she’d always been led to believe – because Felicity and James had spent Christmas Day eating cheese and onion pasties, so it was basically just elaborate (veggie) sausages and mash.
Nevertheless, the gang lapped it up. Her boss, Andrea, and her latest flame, Javier, the oldest guests by quite some way and also for some reason the randiest, spent most of the meal feeding each other forkfuls of food, which was positively disgusting, in truth.
Felicity found that copious quantities of “nosecco” made it marginally more tolerable although she could have murdered a gin and tonic.
She let them play Twister and Trivial Pursuit and she didn’t even complain about the Christmas TV choices.
Not even once. Not even when they all begged to watch that ancient rerun of Morecambe and Wise where they make a choreographed breakfast in perfect unison in their matching pyjamas, right down to the dubiously sliced grapefruit halves.
When someone put Wizzard on the Bluetooth speaker, Felicity didn’t utter a single word of protest, and that was progress, she felt.
And now here were Felicity and James, covered in rescued cats and biscuit crumbs.
Still in their pyjamas at 12 noon in honour of Morecambe and Wise with no intention of getting dressed or even moving very far for the rest of the day.
Staring at Christmas movie after Christmas movie.
Eating Quality Street chocolates for breakfast and lunch.
Feeling a bit sick. All of which would have been perfectly normal for most of the British population, but for Felicity?
This was her first proper Christmas since…
well, since early childhood, if those even counted.
Ever, basically. And in spite of her thirty-three years of, let’s face it, total grinchiness, the truth was that she was having a great time.
‘What’s next then, Brooks? Muppet Christmas Carol or The Grinch? Or is that second one a bit too close to the bone?’
‘And there’s yet more rudeness from the man in the Mulan pyjamas.’
‘What about Arthur Christmas? That’s quite a sweet one,’ said James. ‘Lots of cool gadgets too.’
‘I’m pregnant,’ said Felicity, suddenly.
At that very moment, James was reaching across to the coffee table for his fiftieth Hazelnut in Caramel of the day. As she spoke those words, he fell face first off the sofa in shock and landed in a heap on the carpet.
‘Shit. Sorry. Are you okay?’ said Felicity, her face caught somewhere between a giggle and panic that this was a Bad Sign.
‘I’m okay,’ came a muffled voice from the thick carpet.
‘Thank God. Sorry. I didn’t mean to…’
James’s head bobbed up. He had half a Pringle stuck to his cheek and his blond hair was even mussier than usual but his eyes… his blue, oh-so blue eyes were shining like the sun.
‘Say that again,’ he whispered.
‘You have a crisp on your cheek.’
‘That’s not what you said.’
‘I know, but you do. Want me to get it?’
He rubbed furiously at the wrong cheek and missed the crisp completely. Felicity guffawed.
‘Come here. Let me get it.’
James made a big show of marching over to her on his knees until he was kneeling right next to where she lay on the sofa.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed a stray strand of Felicity’s red hair behind her ear.
She reached out and touched his cheek lightly, brushing the crisp away and staring into those incredible eyes of his.
‘Say it again,’ he said, his voice cracking.
In that moment, Felicity’s heart swelled eight sizes.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she whispered, breathing a soft sigh of relief as his handsome face lit up all over again.