Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read!. Catherine Ferguson

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СКАЧАТЬ so she goes flying off the end). She’ll never be able to keep up with him.

      I call out to Barb, ‘Do you know him well, then?’

      ‘Who? Nathan?’ she asks, coming into the living room.

      ‘The guy upstairs. Jasper?’

      ‘Oh.’ Then after a pause: ‘Not really.’

      ‘Have you met him?’

      ‘Yeah, a couple of times. He’s a bit weird, though.’

      ‘Weird?’

      ‘Scatter-brained. He’s always losing his keys and getting me to buzz him into the building. And, last week, he left his violin out in the rain overnight.’

      ‘Really? Was it ruined?’

      ‘No, apparently it was in its case so it was fine. But, honestly, what a dipstick.’

      I remember Jasper’s warm, friendly smile that extended to his rather nice brown eyes. He’d seemed really nice to me. But then, I’d only had a ten-second conversation, mainly with his back.

      Barb disappears and comes back with her bag of knitting. She slumps down on the sofa. ‘Christ. I know I probably shouldn’t complain. Lucky to have a job and all that bollocks. But that place might possibly be the death of me.’

      ‘Over-worked and under-paid?’ I frown in sympathy.

      She nods. ‘We’re short-staffed after all the redundancies. It’s a nightmare. You’re actually lucky to be out of it.’

      I smile, although ‘lucky’ is the very last thing I feel.

      I applied for two jobs this afternoon and signed up with a temping agency. But people keep saying this is the worst time of year to be job-hunting because everyone’s more interested in sorting out their Christmas plans and office parties than doing actual work.

      ‘What are you making?’ I nod at the bundle of red wool and needles she’s bringing out of the bag.

      ‘Christmas tree decorations.’

      ‘Mm. Lovely.’

      Barb frowns. ‘Yes, I know. Hilarious. But they’ll look great, I promise you.’

      I nod in reluctant agreement. Barb is heavily into crafting. She says it’s her way of relaxing and I have to admit, most of the stuff she creates is pretty amazing. She started making her Christmas cards last weekend. The design – a single bauble with rows of red and gold sequins – is beautifully simple but effective.

      It’s my turn to make dinner so I wander through to the kitchen and start chopping onions and peppers for the chilli. I’m just putting the rice on when I hear the unmistakeable sound of Oklahoma! starting up in the living room on Barb’s iPod. She starts singing along to ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’.

      I grimace.

      Things must be bad at work.

      Old-style musicals are Barb’s secret vice. Along with her crafting.

      The fact she’s indulging in both at once must mean she’s really stressed.

      Definitely a night for comfort food on trays in front of the TV.

      Looking at Barb in her black garb and black eye make-up, you’d never think she was the world’s biggest fan of musicals. But she is. She adores all the oldies like West Side Story, Oklahoma! and, yes, The Sound of Music. (I’ve banned ‘The Lonely Goatherd’ because I think it stretches the boundaries of human endurance just a little too far. All that yodelling.)

      When I take her chilli through, Gordon MacRae is belting out, ‘Oh, the cowmen and the cowgirls should be friends!’ accompanied by a great deal of yee-hah-ing and thigh-slapping.

      Barb looks up sheepishly, puts down her knitting and takes the tray. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘Hey, no problem. Gordon’s fairly cute, as ancient film stars go.’

      ‘I shouldn’t let work and weasels get me down,’ she shouts, when I’m back in the kitchen.

      ‘No, you shouldn’t. Sod the lot of them,’ I call back, encouragingly. ‘Wine?’

      Obligingly, she whines.

      My mind is still processing the weasel part.

      I sit down with my own tray and hand her a glass of Shiraz. ‘Weasels? Does that mean you heard from Frank today?’

      She curls her lip. ‘He came in and asked for me at reception, the twat.’

      Frank, her ex, is a razor-jawed accountant who does underwear modelling in his spare time and accepts women’s adoration as totally his due. He found his match in Barb, though, and they had a stormy year-long relationship, during which time Barb ditched the witchy look in favour of a more floaty, pastel-heavy palette. Then Frank announced he was fed up being ‘emasculated’ and left Barb for an air-head Marilyn Monroe look-alike who no doubt agrees with everything he says.

      Whatever Barb might say, I know their split in January hit her badly.

      But we never mention her pastel phase.

      It’s strictly off-limits.

      Which suits me fine, since I’m the last one to bring up my murky past.

      ‘What did Frank want?’ I ask carefully.

      ‘Lunch.’

      ‘So did you go?’

      ‘No!’ she scoffs. ‘I told him to take a hike. Preferably up a very steep mountain in slippery shoes.’

      I grin at her admiringly. ‘Does he still use aftershave like it’s going out of fashion?’

      ‘Smells like a tart’s boudoir.’

      ‘You’re so much better off without him,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Although…’

      She whips round. ‘Although what?’

      I shrug. ‘Maybe it’s time you started thinking – you know – about dating again?’

      I’m taking my life in my hands here, but someone has to tell her. Since Frank, she’s had a real downer on men. And I worry she might retreat more and more into her world of deathly black and end up only going out at night when the moon is full or something.

      Her Frontal Lobe Theory about relationships is just a stalling tactic, I reckon.

      She sighs impatiently. ‘Tell you what, we’ll go out on the pull together, shall we? Fancy it?’

      ‘No.’ I laugh.

      She purses her lips. ‘Well, then.’

      We finish our chilli, as the unbearably СКАЧАТЬ