Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read!. Catherine Ferguson
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Название: Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read!
Автор: Catherine Ferguson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежный юмор
isbn: 9780008142223
isbn:
It’s just that Rob and Justine live in this huge five-bedroom house on a prestigious gated development near Edinburgh. It’s called The Gables and it’s as grand as it sounds. They each have a study, and there’s even a library and a room dedicated to working out, with a rowing machine, treadmill and other hi-tech machinery. Not that either of them have time to use it much.
The point is, they’re real grown-ups. They do useful things with their lives.
Whereas at the age of twenty-seven, I sometimes feel like a teenager, wondering what I’m going to do with my life.
When Justine sees our Rustic Place flat, her brows will disappear under her glossy fringe, perhaps never to return.
She has a dressing-room in her house, for God’s sake.
While we barely have room to get dressed …
The flat door opens, startling me back to the present.
‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ calls Nathan in a cute American accent. (He’s from Wigan.)
Shit! Is it that time already?
It usually takes well over an hour to do our regular ten-mile run on Sundays. But then, Nathan hasn’t got me slowing him up today, so no wonder he’s back sooner.
I drag the sofa over the mark, planning to head straight for the Stain Devils as soon as I hear the shower running. Then I dash for the mini gym in the next room, leap on the cross-trainer and get started.
Nathan pops his head round the door a second later.
‘Ah, well done. We’ll make a little Ellen Hoog of you yet.’ He gives me a cheery wink and heads for the bedroom.
I slow down to a stop.
Ellen Hoog?
Who the hell is Ellen Hoog?
I leap off the machine and dive into the kitchen, emerging with several sprays which I hope will be up to the challenge. Thankfully, the rest of the stain comes away fairly easily with plenty of toxic chemicals.
I cross-train for another few minutes to work up a bit of a sweat then decide to join Nathan, who’s all lathered up in the shower.
‘Hey, sexy.’ He grins lazily, watching me strip off. I step in, he pulls me against him and I abandon myself to the steamy heat and Nathan’s lovely, slithery caresses. And I wonder for about the ninety-fifth time what on earth this glorious specimen of manhood sees in averagely attractive me.
He manoeuvres me out of the shower and onto the bed and, at that point, my brain ceases to wonder about anything at all.
Later, while Nathan’s in the kitchen throwing together hummus wraps and a mixed bean salad with crunchy seaweed topping, I sneak away and Google Ellen Hoog.
Apparently she’s a member of the Netherlands field hockey team that won gold in the 2012 Olympics.
She’s also a luscious-lipped blonde who wouldn’t look out of place on a New York catwalk.
I peer intently at the photo. Very sleek hair.
Hah!
I bet she has to use heaps of product to get it that smooth.
I met Nathan when Barb dragged me along to join the local gym.
Barb had split up with her long-term boyfriend, Frank, in January and, as part of the grieving process, we’d got into a comforting routine of staying in every night, watching TV and ordering takeaways.
Six months later, our ever-expanding waistlines finally forced us to take stock.
‘We need to join a gym,’ Barb yelled to me from the living room one night. ‘But in the meantime, is there any of that Four Seasons pizza left? The one with the double cheese topping?’
‘Why do we need a gym?’ I walked back in with laden plates. ‘I’m allergic to that kind of huffing and puffing. Can’t we just do some power walking?’
But Barb was firm. In between mouthfuls of banoffee pie with whipped cream, she said the only way we’d ever be disciplined enough to take regular exercise was if we’d shelled out good money to do so.
She had a point.
So the next night, straight after work, we turned up at Trim ’n’ Tone for our induction.
Waiting in line at reception, Barb joked that the only gym she’d ever enjoyed was Jim Pratt from Coventry, who she’d met years ago on holiday in Corfu.
I was laughing, about to demand details, when the queue shuffled forwards and I got a clear view of the girl talking to the receptionist.
A bolt of shock ripped through me.
Talk about a horrible blast from the past.
Crystal ‘Tank’ Watson was in my class at school.
She didn’t look like a Crystal. Not then, anyway. She had greasy brown hair, piggy eyes and was built like a barn door.
And she was mean.
Very mean.
When I was ten, I became the focus of her bullying for a while.
Coincidentally, it was also the year my fairly ordinary but happy family life was shattered beyond repair.
That wasn’t Crystal’s fault, of course.
But in my mind, Crystal Tank Watson and her bullying was forever linked with that heartbreaking time. It was just one of life’s horrible ironies. You hit rock bottom and think things can’t get any worse – and then, hey presto, they actually do.
Crystal was my ‘even worse’.
And now there she was again. A member of this gym Barb was expecting me to join. Except no one could call her Tank any more. She’d gone down at least five dress sizes and looked trim and toned in her pink Lycra. Gone were the oily rats’ tails. Her hair now fell gleaming and golden down her back.
My hand shook as I signed the monthly direct debit form and I ended up making a complete mess of it. The receptionist looked down her nose and flourished a fresh form at me.
I couldn’t believe how shaken I felt.
One look at Crystal and all the memories from that terrible time came flooding right back. I clutched the counter for support, terrified I was about to slide down and land in a heap on the floor, which would give the frosty-faced receptionist even more to be scathing about.
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