Read Online Christmas Without Holly by Nicola Yeager - Free Book Online
Authors: Nicola Yeager
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really a textable piece
of news? Is textable a real word? Is ‘big sorries’ a phrase that anyone over
three would use?
I sit up and make myself a cup of sludge coffee. I mustn’t
react emotionally to this news. I must see it for what it is. Look at it
calmly. It’s just one of those things. Jobs like Clive’s can be unpredictable.
It isn’t necessarily his fault. He may have no choice. His future – our future
– may depend on this work he has to do. I’m sure that if there was any way
around this he would have taken it.
I read the text again. It’s the same as it was a minute ago.
Nothing has changed. The words haven’t magically rearranged themselves into
something nice.
He texted his parents with this news before he texted me.
Otherwise, how would he be able to say that they’d still be
pleased to have me? He had to ask their permission to take me in on Christmas
day, like I was some fucking orphan in a Dickens story or something. I raise
the coffee cup to my lips and I notice that my hand is shaking, unless it’s the
coffee cup that’s shaking on its own, which rarely happens in my experience.
I take a deep breath and look out of the window. A man and a
woman are walking past. They’re holding hands and laughing. I realise that I’ve
been squeezing my mobile really tightly. I throw it to the floor as hard as I
can. It breaks into three pieces. I cry and cry.
Five
As soon as I wake up the following morning, I go into the
bathroom, turn the light on and look in the mirror to see if my eyes are puffy
from last night’s uncontrollable, long-term sobbing. I look tired, but my eyes
look normal. Good. If I bump into Rebecca, I don’t want her to notice anything
and ask me questions.
I still can’t quite believe Clive’s text from last night,
but despite fantasising that it might all have been a terrible dream, I know it
wasn’t. I look at my poor mobile on the floor. It wasn’t the mobile’s fault. I
pick the pieces up and see if I can put it back together. Amazingly, it’s still
working, though the plastic bit that goes over the battery won’t go back on and
has a big chunk out of the side. I’ll have to get some Sellotape.
Like a robot, I take a shower and try not to think about all
the Christmas parties that Clive will be going to over the next week or so. I
try not to think about the atmosphere at Clive’s parents’ place. If they looked
at me with bafflement and pity before, what are they going to be like when I’m
there without Clive? I don’t think I could stand the smirks, so I decide that
there’s no way on earth that I’m going to go. Sod ‘em. I’d rather spend
Christmas with Rebecca, getting multiple orgasms from Turkish masseurs and
spending hubby’s money!
I get into some clothing and drift like a ghost down to the
restaurant for some breakfast. At least I’ve still got a whole day here, where
I don’t have to face the real world. As long as I can avoid Rebecca and lose
myself in my remaining treatments, I think I can almost begin to enjoy myself.
Part of my brain is working on what I’m going to do for Christmas. The first
thing it suggests is my sister, but she’s got kids and it’s a bit short notice.
Also, I don’t want to talk to her, as she’s boring and provincial. I’ll forget
about that for the moment. Play it by ear.
As I tuck in to a delicious fruit salad and down two glasses
of mango juice (I can hear my teeth begging for mercy), I try and get my head
straight and take a look at my little card which tells me what I’ve got on
today. From the look of it, I decided to spoil myself; I’ve got a detoxifying
seaweed wrap after breakfast, then I’m having a gel overlay on my fingernails
(makes the colour last longer, among other things).
In the afternoon, I’ve got a cut and blow dry (and for the
price they’re asking it better be a bloody good one, with the gayest hair
stylist on the planet!), then my final bamboo massage.
All this
of news? Is textable a real word? Is ‘big sorries’ a phrase that anyone over
three would use?
I sit up and make myself a cup of sludge coffee. I mustn’t
react emotionally to this news. I must see it for what it is. Look at it
calmly. It’s just one of those things. Jobs like Clive’s can be unpredictable.
It isn’t necessarily his fault. He may have no choice. His future – our future
– may depend on this work he has to do. I’m sure that if there was any way
around this he would have taken it.
I read the text again. It’s the same as it was a minute ago.
Nothing has changed. The words haven’t magically rearranged themselves into
something nice.
He texted his parents with this news before he texted me.
Otherwise, how would he be able to say that they’d still be
pleased to have me? He had to ask their permission to take me in on Christmas
day, like I was some fucking orphan in a Dickens story or something. I raise
the coffee cup to my lips and I notice that my hand is shaking, unless it’s the
coffee cup that’s shaking on its own, which rarely happens in my experience.
I take a deep breath and look out of the window. A man and a
woman are walking past. They’re holding hands and laughing. I realise that I’ve
been squeezing my mobile really tightly. I throw it to the floor as hard as I
can. It breaks into three pieces. I cry and cry.
Five
As soon as I wake up the following morning, I go into the
bathroom, turn the light on and look in the mirror to see if my eyes are puffy
from last night’s uncontrollable, long-term sobbing. I look tired, but my eyes
look normal. Good. If I bump into Rebecca, I don’t want her to notice anything
and ask me questions.
I still can’t quite believe Clive’s text from last night,
but despite fantasising that it might all have been a terrible dream, I know it
wasn’t. I look at my poor mobile on the floor. It wasn’t the mobile’s fault. I
pick the pieces up and see if I can put it back together. Amazingly, it’s still
working, though the plastic bit that goes over the battery won’t go back on and
has a big chunk out of the side. I’ll have to get some Sellotape.
Like a robot, I take a shower and try not to think about all
the Christmas parties that Clive will be going to over the next week or so. I
try not to think about the atmosphere at Clive’s parents’ place. If they looked
at me with bafflement and pity before, what are they going to be like when I’m
there without Clive? I don’t think I could stand the smirks, so I decide that
there’s no way on earth that I’m going to go. Sod ‘em. I’d rather spend
Christmas with Rebecca, getting multiple orgasms from Turkish masseurs and
spending hubby’s money!
I get into some clothing and drift like a ghost down to the
restaurant for some breakfast. At least I’ve still got a whole day here, where
I don’t have to face the real world. As long as I can avoid Rebecca and lose
myself in my remaining treatments, I think I can almost begin to enjoy myself.
Part of my brain is working on what I’m going to do for Christmas. The first
thing it suggests is my sister, but she’s got kids and it’s a bit short notice.
Also, I don’t want to talk to her, as she’s boring and provincial. I’ll forget
about that for the moment. Play it by ear.
As I tuck in to a delicious fruit salad and down two glasses
of mango juice (I can hear my teeth begging for mercy), I try and get my head
straight and take a look at my little card which tells me what I’ve got on
today. From the look of it, I decided to spoil myself; I’ve got a detoxifying
seaweed wrap after breakfast, then I’m having a gel overlay on my fingernails
(makes the colour last longer, among other things).
In the afternoon, I’ve got a cut and blow dry (and for the
price they’re asking it better be a bloody good one, with the gayest hair
stylist on the planet!), then my final bamboo massage.
All this
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