Page 61 of It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas
He scoffed. ‘You’re so naïve. This is just how it works in the real world. Plus, why would anybody believe you?’
I picked up my phone from behind the door frame and held it aloft, clearly showing him that the device was still recording. ‘Because we’ve got this whole conversation on camera.’
‘Hey, let me see that!’ he hissed.
As he lunged towards me to grab my phone, I sidestepped him and threw the phone to Becky, which she caught coolly with one hand and continued to film.
Christian shook his head a few times quickly, as if he was trying to convince himself this was all a bad dream.
‘Whatever. It’s not like anybody will care about your silly little video clip, anyway. I play golf with the head of the planning department. And I went to Cambridge with the editor of theWestern Daily Press. My application will get waved through, just like all the others.’
I laughed. ‘Sorry, am I meant to find that impressive? BecauseIwork with the editor ofThe Helixin London, and I’m sure he’d beveryinterested in commissioning an article about sleazy small-town developers who are sucking the lifeblood out of lovely places like Scarnbrook to line their woolly little pockets.’
Becky snorted at my knitwear reference, and a look of genuine terror flew across his face. ‘Hang on a sec, who did you say you were again?’
‘I didn’t. But I’ve been meaning to ask: have you been in touch with my brother, Josh Allister, lately?’
Christian froze. From the very little I knew about him, I could already tell he was the type of person who valued others in terms of what he perceived to be their transactional value. And, in his eyes at least, Josh was an influential asset – no doubt useful for namedropping every now and then – that he couldn’t afford to lose.
‘Shit, you’re Josh’s sister?’
I curtseyed for the first time in my life. ‘One and the same.’
‘Fuck. I had no idea. Shit, stop recording now, Becky, okay?’
‘We’ll stop recording if you promise to stop obsessing about getting your hands on this place,’ she said. We were an unstoppable team, now, certain of victory.
‘Yeah, yeah, fine. Whatever.’
I nodded at Becky, who tapped ‘stop’ and stowed the phone away in her pocket for safe-keeping.
Christian opened his mouth to say something. But at that moment the pub door opened to a cacophony of noise. Finally, it was the festive revellers from Tom’s company, WeFacilit8, who immediately shifted the pub’s atmosphere from tense, soap opera cliffhanger to something more akin to aGavin and StaceyChristmas special.
Christian’s top lip curled upwards in frustration. He swivelled 180 degrees, fetched his family from the other side of the pub and made a swift exit without looking back once.
I was rooted to the spot, but all of a sudden Becky was bouncing up and down in front of me like some kind of magic jumping bean, and handing me my phone.
‘Fucking hell, Allister – I think that was probably the best thing I’ve ever seen in real life!’
‘Did that… really just happen?’ I said, still frozen.
Becky somehow leapt over the bar as if it was a move she practised in private every night, grabbed me by the shoulders and looked directly at me. ‘YES!’
And, after a couple of seconds, I joined her in the magic jumping bean stakes as she ripped up the offer papers he’d left behind and threw the scraps in the air, which fell like confetti all around us. I had no idea where my sudden ability to hold my own in an argument had come from. But I was fucking proud of myself.
‘Er, what the hell is happening?’ It was Tom, who’d extricated himself from his throng of colleagues to order a round of drinks.
‘This fucking legend here has just told Christian Woods to do one, once and for all!’
‘You’re kidding?! Tell me everything!’
‘Oh, we will,’ said Becky, whipping off the Santa hat from the bust’s head on the bar and plonking it on mine instead. ‘But first, I believe there’s a bottle of undrunk but paid-for champagne with our names on it that we need to crack into. You know what? Sod it: FREE CHAMPAGNE FOR EVERYONE!’
Once everyone in the pub had been given their free bubbles and Becky had filled Tom in on my showdown with Christian, I ducked back into the private dining room with my own glass to give it a swift, final appraisal from the doorway. Before Christian had arrived, I’d gone to a fair amount of effort, giving all the cutlery and glasses an extra buff so they gleamed and glistened. I’d somehow got the fire crackling contentedly, and had lit all the tealights – even adding some more I’d managed to find in the dresser to every available surface. Once all the fairy lights in the room had been switched on, and the Christmas tree in the corner was aglow, I’d decided we could afford to switch off the overhead lights, resulting in the aesthetic of a sumptuous festive banquet room that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of Nigella Lawson’s innuendo-laden winter cookery shows.
I stepped to one side to give space for the diners to enter, only for Tom to step in the same direction so that my nose was practically touching his chest. I looked up, sheepishly, neither of us taking a step back.
‘Mally! Woah, this room has never looked so good.’ He pulled me in for a quick hug. He smelt of beer, sambuca and a nameless but delicious aftershave I knew I would need to track down so I’d be able to relive this deeply pleasurable sensory moment in the near and frequent future.
