Page 88 of You Had Me at Chateau
I laugh, trying to picture our parents all loved-up, but I’m guessing it has to be seen to be believed.
‘I can’t wait,’ I say with a chuckle.
‘Their happiness is having a knock-on effect on Christmas,’ Tom continues. ‘We’ve got a big party planned for Christmas Eve, so you’ve got that to look forward to in a couple of days. They’ve invited absolutely everyone. They even told me to bring a plus-one – not bloody likely though. Watching our parents French kiss under the mistletoe would scare anyone away.’
I burst out laughing. Now there’s an image.
‘Yeah, I think that would test any potential relationship,’ I tell him. ‘Do you think we ought to try to break them up again?’
Tom almost cackles with laughter because that one caught him off guard.
‘You’ve got a plus-one too, you know,’ Tom adds, glancing at me as he pulls out of the car park. ‘You could invite Caleb.’
I shake my head.
‘I don’t think so, we only really had a working relationship,’ I tell him. ‘Plus, he has a lot going on. His girlfriend wants him back, and he is busy dealing with a PR problem. It turns out the guy who runs the place where we were staying set him up and tipped off the paparazzi about him being there.’
Tom’s eyes widen.
‘Wow. How do you know?’ he asks curiously.
‘The guy told me himself,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘He lived in the château where I was staying. He just proudly blurted it out to me.’
‘He sounds like a dick,’ Tom replies.
‘Yeah, I guess he was,’ I agree, feeling absolutely zero regrets that I didn’t spend more time with Henri.
‘Ah well, at least it’s Christmas,’ Tom says, giving me a nudge with his elbow. ‘Let’s go to our no longer broken family home, start drinking, and not stop until the new year.’
‘Sounds like a good plan to me,’ I say, trying to snap myself out of my funk. ‘Did my shopping all arrive?’
‘Yeah, there are loads of packages for you,’ Tom replies. ‘I hope you got me something decent. I think I’ve got something great for you.’
‘I can’t wait to open it,’ I say, finding a bit of genuine enthusiasm.
Despite feeling down in the dumps and a bit sorry for myself, maybe Christmas is exactly what I need. I’ve sent my latest (car crash of a) book to my editor, so I can stop thinking about that disaster. Spending time with my family is the perfect escape. I can take a break from reality, reset, and hopefully, in the new year, I can be a whole new me.
Yep, that old one. I don’t believe it either.
48
Tom wasn’t kidding when he said our parents were having a big Christmas Eve party – the house is practically bursting at the seams. Mum has gone all out with the decorations this year. The hallway is decked with garlands, each one twinkling with so many fairy lights they’re actually brighter than the big light in there. There’s a gigantic tree in the living room, adorned with a mishmash of old family ornaments, and new, shiny baubles ping light around the room like a disco ball. Honestly, the whole place looks like something she should have charged admission for, like a Christmas wonderland, if wonderlands were full of random friends and family who are all drinking way too much.
Hilariously, you can’t really see the decorations any more. The place is overflowing with people, all talking and laughing over each other. I cradle the super-strong cranberry cocktail that Tom made for me – he called it a ‘Cranberry Death’, which sounds like, well, something that will kill me with Christmas. I nibble on a mince pie as I scan the room for a familiar face. Well, someone familiar who I actually want to talk to, at least.
It weirdly feels like everyone and no one is here. I know my auntie and cousin are somewhere in this sea of festive cheer,but I haven’t seen them for ages. The local vicar is chatting animatedly with Val from down the street. Oh, and there’s her husband, Pete – the one who always asks if I’m still a writer and, when I say yes, gives me a patronising pat on the back and tells me to hang in there. He once suggested I apply for a job at his son’s garden centre. Hey, I wonder if it’s still going…
With no one I really want to engage with, there’s only one thing for it: hit up the buffet tableagain. It’s Christmas, so all conventional food rules are out the window. Despite just finishing a mince pie, I pick up a giant Scotch egg and start munching on it like it’s an apple. If you were supposed to eat beige snacks five times a day then let’s just say I’m smashing all expectations.
I spot Mum and Dad across the room. Dad’s hands are on Mum’s hips, and they’re swaying to the music. It’s like they’re loved-up teenagers again. Who knew Dad even knew Mum had hips? They’re acting like newlyweds, in a way I suspect they didn’t do when they were actual newlyweds. Say what you want about Caleb – and believe me, I’ve been saying a lot, none of it flattering – but he’s done something right. If nothing else comes from this whole mess other than my parents giving things another go, then maybe it was worth it. It might not feel that way now, but maybe in the future I’ll see that everything happens for a reason.
I pull out my phone. The one thing I told myself I wouldn’t do is check my work emails. It’s unlikely Jen will read my book until the new year anyway. But here I am, bored enough to break my own rule.
There is an email from Jen, it turns out, with the subject line ‘New Book’. I open it, and my face contorts with confusion. Eh? None of this makes sense. Jen says she’s read my book – my awful, purposefully bad book – and she loved it. She’s signingoff for Christmas but is excited to discuss new contracts and advances in the new year.
What? Advances? I don’t get advances, I’m not important enough, I’m an author, not a celebrity. Plus, I only sent her it yesterday, so she can’t have sat and read the whole thing? Even if she just read the new bits, it still doesn’t seem likely, because I’ve changed little bits here and there all the way through. Has Jen started on the sherry early or something, or has she just had enough of me to the point where she’ll publish any old shite I write? But, then again, why would she give me an advance, if that were true?
‘How would you like your present early?’ Tom asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.
