Page 1 of Confessions of a Christmasholic

ChapterOne

‘Ilove you, you love meeeeee…’

Sutton Alsop couldn’t remember the next line to the song she’d sing to her younger half-siblings and wrinkled her nose. Given she’d belted it out about a million times, it should be burned on her mental hard drive. Maybe if she tried again. ‘I love you, you love me…’

Nope, nothing. She couldn’t retrieve it. But if one’s brain only had space for x amount of data, she didn’t mind sending the song to her mental recycle bin. God bless the purple dinosaur, but if she never heard it again, it would be too soon.

Fascinated by the fluffy snowflakes, snow wasn’t big in Africa, Sutton tried to capture one on her tongue but her aim, thanks to numerous shots of tequila – four? Maybe five? – she missed and the snowflake drifted past and fell to the ground, where it instantly melted. Aw…bye, beautiful snowflake.

Sutton adjusted the straps of her bulging backpack. It seemed a lot heavier now she was drunk than when she was sober. Her boots had also acquired steel soles and her coat was lined with lead. God, she was tired. Cold, drunk, tired and broke…she’d hit the trifecta. No, a trifecta in a horse race was three, and a superfecta was four selections. Huh, so shehadlearned something from her ramblin’, gamblin’ stepdad. Either way, she was four for four.

Where was Jason’s uncle’s house? It felt like she’d been walking for hours, and miles. All she wanted was a bed, even a couch would do, and a tall glass of water to dilute the felony juice swishing in her stomach. Free booze was always dangerous, sheknewtwo shots were her limit. Bad girl.

Sutton squinted at the steep hill and saw blazing lights in the distance. Was that a landing strip for a spaceship or laser show? Either would be cool. She peered through the trees, and it took her a while to realise it was just a house covered in Christmas lights. No, covered was the wrong word, smothered was better. Damn, she was pretty sure the place could be seen from space.

It was totally Conningworth’s Christmas House, no doubt about it! Earlier in the pub, there’d been a lively discussion about the highly decorated house. According to the locals, Mr Christmas, the owner of the year-round Christmas shop in town, had finally finished decorating his house for the holidays a few days before – roughly a month before Christmas! – and it was, so they said, his best display yet. Sutton winced, relieved she didn't have to foot the bill for his electric consumption. But hey, at least the whole town would get to enjoy the Vegas-like display without breaking the bank themselves.

She could easily imagine Mr Christmas, he’d be a little fusty and a lot musty. Aged somewhere between sixty and dead, he’d smell of peppermints and old books, his faded corduroy trousers held up by suspenders, leather patches on the elbows of his ancient tweed jacket. Wire-rimmed spectacles, slightly battered but well-loved, held together with tape would sit midway down his long nose. And those eyebrows of his? Oh, they would be awesome! All scratchy and white and bushy, resembling puffed-up, utterly terrified caterpillars.

She’d passed his quaint, old-world but closed Christmas shop earlier, its bow-fronted display windows puke-pretty. Sutton didn’t do Christmas, but she did do money. So in the morning she’d see if Mr Christmas, maybe, had a job for her at his little store during what had to be his busiest time of the year. Sutton hoped she wouldn’t have to know any Christmas facts or sing carols to land the job. Christmas wasn’t that big a deal in the Alsop house, or any kind of deal, and she and Layla usually found a bar and got hammered. They routinely spent Christmas day on a beach nursing their hangovers.

Layla, best friend. Betrayer? No, she wouldn’t think of Layla right now. If she did, her tears would freeze on her face.

‘This little light of mine,’ Sutton sang, trudging up the hill to the Christmas house. Somewhere along this road was the house she’d occupy – squatting was such an ugly word – until Christmas Eve. She loved her friend, Jason, she really did. She loved Jason’s uncle for being a ship’s entertainer and for him being in the Caribbean for most of December, more.

‘I’m going let it shi-i-ine.’

That song was a Christmas carol, right? Or was it a hymn? No, ‘Hallelujah’ was a hymn… ‘Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord…’

Nope, Leonard Cohen’s brilliant classic didn’t mention Christmas. And if it didn’t have Christmas in it, then it couldn’t be a carol, right? Right. God, this hill! How steep was it, a thousand and twenty degrees? Everest steep?Jeez.Sutton stumbled over a rock and weaved on her feet, her backpack going one way and her body the other. Whoo boy!

Sutton closed one eye and scowled at the dim glow of the nearest streetlight, thinking it did a crappy job of illuminating the road ahead.

When the world stopped shifting under her feet, she started walking again, her attention caught by her breath mixing with the cold air. She puffed hard, entranced by the silver light shooting out from her mouth, fairies dancing on a light beam. Man, she was soooo pissed.

Feeling hot, Sutton undid the buttons of her heavy coat and yanked her beanie off her head. She shoved it into her coat pocket, pulled her gloves off with her teeth and pushed her fingertips into her hot cheeks. How could her skin be so cold when she felt like her inner thermostat was turned to hell high? And how much further did she have to walk? Her calf muscles wanted to quit, and her back threatened to go into a spasm.

Think about something else, Alsop.How did she distract her siblings when they were fractious? She’d sing to them, or play word games, Simon Says or I Spy, or musical cushions.

‘Jack and Jill went up a hill…’

Was that really the best she could do? She decided on a tongue twister, her brothers loved those, the grosser the better. Damn, she missed those little buggars!

‘If a dog chews shoes, whose shoes does he choose?’ was what she meant to say but it came out sounding likedogshooshooshoochoo.

Maybe she had tequila tongue. She needed to check,immediately! Stopping halfway up the hill and bending forward to keep her pack balanced, Sutton pushed out her tongue and tried to grab it with her index finger and thumb. After several attempts, she managed to snag it and stood there for a minute, trying to remember why she was gripping her tongue, afraid to let it go.

Maybe she had sudden onset Alzheimer’s. That would be bad. Very bad.

A dog barked in the distance, and Sutton yanked in her tongue. Unfortunately, her coordination skills were a little off and she snapped her teeth too soon. She howled in agony when her incisor caught the edge of her tongue. Sutton yelped and slapped her hand over her mouth, dancing on the spot, her yelping muffled by her hand.

Owowohshitowowow…

Sutton tasted blood and swiped her hand over her tongue.Ugh.Unlike earlier in the pub, she wasnothaving any fun out here. She should’ve stayed in the Wailing Ghost…wrong. The Ghostly Wail? More wrong. Anyway, she should’ve stayed in the pub, but they’d called last shout and she had to leave. The very cute bartender – after every tequila, his resemblance to Tom Holland grew stronger – flirted with her, constantly refilling her shot glass and handing her slices of lemon. It would’ve been rude to refuse. He said something about him being the pub owner’s son and he’d comp her the drinks. He also offered to take her home and show her a good time, naked.

Sadly, while she knew her way around a tequila, she’d forgotten how to navigate one-night stands. Plus, she was plastered, and come on, she wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore. Tiptoeing upstairs, trying not to disturb sleeping parents? Pass.

Onwards, Alsop!Sutton looked around to orientate herself – right, she was going up the hill! She lifted one heavier-than-before foot, then another. The cutie bartender – Harry? Gary? – was, at most, nineteen or twenty, just a little younger than her youngest brother, Brynn. Had he been older, with his own place, she might’ve considered it. Not for the sex but because, God, there was little she wouldn’t give to snuggle down into a pair of muscled arms, to lay her head against a wide chest, to hear a rough and growly voice tell her everything was okay. She hadn’t had that for so long…no, she’d never had it. She’d rested her head on a couple of chests but, come morning, they were usually gone. Or she was.

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