Page 10 of Confessions of a Christmasholic

They’d been friends since they were five. They’d studied together and partied together. They knew where their skeletons were buried. Layla’d seen the best and worst of the Alsop family and was her sister in everything but name.

Thinking about Layla made her heart ache – this was worse than any betrayal or breakup with any man – so she sat up, a million gongs sounding in her head at the same time. God, she felt dreadful. And she desperately needed to use the bathroom. When her dizziness abated, she stood up slowly – she’d aged a hundred years in a few hours thanks to her one-night stand with tequila – and used the back of the couch to keep her balance. There was nice art on the walls, and more photos on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, including one of Santa’s ass-kicker looking serious in a smart uniform. Despite his feather-decorated beret, he still radiated an I’m-a-scary-badass vibe.

Sutton crossed the hall, narrowly avoiding tripping over a scooter, and found a bathroom neatly hidden under the stairs. After washing her hands, she reluctantly lifted her head to look at her reflection in the small mirror above the basin. Her loud groan bounced off the walls. The bruise on her cheek was pansy violet, edged in red, and mascara streaks slashed through the blue rings under her eyes. Her hair desperately needed a cut. Luckily, she was a natural blonde, so she didn’t need highlights. On a good day, she was girl-next-door attractive. Today wasn’t, in any way, a good day.

Sutton dried her hands on a hand towel and walked back into the hall. The next door down led to a spacious kitchen and open-plan dining and living area leading out onto a glass-walled conservatory, the floor of which was covered in car tracks, Barbie dolls and building blocks. A loud woof drilled into her head and the mournful whine made her ears bleed. It looked cold outside, the clouds hung low in the sky, and, judging by the beds she saw in the hall, and the chewed-up pull rope lying on the carpet, dogs were allowed inside. She hadn’t owned a dog growing up –four kids were enough mouths to feed, thank you very much!– and Sutton loved animals.

A big paw scratched at the kitchen door, and she couldn’t resist the pitiful whine, so Sutton walked between the island and the kitchen cabinets and opened the back door. A streak of blueish-black fur brushed past her, splattering mud.

Oh, bugger! She’d let a mud-streaked, soaking wet dog of indeterminate breed but of great heft into the house. Where was a bucket, a mop, and cloths? Sutton felt a small wet nose sniffing at her sock-covered foot. She looked down and saw a little black and white pig, its stomach nearly brushing the tiled floor.

A monster doganda pig.Right.

Sutton shivered and closed the kitchen door. But where had the dog gone? Dog – Sasquatch? Who could tell? She looked across to the living-slash-playroom and didn’t see it in there. Grimacing, she checked the dog beds in the hall and found them empty. She walked back into the more formal reception room. Praying she wasn’t right, she peeked over the back of the deep, expensive cream-coloured couch. The creature rested its shaggy head on the cushion she’d used earlier, and wet, brown patches bloomed on the cream upholstery.

The dog – if something the size of a small cow could be called a dog – lifted its head at her and smirked. The pig placed its hooves on the cushion next to the dog’s head and tried to defy gravity by attempting to climb onto the couch to join his friend.

‘Off!’

The dog yawned and closed its eyes, blatantly ignoring her. The pig batted its eyelashes and Sutton shook her head, knowing she needed to ignore the desperate plea in its eyes.

‘No,’ she said, lifting her hand. ‘Hell,no. I’ve done enough. I’ve blown fuses, wrecked his garden, broken Christmas decorations, destroyed a Christmas tree and now I’ve allowed his dog to dirty his couch.’

Sutton attempted to tug the dog off the couch, but it wasn’t going anywhere. Her head pounding, she turned her back on the hard-done-by pig and walked out of the room. She’d write Gus another IOU for the bill to get his couch cleaned. Damn, she was racking up debt like there was no tomorrow.

It was time to leave before she did more damage. Her hiking boots, no longer waterproof, stood by her backpack by the door and her puffer jacket hung on a hook next to the heavy front door. She sat down on the chair next to the hall table and pulled on her right boot. It was time to get out of here. Jason’s uncle’s house had to be close.

Sutton was about to pull the laces on her boots tighter to tie them when the landline next to her released a blare, causing her to jump. She knocked her elbow on the wall and released a sharp curse. Ow, that hurt! Jeez!

The ringing phone stopped, thank God. Blessed silence filled the hall and her brain pulled back from her skull, just a little. She was about to bend over when the phone rang again. She eyed it with trepidation. There was no answering machine so should she answer the call?

The phone stopped, but immediately rang again. Sutton picked up the receiver, mostly to stop her head from exploding.

‘I’m calling from Shipman Distributors, about your order,’ a brusque female voice informed her. ‘I know it’s early, but it’s the busy season and you did tell me to call at any time to update you about your order. I dialled the cell number I was given but it routed my call to this number.’

‘My order?’ Sutton asked, wondering if she could ask the caller to speak more slowly. And more softly. Foghorns would envy her ability to transmit sound.

‘Your specialised order of Christmas decorations. This is the Christmas Shop, right?’

‘Uh—’

‘Anyway, you can expect the delivery tomorrow. I’ll email the invoice to Gus at the Christmas shop Conningworth dot com. If you could pay it immediately, that would be helpful.’

Sutton was aiming to feel normal... Helpful? Not so much.

‘Goodbye.’ Instead of ringing off, the woman inhaled sharply. ‘I must say, I was expecting a bit more of a professional attitude from the staff of what I’ve been told is one of the best Christmas shops in the country.’

Sutton considered telling her she had the wrong number but before she could, she heard the click of the call being disconnected. Turning back to her task of pulling on her boots, she bent down, feeling dizzy and exceptionally nauseous. She couldn’t throw up. Doing so would be the Christmas star on what had already been a pretty crappy morning. She glanced at the old-fashioned grandfather clock opposite her. Man, it wasn’t even nine yet.

Sutton wasn’t even surprised when she heard a sharp, hard knock on the front door. At this point, aliens could land, and she’d just shrug her shoulders. To be fair, she had a lot going on.

Knock, knock, thump.

Jeez, this house was busier than Kings Cross Station! All she wanted to do was pull on her shoes, grab her coat, and her backpack and go. But the simple task was taking much longer than anticipated. She needed coffee. It was hard to adult without coffee. It was doubly hard to adult without coffee when you had a brain-splitting hangover.

Sutton hobbled to the door, her foot in one unlaced boot. Holding her other boot in her hand, she pulled the door open and saw two men on the doorstep, one a gorgeous blue-eyed blond, the other of Caribbean African descent. The blond held two brightly wrapped presents, his long nose buried in what she was sure was a cashmere scarf. He wore sharply pressed jeans tucked into spotlessly clean gumboots. His friend – lover? Husband? – looked casual in straight-legged track pants, trainers and a thick hoodie, under a sleeveless puffer jacket.

‘Can I help you?’

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