All I Want for Christmas: a funny and sexy festive novella Read online

  ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS

  A sexy, festive, romcom novella

  KERIS STAINTON

  Chapter 1

  I'm on my hands and knees in a bar full of German businessmen.

  ‘Baby,’ I mouth as I crawl towards Lee. ‘Oh-oh baby...’

  Lee plays air guitar.

  I carry on miming as we stand and start to dance and, if you know Dirty Dancing at all, you’ll know that this is where Baby and Johnny are rudely interrupted by the dorky son of the owner of the resort. Lee and I, though, are rudely interrupted by our boss, Patrick, standing at the side of the stage and shouting to the audience, ‘So! That was Ella and Lee and that’s Movieoke! Anyone want to have a go?’

  Lee and I squint out through the stage lights at the Germans. They laugh and nod emphatically. They’re very, very drunk, of course – it's an office Christmas party, so all bets are off. A man stands and weaves towards us. He looks like a caricature of a German – blond hair, blond moustache, blond eyebrows, small wire-rimmed glasses. He holds a pint of lager, which Patrick swiftly relieves him of before he clambers onto the stage.

  Behind us, a picture of me and Lee is frozen on the screen replacing the film still. The photos of us are used alongside the film photos to publicise these events. Movieoke is only one of the events offered by FUNLimited – the company both of us, along with our flatmate Amy – work for, but it’s hugely popular. Every time we do a Movieoke event we end up with bookings for another. I study the picture of me and Lee while Patrick explains Movieoke to the Germans. Lee looks like his usual gorgeous self – a bit like Dermot O’Leary: shaved head, cheeky smile. I look . . . okay. My hair looks good: strangely shiny, given that I hardly ever remember to condition it, but somehow my freckles look even more pronounced, and no matter how many times people tell me they're cute, I don't buy it.

  The German huddles with Patrick and the Movieoke Bible – the book containing all the information on the film clips people can perform along with – and eventually Patrick disappears into the control room. The German (whose name, it transpires, is Hans – yes, Hans) makes it onto the stage and Lee and I head to the bar.

  Amy is sitting on a bar stool waiting for us. She passes us our drinks. ‘You were wonderful, darlings.’

  ‘I can’t not be wonderful when I work with Ella,’ Lee jokes as he swigs from his bottle of Budvar. ‘She’s like the wind . . . in my tree.’

  ‘I don't understand that song.’ I pause to drink some wine. ‘The wind beneath my wings I get; the wind in my tree, not so much. She ruffles his leaves?’

  ‘She ruffles my leaves...’ Lee sings. ‘That may be better than the real lyrics,’ he says. ‘As if you’d ever admit to a woman that she was out of your league.’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ Amy says. ‘Since most women are out of your league.’

  ‘Hurr, hurr,’ Lee says.

  ‘Ooh, good comeback!’ Amy says. ‘How is the stand-up career going?’

  Lee pulls a face. ‘I've got an open mic next week.’

  ‘Wow, really?’ I say. ‘That's fantastic!’

  ‘I'm bricking it,’ he says.

  ‘You'll be great,’ I tell him, even though I've no idea whether he will be or not. I can't even begin to imagine standing on stage in front of strangers, trying to make them laugh.

  The movie starts on the screen and we see that Hans has entered the spirit of the evening and, along with a female colleague, is doing the 'Baby It's Cold Outside' scene from Elf.

  ‘I hate this song,’ Amy says. ‘It's supposed to be sexy, but it's just creepy.’

  ‘I don't think it's creepy!’ I say. ‘It's nice.’

  ‘He won't let her leave! She wants to leave and he won't let her.’

  ‘She doesn't really want to leave,’ I say. ‘She just thinks she should. She's being coy.’

  ‘That's what you're supposed to think,’ Amy says, rolling her eyes.

  ‘We've all done the “Oh, I should go...” thing when we really just want someone to convince us to stay,’ I say.

  ‘I know I have,’ Lee says. ‘I've also “just popped round for a quick drink” with an overnight bag in the boot of the car.’

  ‘Ewww!’ Amy and I both say.

  ‘Listen!’ Amy points at the stage as the woman mimes along to 'Say, what's in this drink?' Then pulls a ‘See!’ face.

  ‘That just means he's made her a cocktail...’ I say.

  ‘A roofie cocktail,’ Amy says.

  ‘You are way too cynical,’ I laugh.

  ‘You're one to talk,’ Amy says.

  ‘I'm not cynical. ‘I'm just not looking for anything serious right now.’

  *

  We've seen – and helped out with – performances of various Christmas films and one, inevitable, Godfather (someone always does The Godfather) when Patrick asks me to go and get the presents to hand out. A Christmas gift for everyone was part of the package for this evening. I didn't see what they were, but no doubt they'll be something fascinating like pens for the men and 'scent' for the ladies. There's never much gender awareness in most of the companies we take bookings from. They're very traditional, Patrick tells me. I think they're living in the past. There's been more than one occasion a company has stipulated that any 'girls', i.e. me and Amy, should not be wearing trousers. I generally just wear a little – but not too little – black dress. Tonight, of course, it's accessorised with the Santa hat, which keeps slipping down over my eyes.

  The gifts are in the boot of Patrick's car, which is parked in the underground car park, so I take off my heels and stash them behind a plant, before heading down the stairs (there's a lift, but it's not working, inevitably). The car park is dingy and a bit creepy. Even though it's well lit, there's just something about underground car parks. I don't know if it's because of the concrete pillars or if it's just because TV shows and films have convinced us that terrible things will happen there, but I want to get in, get the presents and get out as fast as I can.

  I press the button on Patrick's key fob and hear the 'blip blip' that alerts me to his Audi, parked about five spaces down from the door. Opening the boot, I curse him for not putting the gifts in bags – they're all over the place. They're wrapped, at least, but it would have been a lot easier for me to carry bags than sixty-odd loose parcels. I pick up as many as I can and hope I can find some bags for the next leg.

  I have to put everything down again to open the stairwell door. At least I get up the stairs without incident, but as I push the double doors into the main room – swing doors, thank God – someone pushes from the other side and I lose my grip on the gifts. I twist my body in a vain attempt to stop them from dropping, but my feet slip on the tile floor and I know I'm going to fall. I let the presents drop as I reach out to try to grab the door, my feet pedalling under me like a cartoon character. Then I hit the ground, directly on my arse and the pain reverberates right up to the back of my head.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Oh my God,’ the idiot who knocked me down says. ‘I'm so sorry.’

  The Santa hat has, of course, fallen down over my eyes, so I can't see him, but I say, ‘Don't worry, it was my fault.’

  Whether it was or not, one of Patrick's rules is that nothing is ever the client's fault.

  ‘Well, blindfolded barefoot present balancing isn't the best idea I've ever heard, but I should've checked before I pushed the door.’

  ‘I wasn't blindfolded until I fell down,’ I say indignantly. I push the Santa hat up out of my eyes and want to immediately pull it back down again. Right over my face. Maybe my entire body. And then
disappear, like a magic trick. I don't think this guy can be one of the clients. I would've noticed him sooner. There would've been no way not to notice him. The dark hair. The perfect smile. The deep brown eyes. But mostly the Santa hat. It's pushed to the back of his head like a beanie and actually suits him. This is a man who makes a Santa hat look hot. I didn't even know they existed.

  ‘You're not with the...’ I can't think of the name of the company so I just waft my hand in the direction of the ballroom.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I'm with Patrick. And I think maybe I've got your hat.’

  He reaches over and pulls my hat off. I actually feel my hair rise with the static. He takes off his hat (his hair barely moves, of course) and puts it on my head. Then he puts my hat on and casually pulls it to a jaunty angle.

  ‘There,’ he says. ‘That's better. I take it you're Ella?’

  Someone pushes the door and it bangs into my foot, reminding me that I'm splayed on the floor like a broken doll, surrounded by the gifts. I clamber onto my knees and scoot the presents out of the way. One of the German men walks through, glances down at me and says, ‘Excuse’ before staggering diagonally across the foyer.

  Santa Hat puts his hand out to pull me up. His hand is large, soft and warm and his grip firm and, as I scramble to my feet, my mind suddenly flashes to an image of his hands on my breasts, his lips on that soft spot just behind my ear. I feel my face get hot and I try to take a step back, but he grabs my arm to steady me.

  ‘Are you okay?’ He looks a bit startled, probably worried I'm going to faint. I'm a bit worried I'm going to faint.

  I nod. Up close, he smells amazing and I find I can't quite catch my breath. This is ridiculous. I must've winded myself when I fell.

  ‘I think maybe you should sit down…’ he says, trying to steer me towards the seating area.

  ‘No. Thanks. I need to get the rest of the gifts.’

  ‘I'll do it,’ he says.

  ‘No, that's fine. I'll just take these.’ I gesture at the presents all over the floor. ‘And I need some bags…’

  ‘No, honestly,’ he says. ‘It's fine. Patrick sent me to help you anyway. And you really should sit down – you might've broken something.’

  ‘Only my spirit,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  He's still holding my hand and gripping my arm and, as if he suddenly realises, embarrassment flashes across his face.

  I step around him, being really careful not to touch him again, and reach into the planter for my shoes.

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘A shoe tree.’

  ‘Who ARE you?’ I say.

  He suddenly looks mortified. ‘Oh God, sorry! I'm Joe! Patrick's nephew.’

  ‘Right.’ Patrick's never mentioned a nephew. I've never really thought of him as having any family at all. ‘Well, thank you for your help.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says and I think there's a trace of an Australian accent. ‘I'm serious about you sitting down. You smacked the ground hard.’

  I resist looking back to see if I actually cracked one of the tiles and allow this Joe to hold the swing door open for me. As I walk over to Amy at the bar, I rub my arse; I'm going to have a huge bruise tomorrow.

  ‘Er. Sorry. Ella?’ I hear from behind me. I stop walking. And rubbing.

  Joe steps in front of me, grinning. ‘Could I have the car key?’

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry.’

  I actually look down at my hands for the keys. They're not there. What did I do with them? Please God let me not have locked them in the boot. And then I remember. My face gets hot – again – but there's nothing for it. I reach down the front of my dress, take the key out of my bra and hand it to Joe.

  His eyes flash at me and the corner of his mouth quirks up.

  ‘Just don't,’ I say.

  He grins. ‘Thanks.’

  **

  The Movieoke part of the evening has finished and everyone's up and dancing to Christmas songs. It's my favourite part of any of these events. Any tension – corporate events always have tension – has dissipated, but it's not so late that people have started inappropriately snogging or slapping each other. They're just happy and having fun.

  ‘Want to dance?’ Amy asks. She's already standing.

  I lower myself off the bar stool, wincing again, leave my stupid shoes and Santa hat under the stool and follow Amy over to the dance floor. 'Step Into Christmas' ends just as we get there, 'All I Want for Christmas' starts and everyone goes completely berserk, jumping and shouting along. I'm afraid for my feet, but you can't not dance to this song.

  Joe is helping Patrick pack up the Movieoke stuff, but he's also moving in time with the music and singing along as he works. He's not quite in time, but I like that he's not embarrassed to dance anyway. I wonder why Patrick's never mentioned him. Why he's never helped out before, even though we've often been short-handed. And how can he possibly look so good in a Santa hat? I watch him leave with Patrick and when I look back at Amy she's grinning.

  ‘You like him!’ she shouts over the music.

  I shake my head. I don't even know him.

  She just laughs at me.

  Anyone left sitting hits the dance floor the minute 'Fairytale of New York' starts. The Germans are bellowing along with it and we all end up doing some weird square dance kind of thing where we're all linking arms and swinging each other around. I see Joe go past with one of the clients and then he's swinging Amy and then his arm links with mine and we're twirling and laughing and I stop worrying about my feet.

  The song finishes and I find myself being steadied by Joe again. He runs his hand down my bare arm and I shiver.

  ‘You okay?’ he says.

  I nod.

  ‘Do you want to maybe get a drink sometime?’ he asks.

  My stomach clenches and I shake my head. ‘Sorry, no. I don't...I don't really date.’

  He looks confused for a second, then smiles. ‘Okay. Had to ask. It was nice meeting you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘You too.’

  Amy, Lee and I share a flat in the Northern Quarter, ‘Manchester’s Greenwich Village’. It belongs to Lee, bought with money his granddad left him when he died. His granddad stipulated in his will that the money was to be used to buy property. It was a good job he had, because Lee’s original plan was to spend a year travelling in high style and piss the whole lot up the wall.

  Lee’s a little bit afraid of responsibility. Or he thinks he is. He’s actually the most responsible of the three of us. If it wasn’t for Lee, Amy and I probably wouldn’t even manage to get out of bed in the mornings. We certainly couldn’t afford to live in such a great flat in such a popular and fairly hipster area.

  Amy goes straight to her room, Lee flops down on the sofa and flicks on the TV. I get myself a glass of water and get into bed, but I can't relax. It often happens when we've worked late – it's like my brain gets stuck in work mode. I end up dreaming I'm still at the event and the next day I can't tell what was real and what was a dream. Tonight I can't stop thinking about Joe. His smile. The way he danced. How good he looked in that stupid Santa hat. His hands. I picture them stroking my breasts and I shiver. I reach up under the T-shirt I wear in bed and brush my thumb over one nipple. With the other hand, I push my knickers down and almost as soon as I touch myself, my body starts to shudder. I imagine Joe, his head between my legs, his dark hair against my pale thighs, his tongue…

  I roll onto my front, burying my face in the pillow and hear myself cry out even though I didn't know I was going to. My eyes are closed tight and everything goes black and I feel like I'm out of my body. I feel almost panicky, like I'm losing myself, like I won't come back from it. But I do.

  Chapter 2

  I'm woken by my mobile buzzing itself right off the bedside table. As I dangle off the bed to pick it up, I knock over the glass of water I put there on the off chance I’d remember to rehydrate myself.

  It’s Patrick. As usual, he neither bothers to announce himself nor apologise for
calling me at – I hold the phone up to my face and squint at the screen – seven a.m. Gah.

  ‘I need you today,’ he says.

  ‘Right. What for?’

  ‘Party. Footballer's kid. Someone's let them down.’

  I stifle a groan. Kids' parties are grim, but rich kids' parties are the worst. Patrick gives me the address, tells me to pass on the details to Lee and then says the words I dread: ‘I'll bring the costume.’

  ‘Oh God. Tell me it doesn't have a head?’

  He laughs. ‘No. It doesn't have a head. Hey, is Amy free today? I could use her too, if she is.’

  I get up, drag on my old red flannelette dressing gown and head into the kitchen.

  The main part of the flat is open-plan: there’s a breakfast bar between the kitchen/diner and the living room (which has windows on two sides since it’s a corner flat, but we’re only overlooked by industrial buildings).

  I turn the TV on and fill the kettle. As I'm looking for a new bag of sugar – I could scrape the crusty bits off the sides of the bowl, but not at this time in the morning – Amy appears wearing a T-shirt and baggy tracksuit bottoms. Amy always looks like hell in the mornings. The first time I saw her up early I couldn’t understand what was different. Turns out it’s mascara. Without mascara she looks as if she’s hardly got any eyes at all. She peeps at you blinkily like a small woodland creature. It’s unnerving.

  ‘Did the phone wake you?’ I say.

  ‘Duh.’

  Amy fishes two slices of white out of the bread bin on top of the fridge. That’s what she eats for breakfast – plain, white bread. Raw toast, she calls it. She wanders over to the sofa and eats as I tell her what Patrick was calling for.

  ‘God,’ Amy says, picking the centre out of the bread and rolling it into a ball, ‘footballers' kids are the worst.’

  ‘I know, but their parents tip well so we might get a bonus...’

  ‘Yeah. I could do with one. Christmas has totally bollocksed my bank account.’