Christmas at the Beach Cafe(23)

Her eyes were moist as we broke apart. ‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely just being here, you know, and seeing all her decorations up in the café.’ Then she frowned and peered at the tree. ‘I don’t see your glass angel anywhere,’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘Have you put it somewhere special?’

‘Ahh,’ I said. ‘There’s actually a bit of bad news about the angel, Mum . . .’

‘I hope this is okay,’ I said to Ed in a quiet voice as we lay in bed that evening, my head on his chest, his arm around me. ‘My parents rocking up uninvited, I mean. Sorry. It’s not exactly how I imagined Christmas turning out this year.’

‘Nor me,’ he said, yawning. ‘Now all we need is for my parents and your sisters to appear as well, and we’ll have the full set.’

I shuddered. ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘I think I’d run away.’

‘Good idea. I’ll come too.’

I listened to the steady thud of his heart. ‘I hope Jake and Amber are okay in there together,’ I whispered. We had borrowed a camp bed from Lindsey, and Amber was now in the living room with Jake. When she heard about the situation, Lindsey had promptly offered her own spare room to one of them, but both Amber and Jake had assured us that they were completely fine about sharing. ‘They’re getting on well, aren’t they? They were gone ages this afternoon. I was starting to think we might have to put some more mistletoe up.’

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Jake’s not really up for a relationship right now. He’s in a bit of a mess to be honest. Mind you, he said talking to you had helped.’ He stroked my hair. ‘I’m glad you two sorted out your differences.’

‘Me too,’ I said. There was an understatement if ever I heard one.

‘He’s offered to help me sort through all the paperwork for the divorce,’ Ed said. ‘He studied Law at uni. Hasn’t done anything with it since, mind, but he probably knows more than I do about these things.’

I felt a rush of pleasure to hear that Jake was doing something positive in his relationship with Ed at last, rather than let jealousy take it over. ‘That’s nice,’ I said, smiling into the darkness. ‘Maybe he’s advising Amber on how to sue this Maguire moron, then. Because I swear they’re up to something, even if they’re not about to start snogging under the mistletoe. Didn’t you notice they kept going off and whispering together today? And they went off for that long walk this afternoon. They’re hatching some kind of plot, I’m telling you.’

The snow finally stopped falling on Christmas Eve but the trains were still chaotic and the roads even worse. ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Amber said to me, as she tuned into the travel news at breakfast. ‘But I reckon you’re stuck with us until Boxing Day now.’

I smiled. I had long since given up on the idea of ‘the perfect Christmas’. It only existed in magazines, I had decided. But we had good company and several tonnes of food. We’d still have a great day. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It’s fine for you to stay. As long as you promise to be on my team for charades tomorrow, that is.’

Jake was equally apologetic about spoiling our quiet Christmas and offered to cook a Thai noodle dish for everyone that evening. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ he said, still rather shame-faced about his earlier behaviour. ‘Amber and I will go on a booze run later too, so that we’re well stocked up.’

‘Thanks Jake,’ I said. ‘Sounds good to me.’ Besides, I reminded myself, once the snow had gone, Ed and I would have all the time in the world to be romantic in splendid isolation. We could wait.

Just then the doorbell rang. Oh no. Who now? I was starting to associate that sound with yet another uninvited guest arriving, and found myself meanly crossing my fingers that it wasn’t Ruth this time. Luckily it was the postman who’d valiantly braved it through the snow to bring us our last delivery before Christmas – including another huge pile of cards and a flat rectangular parcel that just had to be the calendar.

I nearly kissed him in relief but managed to restrain myself and presented him instead with a mince pie from the huge batch that had just come out of the oven. ‘Thank you. Merry Christmas!’ I said, waving him off, then scurried upstairs to the flat where I locked myself in the bathroom so that I could open the parcel in secret. Privacy was in short supply, what with all our extra guests.

It was the calendar, and I eagerly flipped through the pages, smiling at each image in turn. The printers had done a brilliant job – the colours were sharp and bright, the paper thick and glossy, every page a gorgeous, happy memory. Even the Miss December picture at the end had come out really well – a million times better than any fuzzy Daily Star print. Yes, I thought, breathing a sigh of relief. Christmas was now officially allowed to begin.