o n e
*
There's nothing quite like Christmas. Not to me. No other holiday comes close to the festive spirit that fills my heart the moment the season begins, when the weather turns and the days get shorter. My mood doesn't sink with the early-setting sun – it soars with the crisp air and the red-breasted robins, with the stars and angels atop rich green pine trees. There's an extra spring in my step the day that the shops put up their Christmas displays, extra bounce in my walk when the town's lights are switched on and a festive fayre marks the change from autumnal colours to wintry reds and blues and greens.
I have to make the season last as long as I can, delving into my celebrations as soon as Bonfire Night is out of the way, and keeping it going long after the first of January. I'm always the last to take down the fairy lights strung up outside my house; I don't get rid of the tree until there are more pine needles on the floor than on its branches. Religion may not be my thing, but my nativity scene remains on my counter long after I've added baby Jesus to the manger.
Just thinking about it all is enough to fill my body with a warm glow that radiates out from my chest, a happy heat spreading from my head to my toes as I walk down the high street. The lights were switched on two weeks ago and now, the sun long gone by five o'clock, they illuminate the night with their bright white sparkle: looping lengths of LEDs spell out MERRY CHRISTMAS SAINT WENDELIN. I admire whoever made that, but with the glow of the lights and the sheer number of letters, it looks more like it says MERRY CHRISTMAS SAUT WUDFIN.
Nearly every store on the high street is already shut, the day coming to an end the moment the clock strikes five, but I can rely on my favourite coffee shop to keep its doors open until seven. Figuratively, anyway, seeing as it's below freezing and the bitter wind is making my eyes water. Even with a thick coat as my third – no, fourth – layer, and the woolliest scarf I could find looped three times around my neck, not to mention slipper socks inside my fur-lined boots, I can feel the spiteful chill so acutely that it seems like it has a vendetta against me.
Whoever said fat people don't feel the cold is a damn liar: I may be well-insulated, as one ex put it, but I have more skin to feel the cold and I am really feeling it right now. My cheeks are stinging where my scarf has slipped down to my chin, my fingers slowly numbing through my insufficient gloves, and it's almost cold enough for me to rethink winter being my favourite season.
Almost. But not quite. My appreciation rushes back when I push open the door to Java Tea, my favourite cafe since I discovered it three years ago. I didn't even realise it was a pun until my fifteenth-or-so visit, when I met the owner, Julio, for the first time, and learnt that much like his name, the J in Java is pronounced like an H.
It's quiet inside. It often is. Saint Wendelin may be a relatively small town, but it has a Costa and a Caffe Nero – no Starbucks yet – and between them, they have a near monopoly over people's coffee desires. Not mine, though, or the handful of other regulars I spot. There's something special about Java Tea. Something I can't put my finger on. Whatever it is, it's kept me coming back for years. Once you go Java, you never go back. Between the season and vibe-appropriate music and the array of comfortable chairs and sofas that encourage a long stay, the cafe feels like home.
Right now, the Lea Michele version of Silent Night is playing through the overhead speakers, at the perfect volume. Loud enough to be heard, but no so loud that it dominates conversational efforts. All of the playlists are put together by the staff here, carefully curated for the best cafe environment, and I'm fairly confident that this playlist must be the work of Gloria, Julio's wife. She's mad about all things Christmas and all things musical theatre: this song has Gloria written all over it.
She isn't the one behind the bar, though. There aren't many staff here, a total of six who rotate days and shifts depending on who needs what, and today I spy Julio clearing tables while the counter is manned by Casper.
"Beth!" He stands straight and waves as though he doesn't see me almost every time he has a shift here.
"Friendly Ghost!" I wave back.
He scowls, and when I reach the counter, he leans on his elbows and says, "What have I said about calling me that?" Pointing a long finger at me, he steps back and shakes his head, taking a large mug off the top of the coffee machine to start making my drink. He doesn't know what it'll be yet, because I've never ordered the same thing more than a few times in a row, but I never have less than a large.
"As far as I recall, you said that every time I call you Friendly Ghost, you tell another person what Beth is really short for. But," I point out, "I must've called you that at least fifty times over the last couple of years, and our circle of mutual friends is pretty small. By my reckoning, everyone you know who also knows me must by now know my dirty little secret."
Casper rolls his eyes. "What'll it be, Bethlehem?"
"What's your least popular Christmas drink?"
"So far ... I think the spiced ginger latte with almond milk."
My nose wrinkles of its own volition. "Okay, maybe not. I'm feeling like a basic bitch today; I'll have the mint hot chocolate."
"Ah, yes, the most basic and bitchiest of all our festive drinks," he says drily, twitching his head to flick black curls off his face. When he turns away, I see a hint of a smile grace his lips. "So, cold out there?"
"You wound me, Cas. I thought by now, our relationship had surpassed small talk about the weather."
"Winter is always an exception," he says as he steams the hot chocolate. "And that was a genuine question – I have to walk home in ninety minutes and if it's as cold as you're making it look, I might have to steal Julio's coat. And his car."
"It's disgustingly cold, and I think there are icicles in the wind based on how sore my face is after walking three minutes from my car," I say, at last warm enough from the shop's powerful heating to take off my top layer. "I was planning to stay until closing anyway, though, if you want a lift?"
"You know how to tempt a man, Nazareth," he says, squirting a mountain of whipped cream on top of my drink and adding a generous shaking of chocolate curls. "That would actually be great. Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. Your place is basically on the way to mine anyway. The pleasure would be all mine, Nearly Headless Nick."
He harrumphs at that, and tries on a scowl again, but it doesn't work on him. He may not look particularly ghostly, but he does have one of those naturally friendly faces. It can be hard to take him seriously when he's genuinely annoyed, as he just seems like a child throwing a strop: thick black eyebrows scrunch together and he pouts, sticking out his lower lip, and it makes it hard to believe that he's older than me. Exactly one year older, actually, almost to the hour.
"So, any plans?" He digs out a tub of edible glitter and shakes it onto my already extravagant drink.
"Nothing you'd like to hear about."
He raises his eyebrows and pushes my drink across the counter. "Try me."
"When I get home, I'm lighting a log fire and some nice wintry candles, and I'll be wrapping Christmas presents while Miracle on 34th Street plays."
"Ugh."
"I told you you wouldn't like it."
"I'm sure you'll have a lovely evening and you'll be very happy, but I'm glad I won't be there," he says.
"How is someone so sweet such a grinch?" I muse, pulling off my gloves to hold my giant mug in both hands.
"I was born with a curse." He leans forward to fold his arms on the counter, halving the distance between us, and he lets out a sigh.
"If you're about to say what I thi-"
"I was born on Christmas Day," he says, cutting me off, "and I'm afraid that cursed me to a lifetime of despising the season."
"Well, I think it's a blessing."
"Trust me, I know how you feel about Christmas, Beth."
Before I knew him too well, a few festive seasons ago, I overheard him grumbling about having a Christmas birthday and I couldn't help but interrupt. That was when I learnt that we are chalk and cheese. Being born on Christmas Day is all we have in common, it seems. I can't count being frequent visitors of Java Tea, considering he's paid to be here.
"You'd have thought," he continues, "that with your parents being so addicted, and calling you Bethlehem, of all things, you'd rebel against them. By all reason, you should be a grinch too. You should be the grinchiest grinch."
Not even close. Yes, I was born into a family that goes beyond all out for the holidays, but that only made me love it more. And, yes, it took me a while to forgive my parents for my name, but no-one has to know that unless I tell them. Almost everyone I've met assumes I'm Bethany or Elizabeth, and I've learnt to answer to both – and occasionally remind them that I introduce myself as Beth for a reason. That being that it's my name.
"This is what I call a healthy relationship with my family and the festivities. Most people enjoy Christmas films, I reckon. You don't have to believe in God or Santa to like Christmas, Cas," I say. Julio glances at us when he brings over a tray full of empties but he says nothing: as long as there aren't any customers stamping their feet behind me, he doesn't care if I hog Casper's attention for a few minutes.
"I believed in Santa until I was eight," Casper says. "Very traumatic. Ten out of ten do not recommend."
"Your poor future children."
He scoffs at me.
"Anyway. What're your plans tonight? Are you, by any chance, compiling a map of the most decorated houses of Saint Wendelin so you can sabotage them after midnight?"
"You make me sound like some kind of demon," he says, tidying up as he talks so he can't be accused of being entirely idle. There's the gentle clink of china as he rearranges the mugs, the swipe of a cloth as he cleans the steamer. "I just ... don't like Christmas." He shrugs. "Is that really so hard to believe? I'm a summer guy: I don't deal well with the cold."
My mint hot chocolate is doing a great job of warming my hands and teasing my senses and I take a sip, getting mostly a mouthful of cream. The cream is so good, though: they have some kind of secret recipe here that I haven't cracked, something other than just a splash of vanilla syrup in the canister. "Maybe you should rethink living in Scotland then," I say.
"Mmm. God knows why my parents traded in London for this." He gives me a dramatic eye roll. "Actually, more to the point, why the hell did my grandparents trade Morocco for England? Massive downgrade, if you ask me. I think I'll spend next Christmas in Marrakech."
"Christmas in Marrakech..." I trail off as images fill my mind's eye, a bombardment of colour and heat and flavour. "Take me with you. Maybe I could give up one white Christmas for something new."
"In your dreams." Casper laughs. "Sorry to break it to you, Beth, but you and I will never spend Christmas together. I think we might be best suited to the relative neutrality of the coffee shop environment. We have our roles."
There's a blast of Arctic air when the door opens and a whole family pours in, and I'm sure Julio's eyes are on us, wherever he is.
"And right now"—Casper points a mug at me—"your role is the friendly customer who sits quietly in the corner, minding her own business until I'm done for the night."
*
The doors close at seven, when Casper sends up a not-so-silent hallelujah that there was no last-minute trickle of customers who think it's okay to rock up at six fifty-nine and order a fresh latte. As his friend and ride home, I get preferential treatment, able to stay in my seat with my book as he and Julio tidy up, until the clock hits quarter past the hour and he's officially free.
The transition from the cosy warmth of Java Tea to the sub-zero temperatures and – oh, joy – sleet is a tricky one, the wind snatching my breath when we step outside. The pathetic halfway-there attempt at snow slushes onto the pavement and catches in my hair, and it's only a three-minute walk to my car, parked on a stretch of free, unlined road, but it feels like five hours. The wind lashes our faces as it pushes against us, and I have to lean forward just to be able to walk. My hands are balled in my pockets, car key clenched in my fist, and neither Casper nor I say a word until we're in our seats.
"Well. Fuck that," he says, teeth chattering as he does up his seatbelt. I can't really add anything to his succinct summation of the last few minutes, and my lips are too cold to form words anyway, so I just nod and crank the heating up to full blast once the engine's running.
Casper doesn't really live on my way home. He's a townie, sharing a flat with his boyfriend at the other end of Saint Wendelin, five minutes' drive from Java Tea; I live a ten-minute drive in the other direction in the tiny town equivalent of suburbs, in an end-of-terrace two-up two-down. As far as terraces go, it's pretty small. There are only five of us in the row, and not much else within half a mile either way.
"Thanks for this," Casper says.
"No problem."
He rubs his hands together and holds them over one of the air vents, which is desperately trying to bring up the temperature. It won't get up to heat until after I've dropped him off, though, and he gives up after a moment, sinking into his seat with a sigh as he checks his phone.
"You ok?"
"Mmhmm." He frowns at his screen, quick fingers tapping out a message, and pushes his hair off his face, only for it to flop forward again. His frizz-free curls belong in a shampoo advert, thick and luscious on top, the sides shaved short.
"Sure?"
He presses his lips together and nods once, and I leave it be. I may have known Casper for four years now, but our relationship is mostly confined to the coffee shop: I see him a few times a week when I go in for my daily drink and we chat if it's quiet. Sometimes I drive him home; sometimes we see each other around town and end up hanging out. We're situational friends; we're not the kind of friends who have deep, meaningful conversations. A good thirty percent of our chats are comprised of name jokes.
Part of me wants to pry, to push our friendship into that next level where we share the deep stuff, but his flat is only a minute away and he's facing away from me, his phone clutched in his hand. His body language is very much I just want to get home without any more social effort, so I don't say another word until I pull up on the double yellows outside his building.
"Home sweet home," I say. "You're free to haunt another day."
He gives me a tight smile. "Cheers, Beth. I'll see you around?"
Tomorrow's his day off, so it'll probably be a couple of days. "See you around, Cas. Have a good night!"
"You too. Thanks, again."
"You can always count on me," I say, hoping that he takes the words to heart. I'm pretty sure something happened in the five minutes between getting in the car and arriving here, and I don't want to pry, but the insatiably curious part of me is desperate to know what soured his mood.
Maybe his boyfriend wants to celebrate Christmas this year. That would definitely piss him off.
Once he's safely inside his building, away from the cold and the increasingly torrential downpour that has my windscreen wipers on full blast, I peel away from the kerb. A few minutes go by before the heating finally kicks in, and I drive home warm and toasty, hoping that Casper's okay.
*