f i v e
*
The best, I save for last. It's probably a good thing that Casper's disappeared, because I doubt he'd appreciate the most extravagant, ridiculous stall at the far end of the high street. A plastic model of a reindeer stands on the wooden roof, the posts dripping with glittery candy canes and silver tinsel; miniature Christmas trees sit at the foot of the four posts, decorated with baubles in every colour, and the two women behind the table displays are decked out in full elf regalia, complete with pointy ears and shoes. They're identical twins, the only discernible difference being that Emmy's dressed in red and Ally's wearing green. I think, anyway.
"Beth!" Emmy cries out. "We were wondering when we'd see you!"
"I had a feeling it'd be today," Ally adds.
Her voice is slightly deeper, but it's the only easy difference I can tell, and I've known them for thirteen years. Even the patterns of their freckles look the same; they have the same chestnut-brown eyes and pale, pink-tinged skin, and I'm sure they're wearing the same lipstick. Of the three pairs of identical twins I knew at school, they were the only two who revelled in their striking similarities and now, as twenty-four-year-olds, they still seem to enjoy the novelty. For the first year or so of secondary school, they were teased for being different, the way eleven-year-olds tease each other, but the taunts stopped when everyone realised that the girls didn't care. Nobody's jokes about The Shining or The Parent Trap landed, especially when they dressed as the Grady twins for National Book Day.
"Here I am," I say, spreading my arms and doing jazz hands. "You know me and Christmas. If you're selling, I'm buying."
"That bodes well for us," Emmy says. "We just launched a new range today, and I know you like the traditional stuff."
A few years ago, I was shocked to see the twins I knew from school popping up at the Christmas market with their own stall, selling homemade gifts and decorations. I hadn't seen them for a while, since everyone had finished school and moved onto university or jobs or apprenticeships, and it had taken me a moment to register that yes, it really was my old school friends standing in front of me with a variety of Christmas angels and stars to rock the top of the tree.
That year, all they had was a small inventory of decorations they'd made themselves, trying to make a bit of extra cash before Christmas. Now, four years later, they've grown to be one of the most impressive stalls along the high street, if not the most impressive. Alongside their regular lives – Emmy's training to be a nurse, after two years of studying history and realising she was in the wrong field; Ally now owns the art studio she started working at when she left school – they work on their Christmas stock all year round, every single item handmade by them and their younger brother and sister, Perry and Pip. Also twins, it turns out.
Between the four of them, virtually every artistic discipline is covered. Perry's a talented ceramicist with a penchant for tiny clay nativities and Pip's a master of anything that involves a pencil or a paintbrush, from bold acrylics on canvases to beautiful watercolours in frames; she even decorates baubles, turning plain glass balls into gallery-worthy works of art. Emmy makes the most stunning paper crafts, which I didn't realise was a thing until I saw her first Christmas scene made up entirely of intricately interlocking and cut-out pieces of coloured paper and card. I now have several hanging on my walls, too incredible to take down out of season, and an entire box of Ally's speciality.
Every single year, I tell myself I'll only buy one of Ally's tree toppers, but every year, I can't decide between her creations. Her impressive range makes it impossible to choose between a delicate angel with raffia and feather wings, and a dorky reindeer with googly eyes and pipe cleaner legs; I always end up returning to the market, even if they're featuring in a different town thirty minutes away, to build on my collection.
She shows me this year's new designs, a whole host of new ideas in addition to the favourites that sell out every year, while Emmy deals with a couple of customers who are less indecisive than me. Ally's range of inclusive tree-toppers is always a hit, beautifully decorated angels in all sizes and skin colours, so successful that she takes special requests months in advance. I once went over to her flat for coffee and a catch-up while she was working on an amputee angel for a little girl who had beaten osteosarcoma; when she finished, she moved on to plaiting intricate braids out of cotton thread for a black girl who wanted an angel whose hair matched her own.
I have my own fat angel in my collection, complete with glasses; all my sisters have their own as well, the perfect present for a bunch of Christmas fanatics who are all as invested in tree decoration as I am. When my dad pointed out that angels aren't 'a girl thing' and that the original biblical angel who supposedly visited Mary was, of course, Gabriel, I made sure to get him his very own boy angel. Each year, at some point, he tries to replace whatever's on top of the tree with his lookalike figurine without my mother noticing.
"I think I know what you'll go for," Emmy says once I'm the only customer again, for the next few seconds. This stall is never quiet for long, people flowing all around me as I try to choose between several pieces that I'd love to add to my collection. A set of three baubles, each hand painted by Pip, is practically a steal at six pounds, well worth it for her intricate artistry. There's no such thing as too many baubles, right? I hand the box to Ally and she grins.
"Knew it."
I'm torn between one of Emmy's pieces, an A3 framed papercraft depicting an insanely detailed snowy winter's night, and an adorable Ally creation, a fluffy-coated Santa Claus with a present in one hand, a carrot in the other, and an elf on his back. I check how much cash I have left. Not much. Not enough for both.
"I'm sure I'll find you again before Christmas Day, once I've found a bit more cash," I say, "but today, I'm going to take Silent Night."
Emmy beams. "Oh, thank you! I was sure you'd go for Santa. I mean, I want him on my tree."
"Next time," I say with a laugh as she deftly wraps the frame in brown paper and slides it into a bag along with the baubles. I hand over almost all the money I have left, leaving me with just enough for a coffee, and figure it's time to find Casper once I wave goodbye to the girls. He doesn't pop up in my cursory scan of the crowd, but it'd take a miracle – or, more likely, a hostage situation – for him to still be here, so I head towards the quiet, mostly shut shops past the end of the market to check my phone.
Sure enough, there's a text from him, twenty minutes ago. I didn't realise it'd been that long since I last saw him: I'm easily swept up in the market spirit, seconds rolling into minutes that could easily turn into an hour without me noticing.
CASPER: hey, i lost you in the crowds (accidentally) and have escaped to costa (intentionally). will stay here until you find me. please don't tell julio that i like big brand coffee shops or i'll be out of a job
I can't count how many times Casper's told me to keep a secret in order for him to keep his job, almost exclusively about things that definitely wouldn't cost him his job, especially when Julio is possibly the world's nicest boss. He and Gloria are so laid back for a couple who own and run a café together, especially considering they both hardly spoke a word of English when they came to Scotland from Chiclana de la Frontera ten years ago.
Costa's at the far end of the high street, busy with the lunchtime flow beneath bright Christmas lights. This town isn't as pretty as Saint Wendelin, I think, though I have been accused by my family of having a strange and unacceptable bias towards my sleepy little town. My parents and Paisley still live there, half an hour from me on the other side, but India left the moment she got a job in Edinburgh, and Juneau never came back after she left for university in Glasgow.
Casper's sitting against a wall with his back to the window, which is adorned with stick-on snowflakes and a few baubles advertising various drinks, with his phone in his hand and a finished coffee on the table.
"Hey," I say as I sit down. He jumps and pulls out his earphones, smiling once he realises it's only me.
"I was wondering if I'd ever see you again." He puts his phone away and moves his coffee to the side. "I searched for you in the market but all the festive spirit overwhelmed me. Had to make a hasty escape before I was strangled by tinsel or aurally beaten to death by yet another rendition of White Christmas."
I think of the card I bought him and hold back a smile. It's certainly accurate. "How's everyone's favourite Scrooge doing?"
"I'll let you know if I meet him."
"You're so fucking funny, Ghost Boy."
He puts his hands together and bows his head at me. "I try, Jerusalem. I really try."
I'm not sure if he's avoiding the question or if it's just because it's one of those questions that is often deemed unnecessary, but I am genuinely interested in how he is, so I ask again. "Are you okay?"
"Yes." He nods, once. The twist of his lips is pretty unconvincing though.
"Cas?"
He looks up and sighs. "I mean, obviously I'm not great. That goes without saying. I was in love for two years and I thought we were the real deal. There were times I could even see us getting married, and you know how I feel about marriage."
"Not really."
"Well, it's not too dissimilar to my stance on Christmas," he says. "But, yeah, that's all up in smoke now. So I could be an awful lot better, but at least being dumped on the thirteenth of December can't ruin my Christmas because I already fucking hate it. It does, however, ruin my birthday. And I actually kind of like my birthday. Even if I have to share it with Jesus and Santa."
"I don't think Santa was born on Christmas Day," I say. I don't know what else to say, whether he wants me to be serious or silly. I'm still figuring out our dynamic outside of Java Tea, which is made all the more difficult by the fact that he's going through some serious shit right now, and it happens to be right in the middle of his least favourite time of year.
"You're right, of course Santa's birthday isn't Christmas. That would just be ridiculous. So unbelievable. Massive coincidence," he says. His tone is sulky, but there's a smile playing on his lips, and I recognise the way he rolls his eyes at me. Less annoyance, more fond despair. I'm quite used to fond despair.
"So, aside from everything being utterly shit, you're okay?"
He laughs. "Yup. Exactly."
"Good. Want me to find you a new boyfriend?"
"I think I'm off men for a while," he says, rubbing his forehead.
"Want me to find you a girlfriend?"
He snorts and says, "How about just a regular old friend?"
"Do I count?"
"Of course."
"Sorted, then." I throw out my arms and point my fingers back at myself. "Whatever you want, whatever you need. I've got your back."
"I think what I need is ... lunch," he says. "But I'm paying. What d'you want?"
"I can pay for myself."
"You've opened your home to me, Beth. The least I can do is buy you lunch. So what d'you want?"
Ten minutes later, we're both digging into a festive feast sandwich, turkey and all the trimmings in a hot panini, and watching life go by. Town's busy today, people pouring out into the cold to peruse the markets and enjoy the run up to Christmas, buying presents before it's too late and putting their feet up with a gingerbread latte. Casper happens to have the same drink in front of him.
"Such a hypocrite," I say as he stirs it.
"Huh?"
"Mr I Hate Christmas drinking from the festive range."
"Strangely enough, my distaste for crap music and gaudy decorations and commercial wastefulness doesn't affect my tastebuds," he says. "Heinous, I know, but somehow I quite enjoy the flavour of gingerbread, almost as though it isn't an inherently festive food."
"What's your degree in again?" I ask with a laugh. It's a rhetorical question – I realise I don't even know if he went to university – but he answers anyway.
"English literature," he says. "After three years of reading books I hated and writing essays I didn't give a shit about, I finally got to write about the queer gothic literature and the homoerotic subtext in Frankenstein, with the occasional gushing addendum about how much of a badass feminist Mary Shelley was."
My jaw drops and my eyebrows shoot up as though my face is on puppet strings being yanked in different directions. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." He sips his latte and takes a bite of his sandwich.
"That's so fucking cool."
"I thought so too. My tutor wasn't entirely convinced but I must've worked some magic on him because I got a first. And, as you can see, getting a first in an English degree really opens up the doors; I'm batting away amazing job offers left, right and centre."
"I'm sure your bright, optimistic personality really shines through."
"Oh, you know it. Employers are so horny for my lack of cynicism and the absence of sarcasm." Leaning back, he pushes his hair off his face, gathering a stubby topknot of curls in his hands before he lets go, his elbows dropping onto the arms of his chair. "How about you? What'd you do?"
"I didn't go."
"What?" That grabs his attention. "Really?"
"Yup."
"How come?"
"My school pushed uni as, like, the only post-secondary option, but I didn't know what I wanted to do. There wasn't anything I cared about enough, and I had this one great teacher who pointed out that it's not the be all and end all. He told me that university isn't for everyone, and there was no reason why I couldn't change my mind later and do the whole degree thing at some point down the line."
The world needs more teachers like Mr Clyde, the only one I've ever met who didn't act like higher education is the only option. When I told him that there was no course that excited me, after we had an entire day dedicated to finding the right uni and the right subject, he told me to find a job instead. That way, I'd have time to think it over and make money at the same time.
"Ironic, really," Casper says. "I mean, considering you work at a uni now."
"I know, right? Turns out you don't need a degree to work in the admin side of things, and in one year I earn almost as much as a three year degree costs. If you do the maths – which is not my strong suit – I'm pretty sure it works out that I made the right decision."
"Definitely." He nods sagely. "If I could go back to my eighteen-year-old self, I'd say ... get rid of that horrible attempt at facial hair because it'll be five years before you have enough coverage for half-decent stubble, and you'll be working in a coffee shop when you're twenty-five so ditch the degree and go and learn how to make a latte."
"Wise advice."
"Unfortunately, I don't have a time machine, but I do have debt that gets higher every year because the interest is astronomical and I'm not earning enough to start paying it off yet."
"Life hack – if you never earn over twenty-five grand, you never have to pay it off. Boom. Free degree."
He laughs, nodding. "True, that. Never mind the fifteen grand on student accommodation. It's not about the degree, right. It's about the friends you make along the way." With a snort, he shakes his head at that idea. "Bullshit. I made the mistake of living with the same uni friends for three years, which is the best way to turn them into uni enemies. Or, at the very least, to have spent enough time with them to never want to see them again."
I'm glad I never went.
"Anyway." Flapping his hand to dismiss the topic, he takes his coat off the chair next to him and I think he's about to leave, until he pulls out a paper bag from under it. "I got you something."
"Wait, what? When?"
"When I lost you at the market."
I know that paper bag, with a logo stylised as PAPEr CRAFTS – the r intentionally left lowercase, the capitalised PAPE standing for the initials of Pip, Ally, Perry and Emmy. Casper went to the twins' stall. Casper went to the most Christmassy stall in the entire market. He's holding the bag out to me, and it takes a moment for me to shake off my surprise; he shakes it at me when I don't take it.
"This is for you," he says, reaching out to take my wrist and pull it over so he can force the bag into my hand. "It's called a present. I'd have thought the reigning festive fanatic would understand that concept."
"I understand the concept of gifts," I say when I get my words back, "but I don't understand the concept of you giving me a gift. From a Christmas market."
"Call it a moment of insanity. Or, you know, a moment of gratitude for what you're doing for me. I'm a grinch; I'm not an idiot," he says. "I just ... yeah. I saw this. Thought of you. Got it. Now I'm trying to give it to you, but that's proving more difficult that I expected."
He watches as I open the bag. He winces when I gasp. He smiles when I pull out the figurine. The figurine: the fluffy Santa tree topper, the one with the elf on his back. The one I so nearly got for myself.
"Oh my god."
"Is it okay? I know you already have virtually everything to do with this cursed season, but girls at the stall said it was brand new today. Figured you probably don't have it, and they only had a couple left. It could go on your mantelpiece, or on top of the tree."
"I was just there. They had one left; I nearly got it for myself."
"Really?" His smile widens slightly. "So you like it?"
"I love it. God, Cas, you're the last person I ever thought would give me a Christmas present," I say with a laugh, blinking fast when my surprise and gratitude threaten to spill out of my eyes.
Casper holds up his hands and says, "It isn't a Christmas present. It's just a thank you present, which happens to be Christmas-related. But only because you're a Christmas cracker."
"Hey! A pun!" I grin at him as I gently place the Santa back into his bag, and I put that bag inside my much bigger one. "Thank you, Cas. I love it. And I appreciate how hard that must've been for you, talking to twin elves at a little Christmas shop in a big Christmas market."
"The word Christmas is starting to lose all meaning," he says, and hurriedly adds, "Not that it has much meaning to me to start with, of course."
"Of course. Well. Thank you. I must already be working my festive spirit on you," I say. He grimaces, and I continue. "Before you know it, it'll be the twenty-fifth and you'll be staying with me and we'll get to do a triple celebration: both our birthdays and Christmas Day, and you'll be begging to pull just one more cracker."
Clasping his hands over his stomach, he says, "That's a nice little fantasy you've got there, Beth."
"Just you wait." I point at his gingerbread latte and then at the present he gave me. "This is how it starts," I say. Even the grinch learns how to make space in his heart for Christmas.
*
nanowrimo finished yesterday and I won with just over 51,000 words - almost half of which is this story, which was started on a whim! my trip to Scotland is over and I'm currently halfway home - I've already added over 2 hours to a 5 hour drive by stopping at a service station when I was struck by inspiration, and I bashed out around 3,500 words for the 10th chapter of this story!
I hope you enjoyed this chapter! What're you enjoying most about this story so far?