t w e l v e
*
My plan for the rest of today was to head over to the garden centre ten miles away, renowned for its over the top Christmas displays, where I love to bask in the glow of thousands of fairy lights in every colour and the metres of tinsel draped all over the place. I like to wander amongst the Christmas trees and breathe in the clean scent of fresh pine needles, and treat myself to a hot spiced apple in the cosy little café on site.
But Casper took a day off work because of me. He was so worried that he sacrificed one of his sick days to make sure I was okay, so I won't subject him to my festive plans. Maybe closer to Christmas, I'll have had more success in changing his mind about the holiday, but I don't want to annoy him so today, I'm taking him to lunch away from Saint Wendelin and away from any Christmas trees.
"Am I being kidnapped?" he asks when he realises we're not heading back to my place. Our place?
"That depends how willing you are."
"Well, considering I should be starting an eight-hour shift today and instead I get to sit down and hang out with my new housemate, I'm pretty willing."
"Then it's not a kidnapping."
"Okay." He smiles, one knuckle tapping his window. "So, where are we heading?"
"We're going out for lunch."
"I don't want to get in the way of your plans," he says, turning down the music. I'd usually have my extensive Christmas playlist going, but with him in the car, Radio 2 is playing. "I realise that's a bit impossible, seeing as I'm here and everything, but you can drop me off at the house, if you have errands. Or I can do them with you?"
"No, it's okay, I can do it another day."
"So there is something else you wanted to do today." Casper eyes me, raising his eyebrows. "Look, Beth, I know you think I'm Satan incarnate when it comes to all this Christmas malarkey, but I'm also an incredibly grateful friend who would've been shit out of luck if it wasn't for you. Don't change your plans on my account. Take me along. Or, if your plan is of a more personal nature, drop me off at home."
Home. He thinks of my house as home. I suppose he doesn't really have any other option. Home, for him, has meant Eric's flat for a good year. Unless he has a secret house he's not telling me about, his home is my home.
"All right. If you're sure."
"I'm sure. I may live to regret it, but I'm sure." Running a hand through his curls, he stretches out his arms and flexes his fingers over his knees. "I, uh..."
I wait for him to finish his sentence but when there doesn't seem to be an end in sight, I prompt him. "You ... want to reveal that it's all a hoax and you actually love all the festivities?"
"Ha." Casper snorts. "No. Not quite. I was going to say that living with you, even if it's only been three days so far, has made me realise that – and, this is going to sound crazy, I know – but I never really felt like I lived in Eric's flat." He frowns to himself. "That sounds stupid. I loved him and we lived together for a whole year. But, I don't know, it wasn't home."
"Does that mean you feel like you're at home with me?" I ask, skirting around how sad it is that he didn't feel that way with the guy he's admitted he considered marrying.
"Is that weird?" He scratches the back of his neck. "You have a very homely home. Despite the copious, beyond necessary Christmas decorations, of course."
"I don't think it's weird. It's a bit sad, though, that you feel more at home in three days with me than a year with your ex."
"Mmm. Weird," he says to himself, stealing a glance at me at the exact moment I glance away from the road. His expression's unreadable. I turn my eyes back to the snowy horizon and adjust my grip on the wheel.
*
"This," I say as I pull into the small car park of Abernathy's, the unassuming garden centre that pulls out all the stops, "is one of my favourite places on earth."
Casper peers out the window. "A garden centre? I take it you don't travel much?"
"Coincidentally, no. Unlike my parents, I've never left the UK. But, regardless, sometimes you just can't beat an afternoon at Abernathy's." I find a spot in the crowded courtyard and realise I feel better already, just being here. It's my first Abernathy's visit this year, not counting the January sales a good eleven months ago, and my spirts lift with each second.
"I can't imagine December's the best time for gardening," Casper says as he unbuckles his seatbelt. "I've seen your garden and I know it's buried under a metre of snow. Unless you have the world's greenest thumb?"
"I have the opposite of a green thumb," I say. "I can just about keep a couple of succulents alive."
"A succulent being..."
"A cute baby cactus. Notoriously easy to keep alive, if you're not me."
"Oh, then it totally makes sense that we're at a garden centre," he says with a clap, more of a dull thump thanks to his gloves. "Is this some kind of aspirational thing? You come here to imagine all the plants you could have if you had the faintest clue how to garden?"
"You're so impatient for a man who supposedly spent months following a star just to find the not-so-baby Jesus."
"I'm worth the wait, Bethlehem."
"That remains to be seen."
"No, you know what remains to be seen?" He nods at the doors. "Why we're here. I love a good mystery outing as much as the next guy, but the last one was, well, kind of devastatingly sad. I'm gonna need a warning, and maybe a tissue."
"Sorry." My heart sinks a little. "We're done with sad for today, though. Abernathy's is my happy place at this time of year, like some kind of winter wonderland. It's a total transformation – come back in a couple of months and you'll see." Leading him towards the front doors that hide a haven, I say, "I always imagined bringing the girls here before Christmas, once they were old enough. They would've been five yesterday, and I know they would have loved it – no child of mine could not like it here."
There's a faltering moment that could teeter in either direction, and Casper seems to know which vibe I'd rather go with today. "What if your future children are"—he gasps, feigning horror—"grinches?"
"Then I'll send them your way," I say with a laugh that covers up the lump in my throat at the thought of future children. Simultaneous excitement and anxiety fizz through my veins, and relief at Casper's attempt at humour. I want to be able to talk about these things without crying or making everyone around me feel horrifically awkward.
"I take it kids are a definite for you."
"Mmhmm. It wasn't something I ever thought about until I got pregnant, and once I stopped being absolutely terrified and decided I could do it, I couldn't wait to meet my children." My hands find each other, fingers lacing together and squeezing tightly. "It's actually why my last boyfriend and I broke up."
"The one who wears the same size pyjamas as me?"
"The one and only." I chuckle at the memory of Casper wearing James's pyjamas. He's a bit short for them, the hems of the legs pooling around his feet. "We were together nearly two years before he realised he didn't want kids and for me, that's an inevitability. No point dating someone who doesn't want children because it's only going to end in a break-up," I say.
"You know what you want. I respect that."
Before I can ask what his stance is, though I'm pretty sure his views on kids are similar to his views on Christmas, the doors slide open and welcome us into the heart of the holidays. Angel hair hands from the doorway fluttering in the breeze, and fake snow is hung up in wads and mounded on the floor. The regular bright strip lights have been replaced by strings of Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling, turning this wooden shed of a centre into some kind of fairytale daydream.
I feel like a child again the moment we step through the doors, my recent apprehension and anxiety floating away the moment I'm surrounded by soft light and glittering decorations and staff in elf hats. My mind takes me back to when I came here a little over five years ago, when I was here with Paisley two days before the accident. I was vast, never comfortable and struggling to walk with the weight of two almost-full-term babies offsetting my centre of balance, but there was nothing better than the magic of Abernathy's.
Paisley was eleven at the time, still so young and sweet, a few months into her first year of high school, and she'd begged me to take her to the winter wonderland. She inherited my love of Christmas, while India and Juneau are a little more normal in their appreciation of the season, and the two of us were home alone on a Saturday. Both of our sisters had moved out by then: Juneau was in her second year of university and spent most of her time with her friends, and India was working in Edinburgh, so it was often just Paisley and me muddling along together.
That particular visit sticks out in my memory as it was more than two years before I returned. Paisley and I had wandered around in awe, absorbing the beauty and the magic of the festive scenes; we had put our feet up in the cafe with peppermint hot chocolates; I had been so in awe of the efforts of the Abernathy's staff that I could, for an hour, think about something other than how uncomfortable I was being thirty-five weeks pregnant with hyperactive twins.
I didn't come here the following Christmas, when everything still felt too fresh and raw. Even the year after that, I couldn't think about anything other than the fact that I should've been there with a buggy, trying to control a couple of toddlers. Now, I feel like I finally have a clearer head as I take my time walking through the garden centre's regular showroom to its show-stopping winter scenes. Casper doesn't have to like Christmas to be in for a treat.
"This is a lot of effort," he says, walking slightly behind me. The place is busy, filled with parents and their not-quite-school-age children, and quite a few silver-haired biddies; we weave between prams and pushchairs and wheelchairs, avoiding canes and zimmoframes.
"It's a local landmark from the first of November."
"I'm not much of a local," he says.
"You've lived here your whole life."
"I know, I meant that I'm not a very local kind of local. Like, I don't know about things like this. I've never been to Abernathy's. Not even when it isn't all dolled up like Santa's wet dream."
"Never mind Santa," I say. "This is my wet dream."
We turn a corner, passing through an archway designed to look like an igloo, sprayed with fake snow with a doorway of angel hair hanging down, and my heart soars.
The regular shelves and displays have been cleared away to the sides, where they're adorned with snow plastic icicles, and the centre has been transformed into a seasonal paradise. Right in the middle of the room is a wishing pond, a wooden bride arching over the water that twinkles with coins thrown in to make a wish and donate to charity. Fake Christmas trees make up a forest around the pond, complete with wildlife statues: deer and squirrels share the ground; robins are perched in the trees.
On the other side of the bridge is a woodchip path that leads to a log cabin, a couple of child-sized elf figures stationed outside a roped-off doorway with a sign declaring that Santa Claus will be back in five minutes. Inside is a lush red throne, surrounded by stacks of fake presents, the same wrapped boxes they bring out every year, and a sack of real presents. Every child under the age of ten gets one if they visit Santa, though I'm not sure any child over the age of eight has ever entered the grotto.
"Did you ever believe in Santa?" I ask, turning to face Casper. He's standing on the bridge, looking down at the water. A small plaque on the wooden rail promises that all proceeds made from people's wishes go straight to the local children's ward, the same one where the best neonatal doctors tried to save my girls. I have a direct debit to donate every month and any time I don't know what to get someone for Christmas, I donate fifty pounds in their name.
"Nope," he says.
"Never? You never put carrots out for the reindeer? Your parents never made you a stocking."
"My parents are Muslim," he says drily, lifting his gaze from the water to eye me. He's so against religion of any kind that I always forget that, and I think quickly so as not to stumble over my faux paus.
"So's your sister and I know she does Christmas."
"Touché. As we've established, Jemima is a disgrace for her Santa-centric ways," he says, with the slightest hint of a smile to tell me he's not that serious.
He's still standing on the bridge when I turn around to admire the scenery the staff have toiled over, and only when I'm no longer facing him do I hear the clink of coins. When I look over my shoulder, I see him emptying all of his cash into the fountain. Gold and silver coins glint in the light of the trees before splashing into the pond, sending ripples to the edges, the water lapping at the snow-frosted pebbles. Every denomination tumbles from his wallet, ten pence pieces to two-pound coins.
My heart grows three sizes when I see that. I turn around before he catches me watching him.
"Want to sit on Santa's lap?" I ask when he joins me on the other side of the bridge.
"Depends how cute he is."
A nearby father ferrying a couple of young children scowls at us. Casper laughs once the man has moved on, lining his daughters up to wait for Santa's return.
"So that's how to get you to appreciate Christmas," I say. "You need a moment alone with cute Santa and his sack."
He winks. "We're finally on the same page."
"I'll keep my eyes peeled for sexy Santa. While I revel in Abernathy's festivities and find myself a Christmas drink, you can find yourself a hot date with a bloke in a red suit."
Casper grins, walking so close to me that our elbows bump together. "This day's starting to look up," he says with a chuckle. "Though I'd have thought a man dressed as Santa would be much more your type." He catches my elbow, pulling me to a stop. "Spotted: Santa on his tea break. Who gets to seduce him? We should flip a coin." He digs out his wallet, then remembers what he just did. "Okay, I don't have a coin to flip."
I follow his line of vision and manage to splutter and gasp at the same time when my eyes land on Santa. He must be a stand-in Claus, because he doesn't look nearly as authentic as Graham, the guy who usually plays the role, with his own belly and beard. This guy is clearly wearing an oversized suit, a pillow stuffed up the front, and a fake beard, and ... I know him.
"Oh my god."
"Tragic," Casper says, nodding.
"No, no, I – oh my god." A laugh bursts out of me and I have to clap my hand over my mouth, knocking my glasses off kilter. Casper looks at me, a little wary.
"Oh, Beth." He shakes his head. "Please don't tell me you already slept with him."
"I ... I already slept with him."
"Fucking hell!" he cries out, shushing himself when he remembers we're surrounded by impressionable ears and judgmental geriatrics. "Are you serious? You're kidding, right?"
I shake my head, backing away from Santa before he realises. "That's James," I whisper. Casper frowns for a moment, then his face clears.
"James your ex? The guy you dated for two years? The guy whose pyjamas I borrowed?"
"Good memory."
"I like to suss out the housemate's exes whose clothes I wear," he deadpans. "Is this how you met? Did you get the hots for sexy Santa? You dreamed of being Mrs Claus before he realised he didn't want any elves?"
I push Casper towards a different door, struggling to stifle a laugh. "Oh my god, shut up. You're painting yourself a fantasy."
"I can tell you one thing: it certainly isn't my fantasy, Santa Shagger."
"You're on thin ice, Cas," I say, tugging him to a different section of the breathtaking forest scene, far away from James. "He wasn't a Santa impersonator when I dated him."
"Right. Because if he had been, you guys would still be together," he says. "Bethlehem and Santa, a match made in heaven."
I suck in a deep breath to try to control my laughter. It shouldn't be so funny, but it is. Maybe I'm just in need of a laugh, and seeing my ex dressed as Santa – not very convincingly, might I add – is the laugh I need. I'm still clutching Casper's wrist, I realise, having dragged him over to this quiet corner, and there's a moment of lag between my brain and my hand before I let go.
"So, what's the verdict? Does this mean I get to seduce Santa?" he asks. "Or are you up for another go?"
"Definitely not. To both. You are not shacking up with my ex."
"On a scale on Baby Jesus to the donkey, what's he packing?"
My sharp intake of breath catches the attention of a few people several metres away, earning a few more scornful glances. "Casper Boutayeb! That is the most disgusting thing you've ever said."
"I guess that confirms your belief that we don't know each other very well," he says. "I'm trying to speak your language, Bee."
Bee. That's what my mum calls me. It sends a flutter down my spine to hear it on his lips, a regular nickname rather than one of his geographical jokes.
"Are we talking ... cocktail sausage? Carrot? Sweet potato?" He wiggles his eyebrows at me even once I thump his shoulder.
"Let's just say ... distinctly average, okay?" I say, to shut him up. "Can we not talk about my ex-boyfriend's dick, please?"
Casper pouts. "But I have so many Christmas-related jokes."
"Save them up."
He salutes me. "Roger that. So, two exes down, one left to find. Where does Robert hang out? Is he, by any chance, getting ready to deliver presents in eight days?"
It tickles me that he remembers all of my exes. Yes, there are only three, but it's not like we've spent much time talking about them. He only knows about Callum because he saw us together, and he's a major part of my history; he only knows about James because of the pyjamas, and seeing him here. I've only mentioned Robert in passing.
"I'm sorry to tell you that Robert was a business student when we were together and we broke up because he went down to London to pursue a life in the exotic world of city finance. Fun fact: he didn't celebrate Christmas, though he looked a lot more like Santa. Just less grey."
"Damn. Well, there's time for your next partner to be the Santa Claus of your dreams. Or the Mrs Claus," he adds. I appreciate that. I've had so many people imply that because my only serious relationships have been with guys, then I'm not really bi. But Casper gets it. He's bi too, and as far as I know, Eric's the only person he's ever seriously dated.
"Or a grinch," I say without thinking.
Casper laughs. I wrack my brain trying to think of something to say to distract from the words that just left my mouth, my cheeks slowly burning as I hear them echoing over and over in my head. He'd have to be stupid not to realise the implication of what I just said.
"I think it's time for a drink," I say. "Enough Santa talk. Time for lattes."
"Whatever you say, Cindy Lou."
Cindy Lou. The name doesn't register for a moment, until I realise why I know it, and I can't tell if I'm blushing harder or if I've gone pale. He must have seen the film. He knows that he's the grinch who hates Christmas, and that Cindy Lou is the believer who changes his heart.
*
time to share some of my top christmas songs! i've been on a major christmas binge recently. do we share any favourites? this is much harder for me than films, as there aren't *that* many christmas films i like (i can't bear any of the hallmark style films that are everywhere at the moment) but there are tons of songs i love!
1: PLEASE COME HOME FOR CHRISTMAS - the eagles
2: HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS - frank sinatra
3: ROCKIN' AROUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE - brenda lee
4: O HOLY NIGHT - choir
5: STAR OF BETHLEHEM - choir
6: BLUE CHRISTMAS - elvis
7: WHITE CHRISTMAS - bing crosby
8: I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS - lea michele & jonathan groff
9: ONE MORE SLEEP - leona lewis
10: UNDERNEATH THE TREE - kelly clarkson