1st December. Operation Christmas
CHRISTMAS MUSIC. CHECK.
Dodgy Christmas tree and decorations from attic. Check.
Decent bottle of red and one extra-large glass. Check … Oops … one bottle down. Better make that two bottles of decent red …
Poppy Spencer dumped the years-old artificial tree by the corner window and started to pull back its balding branches, creating a kind of … sort of battered tree shape.
It was about time someone in this apartment got into the Christmas spirit and if that meant she had to do it on her own, then she would. So what if her AWOL flatmates were too busy to care about the festive season? She had to do something to fill the long, empty holiday that stretched ahead of her.
‘Never mind, poor thing.’ She was talking to a tree? That was what being alone in a flat, which until recently had resembled a very busy Piccadilly Station, did to a reasonably sane woman. ‘Looks like it’s just you and me. We’ll soon have you shipshape and looking pretty and sparkly for when everyone comes home. Cheers.’
She chinked a branch with her glass and took a large gulp. There were few things in life that beat a good Shiraz. It went down rather quickly, coating her throat with the taste of blackberries and … well, wine. She poured another. ‘And here’s to absent friends.’ All of them. And there appeared to be more going absent every day.
The box of baubles and decorations seemed to have ended up in a similar state to the tree: a nibbled corner, depilated tinsel. Mice perhaps? Surely not rats? She shuddered, controlling the panicky feeling in her tummy … Rats were horrific, nightmare-inducing, disease-ridden rodents and mice their evil little siblings.
So maybe she wasn’t alone after all.
Standing still, she held her breath and listened. No telltale scurrying, no squeaks. Quiet. The flat was never quiet. Ever.
Oh, and there was some woman crooning about not wanting a lot for Christmas. Yeah, right, said no woman ever.
Note to self: ask big brother, Alex, to look for evidence of four-legged friends—the man had fought in Afghanistan; he was more than equipped to deal with a little mouse infestation.
Second note to self: Unfortunately, Alex was sunning himself on an exotic beach somewhere with Lara. And Isaac, the only other male flatmate, was … well, hell, who ever knew where Isaac was? He was like a sneaky, irritating nocturnal magician, here one minute, gone the next, probably expanding his über-trendy bar portfolio along with his list of short-term female conquests.
Tori had gone with Matt to South Africa. Izzy had moved in with Harry. That was it, all her friends out, happy, settled. Doing things with significant others—or, in Isaac’s case, insignificant others.
Was it too much to want a little bit of their collective happiness? Someone to care if she died alone, suffocated under a box of musty decorations or knocked out by a toppling balding Christmas tree, toes nibbled by starving mice. More, someone to care if she never ever had sex again. Like ever.
She imagined the headlines.
Doctor’s body found after three weeks! Nobody noticed recluse Poppy Spencer had died until the smell …
Or …
Miracle of regrown hymen! Autopsy of sad, lonely cat lady Poppy Spencer discovers born-again virgin …
No doubt somebody somewhere who bothered enough to listen would say she had lots of things to be thankful for. A good job—albeit varicose-vein inducing, with long hours of standing. Friends—albeit all absent. A flat—albeit leaky.
And a new, less-than-desirable flatmate, with fur. Which she would tackle, on her own, because she was a modern evolved woman … and not because she was the only person around to do it. Seriously. It was fine.
She took another decent mouthful of wine. Mr Mouse could wait; first, she’d cheer herself up and decorate the tree. Putting a hand into the box, she pulled out a bright red and silver bauble and almost cried. This was the first house-warming present Tori had bought her. Tori always bought the best presents; she had an innate sense of style.
And Poppy missed her.
‘No.’ More wine fortified her and put a fuzzy barrier between her and her wavering emotions. ‘It’s okay. I’m a grown up. I can be alone.’
She’d read, in an old tattered magazine in the doctors’ on-call room, about a famous reclusive actress who’d said that once. German? Swedish? Poppy couldn’t remember; in fact things seemed to have gone a little hazy altogether.
She picked up two baubles and hung them from her ears like large, gaudy earrings, grabbed a long piece of gold tinsel and draped it round her shoulders, like an expensive wrap over her brushed-cotton, pink-checked pyjamas. Lifted her chin and spoke loudly to the street below. ‘I want to be alone. Or is it, I want to be alone …?’
Louder, just so she could feel the words and believe them, she shouted to the smattering of falling snowflakes illuminated by the streetlights, to the dark, cloudy sky, and to the people coming out of the Chinese takeaway with what looked like enough delicious food for a party. A far cry from her microwaved meal for one. ‘It’s fine. Really. You just go and enjoy yourselves with your jolly Christmas laughing and your cute bobbly hats and fifty spring rolls to share with your lovely friends and don’t worry about me. I’ll just stay here, on my own, and think about adopting a few stray cats or crocheting toilet-roll-holder dolls to pass the time. Crochet is the new black. It’ll be good for my … fine motor skills. I’m fine. I want to be alone. I do.’
‘Oh,’ came a voice from behind her. ‘In that case, I’ll leave you to it. Goodnight.’
‘Ah! What the hell?’
Isaac. She’d know that voice anywhere. Half posh, half street. All annoying. And very typical. Strange kind of skill he had, always turning up at her most embarrassing moments.
She winced, slowly swivelling, bringing her arms down to her sides—had she ranted out loud about her pathetic misery and lonesomeness?
Damn right she had.
The tinsel hung pathetically from her shoulders and the baubles bashed the sides of her reddening neck in a not-quite-in-tempo accompaniment to her heart rate. She probably looked a complete fool, but then, where Isaac was concerned, she was used to looking like a prize idiot.
He, however, looked his usual scruffy ‘male model meets bad-boy done good’ self. He needed a shave and a decent haircut; his usually cropped crew cut stood up in little tufts making him look angelic—which he wasn’t. His cheeks were all pinked-up by the cold winter air. A light dusting of snow graced his shoulders. No doubt some unknowing bimbo would think he looked adorable. But Poppy knew better. Isaac’s looks were deceiving.
He’d been part of the Spencer family’s life for so long he was almost a member of it, and had a habit of turning up like a bad penny at the entirely wrong time, giving her that disappointed shake of his head he’d perfected over the years. But it didn’t affect her quite as much as he hoped because her parents had been doing the exact same thing since she was in nappies.
And now he was here, occasionally living in her lovely flat, because her big brother, Alex, had let him rent a room without asking her first.
Isaac’s head shook. Disappointedly.
She feigned nonchalance because any kind of in-depth conversation with him was the last thing on her Christmas wish-list. ‘So, the missing flatmate returns.’
‘I wasn’t missing. I was working in Paris and then on to Amsterdam, checking out some decent bar venues.’
‘Oh, lucky for some. The other day I managed to get all the way to Paddington for a sexual-health meeting,