All too soon, it was suddenly December and very definitely winter. The mornings were dark, and in the afternoons the light was gone by four. All the leaves had fallen from the trees, bare branches silhouetted against barren grey winter skies, and turned to mulch underfoot.
But London looked quite splendid when she glittered with frost and shone with twinkling lights. In Highgate, the local residents’ association had even considered adorning the public conveniences opposite Margot’s flat (though as public conveniences went, they were very picturesque and had the look of a small country cottage) with fairy lights, but decided that was going too far.
Margot was pleased that the cold weather meant less mud. She was also pleased to be busy at work on spring/summer of the year after next, because if there was one antidote to the cold, icy weather, it was thinking about what kind of bikinis women would want to wear eighteen months from now.
But as the month flew past on steroids and Christmas grew ever closer, Margot felt the usual despondence take hold. Each year was dotted with difficult dates: birthdays, anniversaries, and solemn occasions that she marked by lighting a candle, but these dates were personal only to Margot and the losses she’d suffered, the ache that never really went away. Christmas was more of an all-encompassing hurt. Every advert on telly, every conversation at work or with friends about plans for Christmas were really about family, togetherness, belonging, all the things so desperately lacking in Margot’s life. Still, December also brought endless Christmas party invites and she attended every single one.
One party and one conversation with one stranger could alter the trajectory of Margot’s life. All she needed was one age-appropriate, financially solvent man who didn’t describe all his exes as ‘crazy’ and didn’t think that settling down equated to Margot trying to trap him. Otherwise Margot was looking at forty, then fifty, then sixty still with no family of her own but at least six rescue dogs. ‘I call it the manypaws,’ hooted one of her new dog-walking friends, who was sixty-five, happily divorced and besotted with her three ex-racing greyhounds who were all equally besotted with her.
What was it about Christmas that shone a bright light into the nooks and crevices of Margot’s life and found it wanting? Margot had a lovely flat, a fulfilling job, tons and tons of friends and Blossom. And of course, Margot had her logical family, but this Christmas, for better or worse, they were all headed off to spend the holidays with their biological families.
‘At the dreaded in-laws this year,’ Tracy said at their annual Christmas brunch. Back in the day, this annual event used to start at eleven and finish when someone either threw up or snogged someone they shouldn’t. ‘Wish me luck.’
This year Christmas brunch was at a dog-friendly gastropub in Islington so Blossom could come, and Sarah could catch up on her Christmas shopping afterwards. Sarah had brought eleven-month-old Bertie along, who was immediately relinquished to Margot’s tender care so she could wrap her arms around his chunky, wriggly body and inhale great whiffs off the top of his head, while Blossom looked on in dismay.
Margot smiled and drank freely of the bottomless Prosecco, which she tried to mop up with buttermilk pancakes, so in the end she felt both tipsy and a little nauseous. She hugged Bertie to her, gently prising his fat fingers away from her curls and listened to her three friends moan about having to leave London to stay with parents, and on Boxing Day, travel once again to stay with in-laws. She commiserated with Tracy about her mother-in-law’s dry turkey. She nodded in understanding when Sarah confessed that instead of buying ethically sourced wooden, educational toys for her children, she was going to buy the plastic, flashing tat that all their friends had. Margot was also very sympathetic about Jess’s impending ordeal of being in the same house at the same time as all five of her sisters.
‘World War Three will break out before midnight mass,’ Jess grinned. ‘But then we’ll get home and Santa will have been, even though we know that it’s really my dad who’s drunk the sherry and eaten the mince pie. He won’t go to church because he doesn’t believe in organised religion.’
Margot may not be able to join in with her scant memories of family Christmases past, but she could still take pleasure in hearing about other people’s Christmases, of photos in terrible matching festive jumpers, and how Sarah’s family had once been evacuated after setting not just the Christmas pudding alight but her mother’s velvet curtains too.
It wasn’t until they were waiting for the bill, a mere two hours after they’d arrived, that Jess put a hand on Margot’s arm. ‘Margot, we’ve been banging on about our Christmases the entire time,’ she said softly. ‘Please tell me you’re doing something nice on Christmas Day?’
Usually, Margot spent Christmas with Geoff and Daphne from upstairs, but this year they had booked to go away with friends. Margot’s plan B of Jacques and Solange had been foiled when Solange had had the temerity to want to spend Christmas with her family in Rennes.
Margot could give the appearance of being happy and fulfilled and single all year, except for the 25 December, when she felt like the loneliest person in the world. As if she could sense Margot’s distress from under the table, where she’d been sitting quietly, Blossom nudged Margot’s leg with her big head.
‘Well, it’s my first Christmas with Blossom so it’s going to be pretty special,’ Margot said. The thought was genuinely uplifting. ‘We’ll sleep in until a decadent nine thirty then head off to watch the Christmas swimmers at the Ponds . . . Probably pop into the Flask for a glass of something and a sausage roll on the way back and then, because I don’t even like turkey that much, Christmas dinner will be just the good bits: pigs in blankets, stuffing, roast potatoes, parsnips and carrots all done in goose fat.’
‘Talk about doing Christmas right,’ Tracy said. Margot could hear the relief in her voice that Margot wasn’t going to be acting out scenes from both Bridget Jones and A Christmas Carol. The miserable scenes, not the scenes where Bridget snogged Mark Darcy or Tiny Tim’s Christmas wishes all came true. ‘Spare a thought for me as I’m forced to watch the Morecambe and Wise Christmas special with the volume turned up extra loud and the subtitles on.’
‘And we’ll be woken up at the arse crack of dawn by an over-excited toddler who’ll spend the day hopped up on sugar,’ Jess added. They’d now reached the part of Christmas brunch where her friends one-upped themselves to convince Margot that a singleton Christmas was infinitely preferable.
Margot took comfort from another Blossom headbutt until she did a swift calculation in her head. Then, although she was trying so hard to be upbeat and onboard the Single at Christmas train, Margot thought she might cry. Christmas fell during Will’s week.
Suddenly, getting up at nine thirty and walking on the Heath and even popping into the Flask before heading home for a pared back, solitary Christmas dinner (no point in buying a turkey for just one person) didn’t sound like fun. Without Blossom at her side, they were just the sad pastimes of a single woman desperately trying to fill the day.
Margot felt her phone vibrate and, glad of the distraction, retrieved it from her bag. It was a message from Will as if he too could sense her distress.
After training and handover tomorrow, can I tempt you over to Muswell Hill? Have a surprise. W