All I Want for Christmas

by Joanna Bolouri

Genres: Family Life; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

What if the love of your life was your best friend's girlfriend, and you were the one that set them up? When 30-year-old Nick loses his prestigious job at a city law firm, he is forced to grudgingly accept work as a Santa at a local Christmas grotto. There he meets five-year-old Alfie, and all Alfie wants for Christmas is for his mum to be happy again. She has been sad ever since his dad died three years ago. Moved by the boy's selfless wish, Nick arranges a date between Alfie's mum, Sarah, and his best friend, Matt. However, as Sarah and Alfie become an integral part of their lives, Nick soon realises that happiness for Sarah and Matt might mean heartbreak for himself. A hilarious and heartwarming Christmas romance for fans of Beth O'Leary's The Flatshare and Marian Keyes' Grown Ups.

Release date: October 1, 2020

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Prologue

‘You’ve already got quite the queue forming, Nick. Can we get a move on, please; kids can get rowdy. I’m not paying you to preen. Let’s go!’

It’s only my first shift at Southview Shopping Centre and I already dislike my supervisor Geraldine, whose sullen head has snaked around the door and appears to be propping it open with the weight of her own self-importance. She can’t be any older than forty, yet has the dead-eyed glare of someone who has been forced to reincarnate as the same retail manager for centuries. The longer she stands there, the more I’m aware of the faint buzz from the shopping mall which creeps past her and invades the once quiet staffroom. It sounds as busy as she implies.

‘Be right there!’ I reply, trying to sound chipper, when in reality, I’d happily welcome the sweet release of death right now.

Anything but this.

Geraldine retains her scowl and slowly retreats, the click of her heels gradually disappearing as she makes her way through the double doors at the end of the corridor.

As I step into my oversized black boots and tighten my belt, I feel a tiny bead of sweat slowly trickle down the side of my face and absorb into my beard. Jesus, it’s hot. Why do shopping centres always have their temperature set to Sahara? I’m going to be a human puddle by 5pm, if the utter humiliation doesn’t kill me first.

I mop my brow with my sleeve and adjust my hat, taking one last look in the staffroom mirror. I hardly ­recognise myself, which I guess is the point, and I’m grateful. Being recognised is not something my currently fragile ego could handle. I sigh loudly as I smooth my jacket over my oversized belly.

Welcome to the lowest point in your life, loser. Just be thankful Christmas only comes once a year.

Taking a deep breath, I reluctantly trudge out of the staffroom and towards the same double doors that Geraldine’s cloven hooves passed through a few minutes earlier. Emerging into the brightly lit shopping floor, what feels like the entire city of London stops to stare at me. I cannot believe I agreed to do this. As my cheeks begin to turn bright red, my transformation is complete.

‘MUMMY! LOOK! IT’S SANTA! IT’S SANTA CLAUS!’

Oh, fucking hell. Here we go.

Chapter One

Four weeks earlier

‘Oh, come on! You’ve got to be kidding me. That can’t be right.’

I stare at my phone, hoping the digits shown on my online banking account will magically rearrange themselves into an amount that doesn’t make my stomach catapult into my throat. I click on my recent transactions, hoping that I’ve become the victim of identity theft and a stranger is the reason I am almost completely broke.

As I skim down my purchases, my stomach leaves my throat and plummets to my feet. There’s no mistake. This was all me: same places, same amounts, same days of the week. Not only am I skint, I’m predictable. I’m not sure what’s worse.

I glance at the corner of the living room where my most recent Amazon purchase sits untouched, mocking me for being stupid enough to waste money on an unused gym membership while simultaneously ordering kettlebells online to work out at home. God, I’m an idiot. A skinny-armed idiot. I should return them and get my forty quid back, although I’m not sure it’s going to touch the sides of the hole that I’m going to have to dig myself out of. Still, it would be a start.

I close my phone, tossing it on to the couch with a groan while I pace the floor of the large flat I soon won’t be able to pay rent on.

It’s just a blip, I reassure myself. You’ll get back on your feet. Maybe just cut back . . . Set a budget!

Budget. God, I hate that word. Yes, admittedly, as someone who is technically unemployed, I perhaps should be a bit more frugal, but I’m certain Angela isn’t down for staying in with her penny-pinching boyfriend seven nights a week. She’s a girl who likes to be seen. It was touch-and-go when she found out I’d been fired.

‘But you were taking me to Marbs, babe,’ she’d reminded me, like I hadn’t already surreptitiously tried to get the deposit back. I watched her scroll through Instagram, never lifting her head to look at me. ‘What about Marbs?’

‘I know, honey, it’s just that—’

‘What about Marbs, babe?’ she repeated, almost singing the words at me. ‘I didn’t get non-surgical lipo and a keratin treatment just to hang around London . . .’

‘I appreciate that, but Marbella might have to—’

‘WHAT. ABOUT. MARBS?’

It’s funny, when you’re dating a former reality-TV star, reality is the last thing that they’re concerned about. Angela is beautiful, independent, sexy and probably the most career-focused person I’ve ever met (and I once worked with a guy who missed his son’s birth to have dinner with a client). I have always worked hard for what I want, and Angela is no exception. Three grand and a sunburned nipple later, I still had a girlfriend and she had two pictures of her tanned derriere in the Sun.

Naïvely I didn’t think I’d be unemployed long enough to miss the money, but in the four months since I was fired from Kensington Fox LLP, I’ve had twenty-three interviews, followed by twenty-three identically worded rejection letters.

‘Thank you for your interest. We wish you every success in your future career.’

I’m not even sure I have a future career. It’s clear that doors are closing just as fast as word is spreading about my dismissal. How the hell did I get everything so wrong?

Angela believes I’m too handsome to be unemployed, which is sweet of her to say, but she also believes ponies are baby horses, so I’m not relying solely on her judgement for the time being.

I give myself a shake and begin productively clearing away the old pizza boxes and beer bottles from the coffee table. They’re all mine, of course, no one else around here is using Domino’s to self-medicate. As the money has dwindled, my need to lie around the flat feeling sorry for myself has increased. My flatmate and former colleague, Matt, tries his best to be supportive, but even I know it must be difficult to rally someone who has discovered a fondness for Stella Artois at 8am.

‘You need to snap out of this, Nick,’ he’d demanded last week. ‘Get yourself back on track. You made one mistake—’

‘Two!’ I corrected quickly. ‘I made two.’

From the comfort of the couch I had observed Matt messing with his dirty blond hair in the hall mirror, not oblivious to the subtle eye roll directed at my response. He strode through the living room and into the kitchen, his sticky pomade fingers grabbing his wallet from the worktop.

‘OK, fine, you made two mistakes but—’

‘Actually, three, but they didn’t find out about the third one, so it doesn’t count. Does anywhere do breakfast kebabs? Is that even a thing?’

Matt sighed. ‘Look, all I’m saying is it’s not the end of the world, mate. You’ll find something. I’d knock the morning drinking on the head, though.’

‘Technically, I started drinking last night so it’s still part of my drunking evening . . . evening drinking. Bah, you know what I mean.’

‘All I’m saying is, it’s a slippery slope . . .’

‘Your hair’s a slippery slope,’ I mumbled, but Matt wasn’t listening. He was too busy being employed.

‘Mm-hmm,’ Matt replied, as he marched towards the front door. ‘I’m off. Get a shower, pal.’

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t more than a little envious of Matt. Despite his overuse of hair product, Matt Buckley is a shrewd man with a healthy bank balance, an investment plan and a couple of wealthy parents to fall back on. Mostly I’m envious that Matt still works at Kensington Fox. As much as I miss the money, I miss the work more. I loved that job: the buzz of the office, the meetings, the after-work drinks, the networking, the camaraderie, but now I’m on the outside, desperately trying to get back in, somewhere, anywhere, and failing miserably.

I’ve blown through most of my savings, as well as the hundred quid Matt keeps in the emergency tin on top of the fridge. I feel that right now, life itself is an emergency. Being skint isn’t exactly unfamiliar territory. Growing up on a housing estate in Tottenham with a single parent wasn’t the most affluent start, but it meant that I quickly learned how to graft. I started working part-time when I was at school to help Mum out, using every spare minute in between school and shifts to study, which led to a scholarship at university, where I worked evening shifts at the twenty-four-hour Asda, while my friends got shit-faced at whatever foam party or theme night was being held at the students’ union.

My main concern isn’t that I’ve been fired for missing a crucial filing deadline (which wasn’t entirely my fault) or that I accidentally threw up over an important client’s wife the same evening, it’s that I’ve worked my arse off to get here and I’m about to lose it all.

Chapter Two

Three weeks into an extremely chilly October and there isn’t anyone in London who doesn’t have a copy of my CV. Even Ahmet who runs the Kebab House is keeping me in mind for any future vacancies. I could do deliveries or become an Uber driver, but even that requires a car and I don’t have the cash, even for a shitty one.

Apparently, I’m too qualified for McDonald’s, but not qualified enough for Debbie’s Dog Grooming, because seemingly law school doesn’t mean shit when you’re faced with an anxious dog who doesn’t want his nails trimmed, Nick. While I feel Debbie was rather harsh, it does make me realise how few real skills I actually possess. Yes, I can organise mergers and negotiate multimillion-pound contracts, but I have no idea how to operate a till, mix a cocktail or make a coffee appear from one of those giant, frothing machines. I’m almost out of options. Hopefully today will be better; God, please let it be better.

Quickening my step, I pull my flimsy jacket around me as I make my way through Covent Garden towards GL Recruitment, owned by Greta Lang, a woman who dumped me five years ago. We’d dated for three months and I’d spent that time trying to remember how she took her tea, while she had spent the same time determining that there was zero future for us and had written me off. Looking back, she had a point; I could never truly commit to someone who drinks decaf. Regardless of ‘not being the one for her’, we’ve remained good friends and as I press the buzzer at the entrance, I’m hoping she’ll be the one to pull me out of my current sinkhole of despair.

Greta’s office is small, elegant and extremely vibrant, which perfectly reflects her as a person.

‘Take a seat, Nick, can I get you anything?’ She brushes down the front of her shirt, scattering tiny baguette crumbs at her feet. I’ve obviously caught her at lunch.

I yank out the chair at the front of her desk and shake my head. ‘Apart from a job? Nah, I’m good.’

She smiles and sits behind her desk, moving her glasses from her face to the top of her head. She missed one crumb which now nestles in her brown hair. When we dated, Greta was a blonde, like Angela, but I much prefer her as a brunette. It makes her green eyes pop. Shit, I don’t think I ever noticed she had green eyes; she was absolutely right to dump me.

Greta taps a few keys on her laptop and clears her throat. I recognise that sound. It’s the same sound she made before she broke up with me, before she explained very tactfully that we were finished. That is the sound you make when you’re about to give bad news.

‘I’ll be honest, Nick; it isn’t great news.’

I knew it.

‘We just don’t have many corporate law vacancies at this time of year. It’s all temp Christmas positions, which were snapped up by students months ago. After the festive period, you’re more likely to—’

‘Still be unemployable?’

Having a friend who works for a recruitment agency is only useful if companies are actually hiring. The longer I remain unemployed, the worse it looks on my CV. Greta’s pity smile is not what I need to see right now, but she offers it anyway.

‘Lawyers get fired and hired all the time,’ she responds, with a look on her face which says otherwise. ‘I’ll find you something. You might just have to lower your expectations in the meantime.’

‘I have no expectations. Did you know that you have to be qualified, trained and have a portfolio to wash a dog?’

‘What? I hadn’t thought . . . wait, you don’t even like dogs.’

‘I know but—’

She starts rummaging through some paperwork. ‘How do you feel about rabbits? I might have something with rabbits here . . .’

‘I was thinking more like temporary clerical work, perhaps?’ I interject. ‘Data entry, maybe?’

My stomach churns at the thought of tapping mindlessly on a keyboard or filing for eight hours a day, but it’s better than nothing.

‘If I had it, I’d be putting you forward for it, Nick. I’m sorry. I am trying. But I’ve pretty much exhausted every avenue I have. I’ve looked into retail and call centres, as well as data entry . . . it’s just a tricky time of the year.’

‘I know,’ I say, rubbing my forehead. I can feel a headache brewing. ‘Right now, I’ll do just about anything.’

‘I’m sure something will turn up,’ she replies, sounding less than optimistic. The crumb from her hair finally falls on to her desk. ‘Positions come in all the time.’

I nod and do my best to look reassured, but I don’t think she’s buying it.

‘Chin up, Nick,’ she says softly, determined to finish our meeting on a positive note. ‘Will I see you at the party tomorrow night? Might be just what you need, you know . . . take your mind off things? Though I’m not sure we got your RSVP . . .’

‘Yup, looking forward to it!’ I lie, forcing the corners of my mouth upwards. ‘I gave the RSVP to Matt; he must have forgotten to post it. You know what he’s like!’

Another lie. I had completely forgotten about the party. The silver and white monochrome engagement party invitation is currently on my coffee table being used as a coaster.

‘Excellent, we’ll see you tomorrow then! Matt too!’ Greta beams like a woman who has just solved all my problems. She is also beaming like a woman who is expecting a gift. Did she provide a gift list? If I can’t afford actual coasters, how the hell am I supposed to afford an engagement present?

Determined to add my name to whatever Matt has purchased for the happy couple, I thank Greta and swiftly leave her office, mumbling something about catching the bank before they close. As I step back out into the chilly air, I stop and take a deep breath which catches the growing lump in the back of my throat. How is this my life? I have no money, no job prospects, an inappropriate jacket for the weather and tomorrow I’ll have to endure a room full of successful people who have their shit together nodding politely while I say that I’m taking a break from Kensington Fox and exploring new avenues, like my lifelong dream of grooming dogs . . . or rabbits, if Greta has anything to do with it.

I take out my phone and text Angela, asking if she fancies going to this party, then Matt, letting him know that he’s responsible for my missing RSVP, before heading into Charing Cross station to catch my train back to London Bridge. Matt responds first:

No probs. Glad you’re leaving the couch.

Shortly followed by Angela:

Sorry bbz, have plans. Call u later xoxo

I reply with No worries, but in truth, I’m slightly perturbed. Angela never misses a party, so she must be attending something equally entertaining. Something better. Something she didn’t invite me to. She always invites me. Is she embarrassed to be seen with me now? My paranoia begins to kick in and continues booting the hell out of me all the way home.

 

Matt arrives back at the flat just after 7pm to the sight of me tossing clothes from my wardrobe on to my bed. My normally tidy room now looks like a jumble sale.

‘Lost something?’ he asks, looking mildly amused.

‘I can’t find my Paul Smith shirt,’ I reply. ‘I wanted to wear it tomorrow.’

‘Jesus, you’re such a woman. Just wear something else.’

‘But I like that one. It shows off my tits.’ I grin and pretend to flick my hair back.

Matt laughs and begins to help me look. ‘Is it the denim one? Pretty sure you spilled curry on that.’

‘No, it’s the yellow one.’

Matt pauses. ‘You mean the one your girlfriend hates?’

‘Yes! I haven’t seen it since we—’ I stop rummaging and look over at Matt, who raises his eyebrows.

‘She wouldn’t . . . would she?’

He shrugs. ‘Well, she did make her feelings on that shirt known to everyone in the bar that night . . .’

It’s not yellow, Nick, it’s mustard. Vomit-coloured mustard and it’s not your colour. It’s not anyone’s colour! What were you thinking?

I shake my head, unwilling to believe that she would just throw away a Paul Smith shirt, but deep down, I’m less than certain. She once binned a full-size bottle of Jo Malone perfume that I bought for her birthday because she didn’t like the limited-edition bottle as much as the normal bottle.

‘Ask her,’ Matt suggests. ‘I’m pretty certain she’ll admit it if she did. She’s ballsy like that.’

Matt doesn’t like Angela. He’s never said it outright, but I can tell by the way he tenses up every time she’s around. He’s wary of her and I’ve never understood why, considering some of the women he’s brought round to the flat. Jesus, he once briefly dated an American woman who called him Daddy in a baby voice, regardless of who was in earshot. Angela might be a tad shallow sometimes, but she has a good heart.

‘I’m not going to ask my girlfriend if she threw away my shirt,’ I insist. ‘I’ll look like a psycho.’

He laughs. ‘True, and if she admits it, you’ll have to deal with the fact you’re dating a psycho. Which is worse?’

‘I’ll buy a new bloody shirt,’ I mumble, as I begin picking up clothes from my bedroom floor. ‘I’m pretty sure I have store credit from John Lewis.’

‘You could buy a bottle of champagne for Greta and Will while you’re at it,’ Matt suggests as he walks into the living room. ‘I’m not doing a joint present, like we’re a couple, mate. That’s just creepy.’

‘No problem, Daddy.’

‘Fuck off, Billy-No-Shirt.’

I grab the rest of my clothes and fling them back into my wardrobe, vowing to sort them out later. Right now, I have to figure out how to buy a shirt and a decent bottle of champagne with fifty pounds.

Chapter Three

‘Boys! So glad you could make it!’

At least I think that’s what Greta says as we walk into Bar Black, but the place is so noisy, it’s hard to be sure. She hugs me – wrinkling my new blue shirt, which might be a little on the tight side since one of the buttons pinged off on the way here, but was seventy per cent off – before thanking me for the gift I’m carrying. I really hope she likes 2018 sparkling rosé. Matt hands her a box containing two Swarovski crystal-embellished champagne flutes and I hate him.

‘We’re all in the VIP area,’ she yells, gesturing towards the stairs at the back of the pub. ‘Will is up there, go grab a drink! I won’t be long.’

We push through the crowds and head up the stairs to the function ‘room’, a cordoned-off area which overlooks the main bar. Until now, I’ve never noticed how pretentious it’s become. When we first started coming here, Bar Black was called Libertines and was far less polished and sterile. Then again, so were we. Part of me misses the comfy patchwork couches and retro jukebox, which have now been replaced with shitty club anthems and slippery bar stools. There are plenty of other bars in London, but this one just feels like ours, even with a strangely designed bar perch lodged up my arse.

It’s busy for a Tuesday, with most of the clientele arranged in after-work drink cliques, all smelling like a mixture of stress and Tom Ford. It’s the same faces week in and week out.. . .