Page 3 of The Village Christmas Party

Arriving home after work, I kick off my shoes and give my feet a little rub, before pouring myself a glass of red wine. I only ever have one glass during the week, a little treat at the end of the day, sometimes in a scented bubble bath, sometimes with my dinner.

‘We wish you a merry Christmas.’ The strains of children’s voices singing a Christmas carol on the doorstep rings through the air, so I head to a tin where I keep some coins. Two rosy-cheeked children, accompanied by their parents, smile as I push a pound coin into the palms of each of their hands. I wonder briefly whether carol singers will soon become a thing of the past in an ever-growing cashless society, unless they start carrying card readers around with them, with householders tapping their cards against them. What an alarming thought.

‘Would you like some home-made shortbread?’ I ask the parents, the two kids and Mum wearing matching red bobble hats, thinking of how much I have left, and they eagerly accept.

‘Ooh, yes, please, that will go down well later with a hot chocolate,’ says the guy, rubbing his hands together, his cold breath in the air. ‘Thanks very much.’

After the carol singers have left, I open the fridge and glance at the two meals in boxes, one bearing a sticker telling me it contains a chicken curry, the other a veggie lasagne, both home-made. I enjoy cooking and swore I would never live off takeaways when I became single, so on my days off I batch cook, or make enough of an evening meal to freeze an extra portion.

My ex would have been happy to exist on takeaways and, when he left, I binned all the menus from the kitchen drawer. He would eat, drink, and spend money on just about anything other than our future. When he spent over a thousand pounds on a mountain bike that barely saw the light of day and just sat in the shed, I thought maybe our priorities were a little different. He was so handsome and funny that I probably stayed with him far longer than I should have done really. I still smile when I think of some of his witty one-liners, but I guess good looks and wit were never going to be enough if he wasn’t prepared to commit to our future. I’ve been single for eighteen months now, and doing just fine.

I change into sweatpants and curl up on the sofa, sipping my red wine, when I hear the sound of the cat flap opening.

‘Hi, Tony.’ Tony leaps up onto the sofa beside me, purring loudly, bringing the scent of the crisp winter evening with him.

‘What have you been up to today then?’ I stroke him as he climbs onto my knee, almost knocking my wine from my hand. He miaows then and settles down next to me when I show him to his place, a square of sofa covered with a fleecy blanket. At least he hasn’t brought me a present in the form of a mouse or a bird this evening. I almost passed out the first time he brought a bird through the flap, and dropped the poor thing, that I thought was dead, at my feet. The bird, clearly only stunned, then proceeded to flap its wings and cause mayhem in my lounge, with Tony in hot pursuit, before I captured it. I did wonder whether Tony – named after Tony the Tiger on the Frosties cereal box, as he’s a stripy tabby – realised how much he’d upset me, as he has never brought anything alive through the cat flap again, thank goodness.

I catch up on a couple of episodes ofBake Off, and add ingredients for the red velvet cake that was made on the show to the list on my phone before I head to bed. It looks amazing and I really must give it a go.

Although having missed the mince pie baking, I’m running a little behind on my schedule. Very unusual for me, but I’m sure it will all be fine.

TWO

The store is busy once more the following morning, especially the beauty hall. A group of young women are browsing brightly coloured eyeshadows, some with extra sparkle, probably in anticipation of Christmas parties. A free sample of a moisturising cream on special offer is also helping sales along nicely.

‘What’s so good about this cream then?’ A woman turns a jar over, and examines the contents. ‘And what exactly is hyaluronic acid? Surely that can’t be right, putting acid on your face.’ She grimaces.

‘I’m sure it’s perfectly safe,’ I say with a beaming smile, even though I’m not exactly sure myself. ‘It’s supposed to plump out lines, and give the skin a more youthful appearance,’ I add, sounding more confident than I am.

‘Hmm,’ says the woman looking doubtful, before placing the cream back down. ‘My mum is coming up for eighty and she has the most beautiful skin, and she used a cheap cold cream from the chemist for decades,’ she tells me. ‘She was gutted when they discontinued it, so I thought I’d buy her a new one. Never mind, maybe I will buy her a new dressing gown instead,’ she says, but not before dipping her fingers into the sample jar and rubbing itinto her hands. She wanders off towards the clothes department then, leaving me googling hyaluronic acid which it turns out is perfectly safe.

I’m thinking about the Christmas party at the community centre, and wondering if I ought to add a little extra gift for the pensioners? There are drawers full of scent and make-up samples, so I’m sure the store manager won’t mind. And how lovely it would be for them, alongside the box of fancy chocolates they usually get inside a little goodie bag. I can’t wait to see their happy faces when we serve them lunch and hand out presents.

‘I’ll text you,’ I hear a good-looking bloke in gym gear say as he hands Gemma her phone back, before heading towards the door. I also notice his wedding ring as he does so. I vaguely recognise him from the pub, but I can’t be certain as everything was a bit of a blur after the third gin. Gemma slides her phone back into her pocket before serving a young man holding some tartan slippers in a box, probably a present for his dad.

I don’t have time to dwell on the married bloke though as a mum and daughter head to my counter, the mum asking for some advice about a foundation. I direct her to a chair at a make-up station to try out some samples.

‘I never used to be this pale,’ says the mum. ‘Everything fades when you get older.’ She sighs.

‘Nonsense, you have lovely eyes,’ I tell her and mean it. They are a rich brown. ‘And great eyelids. Not hooded at all, which is unusual as you get older.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ She smiles.

‘And don’t worry, we can look at fixing any paleness you’re unhappy with using the correct colour foundation,’ I tell her.

‘Oh lovely, I can’t wait to see you work your magic,’ she says excitedly. ‘But don’t worry, I’m not expecting miracles.’

Having selected a suitable shade of foundation and applying it to her face, she selects a bronze-coloured eyeshadow. After aswirl of mascara and a slick of caramel lip gloss, I pass her the mirror and she is delighted with the results.

‘How lovely, is that really me?’ She smiles, clearly pleased. ‘I should come here every week.’

‘Well, these products suit your colouring. I’m sure you will do just fine applying them yourself, with a little practice,’ I reassure her.

‘Thank you so much.’ She can’t resist taking another look at herself in the mirror and smiling.

‘That was just the tonic,’ the daughter whispers to me. ‘Mum’s been a bit down in the dumps lately, since her brother passed away. We’re off to the theatre now. Mum looks fantastic, I can’t thank you enough.’

‘Happy to help.’ As the daughter hands over her card and pays for the make-up items I slip a couple of free samples into her bag.

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