Page 17 of Christmas Romance Galore!
I rummaged in the cutlery drawer to set the table. “Who isn’t? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be interested if your first love strode out of a fire truck and into your life?”
Holly tilted her head and grinned. “I guess it would have a certain je ne sais quoi.” She paused. “A hot firefighter turning up at my work would have been very welcome today. A little light relief from the stresses of modern life.”
“Who was it who was lecturing me on love the other day? Perhaps you need to start a little fire at your work and see who turns up.”
“If it’s Nicola Sheen, that would be way too complex,” she said, laughing. “Besides, I heard a rumour she’s engaged.”
I swiped at Holly with a tea towel. “Ha ha — you know what I mean. You need to be ready for love when it comes along and that might be tomorrow. Romance and self-help books make me open to it.” I pointed to my chest. “When love comes knocking, I’m going to have the flat ship-shape, I’ll have flossed and my hair will be perfect. I’m going to be ready.”
Holly turned off the pan, lifted the fish on to a plate and squeezed lime juice over the top. “I’ll be perfectly ready, thanks.” She didn’t look up. “And I won’t be the one searching through my pile of exes for someone to love.” She retrieved the taco shells and carried the tomatoes, lettuce and guacamole to our small dining table, pushed up against the left wall of our lounge.
I grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and followed her to the table.
“But I’m not going to argue with you now — not after I’ve cooked this lovely dinner. In the meantime, while you’re dusting off and updating your Nicola Sheen fantasies, what’s in store for the rest of this week? Any more dates in the pipeline?” Holly bit into her taco and the crunch may well have been heard in Yorkshire.
“I do. Tomorrow I have Jenny, an Australian web designer. And then on Thursday, I have a woman called Spanish_Vixen89. I’m holding out high hopes for her.”
Holly nodded, swallowing her food before replying. “She sounds like she might be a sultry Mediterranean lady. Or she sounds like she might be 89.”
“I’ve seen her picture, so I’m assuming she was born in 1989.”
“And if she turns out to be 89?”
“Then she’s looking really good and it makes a fantastic story to tell. Plus, don’t be so ageist — she might be absolutely lovely.” I crunched into my tacos and savoured the flavours — fish, lime, coriander, avocado and spices — they were delicious. Holly was going to make someone a perfect wife. “So you see, I’m getting on with life and I am not at all focused on Nicola Sheen who is marrying Melanie Taylor. In fact, I couldn’t be happier for them.”
Holly nodded her head slowly. “If you say it enough times, you might actually believe it.”
I stuck out my tongue at her.
“So, I have a question.” Holly was holding up one finger to demonstrate that fact.
“Shoot,” I replied, licking my bottom lip to rescue some stray guacamole.
“What happens if you hit it off with both Jenny and Spanish Vixen? How will you choose?”
I chewed my mouthful and wrinkled my nose. “I’ll worry about that when it happens. If it does, it would be a miracle.”
Holly laughed. “And did you get the Dixie Chicks tickets in all the excitement you had at work?” Her face told me she had absolutely zero faith I’d remembered to do it.
I nodded. “I did — two tickets booked. You shall go to the ball.”
Holly gave me a dazzling grin, showing off her seriously perfect teeth. “This is going to be the best Christmas run-up ever — Dixie Chicks playing so close to my birthday. I cannot wait!”
Tuesday December 6th
I wasn’t messing Holly around — I was still on a quest for a Christmas girlfriend. And to prove it, tonight I was turning my attention to Jenny, who was not from the block, but rather from West London.
Jenny was a web designer in a corporate bank, but apart from that, she fitted the Aussie label to a tee. She had smooth, treacle-toned skin that went on for days, freckles across her nose and shoulder-length fair hair that was conditioned to within an inch of its life — I didn’t spot one solitary split end. Her sentences still went up at the end even though she’d lived in London for three years, and she had a habit of shortening words, Aussie style. Afternoon became arvo, ambulance became ambo. It was an endearing quality that made me smile.
We met near Liverpool Street at a pop-up food park — one of those London peculiarities that people from outside the city would scoff at. A disused car park, it was now stuffed with food trucks, drinks stands and punters, with hundreds of multi-coloured Christmas lights strung all around, along with an abundance of metal umbrella heaters to ward off the cold. We stood near a burrito van with our mugs of mulled cider, our breath writing messages in the air around us. The speakers were blaring out a procession of Christmas hits, currently a personal favourite, The Pogues And Kirsty MacColl’s ‘Fairytale Of New York’. I sung the last chorus out loud, swaying my cider back and forth.
“You’ve got a good voice,” Jenny said.
I smiled modestly. “Thanks.” Ten points to Jenny.
“Have you been on many dates through the app?” She shivered as she spoke, which I found cute. I’ve no idea why she was shivering though as she appeared to be dressed in what I can only describe as a duvet — her coat honestly seemed to be 100-tog all the way around.
“A few,” I said. “But this is definitely the most Christmassy one yet. I mean, Santa statues, Christmas tunes and fake snow. You could almost forget you were in a car park in London and believe you were in Lapland, couldn’t you?”
