Page 5 of Christmas Romance Galore!
Everybody loved Amy — my mum, my friends, my colleagues — everyone. There really was nothing not to love. She owned her own business, loved animals and was one of the most caring people I’d ever met.
After a year, I moved into her neat three-bed terrace, the floors covered with Amy’s carpets, the walls with Amy’s artwork. After two years, Amy started making noises about having children — at 35, her biological clock was booming. At 24, mine was not. A year later, Amy proposed: one knee, roses, diamonds, the works. I accepted, we told the world, and the world embraced us as one.
Only I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t close my eyes without thinking about getting married and having children, all before I knew what I was doing with my life. Before I was ready. I was only in my mid-20s, and suddenly, my life had been thrown into fifth gear.
After three months, Amy asked if I still wanted to get married.
I told her I didn’t know.
That was enough for her.
We split up two months later amid a backdrop of tears and what-ifs. I couldn’t stay in Bristol, so I handed in my notice and moved into Holly’s spare room in east London. Moving in with her was the perfect choice because Holly had known me for over half my life. She knew I loved Mexican food, garlic mayonnaise, and cats. She knew I’d still worn knee-high socks at High School far later than it was considered cool to do so. She’d held my hair when I vomited after drinking too many pints of Snake Bite on my 18th birthday. Aged 25, London and Holly were the far better option — better than being married with kids.
So yes, love. It’s come my way twice, and if I’m honest, I sometimes wonder if I’ve used up my lot. Should I have married Amy and stayed in Bristol? I might already be a mother — I knew Amy was.
I shook my head. No, I’d done the right thing moving east. But now, 18 months later and after precisely three one-night stands and a four-date fling, I was ready to get back in the game. I wanted a girlfriend. I’d already fallen in love with city life, which took a little time for a country bumpkin like me. Now, I was ready to fall in love for real with a living, breathing woman, rather than that mannequin in Top Shop who I always think would make a fine lesbian.
Tomorrow night was date one. Her name was Ruby.
If she kissed anything like Nicola Sheen, that would be amazing.
Monday November 28th
I was a Cancerian and Ruby was a Scorpio. According to most experts, that meant we were a match made in lesbo-heaven. If we got together, my future was set to be awash with emotional rapport, empathy, compassion and sensitivity. One site I checked last night even said we were ‘sextile’, whatever that meant. One thing was certain — even before Ruby turned up, we were destined for greatness.
We’d arranged to meet in the West End, in a run-of-the-mill Soho boozer. It wasn’t a gay bar, but then again, there weren’t many of those left these days. Apparently with equal marriage and all the rest, we simply didn’t need gay bars any more. I wasn’t sure I agreed.
I loved this part of Christmas — the build-up. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the day itself too, but it was the anticipation that thrilled me every year. When I was little, my parents would bring me to the West End to see the Christmas lights as an annual treat. We’d get hot chocolate, hot dogs and cinnamon donuts, and the size and sparkle of the event never failed to amaze me. Even now, years later, the sight of the West End Christmas lights still flush my insides with festive cheer. They also make me miss my dad so much, I have to stop and catch my breath.
I’d styled my shoulder-length chestnut hair with a new product, but it felt odd, like a dry alien life-form perched on top of my scalp. However, my foundation was smoothed in, my lipstick so bright it could stop ships. I’d done a fashion show for Holly the night before and we’d settled on some tailored black trousers and a black shirt — simple, but effective. The stage was set, now I just needed my Juliet. Or Ruby, as the case may be.
I bought myself a glass of Merlot and nabbed a table at the back of the pub. It was November 28th and already the place was overrun with Christmas spirit — by that, I mean drunk office workers. Scarves lay abandoned on the scuffed wooden floor as drinks were hoisted, ties were loosened and heels crunched on broken glass. London had come alive to celebrate the imminent birth of baby Jesus.
I recognised Ruby straight away from her profile picture — she had crazy curly hair, so she was easy to spot. She struck me as the kind of person who was always catching her breath, always rushing, always late. She just had that aura about her.
It was her love of tennis that had drawn me to her profile — that, and the fact she made a good joke about cats. I was desperate for a cat, but Holly wasn’t keen — I was still working on her. If I ended up with Ruby, not only were we sextile, we’d also have cats. Perhaps three of them.
She squeezed past the crowd to sit down in the chair I pushed out for her. Ruby was carrying a pint of lager and a posh-looking laptop bag that screamed “steal me!”.
She shook off her coat and smoothed herself down, before we smiled shyly at each other and shook hands. She had a strong handshake, not too firm, just right.
Ruby turned out to be in the music industry. I pricked up my ears — not only cats and perfect compatibility, but also free gig tickets on the horizon. This was getting better. She was around my age but needed a better moisturising routine — the skin around her eyes and mouth was dry and drawn — but winter could do that to you. She was wearing a floral perfume that she’d clearly just reapplied, and her pink lips were rounded and glistening with lip balm. I leaned closer to get a look at the logo that was stamped liberally around her shirt.
“Is it a squirrel?” I pointed my finger at one of the animals sitting happily on her breast. However, Ruby moved at that critical moment and my finger brushed her nipple.
She shot backwards as if I’d just slapped her.
I held up a hand as my cheeks hissed into red action. “Sorry — I was just pointing at the animal on your breast.” More blushing. “I mean, your shirt. Is it a squirrel?” This wasn’t going well.
Luckily, Ruby had a sense of humour. She peered down at her shirt. “That’s a funny-looking squirrel — it was a rabbit last time I looked.” She gave me a grin. “So, is this a usual habit — feeling up your dates within five minutes?” She took a sip of her pint, never taking her eyes from me.
I blushed a deeper shade of red. “I normally give it at least ten.”
But after that, things took a turn for the better. One thing I didn’t have to worry about was flowing conversation. Ruby liked to talk. And talk and talk, which suited me as I was happy to listen, smile, nod and assess. Was Ruby going to be my future girlfriend? I was just happy that the chat was about celebrities, the best lunchtime salads, cats and tennis.
“So do you have a cat?”
Ruby shook her head. “I’d like one, but it’s just not very practical. Living in a flat-share isn’t the ideal environment for a couple of kittens, is it? When I get a place of my own, which will be in about 200 years at the current rate of progress with my finances, then maybe.” She sighed and sat back in her chair. “Until then, I’m going to be catless and sad.” She pouted to emphasise the point.
