Snow Angels, Secrets and Christmas Cake (2 page)

‘Yeah, but he wasn’t the best Tinkerbell I’ve ever seen. The dress was lovely but those big brown paws...they were a bit...’

‘What?’

‘Butch? Brown...?’ I offered.

‘God, you two are gender stereotyping him now,’ Hermione piped up from behind her iPad. She wandered in and leaned on the kitchen island and looking up at Tamsin with feigned disapproval. ‘Ma... get a grip, wasn’t dressing him up as a dog tranny enough for you last year? Does poor Horatio have to suffer further mortification and be dressed as another
species
this Christmas?’

‘Yes he does. That dog lives in the lap of luxury and he’ll earn his keep, Hermione.’

She pronounced her daughter’s name ‘Hermiuney’ and I smiled again on hearing the forgotten flat vowels of the working class Manchester girl that once was. This was the girl Tamsin had locked away a long time ago – she rarely made an appearance in these leafy Cheshire lanes lined with £2m plus homes. Tamsin looked at me, and I knew what she was thinking, but there was no way I was grappling Horatio’s huge chocolate thighs into tight-fitting white fur – Christmas or not.

She sighed, climbing down off the kitchen stool, propelled by sherry, and landing rather abruptly. ‘Cum on, our Sam, let’s see how far the boys have got with me Winter Wonderland,’ she said, swaying slightly into the living room.

Heddon was whipping around the place like the sugar plum fairy as Hall draped the tree with giant white satin bows. Meanwhile Gabe, who’d been hanging around since October, was sitting on her Paris chair eating Monster Munch and flicking through
Vogue
.

She huffed when she saw him and after unsuccessfully attempting to dress the dog herself she demanded Gabe help her. He was understandably reluctant to get involved but my sister was determined he would do as she requested. After Horatio was dressed, Gabe said something to her and she wafted him away embarrassed. Then she rushed over to Heddon and Hall who were clambering up trees and along pelmets in the pursuit of Christmas style.

Peter Heddon and Orlando Hall decorated Tamsin’s homes every season. She’d fly them out to her holiday home in France each summer, the apartment in Miami every January and they’d style all her other ‘events’ throughout the year here in leafy Cheshire. Today they were getting ‘White Christmas ready’ and to say they were on a Christmas high would be an understatement.

‘Oh that wreath’s not working... and the glitter to white ratio is all wrong,’ Tamsin was wringing her hands – a storm was brewing and I just didn’t have time for one of her dramas over the technicalities of a wreath gone wrong. There were plenty of people on hand to support her and I needed to return to the real world where people cooked their kids’ teas, put a wash on and didn’t obsess about ‘glitter ratios’ or dress their dogs up as polar bears.

I sometimes wondered what it was that Tamsin was looking for. To me, it seemed she had a perfect life; a husband, two great kids, plenty of money and several homes dotted around the world. Yet my sister was always searching for the next high and Christmas just seemed to bring out the worst in her. For example, a Christmas turkey was apparently ‘out’ this year and she was desperately trying to get her hands on an organic goose. I mean that literally – she would have chased the right goose and caught it herself if she thought it would look good on her table – or ‘table-scape’ as she called it.

Along with her Christmas goose, Tamsin also chose ‘the right’ friends. Wrought from a shared love of materialism, multiple homes and absent husbands, her friendships were with women who’d been spoilt by money. They spent their days in the spa, shopping in town or eating leafy lunches in glamorous restaurants. These women talked only of the next dinner party, their newest designer dress, who their husband’s latest mistress was – and more importantly, where the mistress got her nails done.

I suppose they were all seeking fulfilment in their own way, too, but recently I’d begun to think my sister might need more than this. She’d seemed agitated and I worried there were things about her life she wasn’t telling me. Only a few days previously she’d announced over a glass of Chardonnay that she wasn’t sure about her future. ‘I sometimes feel like I’m in the wrong life, one I don’t deserve and I feel like I’m on a treadmill, only as good as my last lunch, my last dinner party – I wonder where I’ll be ten years from now,’ she’d said.

I was surprised at her honesty. ‘Tamsin, stop looking over your shoulder to see who’s coming up behind you,’ I’d said. ‘Life isn’t about who throws the best dinner party,’ though I suspected in her world it probably was. ‘Stop judging yourself against everyone else – there’ll always be someone more stylish, more wealthy, more accomplished than you...’

‘Who? Where?’ she said. ‘I’ll hunt that bitch down.’ She was joking, but I couldn’t help but feel that a little part of her meant it, because personal perfection and being the best had always mattered so much to her.

When we were kids we’d loved to try and catch snowflakes in our hands, twirling around with our arms outstretched just waiting for one to land. From an early age I was aware that the delicate snowflakes would melt as soon as they landed on our warm palms. But Tamsin, who was six years older than me, never quite seemed to comprehend this and she’d lunge for them, screaming in surprise, almost tearful, as they disappeared at her touch.

It seemed to me that she’d been trying to catch and keep those snowflakes all her life. She would grasp at things, ideas and people and like a snowflake, she wanted to touch them, possess them, keep them in the moment - but just like when we were children, they always melted in her hand and she was left with nothing.

The photo shoot was a perfect example of Tamsin’s futile ‘snowflake chasing’. She was desperate to get the best shot, to seem like the perfect family having the perfect Christmas. She wanted so much to present this image to her friends that she made everyone – including herself – stressed and miserable in the process.

I put my jacket on, stage one of my escape from the madness.

‘Oh I don’t know how we’re going to get this photo done,’ she was stressing.

‘Why do you need to even take a photograph? Why not just
live
it, you don’t have to record it for others to see you’re a happy family,’ I said, fastening my jacket. But she’d grabbed a passing Hermione and was virtually holding her down whilst applying glittery eyeliner to her lids and made some enigmatic remark about even though we were sisters I didn’t really know her.

I hadn’t the time or the inclination to start bickering. ‘I’m going now – those fish fingers won’t grill themselves,’ I smiled.

‘Nicole Scherzinger's personal trainer says eat nothing white after 6 p.m.,’ Hermione added mock-earnestly.

‘Oh no... how’s that going to fit in with your white Christmas?’ I asked. My niece snorted, we often teased Tamsin, who was usually a sport about these things.

‘Close your eyes Hermione, and close your mouth Sam... I’m not such a pedant that I will make everyone eat white food,’ then she winked at me. ‘But now I come to think of it... you’d look pretty in my winter wonderland eating only egg whites Hermione.’

‘Ha ... Ma you’re so random. One man's LOL is another man's WTF.’

‘I’m not quite sure what she just said,’ Tamsin looked at me, puzzled.

I shrugged, ‘Nor me. I’m getting off now guys...’

‘No. You can’t, Jesus is here... I heard him at the door.’

I’d had enough of Tamsin and her Christmas circus, and Jesus’ arrival was like the second coming – literally. In any other household, the announcement that Jesus had arrived may raise a few eyebrows, but not in my sister’s insane universe. Jesus was the appointed photographer, who also happened to be an old friend of Tamsin’s and like all her friends wasn’t quite what he seemed. He was small, dark and brooding with a morose manner and a faux accent – and I really didn’t have time for that pantomime today. I had to tackle the oncoming snow and collect Jacob from the childminder before the weather set in.

‘Come on, just say hello to Jesus, we’ll do the “switch on” and you can get off,’ she smiled. Tamsin always got her own way, particularly with weaker mortals like me, so I agreed, and as Jesus whipped out his camera and started snapping, Tamsin walked up the central staircase in the main hallway. It was a beautiful wide staircase with wrought iron banisters sweeping downwards in a curve. Tamsin loved playing the film star and as she slowly walked down the stairs like Gloria Swanson, Jesus was shouting ‘oh yes, go baby go...’ like he was in the throes of sexual abandon. He was winding himself in and around the banister, his camera strap now almost choking him, but he carried on snapping and ‘yes baby’-ing.

‘God help us if Jesus gets his Nikon caught in that wrought iron,’ I whispered to Gabe, who was watching the whole scene open-mouthed.

‘Jesus, he’s gonna hang himself... and as for him...’ he sighed nodding his head toward the spectacle of Heddon dancing around the fireplace with a bale of baubles and white fur.

I rolled my eyes, it was complete madness, but as I watched Tamsin make her descent, I softened. She seemed so happy, smiling like a little girl – this was all she wanted, to be loved, for someone to say you are okay, fabulous even, and don’t let anyone tell you any different. Tamsin was my big sister and even though I was now thirty-six years old she still bossed me around and called me every day to see if I was okay. She could be stroppy and stressy and annoyed the hell out of me with her bloody onesies and twenty foot Christmas tree, but as she waltzed and sashayed her way down my heart went out to her.

‘You go girl,’ I shouted loudly from the foot of the stairs while clapping, almost drowning out Jesus’ cries of photographic ecstasy. She blushed and smiled, pretending it was all a huge joke, but I knew she loved the clicking camera and the applause. I also knew she didn’t get any attention like this from her husband anymore.

‘Fabulous,’ I called as the lights were switched on and the room glowed with ‘Christmasness’. I blew her a kiss and hugged Hermione whose eye make-up had been abandoned for Tamsin’s Christmas lights switch on. As everyone made loud noises of approval, the door chimed.

‘‘That must be Simon. He managed to get away from work earlier after all. He knew how important this was for me,’ she practically chirped. Thank God, Simon’s appearance would take up all of Tamsin’s attention and I could be ruthless and use his arrival as my escape. Mrs J was now answering the door and I slipped quietly into the hall so I could leave while Tamsin greeted him. But as I walked down the hall I could see Mrs J was having a conversation with someone that wasn’t Simon. She was asking whoever it was to wait on the doorstep, but someone was pushing past her and coming in. I watched open-mouthed as two huge bald guys asked her to step aside and began banging snow off their feet on the mat.

‘Tamsin, they won’t wait on the step,’ Mrs J was shouting. I couldn’t possibly imagine what these men were here for, perhaps my sister had hired yet more ‘staff’ for her festive decorating?

Tamsin suddenly appeared, a string of tinsel round her shoulders, a half-smile on her face.

‘They’re bailiffs... say they’ve got a possessive warrant,’ Mrs J announced. ‘They’ve come for the house.’

A
n Aspen ski
lodge was this year’s theme... a flutter of snowflakes, a taste of St Moritz glitz and a little sprinkle of film star glamour for Christmas? That’s all I wanted. And how wonderful if my husband had been there to share it with me, but Simon called to say he’d be late, apparently Japan were on the phone.

‘What the whole of Japan?’ Sam asked me when I told her. She was the queen of sarcasm our Sam, ‘sarcastic Sam,’ Mrs J always called her and as my sister had never really been a fan of my husband, he was often at the blunt end of her tongue.

Anyway, I ignored her – she always said I was over the top at Christmas, she didn’t understand how competitive it was on Chantray Lane. She had no idea of the work, the sheer toil involved in lists and mood boards and instructing staff to do exactly what you wanted them to do. Our Sam thought if she put up a chocolate advent calendar and a paper streamer that was the season ‘done’, and that’s where we differed. I tried not to be too hurt that Simon wouldn’t be there, but it would be yet another happy family Christmas card with my husband photo-shopped into the picture. As Sam had rather peevishly pointed out the previous year, ‘I don’t know why you’re so bothered, he’s been photo-shopped into your lives for years... he never gets involved.’

I pushed this comment about Simon from my mind and concentrated on my designers Peter Heddon and Orlando Hall who were currently straddling various balustrades and screaming with laughter. I made a mental note not to serve mulled wine next year until their swags and bespoke Christmas window-scapes were properly in place. I just hoped the frosty wreaths, crystal snowflakes and fur baubles would survive their jaunty mood.

I was immersing myself in the sheer madness and magic of Christmas preparation when I spotted Hermione and Hugo lounging all over the new white sofas.

‘Will you both please get off my winter white seating it’s not for sitting on! And why hasn’t anyone dressed the dog?’ I yelled.

I snatched the gorgeous, hand-sewn polar bear outfit from my son, who was aimlessly wandering around making half-hearted attempts to force Horatio’s leg into it.

‘I have to do everything around here,’ I snapped, wrestling Horatio to the floor, at which point Gabe, my landscaper, looked up from the magazine he was clearly engrossed in.

‘What’s going on here then?’ he said, in faux shock-horror like he’d caught me in a compromising position with my dog. How rude, I thought – I hadn’t asked the same of him when he was leafing through my
Vogue
and eating vile onion snacks not five minutes earlier.

I was cross now. ‘Gabe, can you please put down my Vogue and hold Horatio down – I need brute strength for this one,’ I huffed.

‘You are kidding me?’ he was smiling, not moving.

‘No. This is not a time for joking, please grab his paws and push.’

At this point I was forced to straddle Horatio, which can’t have been pretty, but he was always very good-natured about these things. Gabe stepped forward and I have to say was surprisingly gentle and I was vaguely impressed by the way he firmly but calmly held Horatio, who was somewhat reluctant to be a polar bear. Despite complaining, it took Gabe only a few minutes to gently ease the dog into his costume.

‘I’m not happy about this, Tammy,’ he said, as over familiar and opinionated as ever.

‘I’m not doing it to make
you
happy – it’s for the photo,’ I replied, still straddling the dog.

‘You look like one of them hunters in the Arctic,’ he laughed. ‘Ha, like you’ve just killed a polar bear,’ he was now laughing openly at me, which made me feel quite ridiculous.

Hermione laughed from the sidelines and I grimaced because Sam had said only that week that I needed to be more of a sport and laugh at myself sometimes. But when my daughter started taking shots on her iPhone enough was enough. ‘Stop that Hermione I will not be the subject of some “my mad mother post” again on your sodding Facebook page.'

‘I wouldn’t waste this on FB, ma,’ she huffed. ‘This is pixel gold for my instagram... I may even tweet this shit it’s too funny.’

I gave her a look, which she didn’t get because she was too busy sending a picture of her dog-straddling mad mother around the bloody world wide web. I sent up a silent prayer that the women of Chantray Lane weren’t witnessing this online spectacle as it happened.

‘Can someone please help me up?’ I yelled feeling abandoned for the hundredth time that day. I was wearing a tight skirt and it wasn’t going to be easy, ladylike or even possible to stand up without losing what little dignity I had left. My legs were splayed, my forehead was damp and Horatio was beginning to whimper.

Gabe (who was still laughing) reached down and took hold of my hand to help me up. I was surprised at the gesture and when I lurched up and landed against him, even more surprised to discover how hard his chest felt. Just at that moment Hugo wandered back in.

‘My mum and Gabe doing it standing up? Gross. I have to unsee that,’ he groaned.

‘Gabe and I were dressing Horatio as you full well know,’ I answered a little breathlessly, straightening myself and ordering Horatio into the kitchen. Gabe sat back on the chair smiling and watching me cross the room, which I found extremely irritating. I must have blushed. He made me feel very foolish, and not for the first time I wished I’d never booked him to help with my Christmas decor.

‘Now, I need you to think, Klosters, in Switzerland... the swish ski resort?’’ I said, determined to engage him and make him move his arse to do some work now the dog was dressed. But he looked at me blankly and stared at the dog who was wandering around the room. I’ll admit Horatio was walking strangely and probably wanted to pee but there was no way I was taking off that onesie – he only had to wear the outfit for an hour.

‘Tammy. You can’t let your dog walk round like that,’ Gabe whined.

‘For God’s sake, you don’t hear Mariah Carey’s dogs whimpering. They are delighted to be on her Christmas cards every year,’ I said. ‘They pant and pose with their little paws up AND they were there when she gave birth to the twins... that dog should count himself lucky he wasn’t around when Hugo was born.’

‘Blood bath,’ commented Mrs J from behind the sofa.

‘Thank you Mrs J... I don’t think we need to go into it.’ I turned back to Gabe who was looking me up and down, with his mouth open, no doubt imagining me in the throes of a horrific labour. Nice.

‘Gabe,’ I said, almost clicking my fingers to get him off the labour ward and back in the present. ‘Haven’t you got stuff to do?’

He nodded doubtfully.

‘I’m looking forward to film star glamour and Christmas sparkle on the slopes... and as Heddon and Hall seem a little “tired and emotional”, perhaps you can support them?’ I glanced at Heddon who was hanging by a glittery thread from the chandelier in the hall. I was hoping for literal support from Gabe as I didn’t want Heddon to fall and leave blood on my winter white wool Berber.

Gabe was looking at me vacantly, spinning a £100 wreath around in his hands.

‘So, think about it from a design perspective’ I trilled, suddenly worried about the ratio of glitter to winter white in the wreath he was holding.

‘Think Richard and Liz in their heyday.’

‘Don’t you mean Richard and Judy?’ he monotoned... which said it all really.

I looked at him and he looked straight back at me, defiance and humour mingling in a very disturbing cocktail.

Then he leaned towards me, his lips close to my ear, and his breath warm on my skin.

‘You be Judy and I’ll be Richard,’ he whispered.

‘What a horrific thought,’ I said, batting him away, but couldn’t stop the shiver running the length of my spine.

‘Go on Tammy...you know you want to,’ he whispered, his breath tickling my neck as he leaned in even closer.

‘Stop that,’ I said as I pushed him away playfully. He was so very naughty I had to smile. I moved away and turned back to see a twinkle in his eye.

After organising Heddon and Hall I noticed Hermione’s make-up needed touching up so I grabbed some glitzy eye liner in silver. It was all over the catwalk that season and I was just transforming her eyes when Jesus arrived.

‘
D
ahling
, I run from the airport, your weather she’s so damned fucking cold,’ he muttered as I embraced him. Jesus, the photographer, was an old friend who’d taken photos for mine and Simon’s property company in the early days when we were poor and struggling. Our star had risen over the years, but Jesus’ had gone stratospheric. He now jetted around the world snapping film stars and rockers in close-up half-naked sepia, before showcasing in stark white galleries in LA.

Dark, brooding and gorgeous he positively smouldered and I couldn’t help but flirt – his presence seemed to tease out the young, vital woman I had been when we’d first met.

‘Are we black and white this year, Jesus?’ I asked, batting my eyelashes.

‘No. I want you in full, glorious fucking colour,’ he spat, without eye contact.

I loved Jesus, with his gloomy face, filthy mouth and faux depression. Of course he hadn’t always been a morose South American with a chip on his shoulder, his name had once been Jeffrey and he hailed from Chorlton. He’d been quite jolly in his Jeffrey days, always eager to please and smiley but that’s the problem when you’re nice, it’s seen as a weakness and people take advantage. It was only when he changed his name, developed a foreign accent and anger issues, the fashion world sat up and took notice. He called himself Jesus after some footballer, but as he’d only read the name and hadn’t actually heard it spoken he didn’t realise it was pronounced hezuus. By the time he found out, it was too late – he’d already announced (and mispronounced) his global entrance. Consequently, Jesus’ actions and whereabouts had always been a huge joke in our family, if a little sacrilegious. Simon would say ‘Is Jesus sleeping with that supermodel?’ and delight in making jokes about the second coming. We’d laugh for hours, the possibilities for Jesus’ whereabouts and actions being endless and hilarious.

I poured him a mulled wine as he unpacked his equipment. I felt akin to Jesus. We were both born pleasers from the wrong side of the tracks who had somehow reinvented ourselves. I often wondered if he felt like me, like an intruder in his own glamorous life.

Now our celebrity photographer had arrived we were ready and I marched to the top of my beautiful stairs, which were the reason we’d bought the old rectory house fifteen years earlier. The stairs came down into the centre of the open plan hallway and sitting room, sweeping in a dramatic curve. I would often sashay down them one step at a time, feeling very Bette Davis. In fact, some days I had been so bloody bored of shopping and lunching I’d stay home and go up and down my spectacular stairs again and again perfecting my walk. Arriving at the bottom I’d stand, hand on hip, and say, ‘Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.’ I loved doing that but stopped when Mrs J asked me why I kept talking to myself at the bottom of the stairs. I’d had no idea she was there, the woman was like someone from bloody MI5.

Surveying the scene from the top of my fabulous stair-scape, I could almost taste Christmas. The air sparkled, glittering snowy white feathers glinted with diamanté on the giant tree and I had to hold my breath at the Christmas my interior design geniuses and a calming white colour palette had created.

Jesus stood at the bottom of the stairs, Nikon in hand, a sardonic, but admiring smile on his face. ‘Go baby,’ he said. And I obliged.

‘Boys, you are my angels – I am in Heddon and Hall heaven,’ I announced in my best Bette Davis voice, wishing I had a glitzy cigarette holder to wave for effect.

‘You are an outrageous tyrant, but we love you,’ screamed Heddon, glugging the last dregs of his mulled wine before climbing the balustrade and hurling white fur and spangles in a delicious, if impromptu Christmas swag.

‘Brace yourself gorgeous one,’ sighed Hall, the younger of the two. ‘I’m about to mount the main fireplace, light the Christmas lights and within minutes, my darling, you will be immersed in your own, sparkling, white Christmas-scape.’

I heard Gabe say ‘Jesus’ under his breath, and he wasn’t addressing my photographer. I gave him a withering look. He didn’t fit in – I’d only employed him for his muscle and he had no finesse. He just didn’t appreciate our mutual adoration, camp affectation and love of all things gorgeous. He’d have to go.

I wasn’t going to allow the butch, obtuse Gabe to impair my evening, so I began my walk down the stairs, each important step bringing me a little nearer to Christmas.

Heddon and Hall screamed and clapped as I swished and shimmied, camping it up just for them. Even Jesus had a little twinkle in his eye as he climbed the filigree banister to get me in my best light, while Sam shouted, ‘Go girl.’ How I loved being the star of my own Christmas show.

‘Jesus, I’m ready for my close-up,’ I said, breathlessly looking down his lens and abandoning Bette for an over-the-top Gloria Swanson.

As I reached the bottom, my kids were giggling and blowing kisses and I blew them back as Gabe stepped in and reached out a hand to walk me to my seat. I was touched, but I wished he’d washed his hands first, one didn’t like to contemplate where they’d been, but as most of the wives on Chantray Lane had been recipients of his services, one could hazard a guess. I tried not to dwell on Gabe’s sexual proclivities and personal hygiene as he led me to my seat next to Hermione and Hugo. I held my breath; the air shimmered with expectation as Hall leaned behind the fireplace pressed the switch, and flooded the room with fairy lights.

The whole room glittered, the tree shone and icy white baubles caught a million wintry rainbows in their facets. I was moved to tears by my own Winter Wonderland – and this was only early December and only Phase One. Everyone ooed and aahed and shrieked (Heddon) and sobbed (Hall) and swore (Jesus). And just as we began the ritual hugging, the Christmas doorbell chime set off. Simon. I was delighted, he’d left work early after all – he knew today was special and I felt warm, fuzzy and grateful all at once. Mrs J shuffled off to get the door and I turned in my seat smiling in anticipation of his arrival. But when Mrs J came back into the room, hands on hips, there was no Simon, just two big, rough men. I had never seen them before, but it was quite clear these two hadn’t turned up for the official launch of my St Moritz-inspired winter wonderland.