11.55 pm.
"Bridget, do we have to watch this?"
"Yes." We were lying down together, still dressed in the towelling bathrobes we'd put on after our shower. "Haven't seen it in years," I added. "Can't believe they're repeating it. Didn't you watch Just Good Friends when it was on?"
Mark yawned. "I had better things to do: count potatoes, watch grass grow, pull my—"
"Very funny. Well, Vince and Penny were my very first Ross and Rachel. He jilted her at the altar and then they bumped into each other five years later and they—"
"Let me guess: they fell in love again. How utterly ridiculous," Mark said disdainfully.
I playfully elbowed him in the ribs. "Where's your sense of romance?"
"Says the love of my life who is wearing an engagement ring from Tiffany."
"Hah! I'm feeling too lazy to get up from this sofa, Mark."
"Suppose I said I have a present for you to open now?"
I immediately sat up and turned to look at him.
"Generally, I prefer to buy gifts which I hope will be of some use to their recipients—"
And don't I know it, I thought, remembering last year's set of Le Creuset pots. Yes, they're absolutely lovely (Mum cooed over them for hours) and they're not cheap. However, couldn't help feeling he was dropping a hint about my cooking skills. Or lack thereof.
"—and that's the one I'll give you on Thursday. But I also wanted to buy you something a little more glamorous for tonight."
"Where is it?"
He smiled. "Thought you were watching Just Good Friends?"
"Vince and Penny get married in the end. Roll credits." I tugged him up. "Go get my present."
We walked over to the bed hand in hand. Mark opened his suitcase, pulled out a beautifully wrapped gold package and handed it over.
"Merry Christmas, darling Bridget," he said with a smile.
Felt a bit bad. "Your present's in the car. Sorry. I didn't know we were—"
"It's OK. You'll see why when you open it."
Sat on the bed and carefully unwrapped his gift. Inside was black lingerie. Designer black lingerie, to be precise. The label said Stella McCartney. I gasped and cautiously lifted it out, leaving the box on the bed.
I held up a stretch-lace chemise that looked as if it would leave very little to the imagination thanks to the plunging V-neckline and very suggestive sheerness. It must have cost him a pretty penny. Couldn't help but be impressed.
Giddy with delight, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him enthusiastically.
"Mark, it's gorgeous!"
"I'd love to see it on you," he smiled.
"OK. Back in a sec." Sauntered into the bathroom, removed my robe and slipped on his present. It was a little snug in the bust area and because it was see-through, my preference would definitely be to wear it with knickers in the future. However, really liked what I saw in the mirror.
In the time I'd been in the bathroom, Mark had turned off the TV and selected soft lighting for the bedroom. I glanced over to find him sitting up in the four-poster bed waiting for me.
Walked over and gave him a twirl. "It's a teeny bit close in the—"
"It's perfect," Mark said, eyes raking over every part of my body. "Christ, your breasts look amazing in it. Happy Christmas to me!"
He slid across, lifted the covers and patted the mattress. "I've warmed this side for you."
I padded over and slipped in beside him.
"To think our Virgin Queen stayed in this very room and never got around to making the beast with two backs. Unlike us."
"Mark!" I exclaimed in mock shock. "Royalty slept here."
He leaned in and dropped the softest of kisses on my lips. "Is that reverential enough for you and Good Queen Bess?" he asked.
"Yes," I smiled.
"Good," Mark replied as our hands roamed over each other's bodies. "Because your present has made me harder than a steel rod. And now in the parlance of a Tudor lord, come here, you comely wench!" And with that, he pulled me on top of him.
Christmas Day
7.37 am. Mum and Dad's.Shit! Am late for school!
7.39 am. Silly Bridget. There's no school on Christmas Day! And anyway, self left school well over 20 years ago.
Whenever I sleep here, sometimes wake up thinking I've forgotten to do my maths homework too. Probably because self's bedroom has barely changed from school days. My single bed certainly hasn't; mattress is so hard, I'd rather sleep on concrete. Stark difference to that lovely four-poster bed in Fawsley Hall.
7.41 am. Always strange to wake up without Mark whenever we're v. intimate the night before. He dropped me here around two-ish yesterday but, after saying hello to Mum and Dad, didn't stay long. He said he had "things to attend to" at home.
Didn't ask, but I knew he was going to his parents' to work before he comes for Christmas lunch. Gut feeling a tiny part of Fawsley Hall served as a much grander venue for my latest 'sorry' shag.
7.49 am. Shot out of bed in a panic. Where is Woolworths bag? Where is it?! Oh God, officially panic stations! All the nice Christmas cards I bought from Woolies and spent ages writing up are in it. Where is Woolworths bag? Gaaaaah!
7.51 am. Have left all the Christmas cards in London. Shit. Now recall how it happened: when I got back from Tesco, I took the Woolworths bag out of my suitcase because I wanted to make sure Mark's card was in there.
At that very moment, Mark arrived and got all horny. Afterwards, we hit the motorway and I forgot all about the Woolworths bag.
Am a sex-crazed harlot who put a shag above cards marking birth of baby Jesus.
7.52 am. Oh God. Will have to drive to a petrol station and buy awful, cheap-looking cards which, ironically enough, cost a bloody fortune.
7.55 am. And petrol stations never have cards especially for individual family members; they usually just sell ones which say 'Merry Christmas' and are blank inside. And if you buy them, people think you didn't care enough to get them a card with nice words specifying their relationship to you.
7.59 am. Not driving to a petrol station – can't be arsed. Will just have to post my cards to everyone when I get back to London. Merry fucking belated Christmas.
Christmas Day
9st 4 (oh, fuck off!), alcohol units (off the scale), cigarettes 12 (Dad's a bad influence), calories (how many more days can self say, 'lots and lots. It's Christmas'?), rubbish presents 2 (a girdle from Granny and an electric toothbrush from Una and Uncle Geoffrey).
11.02 pm. Mum and Dad's.
This Christmas was like that Clint Eastwood movie: the good (my Stella McCartney chemise and engraved sterling silver Tiffany pen from Mark), the bad (Granny's girdle) and the ugly (constant wedding talk from everyone – including Mark).
After breakfast and earnest apology for card fiasco, we opened our presents; highlight was £100 Debenhams gift card from Mother. A fab gift for a change. Hurrah! Dad got me a crate of Chardonnay. Double hurrah!
Immediately afterwards, Mum started on the lunch and the Christmas nibbles. The appetisers, and I use the term very loosely, were from a time when cheese, pickles and pineapples on toothpicks were the height of gastronomic sophistication.
The turkey was so huge, it looked as if it wouldn't fit in the oven. "Are you expecting everyone in Scotland for lunch, Mum?" I asked. Received a withering look in return and a waspy reminder about the turkey curry buffet.
Una and Uncle Geoffrey turned up just after noon: former headed for the kitchen, latter for the alcohol.
With Mark due later (Mum gave him strict instructions to come before the broadcast of The Queen's Christmas message), this was going to be a relatively quiet Christmas Day. Or so I thought.
"Bridget!" Mum snapped. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: when you're peeling sprouts, cut a cross cut into the bottom of them."
"Why?"
"It helps them cook evenly," Una interjected.
"But won't the cross make the sprouts waterlogged?" I queried.
"When you're married to Mark and cooking me Christmas lunch, you can serve sprouts as hard as you like, Bridget. Until then, cut the cross into the sprout, there's a good girl," she said in a tone sharp enough to slice concrete.
Una carried on peeling potatoes. "To think we first put our little Bridget and Mark together in this very house five years ago, Pam."
"And we're still waiting for the wedding," Mum tutted.
"Can't put it off forever you know. Tick-tock-tick-tock," Una agreed.
I put the last peeled sprout into the bowl and excused myself. If they were going to talk about me as if I wasn't there, I might as well not be.
Popped into the living room only to fall foul of a clearly tipsy Uncle Geoffrey.
"There she is!" He spread his arms in a manner clearly signalling he wanted a hug. "My little Bridget. Not so little now though, eh? Come and say hello."
Plastered a grin on my face. "I said 'hello' an hour ago, remember? I'm looking for Dad, Uncle Geoffrey."
"Gone for some homemade beer in the cellar."
"Thank you. Back in a sec." I took off out of there like an Olympic sprinter.
Found Dad having a sneaky fag so I sat down and joined him. "How's the beer?" I asked after taking a long drag on his cigarette.
"Fine," Dad beamed. "But next time I'll use dextrose sugar instead of granulated. How's it going upstairs?"
"Uncle Geoffrey's well on his way to getting pissed, Mum's pissed off with me and Una's in her customary UN peace envoy role."
"All's right with the world then," he chuckled. Maybe something showed on my face because he followed it up with: "Don't mind your mother, Bridget. She's just anxious about her Christmas lunch."
We smoked in silence for a minute and then I said, "Dad, are you and Mum happy?"
He took a deep breath. "Your mother, Bridget, she's a typical English rose."
I took the fag off Dad again and waited for him to continue.
"By that I mean, some plants and flowers are best avoided if you don't enjoy gardening. Roses, for example. They look lovely and they smell lovely but they need a lot of care and attention: manure rich compost, pruning, good drainage and sunshine. High maintenance, that's what they are."
Couldn't help smiling at the analogy.
"But if you lavish care and attention on them, you'll be rewarded with the most wonderful bloom – and there's no better feeling."
"Maybe I'm more like her than I like to think," I said, flicking ash in the ashtray.
Dad looked at me intently before sipping his beer. "When someone loves you, pet, it's like having a blanket all round your heart. And Mark adores you."
I sighed. "I know. I love him too, Dad. So much."
"But?" he prompted.
"But . . . we haven't spent much quality time together at all this year - he's always working, he's always putting work before me – before us. I want to support him because I know his work is important, but I don't want next year to be like this year. I can't go through another year like this one; it gets very lonely for me at times."
Dad put a comforting arm around me. "Who's to say next year will be like this one, me'dear?"
Bless him for trying.
"Unfortunately, it's already heading that way. This may be my new normal with Mark and if it is – I don't want it."
He frowned. "Didn't you have a nice time together at Fawsley Hall?"
"Yes, but even on our one night away together, our first in months, he still worked. I bet he's working right now – on Christmas Day! Most of the time I'm waiting for him to meet me somewhere, a party, a restaurant, a concert, and then he cancels and I'm on my own until he turns up at my flat later on to sha— until he turns up at my flat."
"Oh dear," Dad said and took back his cigarette.
I'd started and I couldn't stop. "And if you think that's bad, wait until you hear about what happened on his birthday. I planned and prepared a party – a very private party just for the two of us, if you know what I mean. There was a cake, decorations, candles – the works."
"Very nice."
"Not quite. It was supposed to be a private party so the only thing covering my modesty was an apron. I opened the door expecting to see only Mark there, but he'd turned up with a whole load of lawyers from work."
"Oh my godfathers!"
"On his birthday, Dad. With me naked as a jaybird." I took his fag and had a puff. "Never felt so embarrassed in all my life."
"Didn't Mark call ahead about the lawyers?" Dad asked.
"It slipped his mind because he was so focused on that case. What he didn't know is that I was naked."
"Oh my godfathers," he said again. "Sounds like an episode of The Benny Hill Show. Me and Geoffrey used to love a bit of Benny Hill."
"Yes, I know." Looked at him and sighed. "Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Have you ever felt unhappy enough to think of leaving Mum?"
There was a pause. "It's Christmas Day, Bridget. Don't do anything rash; take some time to think."
I crossed my arms. "All I've been doing is thinking – all year."
"None of us knows what the future holds. But you'll know what to do when the time comes." He gave me a reassuring hug.
"Thank you, Dad."
"Everything will work out in the end, you'll see," he said and kissed me on the cheek. "I suppose we'd better get back to Uncle Geoffrey before he drinks us out of house and home."
Later
Was coming down the stairs just as the doorbell rang. Yelled to Mum that I'd get it ("Don't shout on Christmas Day, Bridget!") and opened the door to Mark who'd come bearing gifts.
"Hello, darling," he beamed. "Merry Christmas."
"Hi," I smiled back. "Merry Christmas. Quick, come in! It's bloody freezing today."
Mark entered, wiping his feet on the mat. Couldn't wait to shut the cold away. Brrrrrrr!
"Give me your scarf, gloves and coat and I'll hang them up before—" Stopped dead when I turned around and saw what he was wearing underneath the coat he'd taken off: a bright green knitted jumper with a little pug dressed as Father Christmas and the words 'Merry Pug-mas' emblazoned across the front.
"I see your mother is keeping up her grand tradition," I said wryly as I hung up his garments.
"She's not here in person but she's here in spirit," he grinned, reaching once again for the big bag he'd brought containing neatly-wrapped Christmas presents.
I pointed at it and grinned. "Is there something in there for me, Santa?"
"There might be," he teased, dropping it again so that he could pull me tight against his body. "Something firm, something hard."
"Ooooooh. There's definitely something in there for me," I said and looked down at his trousers. "Something firm and hard. I can feel it."
"Oh, if only you would," he murmured. "Mark my words, if I had my way, I'd definitely be coming down your chimney tonight."
"Bad Santa," I giggled. A second later, we were passionately snogging against the front door.
Suddenly the living room door opened and Mum appeared: "Bridget, can you remember where I put the box of chocolate liquors that . . .?"
We guiltily sprang apart, as if we were teenagers who'd been caught making out on the sofa by our parents.
"Sorry?" I feebly covered.
"Oh, hello, Mark. Merry Christmas. Didn't see you there," she lied. "The chocolate liquors Granny bought from British Home Stores, Bridget. Do you remember where I put them?"
"I think I might have left them in my bedroom. I'll be right back," I cried, bolting up the stairs in record time. Sat on my bed for a second, breath coming and going in unsteady pants. A couple more minutes and Mum would surely have seen Mark's hands where hers haven't been in decades. Told self to be more poised or this was going to be an even longer bloody day than it already was.
When I slunk back downstairs five minutes later, Mum and Mark were in the living room making polite conversation and pretending nothing had happened.
"Got the chocolates," I said and handed them over.
"Thank you, Bridget. Make yourself useful and get Mark a sausage roll before Her Majesty starts speaking."
"Thank you, Mrs Jones, but I'm fine," he insisted, all politeness. "I'm saving room for the excellent Christmas feast to come."
Saw Mum flutter at that. Good one, Mark. He really doesn't have to do much to have her wrapped around his finger. It's almost unfair.
"Would you like a Christmas tipple? Bridget, make yourself useful and get Mark some sherry."
"Sherry, Pamela? It's Christmas - let the boy have a real drink," Dad said, picking up the decanter. "Whisky, Mark?" So funny to hear him refer to Mark, who is in his early 40s, as a boy.
Mark walked over to the drinks trolley where Dad was standing and Uncle Geoffrey was permanently parked. "A double, please. If it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble at all," Dad replied.
Just then, Una popped her head around the door. "Come and have a look at your gravy, Pam. I think it's going to need thickening."
"Of course it doesn't need thickening. Just stir it, Una," Mum countered indignantly. I saw a meaningful look pass from one to the other, and then Mum twigged. "Yes, of course. I'll be right there. Sorry, limpid gravy calls."
Exchanged a shrug with Mark; we knew they were up to something, we just didn't know what.
"A white Christmas this year. Wish I'd put a bet on it now," Dad lamented.
Uncle Geoffrey, whisky in hand, pointed at Mark's jumper. "I see Christmas has gone to the dogs!" He laughed heartily at his own joke.
"How's work, Mark?" Dad asked.
Felt myself inwardly sighing.
"An ever-expanding caseload, Mr Jones. Currently trying to free a journalist imprisoned in Muribundi - it's taking up a great deal of time," he said and took a sip of his drink. "They do not celebrate Christmas over there so I had to work last night and this morning."
Working. Just as I suspected.
Dad couldn't keep the admiration out of his voice. "He's very lucky to have you in his corner."
"I'll probably have to fly out there soon, Mr Jones,"
"You be careful and watch yourself."
"He's a grown man now," Uncle Geoffrey chipped in, slapping Mark on the back. "Far cry from the young whippersnapper our little Bridget used to run after naked. And still doing so, eh? Off they run, wheeeeeeeeeee!"
"No better man for my darling girl."
"I'm the lucky one, Mr Jones," Mark responded with a quiet smile in my direction.
"That's quite enough poofy nonsense for now," squiffy Uncle Geoffrey declared. "The Jocksshh don't do mussh right, but by heaven they make the best Scotch."
"Criminal fingerprinting, Billy Connolly, John Logie Baird, Auld Lang Syne – the Scots haven't done too badly," Mark countered. "But yes, this single malt definitely gets my vote."
"A man after my own heart." Uncle Geoffrey announced and inspected the liquid in his glass. "Bloody fine body, but I don't have to tell you about fine bodies, eh young Darcy? Look at our little Bridget – all grown up."
Hoping to shut Uncle G. up, I picked up a tray of food and played hostess.
"Stuffed egg, anyone?" Wanted Scotty to beam me up from this madness, but there was more to come.
"Happy fifth anniversary on Sunday, Bridget and Mark!" cried Una.
"We have a little surprise," Mum said. "Two more for Christmas lunch. Look who's here!" She led a somewhat embarrassed Admiral Darcy and Mrs Darcy into the living room.
"Good God!" Mark exclaimed, walking over to his parents. He shook his dad's hand and kissed his mum on the cheek. "I really wasn't expecting to see you both until the New Year."
"I told Pamela we'd be back on Christmas Eve when we booked our cruise, Mark," Geraldine explained. "That's when she suggested we surprise you and Bridget."
"No dancing Harry hoofters this year, eh Pam?" Uncle G said with a wiggle of his hips.
Ewww.
Geraldine continued. "We stayed at a hotel in case you and Bridget wanted some privacy."
"I'm absolutely flabbergasted," he told her.
I joined Mark by the sofa where his parents were still standing. "Merry Christmas, Admiral Darcy, Mrs Darcy."
"Merry Christmas, Bridget. I see Mark's wearing the jumper I bought him. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten yours."
"Super," I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
Dad surveyed the scene before him. "Would you like a drink, Admiral Darcy? Geraldine?"
"Yes please, Colin. Whisky for me. Geraldine's been known to toast Her Majesty with a small glass of sherry following the Christmas message."
"It's nearly time for the speech. Shall we all sit down?" Mum trilled as Dad headed back to the drinks trolley.
"How was the trip, Father?" Mark asked.
"Very smooth. Plain sailing all the way. Good to be back in Blighty though."
"Malcolm, I believe Mark was asking about the Mediterranean cruise itself not the roughness of the sea!"
"Ah!" Admiral Darcy patted his wife's hand. "The cabin crew all spoke the Queen's English, son."
Geraldine Darcy tutted at her husband. "Spectacular sights, lovely food and decent weather, Mark. We particularly enjoyed the day trip to Capri from Naples and the excursion to the wine-making villages in the French countryside."
"I was 17 when I enlisted in the Royal Navy; old habits die hard, Geraldine." He turned to his son. "Your mother knows me like the back of her hand. That's 45 years of marriage for you. Talking of marriage, when are you two naming the day? I'm not getting any younger and—"
"Stuffed egg, Admiral Darcy?" I hastily interjected, shoving the tray under his nose.
He looked down at the unappetising array. "No, thank you. I'm saving room for the turkey. Now then, about that wedding—"
"Cheese and pickled onion stick, Mrs Darcy? Or perhaps you'd prefer a cheese and pineapple stick?"
"No, thank you, Bridget. I'm fine with my sherry."
Of course Mum had to put in her tuppence worth on the subject. "Can't believe it's five years since myself, Una and Geraldine first had the idea of putting you two lovebirds together, Bridget. Didn't we do well?"
"Such a wonderful match," Mrs Darcy agreed.
"Mark, you must want to hear those ding-dong bells next year, I'm sure," Una said eagerly.
"Absolutely," Mark enthused. "We're talking about next year, aren't we, Bridget?" He looked at me in expectation; big, brown, expressive eyes radiating love and happiness.
Stomach started doing somersaults. Felt helpless – walls closing in on me like the garbage compactor bit in Star Wars. Wished I was imprisoned with Han, Luke and Princess Leia instead of trapped in Grafton Underwood with so many BriMark marriage monomaniacs.
As if my fervent prayer had been heard and answered, help came from an unlikely source.
"This is BBC One. Now at three o'clock, Her Majesty The Queen . . ."
