Mistletoe Magic
When you’re a reclusive divorcee, it’s funny how teenage girls suddenly turn into figures of authority on all things social…
Why do the cold months of the year seem to go so much more slowly than the lovely warm summery ones?
Summer seems to have been a matter of only a few scorching days and now, in December, I can barely remember they even happened at all.
I’m battling home from work against the freezing wind, trudging up the hill from the High Street with my coat collar pulled up round my ears and a scarf over my nose and I’m wondering if it will snow tonight.
It seems so incredibly long ago that I whirled cheerily along this same pavement in a strappy summer dress with my cardigan stuffed in my bag and the warmth of the sun making me smile at everyone.
Really I should be smiling now. I’ve got a Christmas party to go to tonight and a gorgeous new velvety blue dress in this bag I’m carrying.
I really don’t want to go to this, had been my immediate reaction as I opened the envelope that flipped through the door and read the invitation.
It was from a couple across the street: lovely people, very friendly and keen on neighbourly get-togethers.
Daughter Ellie gave me the “Huh?” look, all big eyes and attitude.
“Duh, Mum? It’s, like, a party?” She had that upward lilt, the way teenagers talk. “You can’t just stay at home for, like, ever. Katie says divorced parents should go out every chance they get.”
Katie would, I thought. Katie had something to say, by way of Ellie, several times a day at the moment.
She’s a new school friend, recently moved to the far end of the road, also apparently a lone child with a single parent. The girls have teamed up to form a formidable duo, filling my house with their swishy hair, music and squealing.
I was being an anti-social wimp and Ellie wasn’t having any of it.
She wasn’t wrong. Since the divorce I’ve become a bit of a hermit. There are only so many times you can deal with concerned people taking you to one side at social gatherings and asking, “So how are you?”.
They mean well but then when you say, “I’m fine”, they do that thing with their head on one side and follow up with, “No but how are you really?”
They get so disappointed when I smile and insist I really am OK because I absolutely am. Chas and I are still on pretty good terms, just not… together.
“But Mum, it’s Christmas? You might meet someone?” Ellie said, smirking a bit as she picked up her schoolbag and headed for the door.
I pulled a face at her.
“Not if I’m not looking.”
“Yeah, but you should be.”
“Is that something else Katie says?”
Ellie gave me the hard stare.
“Possibly. That doesn’t mean she’s wrong.” And with that and a goodbye smile she was gone.
I know what she’s up to. She doesn’t want me to be a clingy mum just as she’s spreading her wings. A mother without enough to distract her from her daughter’s social life will be wondering where she is, who she’s with, what she’s up to. No girl of sixteen wants that kind of scrutiny.
I wonder about Katie’s mum. Does she get the same treatment from her daughter? Does Katie eye her up and down on the occasions when she does get out of the house and say, “You’re not wearing that, are you? It’s a bit mumsy”, as if we should be dressed to the nines and with full-scale make-up every time we go up to the supermarket, just in case.
She and I should get together and compare notes some time.
Or maybe she’s out in the dating pond, happily sifting through stacks of wonderful men. If so, I wonder where she finds them. When you’re newly single, you never seem to see people who aren’t firmly in pairs.
It’s as if the singletons have all vanished – even more so at parties where even as couples split up and chat to others, you see them every now and then, checking in with each other, smiling across the room or fetching each other drinks. They’re are a kind of reassuring anchor.
It’s times like those, when I’m between conversations and feeling a bit rootless in a crowded room, that I miss that warm attachment, some base camp to check in with.
But hey ho, I’m getting used to it. As Ellie (whether via Katie or not) says, if I don’t practise the single life, I’ll end up sofa-bound for ever with an unhealthy biscuit habit and too much knowledge of TV soaps.
The houses in our road are in full Christmas sparkle mode. Advent candles are flickering on window ledges, shrubbery is looped with twinkly lights and the party venue house across the road has glittery reindeer on its lawn and icicle lights dangling from the porch.
It’ll be a good party. Theirs are always jolly events – the summer barbecue was a terrific do and the torrential rain halfway through didn’t dampen the spirits at all.
I try to think positively as I nip into the deli on the corner of the road to find something to give my hostess tonight.
Also it will be good to catch up with the neighbours, hear what their Christmas plans are.
And if anyone does that sorrowful “So it’ll be just you and Ellie this year” sad-faced thing then I can always make my excuses and get home and into my PJs in time for whatever tonight’s Christmas-themed TV movie is. Along with the comfort of our deeply-cushioned sofa, plenty of tea and those inevitable biscuits.
The deli is in holly and ivy overdrive with wreaths and swags of greenery everywhere.
There are displays of fancy chocolates, mince pies in miniature wooden crates, sugared almonds and gift-wrapped Turkish delight.
I’m dithering, wondering what to get, spoilt for choice.
The Phil Spector Christmas album is playing and the smiley girls behind the counter are wearing Santa hats and handing flowery teacups of cinnamon-scented steaming mulled wine to customers.
I accept one and sip it as I take a look at a display table set up with bowls of sweets and nuts and a painted sign inviting customers to sample the products.
“May I tempt you to a date?”
I step back, startled, as a bowl of dates is thrust in front of me. There’s a man holding them, smiling, sparkly-eyed and, it has to be said, rather better looking than most people who make random remarks as I get through my days.
“Sorry? Er, I’m not…”
“Oh, oh heavens, I’m sorry! That came out all wrong.
“What I meant was… OK, I’d better start again.” He points to another plate. “How about a mince pie?”
I laugh at him; he’s actually blushing which is rather sweet.
He’s wearing a lovely tweedy coat and a soft turquoise scarf, so is clearly another customer.
“It’s fine,” I reassure him, “But I don’t much fancy anything at the moment.”
He looks worried and possibly almost a bit hurt, so now I’m all flustered too.
“Sorry, that came out wrong too! I just mean I’m not hungry. Going out later.” I’m stumbling over the words.
“Me too,” he says. “I’m just in here to get a little something for the do. My daughter says I must take something for my hostess.” He makes a face. “She’s bossy that way, but usually right.”
“I have a daughter like that too.”
We chat about party gift options for a few moments, weighing up the merits of jars of candied oranges or chocolate Santas then we each buy a large box of Turkish Delight and I rush off home to get ready.
I feel a bit more optimistic about the evening now. It’s funny how a brief chat with a rather attractive stranger can perk up the mood. If I meet anyone even half as nice this evening, I’ll consider it a night well spent.
Ellie hovers in the kitchen as I come down the stairs later, ready to go. The blue velvet dress feels terrific, slinky without being uncomfortable, warm yet not frumpy. She gives me an approving whistle.
“Let me look.” She peers into my face, inspecting my make-up. “Yes, I think you’re OK.” She sniffs the air. “And not too much perfume, that’s good. Katie says too much perfume on a single woman makes her look desperate.’
“Oh? Any more pearls of wisdom?”
Ellie gives me a look.
“No need to be like that. We’ve only got our parents’ best interests at heart. You’ll thank us one day.”
I give her a hug.
“Yes, I know, darling, and don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
I pick up my bag and take a deep breath. “I won’t be long.”
“You’re not to rush back. Katie says the thing is, to stay long enough to talk to absolutely everyone, because you never know…”
I’m still laughing at that one as I arrive at the house. There is a beautiful wreath of holly and ivy on the door and sounds of jollity. A couple of deep breaths (Katie says do that too, for nerve-steadying and so you don’t arrive all flustered) and I’m in.
The hallway is hung with fronds of greenery and they trail up the banisters with silvery lights shimmering among the leaves.
There is a Christmas tree, overcrowded with baubles and I have a tiny down-moment seeing all the couples, those inevitable twosomes being togethery and happy and I wonder if I’ll ever be half of a loving pair again.
I smile as I take my coat off, ordering myself just to enjoy the evening, imagining Katie and Ellie telling me off for that teeny lapse of positivity.
“Oh, another, how lovely!” my hostess says, as I hand over the box of Turkish Delight. She puts her fingers to her mouth, recognising she’s been a tad tactless. “It’s OK, I love the stuff!” she says, rescuing the moment.
I sense immediately who the other box is from.
And yes, there he is, across the room, talking to the man next door to me. He glances up as I walk into the room and he smiles and comes over.
“Hello again,” he says. “I think we’ve doubled up on our party presents.”
“Mmm, I think we have.”
“My daughter would say it’s a sign that we have something in common.”
“I don’t suppose your daughter is called Katie, by any chance?”
Of course she is. And he is Tom and he, too, has been advised on clothing, told off for being reluctant to go out and thoroughly inspected and approved before he left the house for this party.
As the evening goes on (and yes, I think I’ve talked to just about everyone, as per instructions), we glance out of the window to my house across the road.
It’s starting to snow, flakes glitter against the street light and there, at Ellie’s bedroom window, are silhouetted the heads of our daughters, keeping an eye on the proceedings, possibly by way of the binoculars I use for bird-watching.
We agree we might have been set up here.
We also agree it would be terrible to disappoint our girls, especially at Christmas.
So when the evening ends, Tom kisses me under the mistletoe in the hallway and he again asks me if I’d fancy a date.
I tell him yes – yes, I would.
