On the sixth day...

Abby woke up Saturday morning with little memory of the previous night and little desire to continue living. It had been a long time since she’d felt so damn hungover and she couldn’t even remember what she’d drunk that had smacked her down like she’d been in an episode of Gladiators.         

          Life was unfair.

          She vaguely recalled that after clicking off the phone to her mother and being pointed in the direction of her room to change, she’d puffed up with makeup until Jess approved. Then they’d left the flat and gone to meet their friends...and Damien.

          Her stupid lie to her Mum suddenly came rushing back. Oh hell, she’d told the woman that Damien was her new boyfriend.

          She didn’t deserve a sixth day of Christmas.

          But alas when she managed not to throw up for long enough to pad barefoot out to the kitchen she was almost shocked to find a card perched on the kitchen counter. Beside it, as if sent from god, was a handful of painkillers on a little silver cake plate.

          On the sixth day of Christmas, your true love gives to thee: six aspirin and a decent lay-in, five golden trinkets, GTA of PS4, three French pens, two turtle gloves and a partridge named Frosty. I know you probably want to die right now but we’ve only got six more days to go; have some aspirin, lay down a while and relax. But don’t take them all at once because I’d hate to lose you. Marley may have been dead to begin with, but I don’t want you following suit – X

          It was official – whoever X really was, was really after her heart. Whoever laid out painkillers for her after a crazy yet fuzzy night of drinking and quoted Dickens at her was definitely Prince Charming in disguise. Or in the flesh. Whichever way you chose to look at it.

          She only hoped that she could appreciate it.

          Abby wasn’t so great at that, particularly in showing affection and gratefulness when the occasion really called for it. But like many things, she had her mother to thank for that.

          Christmas at the Leightley household only existed if her mother had a tight reign. The woman didn’t mean to be indifferent or cold, she just was what she was and fuzzy feelings weren’t necessarily her strong suit. Abby got that from her father, and it had been an ever-waging war between both parts of her psyche for pretty much her whole life. But it was because of her mother’s determination to make the festive season multiple shades of perfection year after year that had given Abby such a need to put in extra effort to pull it off.

          Even the great Turkey fiasco of 2008 was equal parts Abby’s failure and her mother’s over-the-top need for perfection.

          But the point was Abby was used to striving for perfection especially when it came to Christmas, and generally Abby was far from perfect. Her attempts at being perfect in appreciation for presents, like when someone such as a secret admirer was showering her in them, threatened to spurn her into an existential crisis. Abby was just terrified that she would be indifferent to an admirer and it would make her ungrateful for both the attention and the thoughtfulness behind the Twelve Days of Christmas.

          It was all more than she wanted to think about when she was valiantly trying not to need to pray to the porcelain gods.

          A shuffling came from the couch and a very messy haired Damien sat up and rubbed his eyes. Abby froze. She did not realise that he was there and that he was about to see her with makeup smudged across her face and dressed in Rudolph pyjamas.

          And it officially got worse.

          On the plus side he was wearing nothing but his boxers and looked supremely shagable. She felt a little better. Or maybe the aspirin was just working.

          She considered trying to make a break for her bedroom before he saw her but when it was too late when he shifted to look her in the eye, a slow smile spreading across his face. Dammit, he didn’t even look hungover, just mussed with sex hair.

          Life was unfair.

          “Morning, love, you sleep well?” Abby couldn’t respond, just nodded. He yawned, stretched and stood up to come towards her. “Thanks for letting me crash on your couch; I had way too much to drink last night. Can I make us some breakfast to make up for it?”

          Before she knew it, Damien was in the kitchen and cooking up a storm. The aspirin worked its magic and she found some emergency Berocca in the cupboard to complete the job, so the greasy bacon smells didn’t threaten to turn her stomach nearly as much.

          “Do you remember much of last night, Bee?”

          “Um, not as much as I would probably like,” she admitted sheepishly.

          “I would have hoped you’d remember though, it was our first real night out for the two of us. We had a pretty special time together, I reckon.” Damien flipped the bacon like a pancake and Abby suffered a moment of fear he’d lose it. Now that her brain wasn’t trying to escape her skull she was getting pretty hungry.

          “Sorry, I guess I really did drink far too much. What made it so special?”

          Damien cast her a sidelong glance, amusement on his lips. “Well then, if you don’t know then I’m not going to tell you.”

          Before Abby could respond to his flirty – he was definitely flirting - quip, Jess wandered out of her bedroom looking like she’d slept on a cloud and ran a hand through her long hair.

          “Do I smell bacon? Yum! I’m starved – thanks for cooking, Dame, you sure know how to earn your keep.”

          And so the three of them tucked in to the feast of eggs, bacon and hot buttered toast that Damien prepared. Even Jess, who rarely had more than her healthy smoothie, simply enjoyed the food and didn’t say a single thing about calorie or fat content the whole time, Saturday morning certainly got better and better.

         

          About an hour later Abby helped Damien to clear away all the plates, allowing him to dry the dishes while she washed and Jess slipped off to steal the first shower.

          “So, what did happen last night?” Abby racked her brains again and barely came up with more than leaving the house, seeing Damien and reaching for a dry martini. “Nothing awfully embarrassing, I hope.”

          “You did rather blow us away with some karaoke – you sing rather beautifully, you know.” He tapped his chin as if recalling the memory. “You got quite into it, too, got up on the table and everything while you belted out ‘Jingle Bells’. Nice to see you so in the Christmas spirit.”

          Abby felt her face heat up. “I didn’t! No one stopped me?” For a moment she thought about trying to drown herself in the dishwater. “Oh man.”

          Damien burst out laughing and shook his head before chucking her under the chin. “You didn’t I was just teasing you; I was sort of expecting you to call me a liar.”

          Realising she’d been had Abby huffed and splashed her offender with soapy water. What ensued then was a study in blissful immaturity and soon enough the two of them were drenched with quickly cooling water, both breathless with laughter. But the motion left Abby backed against the sink with Damien before her and before she realised she was trapped there with one of his arms on either side of her.

          Her breathing went shallow and his eyelids drooped a little. He leant in, face coming closer to hers and she thought dizzily that he might mean to kiss her.

          But a Jess’ voice from the bedroom sprung them apart.

          “Hey, Abby? Did pick up more tissues from the supermarket? I spilt bloody moisturiser all over the vanity again!”

          Damien backed away but his eyes never left her.

          “Um, yes – in the linen closet.”

          The moment was gone and Abby couldn’t tell if she was happy about that or not, but chalked it up to the heat of the moment spurned by their easy camaraderie. They’d never kissed before, but it wasn’t the first time that they’d had that sort of play fight.

          “Uh, I should probably go home and change into some clean clothes. Dry ones. I had fun last night, Bee, even if you don’t remember it.” He sidestepped away and went to scoop up his coat and wallet from where they’d been left on the sofa. Then he was back in front of her to give her a hug and kiss on the cheek. Squarely back to treating her like the little sister she had never wanted to be.

          “By the way, I loved your Christmas pyjamas.”

          Much later again when Abby was showered, dressed and had removed the fur from her teeth, her mobile rang. Curled up on the sofa with a hot mug of mulled wine, she had not expected to hear from Damien again that day.

          And yet it was his face that came up on her caller ID.

          “Hello?”

          “Bee – what are you doing right now?”

          “Um, watching a Christmas movie?”

          “Cute. But get dressed and meet me at London Bridge station – I’ve got a treat for you.”

          The treat, it turned out, was a very morbid Christmas walk through the London Dungeon. Damien knew how much she loved it there, and it was creeped up more than usual with a spooky Christmas tree complete with ravens, cobwebs and spiky black bows. It was wonderful.

          The awkwardness between them riled by the almost-kiss over the dishes that morning was all but forgotten as the two of them had a fantastic afternoon at the Dungeon. Afterwards, when Damien was recollecting himself after screeching a little in terror when Jack the Ripper jumped out at him from a hidden doorway, they got hot chocolates and walked through Piccadilly Circus together.

          “So, Bee – tell me more about this secret admirer that’s got you all a tizzy at the moment. Do you have any idea who it might be? Knowing you, I bet you’ve listed the likely suspects.”

          Abby scoffed. “No, of course not.” He really knew her too well sometimes. “Well not really. Do you know? Heard any office gossip about me?”

          He shook his head and hid a smile behind his hot chocolate. “Nope, nothing. But the Christmas party is in a few days – maybe you’ll find out more then?”

          “I hope so; the secrecy is really killing me.” She made a face, but instantly dropped it with guilt.

          “What was that look for?”

          She grimaced. “What if its Peter?” Peter was the balding, middle-aged editor-in-chief of Damien’s department.

          Damien barked a laugh. “It’s not Peter.”

          “How do you know?”

          “Trust me.”

          So she did, and that was the last they spoke about that for the evening. And when she finally got home that evening her worry over the identity of her secret admirer was overcome by happiness, plain and simple.

          That was Christmas for you. 

Merry Christmas

Sam xox