27 posts from 2007

As pay back for having to come and get me after spending the night with Jim- er, Tim, Elle made me work the next day. This job really is God-awful dull. I actually caught myself reading a dictionary to pass the very slow-moving time.

I wander if I could just give myself a severe paper cut across the throat and DIE.

I was spying on Black Books through the window when the little bell above the door jingle, letting us all know that a customer was coming in. Nobody had been in all day so it gave me quite a start.

It was Tom.

And he didn't even notice me.

So, I had to make him notice me.

I grabbed a book off a random shelf, opened it and "accidently" bumped into Tom.

"Oh, gosh," I exclaimed. "I'm so sorry!" I looked up at him, batting my eyelashes discreetly. "Tom!"

He raised his eyebrows. "Elise. What the bloody hell are you doing in a book store?"

I glared at him. "I can read, you know!"

Tom glanced at the cover of the book I had in my hand. It was, unfortunately, The Black Man's Guide to Understanding the Black Woman. Just my luck. It couldn't have been something like The Da Vinci Code or-or-or... 1001 Ways To Tell If Your Lover Is A Complete Fuck-Up Named Tom. Oh, yes. That would have been a really good one.

"Interesting choice," he said with a laugh. "So. How long have you been a black man, anyway? Not long."

I tossed the book onto a nearby shelf and crossed my arms over my chest. "Well, you would know!!"

It was about 0.5 seconds later that I realized that that wasn't actually a come-back. Bugger.

I glanced at Elle for a little assistance. Maybe she would toss the wanker out on his ass. But no. My dear sister was asleep, her head on her desk, an empty bottle of wine sitting on some old books. Great.

Tom just smirked. (Prat.) "I think we should go to lunch."

"It's half ten," I said.

Tom looked at Elle. "Think your boss would mind if you took off a little early?"

"She's not my boss!" I huffed. "She doesn't tell me what I can and cannot do!" I grabbed his hand and lead him out of the shop.

We went to the nearby pub and had some lunch. We talked about everything. Mark. Trish. Us. The whole complicated mess. But, there had been an update since the whole blow-up happened.

"Mark and Trish have been sleeping together for over a year," Tom explained. "And Trish is pregnant."

I gaped at him. "Well, is it yours or is it Mark's?"

Wow, I thought. That is exactly what happened on EastEnders yesterday. 

"Well, the doctor told her she is four weeks pregnant," he said, looking like he didn't give a fig. "So, it has to be Mark's." Tom sighed and sipped his lager. "Needless to say, Mark and I are no longer chums. And Trish is now at his place."

"Do you miss her?" I asked softly.

"Not really," he said with a shrug. "I do miss you, though."   

Bbrrriiinnnggg.  Bbrrriiinnnngggg.

“DIE!”

“NO don’t!”

Bert had saved the phone from the wrath of the stapler. For now.

“’lo?  Hey, ah yeah, she’s here.  Just a mo’.”    Oh goody, I know where this is going.

 “What?” I asked, already knowing who was on the other end.

“Hey Ellie, ah, could you come pick me up?”

“Where are you?” I sighed.

“Um, hold on…”    Voices in the background told me she didn’t have a bleeding clue.  “Ah, 23 Meteor Street.”

“Where’s that?” I asked, rubbing my aching head.

“London.”

“Don’t get cheeky.”

“Look, I have to go, that weird landlady’s back…bye.”    What?

“So where is she now?” Bert asked cheerily, holding the stapler.

“Meteor Street, wherever the bloody hell that is,” I replied, getting up to grab my jacket.

But I remembered I left it at the club.  Shite.  So I had to use some thin old cardigan of Elise’s that I found on the floor because I still couldn’t look at the stairs without getting a headache.

“Any decent London cabbie should be able to find it for you,” Bert said, trying to be optimistic.

Fifteen minutes later I was sitting in the back of the most questionable cab in the entire world.

“Ahh, Meteor Street, eh?  Have loads of mates who live there, I do!” exclaimed the cabbie.  I was pretty sure he was blind.  The cab kept turning sharply and I was sliding around on the leather seats, hitting the sides everytime.

And I’m pretty sure he hit a dog.  Then the stupid old sod slammed the brakes and sent me flying forwards cracking my skull on the plexi-glass crap.

“Just stopping for some tea, luv!  Would ya like some?” he asked me, leaning on the back of his seat.

“What?! No! Why?!”

“Oh ho, luv, I always have to get me some tea at noon.  Keeps the ticker going, ya know!” he chuckled, getting out of the cab.

All I know is that the stupid fare counter went up at least two-and-a-half quid by the time the old duffer came back.

“Ah ha!  Much better!  Make a bang on cuppa here, they do, luv!”

Fifty-two pounds later, he pulled up in front of some brick building.   

“Hold on!”

“Pay up, luv.”

“But I live half-an-hour from here!  You expect me to pay for this?  The metre even went up while you were getting your cuppa!  This is rubbish!  52 pounds?!” I exclaimed.  We weren’t too far from the club we were at last night.

 “Alright, how’s ‘bout 40 quid then?”

“No!  I’m not paying that!  20 or nothing!” I yelled.

“25!” I couldn’t believe it, he was actually trying to haggle with me!

“Fine!”

“Just thought you might of liked to take the scenic route, luv, I did,” he mumbled as I handed over the money.  Honestly, old people.  What’s wrong with them these days?

I went through the front gate as the old duffer drove away, hitting at least six dustbins in the process.  I rubbed my sore arms, hoping they wouldn’t turn out as black and blue as I pictured them in my head. 

I looked up at one of the windows to see Elise peeking out from behind some curtains.  She disappeared, and I figured she was frantically running down to get out before someone’s wife comes home.  I got to the top of the steps and looked at the names next to the buzzers, waiting for Elise to come flying out the door.  I saw the name Topp written next to one.  Brian?

I was going to push the buzzer, when some moustachioed camouflage-wearing bloke came out of nowhere behind me and said, “You can just open it.”  He pushed the door open and then went in.  I went in behind him and walked right into someone’s back.  Hitting my head.  Again.

“Brian?”

“Elle?” Brian looked down, blushed and quickly tied up his robe.  “Wh-what are you doing here?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing!” I replied excitedly.  Brian and I had been mates in college.  “I’m here to get my sister, you?”

“I-I live here.”

“Ah.  Still painting?”

“Ahhh, yes.”

“Not doing any more of that rubbish with Vulva are you?”

He did one of his awkward chuckles and said, “No.  Never again.”

“That’s good.”  Vulva was a creep.  And a tosser.  A creepy tosser.  Haha.

“You?”

“What?”

“Ah, do – do you still paint?” he asked.

“Nah, I haven’t painted in a few years.”  Sad but true.

“You should.”

“Ellie!” shouted Elise, running down the stairs, startling Brian and I.  “Let’s go!”

“See ya Ramona!” shouted a bloke from upstairs.

“Give us a ring later, luv!” exclaimed a breezy woman’s voice.  Elise grabbed my arm (where it still hurt), spun me around and out the front door.

“See ya Brian!” I managed to yell, as Elise dragged me down the stairs.  As we began walking down the street, I asked, “Ramona?”

“Yes.”

“Care to explain?”

“Landlady thinks Tim and Daisy are dating, so they began to tell Marsha me name was Ramona and I’m one of Daisy’s mates.”

“Who are these people?” I asked, looking over my shoulder.

“Nobody in particular.  Here,” she said, handing me my jacket.

“How’d you get this?” I asked.

When Bert and I got back from France, it was New Year's Eve. He slept most of the way home on the plane- but I could barely close my eyes, let alone drift off to Dream Land.

There was no point in denying it. Bernard and Elle were shagging. Or, at least they had shagged. At least once.

I cringed at the thought. I mean, really. Ew.

So, when we got home to the shop, I just wanted to get Elle alone and ask her if the bloody thing was true or not. God, I hoped it wasn't... especially after I'd gone and told Bert that Elle fancied him. Yeesh.

Of course, there was always the possibility that Bernard had really only just slept at the shop. Highly unlikely- but I imagined Bernard and Elle were probably brilliant drinkers together and ended up pissed and he just crashed at the shop. With her.

Ew, ew, ew!! No, no!! Bad brain, bad!!

Before I could talk to Elle, Bert suggested we all go down to the pub for a New Year's Eve drink. So, the lot of us (Elle, Bert, Bernard, Fran, Manny and I) all went down to the pub and started drinking.

And drank some more. And laughed for a bit.

And continued drinking.

Well, my suspicions were confirmed, more or less. Not by Elle, but by Bernard.

He had his arm draped around Elle's shoulders and, despite the amount of vodka in her blood stream, she still looked uncomfortable with the public display of affection.

Bernard nuzzled her ear and announced to the whole pub, "This is Elle and she is... reeeeeeally lovely!!" His head then slammed onto the table as he passed out.

Bert, oddly enough, didn't seem too bothered by the fact that his woman was being nuzzled by somebody else and, of all people, Bernard Black. He was too busy flirting with Fran! And she seemed quite keen on him as well. She didn't even mind the wig, makeup and Marilyn Monroe-style dress.

So. That left Manny and me.

Manny smiled at me awkwardly as we clinked our shot glasses together and downed some tequila. Manny started getting handsy under the table, the more liquor we ingested. And since I was absolutely pissed and he was being so sweet, I didn't even bother removing his hands from underneath my skirt.

"...Elise?"

My eyes flashed open- and my head was suddenly struck with the worst hangover headache the world has ever known. I looked up to see Manny.

...Standing beside the bed in which I was laying. He'd brought me breakfast on a tray. And a newspaper. And a rose in a slender glass vase.

"Well," I said, sliding up in (his) bed, "Happy New Year to you, Manny."

On behalf of Elle, Bert and the whole gang, Happy Holidays!!

OH GOD.  They KNOW.

At least I'm pretty sure they all know.  Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

When we last left off, Bernard and I were heading full-tilt into a snog-fest. 

Bernard had mumbled something about going upstairs… I had really thought about what he was talking about; that was until Fran stumbled in the door singing “Good King Wenceslas” and “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” at the same time.

“Bernard!” she called, juggling a few boxes.  “Bernard, I – aaaccckkk!”

We jumped off the couch and stood awkwardly on each end of it.

“Uh, hallo Fran,” said Bernard, rubbing the back of his head.

“What’s this?  Bernard, what’s she doing here?” asked Fran, her words slurring slightly.  Bernard mumbled something, while I tried avoiding looking at either of them.  “I thought you didn’t like her!  Thought you said she was a - !” Fran was about to say something when Bernard amazingly leapt across the shop and clapped a hand across her mouth to stop her from saying anything else.

“Not her,” Bernard whispered.  “Dat’s Elle.”  Fran said something that sounded like “Ohhhh”, I couldn’t really tell, you, with Bernard’s hand covering her mouth and all.  Bernard removed his hand and so Fran’s drunk rambling’s continued.

“You know, I don’t know why you’re being all secretive about it…how come I can never tell you two apart?” she asked me, as seriously as a drunk can.

“We’re twins?” I offered.

“Ohhhh!” Fran threw her hands up.  “Of course!  I should have…you know you should dye your hair.  I’ll do it for you!  I always wanted to be a stylist, you know.  I need some…” She started on with her drunken witch’s cackle mid sentence.

“Is she serious?” I asked Bernard, who made some incomprehensible sounds and shrugged his shoulders a couple of times.  I looked back over at Fran who was doubling over with laughter and then back to Bernard, who had began to rifle through a bunch on presents Fran had dumped on his desk.  He pulled one out and shook it at me.

“Chocolate wine ‘tings!” he said, smiling crookedly.

I wonder if his face is able to stretch into a normal smile? 

Fran had finished laughing, and headed for the door; her mind now set on dying my hair (honestly God, I was only joking!). 

"Oh look, there's Manny!" she exclaimed from the door. 

And, well, Bernard and I naturally panicked.  He was half-eating a chocolate wine thing and half-shoving me under his desk.

"Manny!  Manny, guess who's here!" shouted Fran from the door.  Bernard began to tell Fran to stuff it, and I think he also threw a couple of the winey things at her.

"Father Christmas?" asked Manny as he entered the shop.  Fran cackled some more.  "No, no!  That girl from across the - arh!  Stop it!" 

"What?"

"She's drunk, don't listen to her, Thor.  What are you doing here?!"

"My - my parents had to go away ...somewhere.  So I came back early."

"Well you shouldn't have!"

"I thought you'd be lonely."

"Well I'm not!  I've got...ah...Fran!"

"And - "

"DON'T!"

"But -"

"NO."

"What?"

"Not'ing!  Go to your room and stay there until the New Year!"

"Why?" asked Manny in a whiney voice.

"Cos you ruined my beardless Christmas! GO!"

"Fine!"

"Good!"

Jesus, honestly; do they just go on like that all the time? 

Bernard and Fran yelled at each other a bit; then he moved and someone left the shop.  When I got out from under the desk, Fran was waiting by the door.

"Where'd Bernard go?"

"Pub?  Who cares; we don't need him!  Besides, who needs a man to help dye hair?" she smiled.  Damn it.  "Come on! We'll hop off to Boots and grab some stuff!" She grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the shop.

When we got back, Bernard was sitting outside in a snowbank, shivering, on the side walk, smoking.

"What you doin' out here?" I asked.  He mumbled something about Manny.  I started to pull him out of the snow bank (mostly to bend down to hear what he was saying).

"Manny locked you out of the shop?" asked Fran, who had sobered up a bit since our trip to Boots.

“Yes!” Bernard growled.

“Right, come on then.  We’ll just have to go to my place to so you can warm up…and so Fran can butcher – I mean dye my hair.”  Bernard was trying not to laugh (probably cos it would have hurt his nearly frozen face).  Fran didn’t hear because she was already across the street, practically jumping up and down in front of the shop door.  We went round the back way and into the kitchen.  I gave Bernard a blanket, a bottle of whiskey and forced him to sit (and stay) on Auntie Madge’s sofa.  Fran dragged me upstairs (!) to the bathroom to dye my hair.

An hour later, Fran was passed out on the floor, and I was trying to rub my skin off.

A word to the wise – never decided that half-way through having someone dye your hair that getting some wine might make it seem like it’s going better and will give the dyer some “creative inspiration.”  Never ever.  Or just don’t let anyone named Fran Katzenjammer dye your hair.

It really wasn’t that bad.  I managed to get all the dye off my face and ears.  And then I thought I heard the phone ring downstairs.  And Bernard yelling.

I ran downstairs to where he was actually yelling into the phone.  Fab.

“You’ve got the wrong number!” he was yelling at it, when I got to the bottom of the stairs.

OhsitohshitohshitoSHITohshit.

After falling down a ski hill, landing predominantly on my ass in the snow, Bert and I went back to the hotel and got hot chocolates at the posh restaurant on the first floor.

"Look," Bert said. "I'm very sorry about last night. We're mates. I wouldn't want to make our friendship, y'know, awkward or anythin'."

I nodded and licked chocolate off my lips. "Oh, I agree completely." Besides, I think my twin sister would kill me if she found out I had shagged the tranny she was planning on shagging eventually.

"So, there's no need to tell Elle about that, right?" he said, averting his eyes from mine.

"If you don't want me to say anything, I won't." I shrugged. "Why, what does it matter to you?"

Bert shrugged. "Well, no reason, really." He suddenly looked very nervous.

"Oh. My. God." I stared at him. "You fancy 'er. You fancy Ellie!"

Bert laughed awkwardly- and very fakely as well. "Fancy? No, no, of course not! We're just mates!"

"Well, I mean, it's quite alright that you fancy her," I said with a sly smile. "For what it's worth, I think she fancies you too."

Bert's cheeks turned pink. "Really?"

I nodded and finished off my hot chocolate. "Shall we have a drink to celebrate then?"

While Bert was passed out in the bed beside me, I tried to call Elle from the hotel room again that night. I stretched the phone cord out into the hall so not to wake Bert up. He looked so peaceful when sleeping... in my night gown, albeit. After several rings, I was about to give up- but then somebody answered. And it wasn't Elle.

"What do you want?" barked a man on the other end. "I was sleeping!"

I blinked in confusion. "Bernard?"

What the... OH MY GOD.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod.

Honestly I should have taken the throw off my head, but I was afraid of what I would see when I did, so I was slowly suffocating myself.

I whispered a Merry Christmas to Bernard (which from under the throw probably sounded more like "Murry Crimmus"); he didn't hear me, to my slight relief.

But he was so nice and warm, so I snuggled closer to him and listened to him breathing for a few quiet moments.

Then I sneezed.

Bernard woke with a start, jolting me off the couch and into a puddle on the floor that tasted like suspiciously like wine.

"You?!  Wha'happened here?" he demanded, pulling the throw up to his neck, while I attempted to shake the wine from my hands.

"Got me."

"You must know!"

"Well I don't.  So there."

"You're just like Fran!  Something happens an'I'm not allowed to remember!" he accused me. I tried to figure out what he was raving about, when he ran his hands through his hair and asked, "Why're you here anyways?"

"You made me come here!"

"And then after my kindly holiday gesture, you seduced me in my own home!

"I don't know!" I shouted in reply, getting up.  "But I'll leave you alone to your holiday gestures. Humbug!"  As I made my way to the door, I thought of something.  "Did ever occur to you, Mister Cassanova, that you may have seduced me?"

He leapt off the couch and pointed at me, yelling, "Don't you be saying such - such rubbish...Madame Pompadour!"  I screeched at him angrily and stormed out the door, yelling, as he followed.

But once I was out on the sidewalk, I noticed that it was snowing, and had been snowing for quite some time.  Staring up at the sky, I closed my eyes and tried to drown out the sounds of the church bells and Bernard's ravings; just letting the snow brush and melt on my face.

Then the bleeding sod hit me with a snowball, trying to get my attention.

I screeched again at him and scooped some snow off his sidewalk sign.  The snow burned my hands, but nonetheless I made that little shpere of momentary power and tossed at his face.

He sputtered and spit snow for a couple seconds before grabbing more to throw at me.

Childhood memories of Christmas's in Scotland came back to me as I dodged behind a car to build up my arsenal.  We threw snowballs between cat calls and screeching at each other.  I ducked back down to make more snowballs, but when I popped back up, Bernard was gone.

"Sod!" I cursed...just before getting a handful of snow down the back of my shirt.  I whirled around and smooshed the snowball I was holding into Bernard's face.

Cursing again at each other, we began pushing, shoving and kicking each childishly.  He pushed me into the nearest snowbank, just as I was in mid-kick aimed at his shins.  My foot got caught behind his knee and brought him crashing down alongside me.

Our faces were bright red, we were breathing heavy and then...we started laughing.

Then he kissed me.

Despite myself, I kissed him back.  And then shoved snow down the front of his shirt.

But he kept on kissing me.  The homeless guy across the street wolf-whistled as the snow drifted all around us.

I grabbed more snow and threw it into Bernard's face, jumped up and ran back into his shop.  But he ran after me.  And grabbed me by the waist...and we fell onto the couch, laughing....he kissed me again...and...

Oh god.

Elise can't find out about this.

EVER.

I hate him so much that I've fallen in love with the bastard.

When we last left off, Bert The Tranny had his tongue down my throat. Despite all the liquor we'd consumed over the past several hours, his breath still tasted a bit minty... Was there a mint-flavored drink in the cabinet that I had missed out on?

Elise. Focus. What are you DOING?!

Snogging a fab-looking man... who happens to enjoy wearing women's clothing, that's what I'm doing.

Slut! You know very well that Elle fancies the pants off of him! Stop what you are doing right now!!

I don't know anything about that!

Okay, wow. Tranny Man's hand is heading south of the border.

"Bert," I said, tearing my lips away from his.

"Wha?" His head wobbled with drunkenness.

"We're both pissed. Let's not do this. Let's just... be friends." I put my head on his shoulder. "Alright?"

Bert shrugged. "Dat's fine, luff. Just thought... as we're in France 'n all. But if y'don't want to, me won't."

Elise. Do you realize what just happened?

No. What's that?

Your just turned down a shag.

Oh my God. I did do that. I did, I did!!

Good girl.

While Bert passed out on the bed, I hobbled down to the hotel bar and ended up going back to the room of a traveling businessman named... Oh, shit. What was his name again? Bob? Darren? Kurt? Jonathan? Well, whatever his name was, he was rubbish. Kept calling me "Sharon". And then he cried at the end, which is never attractive.

When I woke up in the morning beside What's-His-Face, I grabbed my clothes off the floor and slipped down the hall to my hotel room. Bert was in the shower. I tried to call Elle on the room's phone but there was no answer. Where could Elle possibly be?

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.

What is wrong with me?

When Bernard got me to the shop, I refused to tell him where my keys were.  I doubled over laughing like a mental hyena.  Like my sister. 

He got a little bit fed up with me, but took me over to his shop, while I was still laughing my bottom off. 

I think he told me Manny went home for Christmas to visit his parents, and Fran was out getting smashed with her friend Julie.

So we were all alone.  In his shop.

I remember falling onto the couch while he went to find something out back.  I pulled my jacket off like a child, you know, pulling at the sleeves and everything else until it comes off.  I then found a display of Christmas books that Manny must have put out and pulled out Dicken's "A Christmas Carol" from the middle of the stack, causing them to topple to the floor as I sat back down on the couch.  Using my jacket as a throw, I began thumbing through the book.

It was quite embarassing, but when Bernard came back out with two glasses of wine, I was reading the book as if I was Sean Connery as James Bond.

"And a bloody fuckin' humbug, Q!"

Yep, just a little embarassing.

It got a bit better, I suppose.  Bernard got drunk and started reading bits as if he was the Queen on the telly.

We had a good laugh about it.  He disappeared again and brought out a real throw, and strangely enough, it looked as though he had tried to do something to his hair. 

He was smiling like a bedlamite when he tossed the throw over us, after he had plunked himself back down next to me...and...

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.  I WISH I could honestly remember what happened next.

There was lots of giggling...I think we spilled wine on the book...but...why am I laying on the couch next to him?

We didn't...? OH SHITE.  We did.  I know we did.

No.  No, we couldn't of.

Shit, I think we did.

I was on the air plane when I took out that envelope of money that Elle had given me for Christmas.

“It’s your half of our inheritance," she had said. "You kept telling me how much this place was a waste of it, so I decided to give you back your share.”

Then why the heck did I feel so bad about having that envelope of cash? I could blow it all on something fab- or something completely daft and useless. I could buy myself a small house in the country and settle down with some Jude Law-looking thing and we could have about eleven kids and grow our own vegetables and raise sheep and buy a townhouse in London and hang out with Chris Martin and Gwenyth Paltrow and buy loads of expensive clothes and...

Well, anyway. The possibilities were endless.

I looked over at Bert in the seat beside me, snoring away. We'd both downed quite a few tiny bottles of liquor and he'd fallen asleep first. I was too excited about the Alps to sleep.

Well, there was that... and the fact that my guilt was gnawing at my soul like a dog on a bone.

When we arrived in France, Bert and I checked into our very posh hotel... only to find that our room only had one bed. Bert and I looked at one another and smiled awkwardly.

"So," I said. "Who gets the cot?"

Bert tossed his suitcase onto the bed and headed straight for the liquor cabinet. "Forget the cot. Care for some... gin? Vodka? ...Or any other drink you could ever want?"

Long story short, Bert and I ended up getting quite pissed and watching French porn on the hotel room telly. I have to say, French porn is quite possibly better than English porn. It's all sexy language, kinky lengerie- and there's absolutely no reference to the royal family (ever!) which is a real bonus.

Bert and I ended up stripping down to our skivvies and getting into the private hot tub on the balcony adjoining our room. The air was brisk and cold and the water was warm. We ordered champagne and drank it from tall flutes.

"Dis is d'life," I slurred, sliding father down into the tub. "We should live like this always. Like... like... famous people."

Bert nodded. "I agree, luv." He put his arm around me and tossed his empty glass onto the floor. "I do think we should stay here forever and ever."

"Amen!" I downed the rest of my drink and tossed it off the side of the balcony. I think it might have landed on somebody because I heard a scream from below.

"I wish Elle was 'ere though. She would love this." I considered this for a second. "Well, the liquor cabinet. She's never been crazy-" I burped. "-about the French."

"Elle is great, don't get me wrong," Bert said. "But, I have to say, I love the French."

And that's when Bert The Tranny Frenched me.

“Last call, luv.”  Sigh.  I already had had six pints of lager, what harm could another do?

The barman here is nice.  Nice to a lonely little drunk girly.  Sigh.

God I hate Christmas.

At least Mr. Baker (the barman) is trying to cheer me up.  He keeps telling me corny jokes about Father Christmas, Americans and Dumb Blondes.  It’s a good thing it’s kind of dark in his pub, or else I’d clock him.  Well, maybe not clock him, perhaps stare at him angrily; I’m a blonde.  “Dirty Blonde” rather.  Elise takes it to heart (if you know what I mean).  Maybe I’ll dye my hair brown and give Elise a fright when she and Bert get back. Ha.  That’ll show them.

I remembered hazily why I was here on Christmas Eve, alone.

I was sitting at the shop desk, reading, while customers argued amongst themselves and panicking, trying to fine the perfect Christmas present.  Bert and Elise had been out shopping all morning, when they suddenly burst in through the front door, rosy cheeked and excited.

“Ellie! Ellie!  Guess what?” shouted Elise, pushing customers out of her way as she ran over to me.

“Father Christmas is actually going to exchange you for that puppy I asked for 20 years ago?” I asked.  She stopped short gave me this short of pitying frown, but quickly began smiling again.

“No, don’t be daft.  Bert and I won a trip to the French Alps for Christmas!  We can stay in a fancy lodge and ski and eat at fancy restaurants…!!” she replied, her eyes shining and face getting redder.  I tried to hide my excitement in; the French Alps?  Did any of us know how to ski?

“When do we leave?”

“Ahh…well…you see, Ellie, ah, um, there’s just one teensy weensy little thing about the trip…,” she said nervously, clearly becoming antsy at my interest.

“Yes?”  I dreaded the answer.

“Th-the trip’s for two, y’see…an’ well, it’s suppose to be like one of those, um, daft romantic getaways for two…Bert an’I only entered it for a laugh, Elle; we honestly didn’t think we’d win,” she rambled.

“That’s fine; some one’s got to stay here and mind the shop,” I replied, as stocially as I could.  I opened the drawer next to me and handed Elise a white envelope that I was saving for Christmas Day, but seeing as she wouldn’t be here…well, you know.

“Wh-what’s this?”

“Open it, go on.”

She did.  After what seemed like forever, she finally managed to pull out the money with shaking hands.  What did she think it was?  Anthrax?  Honestly.

“Ellie…why?” she asked, staring at the money.

“It’s your half of our inheritance.  You kept telling me how much this place was a waste of it, so I decided to give you back your share.”

“But…um, thanks,” she replied, confused.  Bert hung around awkwardly and finally disappeared behind the curtain with Elise.

Four days later they left for the Alps. 

The bells above the pub door jingle as someone comes in.  Another lonely soul on a lonely Chrimble Eve.

I hear Mr. Baker talking to who ever it is, before the black figure moves to sit across from me.  I have to screw my eyes up to see who it is – 7 lagers will do that to a person.  I realize who it is.

“I t’ought you’d be here,” he said to me.

“Wha’ddya want?” I asked.

“I’m going to take you home.  You don’t need any more of dat rubbish,” he said, soberly, taking my drink from my hands.

“Yes, I do,” I reply, grabbing for it.  He takes it over to the bar and gives it to Baker.  He comes back over and grips my arm.

“C’mon,” he says quietly.  I’m too pissed to care, so I slide off my stool and begin to fall.  He catches me expertly and props me upright.  I lose my balance, but he counters it and leans me against him, while holding me in place with one of his arms wrapped around my shoulders.  We half stumble half walk to the door.  Baker gives us his crinkly smile and says, “Yer in good hands now, luv.  Happy Christmas, Bernard.  You too, miss.”

“Nnng,” I reply.  Bernard nods to Baker as we shuffle out the door. 

We start down the street, Bernard, uses his arms to hold me steady and stop me from falling on my visage.  I can’t bear it any longer.  I have to ask him.

“Why’re you so nice to me when no one’s around?”

“Dere’s lots’o’people around,” he answered, avoiding the question.

“You know who I mean.”

“I dunno…,” he sighs, making life more complicated than before and harder for my now slow brain to work out.

“You yell at me a lot when they’re around,” I mumble.  “I’ve tried being nice to you…”  I trip; he catches me and puts me right.  “You’re just…just really…really…”

“Maddening?” he answers.

“S’pose,” I answer slowly.  “Where are we going?”

“I told you, I’m taking you home.”

“Mine or yours?” I laugh, finding myself extremely witty and clever in the moment.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him smiling.