The First Day of Christmas

I park the car. Now that I’m here, I’d rather not go in. But the promise of a fireplace and interior heating beckons me, so I get my shit together and force myself out. It’s clear I’m the last one to arrive from all the vehicles parked along the street which I recognise as belonging to my five other siblings and their families. There’s tinsel coiled around the mailbox, and a holly wreath adorning the front door. A Santa sleigh complete with all seven reindeer is artfully displayed across the front lawn which is hidden under a blanket of snow. Rudolph’s red nose is bright as a beacon even at midday. Tiny lights are stapled into the roof, they hang from the front balcony and off the trees, and the entire property will be alight when darkness falls. People know its Christmas here. Mum is a sucker for holidays and has religiously showcased her menagerie of festive décor year after year since I was child. She and Dad have won the annual London Christmas Light Display six times in twenty years. It’s completely bonkers, but that’s just Mum and Dad.

The front door opens before I have the chance to knock.

“Mimi!” Elizabeth, my younger sister launches her finest hug on me, but I stabilize quickly considering I’ve put weight on and she’s so much smaller than I, even after three children. She looks fabulous and I feel slightly self-conscious yet supremely thankful I dressed in an oversize puffer…which I know my mother will take off and hang once I step over the threshold.

“MUUUUUUM – MIRIAM’S HERE!” Annette- my older sister appears behind Elizabeth, yelling into the house and I hear my name echoing back at me. Children come running from all directions and I brace for impact. They scream at me simultaneously and pile on as Elizabeth releases our embrace. I wave over heads of hair at my three brothers; one younger, two older as they lean on corner walls inside with hot drinks in their hands. There’s six of us, and I am baby number four. To add to the confusion there are five more adults inside not including my siblings or parents- their partners. There are thirteen adults and thirteen children in the home in total, and I spend a solid twenty minutes hugging and kissing everyone before I put my feet up in the living room right beside the Christmas Tree, which looks perfect in this year’s colour choice of white and gold.

***

“So…” Mum starts when we have a private moment together, the smell of gingerbread men wafting throughout the house. The only physical evidence of the biscuits are several tiny crumbs left on an empty plate pilfered by tiny hands the second they came out of the oven. “You came alone this year. Again.”

“Oh Mum, not now. Please just – don’t.” I put my hands up defensively.

“-Can you blame me? Miriam, I just want you to be happy. Your father and I are very worried about you. Everyone is.”

“Well you can stop worrying. I’m happy,” I lie, standing up and walking away from her, where I rest my arm on the mantle of the fireplace. My fingers ensnare a crystal figurine – a partridge in a pear tree, from my Mother’s ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ miniatures collection she puts above the mantle each year.

“Mimi…”

“I’m fine. Really- fine.” I release the crystal figurine and leave her to deal with hungry children and chatty in-laws. My ever-present sisters exchange a knowing look as I shove past Charlie, my eldest brother. This is why I hate Christmas, not to mention every other holiday, or anything involving family gatherings. Everybody is happily married with children except me. I’m the black sheep, the odd one out. Poor single Miriam. Unlucky in love. The thing is I haven’t always been single. I’ve had boyfriends, but it never works out. My last relationship was the longest; five years. He was having an affair with a co-worker for the last eighteen months of it and he ran off with her. She left her husband and the pair of them tried to claim half of my house. The home I bought with my own hard earned money. They didn’t get it, thank god. But it was utterly humiliating, particularly because seven months into the affair, I suspected it was going on and I confronted him. He lied. I believed it. Or maybe I chose to accept the lie and pretend to believe it. London is a huge city, but if you’ve lived here your whole life you quickly come to realise that its just another small town with a lot more people. It’s now been three years since he cheated and I’m now thirty five. I was waiting for that ring for a long time, and it never came. He used me. I haven’t dated since, and the onslaught of five siblings and an over-bearing mother encouraging you to create dating profiles and join singles apps is just too much. I put my gloves back on and grab my coat again, finding some space on the porch to sit by myself and leave behind the warmth of the house. I gain freedom and peace and look around at all the Christmas. And then something, someone catches my eye. There’s a man sitting alone on the porch of the house opposite Mum and Dad's. He looks how I feel. He’s rubbing his hands together and smoothing them over his head repeatedly. I wonder what his story is. Who in that house has pissed him off this Christmas. I stare a little longer than I should, noticing that he’s quite attractive. He’s dark and rugged -late thirties at the most. He’s sitting down but the length of his legs tell his height. And then suddenly he’s looking back at me. I look away, then look back again and he’s still looking. He waves, and he smiles. I wonder where his wife and kids are. I decided to wave back.

***

And just like that, I find myself meeting this man in the centre of the road, between the two houses of our discomfort. His name is Simon, and I learn that he’s visiting his parents for Christmas also, only there’s silence escaping their home because he is an only child. It seems we have been exiled to the porches for the same reason. His parents want a grandchild. I tell him they can have one of their neighbours, because there are some greedy people living across the road. He laughs at my joke, and so do I. We decide to take a walk down the street. He tells me he’s an underwear model, and a jilted lover. I tell him I find that incredibly hard to believe. Not the model part, but the jilted lover. Nobody could leave a man this beautiful. I decide after to tell him my story. And I win.

“So, let’s just pretend then,” he says.

“Pretend what?” I ask him.

“That we haven’t been hurt before.” I raise an eyebrow.

“Why not?” He’s serious.

“There are just some things that you can’t erase.”

“So, file it away for later and start anew.”

“You’re a very optimistic man.”

“It’s Christmas.”

***

“Where have you been?” Robert, my youngest brother teases as I join my family for Christmas lunch. The house is so loud with voices and the clash of cutlery I can barely hear him at the table. I respond with the truth and tell him I needed a walk. I leave out the underwear model. As bread baskets are passed and gravy is drizzled, wine poured and ham sliced, I pretend for a moment that I haven’t been hurt. I pretend that I’m not a single, childless woman who has been burned badly by men and that instead I am a woman completely and utterly fulfilled in every aspect of her life. I find myself smiling and laughing with my family, and for a moment realise how effect this…positive thinking stuff really is. My phone is on vibrate in the pocket of my jeans. I take it out every now and then to text back to the messages I’m receiving under the table. When lunch finishes, I’m full not just of food but excitement. My mother notices- everyone notices I have a certain glow. I brush off their comments. I want this to be just for me. Simon’s last text left me feeling hopeful. Hopeful and attractive again. We’re going out tomorrow night, on the second day of Christmas.