Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe by Debbie Johnson

Author:Debbie Johnson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008205881
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2016-08-30T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

It’s happening. It’s really happening – exactly the way Cherie had predicted. We are in a tinsel-coated function room with an actual glitterball hanging from the ceiling and the DJ is rocking out the Christmas play-list from hell.

Everyone – including Edie – is dancing in a big circle, kicking their legs and shrieking along to ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’.

Everyone apart from me, that is. I am sitting quietly in the corner with a Diet Coke, hoping nobody notices my absence, already feeling a bit overwhelmed by all the ‘pampering’ we’ve endured through the day.

I am thoroughly exfoliated, thoroughly buffed, thoroughly moisturised, and thoroughly miserable. There is a room upstairs with my name on it, and I am yearning for my bed.

I glance at my watch and see it is only 10pm. I then glance at the dancing circle, and see that they are showing no signs of tiring. Cherie, Laura, Willow, Ivy and Sophie, and some ladies I don’t even know but look like they went to the same School of Rock Chic that Cherie attended – all long hair and reckless abandon and bare feet.

We’re at a place called Wildbriar Manor, and it’s literally in the middle of nowhere. The grounds are perfectly coiffed and look like they’ve been pampered themselves, and a light dusting of snow has coated everything I can see through the floor-to-ceiling windows outside. The building is old – the kind of old that comes with mellow stone and thatched outbuildings – and has probably seen a thing or two in its time.

Probably, though, not Edie May – a ninety-year-old dancing queen wearing black leggings, a stick on pink bunny tail and bouncing rabbit ears. Or Cherie and her posse. Or the men, who I know are still outside, drinking in a heated marquee after a day of being macho. It’s a strange segregation, and I have a feeling that before the night is out, at least some of the hens and the stags will manage to be somehow reunited.

I am half hoping that they all come back in before the end of the disco, as I would pay good money to see Matt, who can be slightly uptight if Laura’s not with him, busting some moves to Slade.

I see Laura herself, flushed with all the dancing – and possibly all the gin and tonics she’s been necking – break away from the group and walk towards me. Her hair is flying in wild curls, and her rabbit ears are flapping as she approaches. The pink strand of hair she used to have has now been dyed green, so it will better match the bridesmaid dress she’ll be wearing at the wedding in a couple of weeks’ time.

She flops down next to me and takes a swig of my Coke without asking. I resist the temptation to stab her in the hand with a fork.

‘Uggh,’ she says, wrinkling her face up in disgust. ‘It’s just Coke! I thought there’d be some Jack Daniels in it.

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