Cliché Christmas

I opened the front door to be greeted by silence. 

‘Mike?’

No answer which was odd because he worked from home and his car was outside. He was planning to make a special anniversary dinner later so maybe he’d walked into town for some last-minute bits?  I swapped my trainers for fluffy slippers before making my way along the hallway into the kitchen where the door had been firmly shut.  Doris was lying next to her food bowl, her head on her Christmas teddy; she looked up at me forlornly. 

‘Hey, Do-do, what you doing there?  Did naughty daddy shut you in?’

Doris’ tail began to wag and her mouth opened in what I always maintain is a smile.

‘Yes, he did, he’s mean daddy.  Now give me some food.’   

‘Hold on, you can have half a biscuit in a minute.’

‘Good. Make it a big one.’

I took a bottle of red wine out of my bag and put it on the table. I’d splurged a bit, stopping off at Waitrose rather than Tesco, but, hey, our anniversary only came once a year after all. 

I felt a pang of disappointment that Mike wasn’t home, I’d faked a stomach upset to leave work just after lunch and thought we could start the celebrations early, ‘If you know what I mean,’ I said to Doris who yawned as she dropped her teddy onto my slippers. 

I had no qualms about taking a sickie from my job at the head office of The Pet Den, a chain of pet shops. I’d gone there straight from university full of enthusiasm, a degree in marketing and a love of animals. But the last eight years of endless meetings, promoting useless products to gullible pet owners and being passed over for promotion several times had worn away the last traces of interest and I’d been job hunting for months. I’d always aspired to open a gin distillery or a tea shop in a campervan, like in the chick-lit novels I loved. I had the names all planned out: The Scruffy Mutt Gin Co and The Little Camper Café but actually committing to funding and setting up my own business was another matter and I knew it would forever be just a daydream.   

My stomach rumbled and I put the kettle on, checking the biscuit tin to see if there were any mince pies left.  As I made my tea and slipped Doris a custard cream (she’d given me a look which plainly said that half a biscuit was totally unacceptable), I hummed softly to myself, making the familiar notes of Last Christmas almost unrecognisable (being tone deaf ran in my family) but it was Our Song and the one we planned to have as our first dance at our wedding in three weeks’ time. I checked the time on the oven clock, just gone two; plenty of time to take my tea and mince pies up to bed and have a little nap while I waited for Mike.  I felt, to use an expression I loathed, almost blessed, despite my crap job. It was our anniversary, Mike was cooking dinner and all I had to do this weekend was decide on the flowers for the church.

Doris followed me up the stairs where I pushed open the bedroom door to be confronted by the sight of something I hadn’t planned on ever seeing from behind: Mike’s surprisingly hairy arse, bouncing energetically up and down on top of a woman whose long blonde hair was spread wantonly over the pillows. My pillows. The festive woodland patterned pillowcases I’d watched on the John Lewis website for weeks before they finally went in the sale. I stood like an open-mouthed statue, gripping my mug and plate, staring at that stubbly backside for what felt like hours, listening to an over-the-top, ‘70s style porn soundtrack of grunts and ‘oooh, yes’s.

Doris, however, had no such emotional reaction, and scampered merrily into the bedroom, leaping onto the bed with a huge bound and a loud bark. 

‘Aggh! Fucking hell!’ screamed Mike, falling to one side of his shagging partner, who then caught sight of me and screamed too. His shagging partner who was otherwise known as Freya. Or the matron of honour for my forthcoming nuptials if you wanted to put it into context.

Mike turned to the door, his eyes widening in horror. ‘Maggie! Shit. It’s not what it looks like.’

I almost laughed, feeling like I was in a cheesy sitcom which had been popular to start with, but whose audience ratings were falling rapidly, mainly due to the declining script standards. Could this be any more of a cliché?

I shook my head in what I hoped conveyed dignified disappointment, anger, regret and sadness before backing out of the room and gently closing the door. I turned to walk down the stairs before spinning around, throwing open the door and hurling the tea and mince pies into the room where they hit the wall behind the bed with loud cracks as Mike and Freya attempted to protect themselves from the falling tea, pastry and shattered china.

‘FUCK YOU BOTH!’

Doris barked furiously and I spoke to her sharply, ‘Doris, out!’

Doris jumped off the bed and out of the room and, this time, I slammed the door shut behind us.

Downstairs, I paced the kitchen, seething with anger, hurt and a touch of embarrassment at being part of this ridiculous situation: Groom-to-be bangs Matron of Honour, Bride knows absolutely fuck all.  How could Mike do this to me? How long had it been going on?  Why on earth were we planning to get married in three weeks?  I could hear Mike and Freya coming down the stairs, whispering in the hallway before the front door slammed.  The kitchen door opened a crack and Mike, at least having the grace to look shamefaced, poked his head around the door.

‘Freya’s gone. We should talk.’

I tugged at my engagement ring, twisting it over the knuckle until it came off.  I placed it on the kitchen table and sat down, facing Mike. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

Despite there being nothing to talk about, Mike still managed to drag the conversation out for an hour, apologising over and over. Making excuses about cold feet, the need to reaffirm his libido blah blah blah.  But when he tried to blame his wayward penis on my lack of affection, I’d had enough.

‘Mike, stop. I don’t want to talk anymore. It’s over.  I just want you out so I can have some space.’

‘Okay, okay. I’ll stay with Dave tonight, you can think. But, please, don’t throw this away. Us.’

‘There is no us, Mike,’ I whispered as he went upstairs to pack a bag. 

‘Yeah, fuck you, daddio,’ Doris added. ‘Just the two of us now, Mummy. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.’

Although I tended to agree with Doris, it didn’t stop me being heartbroken at the thought of my marriage being over before it even begun and the tears began to fall.

Mike appeared in the doorway and I turned my head away so he couldn’t see my wet face.

‘I’ll call you in the morning.  I love you, Maggie.  Just remember that.’

I was too choked up to reply and even Doris was silent for once.  I waved a hand vaguely in Mike’s direction and he took it as his cue to leave.

Out of habit, I picked up my phone.  I expected to see a long apologetic message from Freya but there was nothing.  Which pissed me off.  I at least wanted the chance to ignore her. 

‘Right, Doris, time for wine.’

‘Yeah, your relationship is down the pan, might as well get trashed, hey?’

I followed Doris’ advice and the rest of the evening was a blur.