All I Want Series Boxset, Books 1-3: All I Want for Christmas, All I Want for Valentine's, All I Want for Spring (2 page)

We began to walk towards the park gates, Holly towering over me. Holly’s height drew stares everywhere we walked, like now. We didn’t pay them any attention — we were used to it.

“Anyway,” I continued. “Melanie met whatshername online.”

Holly punched her hands into the pockets of her thick coat, her laughter a howling gale around us both. “You’re using Melanie’s relationship as a barometer of online sanity? Can I remind you Melanie is a circus freak show all on her own?”

I nudged Holly with my elbow. “She’s not that bad — and she’s got a girlfriend.”

Holly stopped walking. “We are talking about the same Melanie, aren’t we? The one who got so off her face at Alison’s wedding, she puked on the groom’s mum? The same Melanie who drove her car into a fence when she was on an empty road? The same Melanie who married someone and divorced them within three months?”

I let the sentence hang for a few seconds before replying. “I know all of that — but Milly says she’s changed since she met this woman. Apparently, she’s way calmer, a different person. And Milly said she seemed happier too — happier than she’s seen her in a long time.”

Holly scoffed again. “It won’t last. Melanie has crazy stamped through her core. She’ll find a way to fuck it up.”

We were approaching the tall, black iron park gates now, the early evening sharp around us.

“I disagree. I think Melanie was just waiting for the right person and she’s found her. She’s been saved. I like the thought of that. I want someone to come along and sweep me off my feet, make me see the world in a different way. And if that could happen at Christmas time, I might burst with happiness.”

Holly blew on to her hands before putting an arm around me. “You don’t need saving — you’re fine as you are.”

“Maybe.” I paused before continuing. “But maybe there’s someone out there who can make me the best version of myself I can possibly be — there’s always room for improvement, isn’t there?”

Holly shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Good,” I said. “So starting tonight, it’s Operation Christmas and you’re going to be my wingwoman, just like in a terrible 80s movie.” I stopped walking and turned to Holly who had an amused look on her face. “And I know you don’t believe me, but I’m deadly serious.” I paused. “Are you in?”

Holly stroked her rounded chin before answering. “One month is a tight deadline to meet someone and call them your girlfriend.”

“I’m aware.”

“But if a Christmas girlfriend is what you’re after, together we’ll look in every street in London to find the perfect woman. Who knows, we might even find someone for me too.” Holly smiled at the thought.

“We might both find a girlfriend for Christmas,” I said, my smile radiating just how happy that would make me. “Now that really would be a Hollywood movie ending.” I linked my arm through Holly’s as we walked on to the main road and headed back to our flat.

“But I’d like to say again,” Holly added, “the current version of you doesn’t need any saving. You’re fine just the way you are.”

I grinned up at her. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: your sweet talk will get you everywhere.” 

CHAPTER 2

Saturday November 26th

To get online, the first thing I had to do was write my profile. I pulled up the app Melanie had success with, and after filling in all my details, I was asked for five key phrases to describe myself.

What would my friends say? Flighty, indecisive, tequila-intolerant, brunette, good tits. I wasn’t sure I should go with that.

What about me? I pulled out a pad and pen, then began writing. Average height and build, shoulder-length maple brown hair, loves cats, tans easily. I wrinkled my nose — I needed to make it more than just another lesbian with a fondness for pussies.

Okay, take two. Five phrases or words. I could do this, I worked in marketing for goodness sake. I tapped my pen on my pad but my mind went blank. Eventually after a few minutes, I wrote: athletic, good dancer, blue eyes, deadline-driven, likes avocados.
Deadline-driven?
Honestly, I was rubbish at this. Perhaps this was why GSOH was so popular.

I needed help. I got up and walked through to the lounge, where Holly was stretched out on the couch watching football. Holly worked as a recruitment consultant in the City, a hangover of a job from her post-university years. She had a degree in history and politics, which she’d soon realised led to precisely no jobs in the real world. So when a friend of a friend had offered her a position in his firm, she’d taken it. That had been five years ago. Now, she spent her days placing people in jobs they may or may not want and got paid handsomely for it.

I squinted at the TV. “Who’s playing?” I sat on the opposite end of the sofa.

Holly didn’t move her gaze from the screen. “Us and Chelsea.”

I tapped my foot a few times before speaking again. “So you know my profile?”

Holly didn’t respond.

“Hols?”

She ignored me again.

“Hollister?”

She looked at me. “Your profile.”

“Yeah — can you help me?”

“At half-time.”

“Okay.” I stood up, biting my fingernail. “You want a cup of tea?”

“Please,” she replied.

Our shared flat had white walls and a laminate floor, a blank canvas to decorate. However, because we were renting, we couldn’t do that without our landlord’s permission so we kept it minimalist. One corner of our living room held the L-shaped sofa and TV, one corner a small white dining table and chairs. The kitchen took up another corner, and we also managed to fit in a small desk. Surprisingly, the room still felt spacious.

At half-time, Holly slurped her tea while thinking of five key phrases to describe me. “How about annoying, interrupts football matches, drinks wine too fast, prone to hiccups, perky breasts?” She waited for my response.

“I predicted you’d mention my breasts.”

“They’re worth mentioning,” Holly said. “I’ve always told you, I’ll exchange some of my height for some of your breasts. Seems a fair swap.”

I laughed. “It would be — but it’s not helping to write my profile, is it? And I’m not mentioning my breasts — that seems desperate.”

Holly raised an eyebrow in my direction.

“I am
not
desperate!”

Holly grinned as a train rattled by on the track just outside the window.

Our flat was in a shabby chic, up-and-coming area. South-facing, it was baking hot all year round, which meant we had the windows open constantly. It was also noisy, built right next to a train track. Hence when a train passed by, it was best to shut up until it’d passed if you wanted to be heard. We both stared at the train full of people heading into the city. Once the train was out of earshot, we refocused.

After a couple of minutes, Holly clicked her fingers together. “Got it — how about this: Christmas cracker seeks possible Mrs Claus. Must love Christmas, tinsel, ice-skating and mulled wine. Post-Christmas activities also considered on application.”

“It makes me sound like I might murder them in their sleep with my special Christmas ham.”

“I disagree — it’s themed, it’s unusual, it’ll make you stand out. Plus, isn’t this quest all about finding someone for Christmas, someone to spend the holiday with? You want them to love Christmas, don’t you?”

I paused. “Of course, but there might be a gorgeous Muslim or Jewish lesbian out there who doesn’t do Christmas. I don’t want to alienate her.”

Holly waved a hand through the air. “You’re over-thinking it. If there’s a non-Christian dyke who likes the sound of you, I don’t think the whole Christmas deal will put her off. Plus, Christmas is cute. It’s fun, it’s light, it’s airy. Christmas spells romance.”

Half an hour later, I was sat on my bed with my iPad, trying to work Holly’s spiel into a more workable format. But the more I thought about it, the more I was inclined to agree. This would make me stand out from the crowd. People might think I was a Christmas nut who secretly wanted to be an angel or a fairy, but so be it. It was worth a shot, and if I had no bites in a few days, I could always change it. I posted the best image of me I could find, hammered out the words before I could talk myself out of it and clicked post.

Let the games commence.

***

My history as a lesbian Lothario wasn’t great, truth be told — but I was determined this December was going to be different and memorable. I was tired of floating in a sea of lesbian debris. This time, I wanted to take control and steer my course with confidence.

I first kissed another woman in the school library when I was 16. Her name was Nicola Sheen and she had the smoothest skin in our class. Honestly, if Nicola walked in right now, the girlfriend search would be over because to my 16-year-old self, Nicola Sheen was the perfect woman. Tall, dark and devastatingly handsome, the fact she had a boyfriend called Craig only made me want her more. At 16, she hadn’t yet realised her true vocation was to love me.

I became friends with Nicola when we were 14, quite late in my school career — Holly treated her with suspicion, seeing as she’d been by my side since the age of 11. By the time we turned 15, I wanted to spend every waking minute with Nicola, but had no idea why. Every opportunity I had, I texted Nicola and hung out with her, and we told each other our deepest, darkest secrets. She told me she had a crush on Craig Dale way before they got together. In turn, I told her I liked Ed Hartman. It was a lie, but I had to say something.

When we told each other stuff like this, Nicola favoured lying together on the bed — she’d watched too many American movies, but I wasn’t complaining. Lying next to Nicola on my flowery duvet, I’d never felt so almost-content in my whole life.

We so nearly kissed a few times, but it was always her who pulled back, always her who had a freakish look in her eyes. But then, one day in the library down the history aisle, the lines blurred. When our lips locked, the klaxon that sounded in my head was loud enough to be heard in Scotland. In that moment, I knew what the invisible struggle I’d been grappling with was, and my life changed.

Nicola sunk into the kiss, even slipping her tongue into my mouth. I remember I groaned — why wouldn’t I? I’d been waiting for this moment for 16 years. Most straight people have their first meaningful kiss before they reach their teenage years. Mine didn’t arrive till I was old enough to get married, smoke and join the army. I’d kissed boys before, but kissing Nicola Sheen made
much
more sense. If she’d proposed right there and then, I’d have dropped everything and said yes.

But she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Instead, she pulled back, looked at me with a veil of horror falling over her face and ran out of the history aisle as if I’d just produced a gun. She avoided me for days afterwards, despite my constant texting. And when she did eventually speak to me, it was to tell me we should keep our distance from each other, because what happened could never happen again.

However, such grand statements only played more into my love-struck hands. I was studying English literature after all, and this seemed to have all the hallmarks of a dramatic Shakespearian tragedy. Only, I was convinced our story would have a happy ending — the folly of youth.

Three months later, Nicola announced she was pregnant. She
really
went out of her way to tell the world she wasn’t a lesbian. After that, she moved away and we lost touch. I knew she had a miscarriage and went to university, but I often wondered where she was and if she ever thought of me and that kiss. Or even if she’d ever had another kiss like that one. I knew I hadn’t.

At university, I got together with a woman named Melissa. She was on the hockey team and was a real competitor at everything in life — including being the best in our relationship. She was an expert in putting me down and I was an expert at taking it, until around two years into our liaison when she decided to sleep with someone else and I was off the hook. I slept with a couple more women after that, but gave up on relationships for a while, happy to have the space to breathe. 

I stayed in Bristol after graduating from its university, taking a job in a local marketing firm that set sail to my current career. The company was a small family-run business and I loved it there — I’m still in touch with them and visit every time I head west. Three months into working there, I met Amy, who owned the pet shop next door.

And after Nicola Sheen, Amy was my second significant love.

Everybody loved Amy — my mum, my friends, my colleagues —
everyone
. There really was nothing not to love. She owned her own business, loved animals and was one of the most caring people I’d ever met.

After a year, I moved into her neat three-bed terrace, the floors covered with Amy’s carpets, the walls with Amy’s artwork. After two years, Amy started making noises about having children — at 35, her biological clock was booming. At 24, mine was not. A year later, Amy proposed: one knee, roses, diamonds, the works. I accepted, we told the world, and the world embraced us as one.

Only I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t close my eyes without thinking about getting married and having children, all before I knew what I was doing with my life. Before I was ready. I was only in my mid-20s, and suddenly, my life had been thrown into fifth gear.

After three months, Amy asked if I still wanted to get married.

I told her I didn’t know.

That was enough for her.

We split up two months later amid a backdrop of tears and what-ifs. I couldn’t stay in Bristol, so I handed in my notice and moved into Holly’s spare room in east London. Moving in with her was the perfect choice because Holly had known me for over half my life. She knew I loved Mexican food, garlic mayonnaise, and cats. She knew I’d still worn knee-high socks at High School far later than it was considered cool to do so. She’d held my hair when I vomited after drinking too many pints of Snake Bite on my 18th birthday. Aged 25, London and Holly were the far better option — better than being married with kids.