Geli Voyante's Hot or Not (19 page)

By the time I manage to leave
work, on my last day before the Christmas break – OK, I may have deliberately had a few flutes of champagne at the champagne bar upstairs – I know I’m going to be very late arriving at boring Reading where I’m staying with Mum and Claire. So late in fact, I should delay my journey until tomorrow.

W
hen I phone Claire’s house to try and worm my way out of family duty and postpone the festivities by another day, Mum answers and informs me that Claire is out with David and she’ll be all alone if I don’t go, that I’m better late than never, and I’ll mess up their plans if I show up the next day as they know full well it will be late afternoon before I get there.

The last thing I want to do after the day I’ve had is spend it travelling with the masses. Obviously
, I’ve not packed either. When I finally make it home from work – the Tube is gruelling because of a signal failure messing up the Central line – I do not want to leave my bedroom.

I
’ll miss this place when I have to move out. At the moment it’s painted Annie Sloan Antoinette and Paris Grey. I have the French chic look going on with plenty of rustic Parisian prints and knick-knacks sourced from Marché aux
Puces de Saint-Ouen
– one of the best markets. I know I could replicate my room in the new place... but only if I luck out and get a decent landlord. The likelihood is I’ll be living in a magnolia shoebox and will lose my deposit if I dare to hang any of my prints on the walls.

With Christmas Day falling on Tuesday
, I’ve booked Christmas Eve off and I have Boxing Day off. I’m still expected to produce a column for Saturday, even though I only get back into the office on Thursday… To be honest, I should have booked the whole week off, but there’s only so much family time I can take.

These
past few days have been horrific as I’ve had to work doubly-hard to get this column out – believe me, that champagne stop was justified – and I’ve hardly seen Theo who strangely heads back to Newcastle tonight, despite being there last weekend. I always thought his parents lived in Cheltenham but he said he has family in Newcastle. Who knew? He’s been occupied with some major political coup, so it’s been an un-fun week, especially with Glinda’s more notable absence.

All I want to do is collapse on my
squishy bed, snuggle under my goosedown duvet, but I have to go to Reading. It’s only December 21
^st
. Why do I have to be there so early? Bloody Claire. I know it’s all her fault, Miss Super-duper organised. I’ve never known anyone as anal as her.

At least I’ll get to escape to Glinda’s on Christmas Day. Thank goodness we al
ways spend Christmas Day there though her parents amaze me with their unusual dedication to Christmas. They are staunch traditionalists and Christmas lunch is something of a spectacle. That’s because they go all out, 16
^th
-century style, and serve up a layered variety of birds like they used to at the Royal court. There are no Christmas crackers and no decorations because those are modern inventions. Pfiut.

Apparently, even as a child, Glinda would only receive one present from her parents because of this non-belief in the commerci
alisation of the festive season. At least they relented and bought her something, realising a child couldn’t help but be infected by her peers’ belief in Santa. Their Christmas is idyllic in some ways, brutal in others.

I
t’s a stark contrast to my childhood Christmases, usually spent having barbeques on the beach, with presents sneakily opened on Christmas Eve. I think Claire misses that kind of Christmas, but since the divorce she’s always spent it here. I would see it as an absolute betrayal if she ever chose to head back to South Africa to spend it with Dad and the Boodles.

S
peaking of the Boodles, Tiggy has already sorted out her engagement party for mid-January. I’m amazed she’s going to be able to sort her wedding in her Christmas break – I always assumed she would have a lavish affair that would take years to organise.

It’s
a mystery, but the engagement party will provide me with the opportunity to probe Calvin and see if he reveals why. Actually, I know why. It’s probably rushed so she can get him down the aisle before he comes to his senses and changes his mind. It’s not as if she is pregnant, so I can’t understand the big rush... She may not have inherited her dad’s intelligence, but she has Ursula’s cunningness.

On the train, which is as ghastly as I expected, it leaves me a lot of time to think. There’s something about the rhythmic clink on the rails that bounces thoughts out of my head. Theo’s name seems to be bounced around a lot, so I decide I should phone him as he too will be stuck on his train, en route to Newcastle. Naturally, I can’t get a signal. Back to train boredom.

Usually Glinda and I travel to Berkshire together, but she’s spending her long pr
e-Christmas weekend with Jeeves in New York. She was hardly going to turn him down to take a train with me. It’s like everything is changing and I’m stood still. Why can’t the world stop to give me a moment to think? I just need a moment to work out my niggles...

When I finally arrive at Claire’s, I am not in the best of moods given my iPhone battery died leaving me without music and a communications device. I had to get a taxi from the station as I failed to tell Mum what train I was on and I’m also starving because there was something up with the buffet trolley. I feel glum, which is then increased tenfold when a beaming Claire opens the door to me – I thought she was out with David – and the first thing I’m hit with is the sight of an engagement ring on her finger.

‘Geli!’
she squeals. ‘You’re here!’

State the obvious, why don’t you?

‘Hi sis,’ I weakly answer as I step into the house.

The
warmth does nothing to dispel my icy feelings. I get the feeling my coldness is more of an emotional state than a physical one. Even if I sat on the radiator I’d still feel chilled to my core.

‘Come through, come through.’ She tugs
my arm and leads me through to her living room where Mum and David, I assume, are.

‘Hi
,’ I say wearily.

I want to crawl into bed, but clocking the bottle of champagne and flutes, I know we’re in for some celebrating with the man who will become my brother-in-law. W
hoop-de-doo.

His Facebook picture was accurate in conveying him as a geek. Don’t get me wrong
, he doesn’t have spots and thick glasses with unstylish hair, but he has this aura that suggests to me he knows exactly what CHP3++++ means and how to apply it to whatever it applies to. He’s just... bland. Medium-brown hair, average height, average build. Nice and normal looking.

‘Geli!
’ Mum pulls me in for a hug. She steps back. ‘You’re not looking your best, young lady.’ She gives me a quick once-over. ‘Are you looking after yourself? Eating properly?’

Don’t get me wrong
, I love my mum, but it’s easy to forget her more irritating ways when I don’t see her all the time. Only she expects me to be perfect, an impossible standard I can never reach, unlike St Claire. Guess what? St Claire has won again.

I
blithely try to smile at her remark, then turn to face David, if that’s who he is. I’m sure Claire wouldn’t flaunt her illicit lover in front of her mother and sister. Saying that, this man looks far too dull to ever be someone’s illicit lover.

‘Hi,’ I offer out to his silence
.

‘This is David.
’ Claire grins at me, her arms wrapped around him protectively – I don’t know why. Tiggy is the boyfriend stealer in the sorry mess that constitutes our family. ‘Your future brother-in-law,’ she squeals, thrusting out her left hand in a gesture that is identical to Tiggy’s. It’s uncanny and very disturbing.

‘Oh, congratulations,’ I chi
rp, but luckily, irony sounds hollow to their ears.

‘How do you do?’ David asks me
, extending his hand forward like he’s meeting the Mayor.

‘Very well, thank you.
’ I shake his hand. Someone needs to moisturise. ‘Congrats.’

‘Thank you,’ he answers
stiffly.

Claire
grins like a Cheshire cat. Yikes. I bet she’s never been driven wild with desire from a tryst with David. I bet they don’t even have unexpected trysts – just calculated and practical sex. Poor girl.

‘So, what do you do?’ I ask him, given how everyone is looking at me expectantly like it is my turn to talk.

‘David is a big-wig at Microsoft,’ Claire answers proudly before David can answer. ‘Tell them what you do, sweetie,’ she encourages him like he’s a four-year-old making his debut at nursery who has been asked to share with the other pre-schoolers what his favourite toy is.

David’s face lights up at this nudge from Claire – it’s like he’s just been told
that even though it’s very naughty, he’s allowed seconds of jelly and ice-cream. So off he launches, explaining God knows what, as I nod and make the appropriate faces.

Inside I’m
contemplating how wrong my life seems to be at the moment, highlighted more so by how right everyone else’s appears to be.

‘CHP3+++
,’ I find myself saying. ‘David, do tell me more.’

‘But
you’re seeing Theodore, sweetie.’

‘Yes, but
–’

‘Well,’
Mum interrupts. ‘How can you possibly moan you’re alone, that everyone’s getting married off, and you’re going to end up as, what was it again?’ I can hear the hint of amusement in her voice.

‘A lonely cat woman,’ I supply tersely.

This is not exactly going how I envisioned the mother-daughter ego-boosting chat would pan out. I would gladly forsake tomorrow’s Christmas presents for a boost right now, but sadly it seems I’m going to be lumbered with presents. On the one hand, this will appeal to my more materialistic side, but not to my emotional gratification which is currently more needy than presents I could buy myself.

‘You’re allergic to cats, dear,’ she states bluntly. ‘I don’t think there’s any chance you’re going to be
come a lonely cat woman.’

I roll my eyes
. ‘It’s an expression.’

‘It’s a
stupid
expression,’ she tuts. ‘And it’s a stupid line of thought.’

I know she doesn’t mean it that way
; I also know I’m being irrational and stupid but, still, aren’t we all allowed a little wallowing time?

I blame the past few days. I’d have taken Christmas activities over wedding t
alk any day, but the brides-to-be have dominated. It is impossible to escape Claire given we’re under the same roof,
her
roof, and I stupidly thought it would subside when David headed home to Bristol, but no. It’s just meant Claire has the opportunity to ask us all the questions she couldn’t ask us in his presence. Questions like, what do we
really
think of him? And, which date should they choose? Oh, and will she be able to update his wardrobe a bit better now she’s set to be Mrs Sinclair? Wah, wah, wah is how it all sounded in my head.

T
hen there was the phone call from Tiggy who spouted on about her wedding plans seeing as she has the two of us under the same roof. I’d rather if she
hadn’t
bothered strangely enough, although an interesting gem arose. Interestingly, despite David now being Claire’s fiancé and Claire dropping a not-so-subtle hint about his attendance at the wedding, Tiggy refused to take the hint. Yet, she asked me about Theo’s attendance. This behaviour is very strange. I’m not sure if she’s trying to build bridges, but I can’t say I’m liking her ever-increasing presence in my life. I was very tempted to ask if her little downstairs lady problems have cleared up given I had the hunch we were on speakerphone. In the end, I decided I couldn’t, considering my recent sticky situation.

Even
Glinda had to get in on the wedding talk. She phoned en route from Heathrow sounding very sleepy, but excited, to say that she’s found the perfect dress designer in New York, although thankfully her big day will be in summer 2009.

When you c
ombine all this with Theo’s phone strangely going to voicemail and even Mum sounding a little coy about her “man-friend” Roland who she works with at the local grammar school – she re-trained as a teacher when she returned to the UK – there’s no wonder I have a serious case of the blues.

‘Geli,’ M
um’s voice interrupts my (bitter) thoughts.

I do know more than anyone else
that I’m being irrational because I’m only twenty-four and I’m hardly about to be left on the shelf reduced as a
must-go
item in the bargain aisle and tossed aside when no one buys me, even with 80% off. I have a (possible) boyfriend – a rather eligible one – yet I feel like it’s never going to be my turn.

I look at M
um and I envy her. She seems so in control. She lost the love of her life to one of her best friends and yet she seems so calm and
happy
. How does she manage that? How has she coped?

I know she coped beca
use she had to. There’s no why and how to it – it’s a basic drive to survive – but it’s a drive I seem to be lacking lately. I feel like jacking it all in – my job, Theo, my life in London – and finding a pothole in the Dales, free from all Trouble. Although, if they could hook my pothole up with a double bed (not for a potential bedmate – I like to sleep diagonally), a kettle and an Internet connection, then that would be fantastic.

‘
Geli
.’ Mum’s voice pulls me back from my deluxe pothole thoughts to the setting of Claire’s IKEA kitchen. ‘Are you OK, dear?
Really
OK?’ she adds as I give a quick nod and look away.

‘I’ll be fine,
’ I reassure her, even if I don’t believe my words at this moment.

‘Y
ou sure?’

‘Yep.
’ I smile in what I hope is a convincing manner.

‘It’s
OK to feel glum every once in a while, Geli.’ She pauses. ‘But as long as it
is
only every once in a while and not all the time.’

Great
, now she thinks I am going bipolar again. But it was justifiable that I went a little depressed, what with the stress of their divorce, leaving South Africa to start a new life in cold Britain, not to mention the circumstances surrounding the divorce and the resulting family addition in the form of the poisonous Boodles.

‘Honestly, I’m
OK. It’s just been quite a few weeks, but I’m sure next year is going to be brilliant and everything is going to work out like it should,’ I say, half-believing my lies as well.

Christmas Eve is not the time to start airing the insecurities I’ve always had. Insecurities that make me think my parents see Claire as the better child because she’s so c
lever and does a meaningful job whereas I’m this superficial mess, proven by my “moods” as Dad always dubbed them. Oh, and the fact that Claire is engaged and I’m not.

‘I’m very proud of you, Geli,’ she says
, like she’s read my mind. She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. ‘I’m proud of both of you but you and Claire are different people. I love you both the same regardless of whether you’re married or not, with children or not, or changing the world in a social or a cultural way.’ She looks at me when she says cultural as Claire has just walked in. ‘Whatever you do though, it’s important that it makes you
happy
.’

I
feel even more stupid now Claire is privy to this conversation.

‘What’s this?’ Claire asks. Nosey cow.

‘Geli’s feeling a little down, dear.’

Thanks
.

‘But your life is perfect,’ she splutters at me like I’m being deliberately down to gain sympathy. ‘You’ve got an incredible job
and you look like, well,
you
.’ She stares at me in disbelief. ‘I’d give anything to have your figure and looks. You’re
flawless
.’

‘I’m not,’ I mutter.
I do know that I’m lucky because Claire takes after Mum and her figure is, shall we say, a little
fuller
, but she’s really pretty. She seems to forget this. 

‘Geli, you are. You always have been. Angelica.
Angel
. I’m so jealous.’

Jealous?
Claire is jealous of me
? What for? She’s the one with the intelligence, the one people admire.
Daddy’s girl
. She was the one who always got asked to explain at the dinner table what she’d done at school because all I could contribute was mindless gossip of whatever Tiggy and I had been up to and, let’s face it, I was hardly going to share
those
tales with the parents.

‘You should have seen how David was looking at you,’ she continues. ‘He remarked that even though you looked tired and fed-up, you still looked tragically beautiful. He’s never once called me
beautiful when I’ve looked like…’

‘A
bear with a sore bum,’ Mum supplies.

I can’t help but giggle at her analogy
; it explains why David was staring at me. I thought his contact lenses had gone squiffy. Claire looks like she’s going to start crying though, like she thinks I’m laughing at her.

‘No, no,’ I quickly explain. ‘I was giggly at the phrase. You’re
lovely
, Claire. I’m the one who is jealous of you.

She snorts.

‘You understand all these complex notions that mean nothing to me,’ I continue. ‘
And
you’re so nice. I feel like the wicked witch compared to you.’

‘You’re not as v
apid as you pretend to be, Geli,’ she retorts. ‘I read your column. You have a conscience. And please, who wouldn’t rather be beautiful than intelligent? You’ve no need to be jealous of me.’

‘No, but
–’ I start to say, but Mum interrupts.

‘No buts,’ she tells us. ‘O
therwise I’m going to start complaining how I’m jealous of my two intelligent, beautiful,
young
, talented daughters who have everything going for them and their whole life to achieve whatever they want to achieve, whereas I haven’t.’

‘
Mum
,’ we both implore.

‘You’ve got years left!’ I declare.

‘And where do you think we get our wonderfulness from?’ Claire adds.

‘Certa
inly not your father,’ she says and we all fall about laughing.

I’m starting to feel better.
Who knew Claire was as jealous of me as I am of her? Even though I may not have a fiancé like everyone else, I realise that it doesn’t matter. I belong to this little family unit right here and that’s wonderful. It’s one I’ll always belong to, husband or not. Regardless of the men that cross through our lives, we’ll always have each other. Suddenly, I don’t feel so glum after all.