Four Christmases and a Secret. Zara Stoneley

other giant breed, that could be modified for human use). Said antlers are more suited to a Labrador. I might have to buy some for Stanley instead.

       4 p.m., 24 December

      Stanley has just wolfed down half of the sausage rolls that I had home-baked (well, shop-bought from the late shop next to the beauty salon. They were a bit scuffed up which makes them look more authentically homemade, but also meant they were reduced to a bargain price). We are all expected to contribute, and in the past I have stuck to multiple bottles of bubbly and cut price stuffed dates, but this year I am rather skint. This is mainly because (1) I lent Simon the snake the money to buy his father a rather expensive bottle of malt whisky, and his mother a ridiculously expensive bottle of perfume, and (2) I bought him a gaming station. It was in the sale, but still cost way more than I’d ever spend on a toy, but I don’t think they will take it back. I see a New Year filled with trying to work out what Call of Duty is actually about, and then settling for a romp with Sonic. As I no longer have a boyfriend, snogging Sonic could be as good as it gets on New Year’s Eve.

      Frankie says I’m too generous, I’ve always retorted that the giving not receiving is the best bit about Christmas. I’m beginning to think I might need to rethink that one.

      So, anyway, I bought two bottles of Prosecco on offer, one as a reward for surviving Christmas, and one to take. Plus some savouries. Half of which have been scoffed.

      I now don’t have time to nip down to Tesco Extra to replenish supplies, and wash and iron my hair, and get dressed, so I am going to have to cut the remaining sausage rolls into halves and pretend they are sophisticated snacks.

      I’m also going to have to check for teeth marks.

      Maybe a dog date isn’t a much better bet than a man?

       6 p.m., 24 December

      Yay! I have found my jumper and antlers! I’ve just dug out the spare Christmas gift bag that I kept in case of emergencies, and voilà! There they were. Along with some leftover stuffed dates (last year’s disaster) and some shrivelled up mistletoe.

      I’ve also come up with perfect reason to keep away from fresh mistletoe! I just googled, more out of desperation than real hope, and it is poisonous to dogs, and I have Stanley. We don’t want vomiting, drooling and diarrhoea in the vicinity of Uncle Terence’s first editions, do we? I never thought I would say this, in response to those three words, but … result!

      ‘What the hell is that, Daisy?’ Frankie is lurking in my doorway, a drink in her hands, pointing at my list which is pinned to the wardrobe. Along with a photo of Simon with a heart shaped hole cut out of his stomach, and a big cross over the ‘sausage rolls’. She is looking very Ab Fab and is struggling to sound indignant, she’s laughing too much. She starts to pull my list off the wardrobe, then pauses and spins back round to stare at me. ‘Fuck me, you really do take this family party thing seriously! Great jumper, not so sure about the twigs growing out of your head though.’

      ‘Antlers!’

      ‘I need to come and see this!’

      ‘No, you don’t. And you haven’t got a Christmas jumper.’

      ‘And does this,’ she peels Simon off the door, prods her finger through the hole in his chest, then rotates him slowly, ‘mean you haven’t got a date?’

      ‘Well, yeah.’

      ‘Well, nor have I.’ She grins, wickedly. ‘I can be your date!’

      ‘I’m taking Stanley.’ Stanley dives under the bed.

      ‘Who the fuck is Stanley? Have you been two-timing Simon?’ She gives a low whistle. ‘Dark horse!’

      I sigh. ‘Stanley is the dog I’ve agreed to foster over the holidays.’

      ‘Oh.’ She looks disappointed, then frowns. ‘How did I not know about this?’

      ‘I smuggled him in, I knew you’d like him once you got to know him.’ It’s her flat, and I really should have asked her, but I couldn’t risk her saying no. Stanley can’t spend Christmas in a kennel.

      ‘Whatever.’ Frankie suddenly smiles. ‘Well, you can take me too then! Pleeeeeeease!’

      ‘Where’s Tarquin?’ I look at her with suspicion. She had a night of lust planned, like you do on Christmas eve if you’re a normal person and have a boyfriend, which is why she’s glammed up.

      ‘I told him to fuck off.’ She downs her drink. ‘He started a sentence with ‘if you really cared about me’, and it all went downhill from there. He needs to get a life.’

      She sounds a bit sulky.

      ‘He is trying to, Frankie, with you.’

      ‘I’m not ready, I’d be bored within a week and so would he. Can I come?’

      I look at Stanley, who is peeking out from under the bed. He stares back, resignedly.

      ‘It’s full of old people, and books.’

      ‘You should get a career in sales, oh hang on, you have! Please, it’ll be fun. I can do old people.’

      I’m sure she can. ‘You’ll have to promise to behave and not put a straw in the vat of mulled wine.’

      ‘Promise. I won’t.’

      She probably will.

      ‘And not propose to Uncle T?’

      ‘Is he rich?’

      ‘Very, but he’s probably married at the moment. I can’t remember. You mustn’t try and steal him!’

      ‘Okay.’ She puts on her sweet and innocent smile. But I know she’s not either.

      ‘Come on then,’ I sigh, I haven’t got time to argue, ‘I’m taking my car and getting a taxi back.’

      ‘Cool. Can I wear your antlers?’

       Chapter 3

       7.30 p.m., 24 December

      So, I have arrived at the party minus a boyfriend, and plus a dog and a flatmate. And now Ollie frigging Mr Perfect Cartwright is here.

      Brilliant.

      ‘Oh my, how lovely to see you, Daisy, sweetheart!’ Uncle Terence manages to catch the plate (minus most of the sausage rolls), put his foot on Stanley’s lead, flick most of the pastry off my jumper with his silk handkerchief and kiss me on both cheeks without breaking into a sweat. ‘Splendid jumper, by the way!’

      Stanley is so shocked he stops licking my toes, sits down and stares.

      Uncle Terence is a bit of an enigma. He’s rather debonair, the only man in the village who can pull off a bowtie and is a kind of cross between a cuddly uncle and a London man about town. Yes, I know, it’s hard to imagine until you meet him. I’ve also absolutely no idea how old he is, except he’s older than me and not as old as my mother. I also know he used to run a literary agency which he thought he’d hand over to Ollie (he actually is his uncle) until Ollie’s dad persuaded his son that the medical profession was a much worthier cause.

      ‘Thank you! Looking forward to the party!’ I flash my new-lipstick smile, and he looks impressed – it looks like the magazine was right, it was well worth spending all that money on. I reckon it cost more than the entire contents of my make-up drawer.

      ‘Oh, my goodness, they look a bit pasty, don’t they?’ My mother picks up a sausage roll and eyes it suspiciously, before dropping it behind a pile of