No One Cancels Christmas: The most laugh out loud romantic comedy this Christmas!. Zara Stoneley

know, I know you do. What’s he called?’ She does some more googling. ‘There you go, Simon Baker. All twinkly-eyed and cute, but a bit naughty.’ We both stare at the images.

      ‘Pfft.’

      ‘He’s cute.’ I think she’s back to our Mr Armstrong now, but who knows? ‘Look at those dimples. I bet he’s fun.’ I don’t know which set of dimples she’s going on about, but it doesn’t matter.

      ‘I am not interested in his dimples, or his cuteness. He is duplicitous.’

      ‘That’s a very long word.’ I can tell by Sam’s twitching fingers that the online dictionary is about to get interrogated, so I pull her and her wheelie chair away from the desk. Very handy these chairs, a good investment.

      ‘Well, he is.’ I can’t believe that somebody could portray themselves as so – well, fun and carefree, when in fact they’re rude and curt. ‘His face contravenes the Trade Descriptions Act.’

      ‘His face?’

      ‘His face. He is definitely not nice, however cute he looks in that picture. In fact, I bet that’s not even him, or it was taken years ago, and he’s gone all mean and bitter in his old age.’

      ‘Maybe he’s having a mid-life crisis and realises that his life is meaningless.’ Sam sighs, rests her chin on one hand again and reaches for another biscuit with the other. I roll my eyes. Not at the biscuit, but her fantasy.

      ‘Running a business is not meaningless.’

      ‘It is if you always wanted to swim with dolphins, or ride a camel, or drive to Monte Carlo in a Ferrari.’

      ‘Sam, that’s your bucket list, not his. Do you honestly think he looks like he wants to swim with dolphins?’

      ‘Maybe not, but you don’t know, do you?’

      ‘And I don’t care, to be honest. Look, he is taking our clients’ money, giving them a shit Christmas in return, and refuses to talk to me about it properly.’ I don’t know what annoys me most, the fact that he’s totally, single-handedly, ruined what used to be our most popular festive location, or the fact that he is refusing to take my calls, to discuss it. ‘Whatever happened to the customer is always right? He’s just plain rude.’

      We’re on the build-up to the festive season, and it’s not just the nasty email that came yesterday: bookings at the Shooting Star Mountain Resort are spinning into reverse. Which is so not how it should be. I mean, it should be the perfect place to spend Christmas. Crackling log fires, massive mug of hot chocolate, sled rides with a pack of huskies and some ho ho ho from Santa as you shove carrots at his real-life reindeer. Not to mention all that après-ski to warm you up after a day rolling about in the snow (I can’t ski, all I can do is roll and face-plant).

      ‘It should be fan-bloody-tastic. The brochure and website make it look like total magic.’

      ‘Maybe they’re a bit out of date?’ Sam is looking worried. And I was beginning to think the same. ‘But you don’t need to send him an email like that.’

      ‘I flaming do! It’s not just that Latterby guy threatening to sue, it’s worse. You know the Wilsons who came in the other day?’

      ‘Oh yeah, they were lovely. They were so excited about going even though it’s nowhere near Christmas yet, and they were SO loved up.’ Sam has got that dreamy look on her face. She’s pretty loved up herself, with the lovely Jake, and I think she’s subconsciously started to plan the wedding of the decade. ‘Getting married in a winter wonderland, can you imagine?’

      I can imagine. ‘Wedding in a Winter Wonderland’ was already on a mental poster I was going to stick in the window after they’d sent me some of the photos. They’d be swathed in rugs, surrounded by presents on the prettiest reindeer-pulled-sledge imaginable. Kissing. All the best bits of Christmas and weddings rolled into one.

      They’d be curled up together in front of a roaring log fire, sipping a shared hot chocolate as the snow fell softly outside, and the whole scene would be bathed in candlelight that bounced off the bauble and tinsel-laden Christmas tree.

      And they’d be surrounded by friends and family, swapping presents, then gathered round a food-laden table as they tucked into a mammoth Christmas dinner that had absolutely everything. Even the bits you don’t like.

      ‘Well.’ I blink, and the image disappears. ‘They’re not.’

      ‘What do you mean, not? They were so perfect together, he was—’

      ‘Oh, the wedding is still on, just not at Shooting Star. They cancelled first thing and have already rebooked at another resort online.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘This.’ I switch screens on the computer and open the video link they sent me. ‘Matt Wilson was looking at reviews and found this online on The Worst Christmas Ever blog. It’s from last Christmas.’

      It’s quite a professional video, actually, with captions and music, specifically ‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’, which says it all.

      I have already watched it several times; it’s like one of those horror films that you know is going to scare you to death, but you can’t help yourself. You have to see it, even though you keep half turning away and squinting. Then you have to watch the worst bits on a loop.

      Sam and I watch in silence. The family are wearing party hats, which is a handy clue, or you really wouldn’t know it was Christmas at all. They are also wearing coats. And scarves. With tinsel over the top.

      One solitary marshmallow floats on the top of what might or might not be a mug of hot chocolate, and a vat of mulled wine is poked about in vigorously until a single clove studded orange bobs to the surface.

      A child drops a sprout, which bounces across the table like a frog on steroids, and is pounced on by a cat.

      The fire looks like it stopped ‘crackling’ two days earlier, and the turkey looks like it’s been on a diet.

      And the tree. I don’t want to talk about the tree. Christmas trees should be glorious. They should be the biggest tree you can carry home, and they should have every single decoration on that you can find (I need to stress that you can never have too many). This one is like the orphan of Christmas. It is the tree Christmas forgot.

      It has been starved of attention, it is practically naked apart from a strand of scraggy tinsel and a job lot of candy canes.

      ‘Wow, have you seen all those candy canes.’ Sam points, unnecessarily. ‘Have you ever seen so many?’

      ‘Nope. And I never, ever want to see that many again.’

      The video pans to the window where the snow is falling, and there’s an unmissable sign taped to the glass Boxing Day Party Cancelled.

      I close the video down and we both stare at my email. ‘This is so bad. The only people who are actually going to book are the ones that don’t know how to use Google. I don’t want to give up on the Shooting Star Mountain Resort, and strike it off our list, but honestly Sam, what the hell are we supposed to do? We can’t let them book a holiday that we know is going to be shit.’ How could the man be so good-looking, but so totally bah-humbug? What a waste.

      ‘I know, but, maybe it’s got better since last Christmas?’ I love Sam for her optimism. ‘He might have bought some new decorations?’

      I position the cursor over the ‘send’ button and hold my finger up high over the mouse theatrically. Just to see the look of horror on Sam’s face.

      ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

      ‘Sam, the man hates Christmas, he is Scrooge with knobs on!’

      Sam is not like me; she is a bit dippy, but she is also kind, logical and sensible. I am not often accused of any of those things. And I am mad, as in very cross. Mr