Page 2 of All About Christmas

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The invitation vibrates in my hand. I have to try my best not to ball the other hand—in which I’m holding my blueberry muffin—into a fist. After all, it would be a great shame if I let Steven and Maud ruin a meal for the second time.

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, although a blueberry muffin probably isn’t in the five essential food groups.

Out of the corner of my eye, I stare at the tempting-looking treat decorated with grains of sugar on top and interspersed with purple berries throughout.

My eyes dart to the invitation one more time and then I take a bite so big that not much of the muffin remains.

With my other hand, I crumple the invite into a wad and toss it into the cardboard box used for scrap paper that lives under the coat rack.

I then pull open the door, let it fall shut with a bang, and unlock my bike.

I don’t really know why this matters to me at all.

It’s not as if Steven was my dream man who Maud stole with her Katherine looks, preventing me from being able to pay six hundred thousand for a townhouse.

For that you would need someone who has studied accountancy, promotes as if their job is a course in vegetable garden maintenance, and can guarantee about ninety-five percent of the mortgage.

With my salary, I can, at most, buy a garage.

Indeed, my promised promotion has failed to materialize for the past two years.

It is still the juicy carrot that my boss Norbert holds in front of me while I do work for the same pitiful salary.

And I react to it every time like a starving rabbit that has been munching on yellow blades of grass for months due to an ongoing drought.

However, I am hopeful that this year will finally be my year.

Norbert has clearly indicated that if an editor position becomes available now, the job will be mine.

And that chance is high, since José, our current editor, really should have retired three years ago, and I heard her complain the other day that her husband keeps nagging her about the world trip she had promised him as soon as she says goodbye to working life.

And when that happens, maybe I can finally move on to a two-bedroom apartment. Until then, I live in a studio in the north of Utrecht for which I remit half my take-home pay each month to my landlord who still hasn’t fixed the leak in my kitchen sink.

The last piece of blueberry muffin disappears down my throat, and as I cycle along, I throw the paper into a trash can at a bus stop. When I arrive at the train station, I park my bike in a bike shed so huge that occasionally an inattentive motorist drives into it—and I hurry into the station.

Carried along by the crowd, I end up on my platform and board the train toward Hilversum. Or “Hollywood,” as we call it in the office.

When the train pulls in, people start walking restlessly alongside the doors, desperate to secure a seat in fear of having to stand for twenty minutes with the unfortunate possibility that the person in front of them may not have had time to shower.

Fortunately, I’m not having one of those days today. I settle down in a window seat and look out, my thoughts going back to my date with Steven two years ago. I could rightly call it the most perfect date I’ve ever been on. It was just very unfortunate that it ended up not being mine.

Maud had enjoyed it, as she told me the following week in the office, after asking about six times if I really didn’t mind how it had gone.

I had responded to that with a humming sound, something she interpreted as: “no, please share all the details, because I am very curious to know what his tonsils taste like.”

And now they’re getting married. Not only that, but they’ve also invited me. I have no idea why. I quite like Maud, and Steven was definitely not the man of my dreams, but an invitation to the reception? I, personally, wouldn’t have done it.

The scenery flashes by and I fish my thermos of coffee out of my bag. You see, the coffee in the office has mysteriously overnight become so strong that it could bring an elephant out of a coma. Barry, our facility manager, hasn’t gotten around to looking into it yet.

Although I also strongly suspect that our boss Norbert has put a stop to that because he secretly enjoys the fact that everyone in the office suddenly has the energy of ten squirrels on Red Bull.

When Hilversum station is called, I twist the cap closed on my thermos and put it in my bag.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the passengers who were condemned to remain standing cautiously push in my direction and cast tense glances at my seat.

Consequently, as soon as I stand up, my seat is immediately occupied by someone who is then on the receiving end of several jealous glances.

“Did you get an invitation, too?” Noor looks at me questioningly from behind her steaming cup of tea. She has her red hair piled up on her head and is nibbling on a cookie. Just one cookie, after which she “really starts the diet” that she has been putting off a day at a time since January 1st.

I have just sat down again at my desk, after having poured a cup of coffee and snatching a cookie from Noor. Her question surprises me. “Invitation? For Maud and Steven’s wedding, you mean?”

“Yes! I think the whole office is invited to the reception. Only Norbert, I believe, is allowed to come to the ceremony.”

I snort. “Just inviting your boss to the ceremony. Chic.”

“I think she hopes to get promoted,” Noor sighs.

“Who doesn’t?” Some crumbs fall onto my blouse as I break off a piece of my Speculoos cookie with my front teeth. “As long as she doesn’t apply for José’s job. That one’s mine.”

It would not be the first time she had run off with something I had set my sights on. The big difference, however, is that this time I would find it very painful.

“Are you going to go?” inquires Noor.

“Well,” I say, shrugging. “If everyone goes, then, yeah, why not?”

“Oh, I hope they have an open bar.” Noor’s bright blue eyes twinkle at the prospect of an evening of drinking without having to raid her bank account.

I’ve known Noor for four years now; we started at the same time in commercial broadcasting. It just creates a bond when you work longer days than the average lawyer from an American TV series and you spend your evenings together between pizzas and paperwork.

But I love my job. I love working for a show that brings loved ones together every year.

Even though I, myself, am more single than Bing Crosby’s album-less song “White Christmas,” I still believe in love.

In fact, nine times out of ten, I find myself sobbing backstage when the shy florist declares her love for the customer who can never have enough vases for the bouquets he buys from her almost daily.

There’s always something so sweet and pure about it.

All About Love is one of the few programs on commercial television that can still give you that warm, cozy feeling.

Between all the doom-and-gloom news items, shows that aim to drive couples apart, and old mustachioed guys who air their conservative opinions on talk shows, All About Love is a ray of hope.

Or rather, the rainbow-coloured string of lights that people hang on the front of their homes and on their trees to make the dark, chilly winter days cozy.

Yes, it is the virtual hug of the TV world.

I look up from my computer when José strolls by. Her white hair is in a neat bun on her head, and thick, gold-rimmed pearls hang in her ears. With her piercing gaze, she keeps a close eye on the activities of her pupils.

The woman is now a relic of the program.

She is past seventy, but still runs the business with the energy of a twenty-something-year-old with pure caffeine coursing through her veins.

Her joints may not be as supple as they once were, but she is still spry and bright.

Razor-sharp and direct, to the indignation of some colleagues who dismiss her directness as rude.

I like her.

She pauses at our table. Noor, who sides with “team rude” on this matter, looks at her screen so intently that she almost stares a hole through it.

“Good morning, Holly,” José says with a friendly smile. “I was wondering if you have a moment. I want to discuss something with you.”

I look up in surprise. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

When I remain seated, she nods in the direction of her office. “Well, hup two. I don’t have all day.”

Noor hisses disapprovingly.

I roll my chair back, grab my mug, and follow José to her sanctuary.

She casts a quick glance at my coffee. “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff, kid.

It gives me an ulcer.” She holds the door open for me and I saunter inside.

“Besides, it’s not good for my blood pressure.

I really don’t understand why Norbert doesn’t get that thing fixed, or at least order a new one. Sit down.”

She herself takes a seat on the large ergonomic office chair on the other side of her desk. It really is a monstrous thing, similar to those giant ones found in the rooms of gaming teenagers.

Behind José hang photos of radiant couples, families, and other people we brought together with the show.

My gaze lingers on Daniel and his Louise from Florida, whom we reunited at the Christmas market in Valkenburg last year.

Louise had a skyrocketing hospital bill due to a car accident that insurance did not cover.

She could no longer pay for a ticket to the Netherlands, and so Daniel had written to All About Love in the hopes that we could make their Christmas wish come true.

Throughout the process of fulfilling the wish, I sniffed through the requisite packets of tissues, and it wasn’t just because we were up to our necks in snow or because my eyes stung from the fumes of the campfires over which marshmallows were roasted until they invariably passed through the four stages of cremation.

Finished reminiscing, I lower myself onto the seat of the chair and look at José questioningly.

She wipes invisible dust off a tabletop that is so clean it could be used for open-heart surgery.

“All right,” she begins. She takes off her glasses and, with a gentle tap, places them on her spotless desk.

She rubs her eyes wearily. “I am aware that, for the past few years, there has been much speculation about my departure.”

When I look at her as innocently as possible, she throws me a “don’t kid me” look.

And so I slowly begin to nod. “Well, maybe something has been said about that...”

José purses her lips. “That’s what I thought. I get it, you know. I’ve been working for three years longer than expected. At some point, it becomes necessary for old hands to make way for the younger guard. And a breath of fresh air is good for the company.”

I wisely keep my lips sealed. I don’t think I can say anything at the moment that would work in my favour.

José leans back a little and stares at me intently. “So, I’ve decided that after this year, enough is enough.”

My lower jaw drops a little. “Really?” I ask, my voice a mixture of disappointment and enthusiasm.

Disappointment because I really do appreciate José.

I’ll miss her sharp comments. Throughout the duration of our time together, I learned a lot from her.

And enthusiasm because it means my dream job is a little more within reach.

José nods. “Yes.” She wearily blows out some air.

“Paul wants to take a tour of Japan. Eating sushi and stuff.” She waves her hand impatiently.

“Like you can’t do that in Holland. There’s this cute little place on the Oudegracht canal.

..” She interrupts herself and looks at me guiltily.

As if she realizes that it’s not very appropriate to talk about your husband in that way to a colleague.

“Oh, well, you have to be willing to sacrifice some things for your marriage, right?” She smiles forcibly.

“Besides, I think it would be nice to see a little more of the world. But that means my position is vacant starting next year.”

I nod interestedly, although I’m not really sure where she’s going either. To my knowledge, Norbert still hands out promotions.

“Well, good,” she says and puts her glasses back on her nose. “Norbert is allowing me to nominate someone,” she announces, snapping me out of my confusion and causing my heart to skip a beat.

“Hm-hm.” Is this going where I think it’s going?

“I think you consistently produce excellent work, Holly. You have a real passion for the job.” She smiles.

“So, I’m going to tell Norbert that I think you should get my position.

He’ll make the final decision, of course, but I think with my approval, you can be almost certain that the job will go to you. ” Her eyes sparkle with pride.

I slap my hand over my mouth, and I have to restrain myself from jumping out of my chair and doing a happy dance. At last, my hard work is finally going to be rewarded.