Page 5 of All About Christmas

You know those hangovers that last longer than a day?

The ones that torture you all throughout Sunday and up until Monday morning when your alarm clock rings signaling the beginning of the week?

The ones that make you feel as if the Seven Dwarfs are trapped in your skull and they spent the last forty hours trying to hack their way out with their pickaxes?

Maybe its just one of the many inconveniences you experience when you reach your thirties. Along with an increasing amount of health exams, back pain, and the inability to return to work refreshed and energetic after only five hours of sleep.

My weekday alarm continues to blare as my hand moves searchingly toward my phone, which lies somewhere to the left of me on my mattress.

It takes a lot of effort for me to lift one eyelid.

With a groan, I swipe the snooze button to the right, only to turn back over once more.

This ritual repeats itself until it’s no longer an option, and I eventually sling myself out of bed, walking blearily to the bathroom.

I look the way I feel: my light pastel pink hair sticks out in all directions and my face is a little puffy from the alcohol. There are dark circles under my bright blue eyes and my lips look dry and cracked.

“I am never drinking again,” I say determinedly to my reflection for the tenth time. My throat still burns from the force with which the champagne came out the wrong way on Saturday night.

I throw a splash of cold water on my face, pat my skin dry, and then spread a thick layer of concealer under my eyes.

With my sharpened eye pencil, I apply perfectly winged eyeliner to both eyes before proceeding to curl my lashes with mascara.

My outfit for today: bright blue pants and a white blouse, with the hem untucked, hanging loose over my trousers.

After a bit of fumbling, I manage to snap on my silver, thin necklaces and push my various rings onto my fingers.

The thin bands sparkle in the light of the morning sun streaming in through the small window.

When I finish, I look at my reflection in the mirror with satisfaction.

This way, I can at least resign in style.

Or I could if I wasn’t running late.

I let out a small squeal as I look at the time.

I rush to the front door and, in passing, pluck an apple from the fruit bowl, stuffing it into my mouth as I grab my keys and hoist my bag over my shoulder.

Just as I close the door behind me, I see that I have put on two different shoes.

Cursing, I turn the key back in the lock, kick off my pink boot and grab the other black pump from the shoe rack before rushing out again.

Dex’s pedicab sits unmanned outside his door. He sprayed it with neon green paint this past weekend. There are two legs sticking out from under the rear section, and a toolbox set out beside it.

“Good morning, neighbour!” comes a muffled voice from beneath the passenger compartment.

“Hi, Dex!” Grinning, I unlock my bike. “Is your business going well?”

“Of course!” Several screws fall out of the bottom of the bike with a jangling sound, followed by a string of swear words. “This doesn’t fit either,” he grumbles, more to himself than to me.

I try not to burst out laughing. There is something endearing about all of this. “Good luck!” I wish before I take another bite of my apple, get on my bike, and race to the station, catching the next train right before it leaves.

With each station, I get closer to Hilversum, and the doubt increases.

The last few days, while I was in my offended, despondent state, I was so sure I had to quit this job.

But is that really the right choice? Maybe I should find something new before I burn all bridges behind me.

Or I could do what the stranger—whose vomit-covered Armani jacket I had hastily dumped in the bushes before running away in a panic—had said.

I could also demand that Norbert give the promotion to me.

I cringe again as I think back on my rash actions. In my drunken state, it didn’t cross my mind to offer to pay for drycleaning, or to just buy him a new jacket, although I’d probably have to list a kidney on Craigslist first.

I shake my head. There’s nothing I can do about it now. I’ll probably never see him again, and if I do, I’ll just offer him compensation.

When I walk into the office and hold my access card against one of the gates, causing them to open, the doubt increases even more.

All of this feels so familiar. On the one hand, I love the show.

I like the wishes we’ve fulfilled and how we bring people together.

On the other hand, I don’t want to be an editorial assistant forever.

I want to be even more substantively involved in the production of those segments.

I push the elevator button, and when I get to our floor, I walk by the kitchen area first to get a cup of coffee.

In my haste to leave home, I didn’t have time to fill my thermos.

A moment later, I put my backpack down on the floor with a thud and sit down at my desk.

Noor, who is talking to Pippin, looks up.

“Holly!” she says excitedly. “Holly, he’s here!”

I look at her in surprise. “Who’s here?”

“Olivier Wolfs,” says Pippin with the enthusiasm of a child who gets to take two Mars bars on St. Martin’s Day after being given only a tangerine at the previous house. “And my goodness...” He fans himself for show. He can’t really be hot: our air conditioning is always on North Pole mode.

Noor chuckles. “What Pippin is trying to say is that he’s handsome.”

“Cuter than in the pictures,” Pippin helpfully adds.

“He’s here?” I repeat. “Already?” I stand up again, tiptoe, and stretch my neck to scan the office space, searching for an unfamiliar face. “Where is he?”

“Oh, Holly.” Norbert’s beatific voice startles me, and I turn hastily.

“Good morning, Norbert.” I smile kindly at him.

As far as I know, smiling at the boss has rarely hurt a career.

Norbert is a man in his fifties who has draped the few white hairs that still grow from his crown as artfully as possible over his balding head.

He wears small round glasses with gold frames and talks as if he has not one potato but a whole sack stuck down his throat.

“Would you perhaps like to walk with me to my office?” he asks, hoisting his pants a little higher. “I’d like to have a word with you.”

“Oh, um... Yes. Yes, of course I will.” My troubled gaze darts to Noor, who seems equally surprised by what is happening. I hastily smooth my hair, grab my coffee from my desk and walk behind Norbert toward his office, which is separated from the rest of the floor by glass walls.

He opens the door imperatively and nods his head, signaling that I can walk in. I take a seat on the chair across from his desk and fold my hands together under the dark wood tabletop so he can’t see me wringing them incessantly.

Unlike José’s office—which is filled with loving photographs—Norbert has a large, expensive-looking painting hanging on the wall.

In the corner are two leather Chesterfield chairs with a side table made of wood on which sits a crystal bottle of amber liquid.

Everything about this room screams “boss.”

“Well,” Norbert begins as he sits down, the chair squeaking under his weight. “José told me that she informed you of her retirement plans. Is that true?”

Stunned, I feel my head bob up and down in agreement. What does this mean? Was Noor wrong, perhaps? Have I been chosen after all? And has Wolfs junior been given another position? One that is more appropriate? Like fetching coffee and making copies?

“She has indicated that she thinks you would be her perfect replacement.”

I nod even more fanatically. Damn Noor. There was no need at all to stick Norbert’s face on my mental target board.

“It may sound a bit arrogant to say, but I’m confident I can do it,” I say eagerly. “Last year, for the Christmas edition of our show, I coordinated a lot. I would love to be even more involved this year.”

Norbert nods understandingly. “Good to hear. And while I certainly think you’re a good candidate, there’s someone else I have in mind as well.”

I sink back into my chair. “Oh,” is all I can utter.

Nevertheless.

“May I ask who?” I ask after a while, purely to make sure.

Norbert smiles. “Olivier Wolfs,” he says. “An extremely capable man. He made shows like Temptation Villa and The Love Farm .”

I scowl. “ Temptation Villa ?” I repeat. “ The Love Farm ?”

“Yes, indeed. That boy is talented.” Norbert looks at me proudly.

With every word Norbert utters, I become more irritated.

“Talent for pulp, yes,” I mutter so softly that he can’t hear it.

Of course, I know that none of that plays into Norbert’s consideration of giving him the job.

And something inside me wants to say this to him, but fortunately I bite my tongue just in time to avoid accusing my boss of favouritism.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

I clear my throat. I know it’s not classy, yet I can’t help but express my doubts. “Then are you sure he’s the right candidate for All About Love ?”

Our show is specifically about cozy and loving reunions, not about tearing couples apart so they can launch careers on OnlyFans.

I can’t think of a worse match than Olivier Wolfs and All About Love .

Well, fine, Donald Trump and the presidency may be at the top, but the combination Norbert suggests deserves a close second place.

Norbert puts the tips of his fingers together and nods a tad disapprovingly because of my inappropriate question. “Yes,” he replies curtly.

Embarrassed, I look at my hands.

“But so are you.”

My head shoots up again very quickly, and I feel a spark of hope flare in my chest.

Norbert smiles. “Since I think you are both strong potential candidates, I’m in a bit of a predicament. That’s why I have a proposal.”

I prick up my ears again and slide forward a little on my chair. “Oh, okay. What kind of proposal?”

A small smile appears on Norbert’s face. He grabs a pen from his table and taps the desktop with it. “I want you both to create a segment for this year’s Christmas edition.”

My mouth drops open. The Christmas edition of All About Love —called All About Christmas— is the most watched show in the Netherlands around the holidays. People will even click away from Harry Potter , which often airs simultaneously with our program.

He crosses his arms, but even in that position he still continues to tap his pen.

“We make it a kind of contest. The one with the best segment gets the promotion.” He tilts his head slightly.

“So, what do you say? Are you up for a challenge?” His gaze flashes somewhere behind me, and he grins playfully. “Do you think you can beat Olivier?”

I conjure a smile on my face because this all turned out a lot better than I expected after Saturday night.

“Yes, of course,” I say confidently. “Given his track record, the best he can come up with is a dating show where he pairs OnlyFans content creators with their admirers,” I joke.

Norbert nearly laughs and looks over my shoulder again. “Do you hear that, Olivier?”

I inhale sharply through my nose. What the hell.

“Yes,” a deep male voice sounds amused, and I stiffen in my chair. That voice sounds familiar. I squeeze my eyes shut stiffly. No. No, this is a bad joke.

Very slowly, I turn around and two chocolate brown eyes find mine. A dimple appears in his cheek as he raises the corner of his mouth, and he slips his hands into the pockets of his expensive tailored suit. My heart pounds fanatically against my ribs.

“A dating show based around OnlyFans, huh?” He leans his shoulder against the doorframe and his eyes twinkle with merriment. “Not a bad idea.”