Page 6 of All About Christmas

“Did you know about this?” I hiss at Olivier’s back as we leave Norbert’s office. “Last Saturday night, I mean. Is that why you came to sit with me?”

Olivier snorts and continues to look straight ahead, though his shoulders seem to tighten a bit. “Whether I knew you were my competition before you dismissed my entire career in the TV world as pure luck? No.”

His legs are so long that it’s difficult for me to keep up with him.

Fast walking is tough on shoes that are supposed to exude “confident businesswoman.” In practice, they feel more like a promise of more plasters on my heels than the average construction worker uses to build a new housing development.

“Oh, no?” I repeat, wheezing.

“No. But obviously, after that, of course I did.”

He stops abruptly and I crash into him, the fabric of his shirt rubbing against my cheek.

“By the way, I wanted to ask you something...” he continues as he slowly turns around and crosses his arms. “Where did my blazer go?” He pins me down with those beautiful eyes of his, and a nervous feeling settles in my stomach.

My cheeks begin to tingle, and now I’m sure they perfectly match the colour of my hair.

Using my thumb, I nervously twist the ring on my middle finger.

“Um, what blazer?” I look at him as innocently as I can and try to blink my eyelashes seductively. Something I do about as well as I do CrossFit.

A tapered eyebrow creeps up. “The blazer I gave to you because you were cold. When I returned to that bench last Saturday, both you and my blazer were gone.”

When I don’t respond immediately, he adds, “It was one of my favourite jackets.”

“Hm, strange,” I reply and tap my index finger on my chin while pretending to think.

This is actually the moment when I should admit my guilt.

I should tell him that if he hasn’t found his blazer yet, it’s probably still in the bushes behind the bench, looking like a mop after a carnival.

I had tried to repair the damage as best I could by using the napkin Olivier had left behind to wipe the stain out of his jacket, but it didn’t quite work.

My stomach squeezes at the idea that the expensive jacket is still at Maud and Steven’s wedding venue. And since my stomach had enough to contend with last weekend, I choose to pretend I have no clue. “I had left it for you on the bench.” I’m proud of how firm my voice sounds.

Olivier’s eyebrow creeps up a little further. “Oh, really?” he says scornfully.

“Sure,” I bluff. When he continues to look at me like I’m suggesting that we serve unicorn steak at Christmas dinner, I decide to take it a step further. “You stayed away so long and I was nauseous. Finally, I decided to go home.”

I look at him expectantly. That he stayed away for a long time is anyone’s guess. I have no way of knowing that since my stomach gave me a fat middle finger within a minute of his departure, making me the object of a highly embarrassing situation, after which I ran off in a blind panic.

Olivier narrows his eyes to slits. “Ah, yes,” he says. “That’s right.”

“Really?” I blurt out before I can stop myself; in a way, I’m quite proud of myself for guessing right.

“Ha!” He looks at me triumphantly. “No. Not really. I was back in a few minutes with the drinks only to find my soiled blazer in the bushes as a thank you.”

I slap my hand in front of my mouth. “I panicked! I really didn’t mean to.” I let out a deep sigh.

Olivier whistles in disbelief. He fidgets in his pocket, conjures up a black wallet, and pulls out a crumpled receipt, which he hands to me.

I unfold it and look at him questioningly.

“From the dry cleaners,” he clarifies. “My account number is on the back.” He slips his leather wallet back into his pocket, and I stare at the piece of paper, perplexed.

“I, um... I’ll transfer it today,” I mutter.

“Great.” He looks around. “Do you know where someone named Holly is? According to Norbert, my desk is near hers.”

When I fasten my bike to the lamppost in front of my fathers’ house for monthly game night, I’m again in a bad mood.

After Olivier installed himself at the desk across from mine, he started making all sorts of phone calls to what sounded like Very Important People.

Thus, I felt like I was behind ten to nothing behind before we had even started.

I had been going through our inbox like a madman, looking for a good, original story. Something that would be so heartwarming that gas consumption would take a huge nosedive this Christmas. While there were beautiful letters among them, none of them gave me the “wow” effect I was looking for.

Having worked at All About Love for some time now, I also know that it can take a while to get a good story. But that doesn’t make everything any less frustrating.

I heave a deep sigh, fish my keys from the pocket of my denim jacket, and open the front door of my childhood home.

My father Mitchel’s roaring laughter thunders toward me, and the smell of nachos with melted cheese fills my nostrils. The prospect of his delicious guacamole boosts my mood.

“I heard the door. I think Holly’s here,” I hear Hubert, my other father, say; then the door leading to the kitchen opens and he appears.

He wears a baby blue shirt that matches his eyes. There are streaks of grey in his dark hair, and even his bushy beard—much to his disappointment—cannot disguise the fact that he now has sixty years on his clock.

There is sour cream sticking to his fingers, which he quickly licks off when he sees me standing there.

“Yeah, she’s here!” he calls quickly over his shoulder before stepping toward me and pulling me into a quick embrace in which he holds his hands in the air and still manages to press me firmly against him.

He takes a step back and looks at me, beaming.

“Come,” he says and nods toward the living room.

“Peter has been here for a while, so you’ll have to be quick if you want any nachos.

That boy is a walking vacuum cleaner. But one that never gets full.

” He unconsciously puts his hand on his bulging belly, the result of his Burgundian lifestyle.

I know he’s not exaggerating. My twin brother can eat like a walrus with ten stomachs and nevertheless manages to keep the figure of a toned bamboo skewer.

He always blames his good genes. Genes that, to my great disappointment, I do not share, even though we were in our surrogate mother’s womb at the same time.

Every bar of chocolate I shove down my throat seems to land almost immediately on my hips, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying them every now and then anyway.

I hang up my coat on the wooden coat rack in the hallway, take off my black sneakers, and follow my father Hubert—whom I call Dad—inside.

My other father Mitchel—or Papa—is sitting at the table, having an animated conversation with Peter who, in between grinding tortilla chips, still finds room to retort to him in a heated discussion about something technical.

I used to try to follow the conversations and participate in the discussions, but I have since given up.

I have accepted that I will never understand how a quantum algorithm works.

Or how to increase the number of qubits.

Papa looks up mid-sentence and a broad smile appears on his face. He slides his chair back and pulls me into an embrace, and Peter follows. My chin just about reaches his bony shoulder, and his blond hair, which has grown a little too long, tickles against my cheek.

“Hey, Hol,” he says, grinning. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, sorry.” I drop my hands next to my sides again. “Work ran late.”

“You look tired, dear,” Papa joins the conversation, a concerned frown appearing between his eyebrows. “Is something wrong?”

Peter walks back to his chair, plucks a nacho from the bowl and spoons a generous blob of guacamole on top.

My lower lip quivers a little. The corners of Papa’s mouth drops slightly as he takes in my expression.

“Oh, dear, what happened?”

I’m a crier, always have been. I still cry when Mufasa gets trampled over by a herd of wildebeest or when Rose says “I’ll never let go, Jack” after which he sinks to the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

The death of Bambi’s mother has ensured that deer steak with cranberry sauce is never again on the Christmas menu in the Winters home.

And now I feel the tears burning behind my eyes.

I’m tired, and when I’m tired, I express all negative emotions like a Dutch autumn: full of rain and thunder.

Although I still have a chance to win the editor job, it remains a disappointment that I have to compete against Olivier first. And even though Norbert presented it as an equal battle, it doesn’t really feel that way.

Dad looks from me to Papa and back again. His eyes linger on me for a few moments, and then a grin appears on his face. A grin that makes me quickly blink away the budding tears and lift my hands defensively.

“Oh, no. No, I’m fine!” I rush to say, but Dad ignores me.

“Hey, Mitchel,” he says. “Would you also like a sandwich?”

I take a step back because I know what’s coming. I groan fondly. Peter leans back a bit to watch the coming scene with a wide grin.

“Well, now that you mention it...” Papa spreads his arms and takes a step in my direction.

Oh, good grief.

“Papa... Dad... I’m thirty,” I say pleadingly as I’m besieged from two sides by people who love me way too much.

“I do feel like a Holly Jolly Jelly-sandwich!” he exclaims.

Before I can escape or offer any other form of protest, I’m hemmed in from both sides by my fathers who both give me a firm hug. After a few seconds, I feel my cheeks tighten against my will as a wide grin appears on my face. This damn well still works.

“You know what would make this sandwich even better?” Papa says, laughing, his chest shaking against my back. I turn my head so I can see my brother, whose grin has now softened somewhat. I know what’s coming. And Peter knows it, too.

“Oh, no!” he exclaims, pointing at me. “Look! She’s already smiling!”

“A layer of PeterButter!” Dad answers. They both remove one arm from around me and wave to Peter, who looks like he’s bitten into something sour.

“Oh, come on, Peter,” I say peevishly and turn my head toward him. The buttons of Papa’s shirt press into my cheek. “Now don’t be a killjoy. You know they’ll keep this up until you join them.”

“The Holly Jolly Jelly-sandwich is not complete without PeterButter.” Dad beckons my brother, and I enjoy looking at his pouty face as he slides his chair back with a scraping sound, crams some more nachos into his mouth, and finally sulks and joins me and Dad and Papa, who give us a hearty hug.

“And to think that tomorrow I have to give another presentation to the science committee on quantum mechanics,” Peter murmurs, smothered. “They really must never find out about this at my work.”

“Hm. Then I suggest you let me win charades,” I mutter, similarly stifled.

Dad’s belly is now shaking even harder against my back.

Peter makes a derisive sound. “Ha. That’ll never happen, Holly.”