Page 4 of Home This Christmas

THREE

I think I might actually be dying. It is two days before the Children in Need show, and I am lying in bed with my body refusing to move.

Even the hairs on my head ache, as I run my fingers through it. When I attempt to swallow down some water from a bottle on my bedside table, it’s like sipping broken glass.

I manage to slowly drag myself to the kitchen for some more water and paracetamol, before I reach into a drawer for a thermometer. My temperature is through the roof. I am soon tucked back up in bed, my head pounding. This cannot be happening to me – I am almost never ill.

I somehow manage to phone my boss at the station; every word I speak is an effort.

‘But you can’t be ill; it’s the final run-through for the show later,’ she says in an almost clipped tone.

‘I am ill. Really ill,’ I croak. ‘I don’t think I will even be able to make the actual show the day after tomorrow.’

There is silence at the end of the phone.

‘Hmm. Well, I guess I could ask your agent if Amanda Lewis is free,’ my boss says eventually. ‘She has been desperate to break into TV for a while now – all she has had so far are adverts, following her Storytime for Kids show. This could be her big break.’

‘Great,’ I mutter, cursing this bad luck. I am NEVER ill. So much for that echinacea and vitamin D I have been consuming these past few months. I have a good mind to ask for a refund.

Amanda is actually really lovely, if a little over enthusiastic, which probably comes from presenting kids’ TV for years. I kind of hope she isn’t too good, though. I am aware of how replaceable presenters are.

‘Fine. Well, I only hope she is available at such short notice. Let me know when you will be resuming work,’ she says, and then she is gone.

‘Yes, I will get well soon, thanks for caring,’ I mutter as I end the call.

I text Coleen, feeling very sorry for myself, and she replies with a GIF of a teddy surrounded by hearts, and a promise to call in after work with some provisions.

I can’t believe I am ill! I think of how quickly we can be replaced in this business… but I push that thought away. I am being paranoid. I have been a presenter for years after all. A few salt gargles and a good night’s sleep should hopefully see me right. At least I hope so.

I would scream loudly if my throat allowed it. This really cannot be happening.

‘Oohh, you look rough.’ Coleen sprays her hands with antibac spay as she enters the apartment and keeps a respectable distance.

‘Cheers. I’m surprised you aren’t wearing a mask,’ I say as I sip some iced water.

‘I did consider it,’ she says seriously. ‘I am having my nieces to sleep over for a couple of nights over Christmas and I cannot afford to be ill. We have lots planned, including a trip to Winter Wonderland. Plus, I have a bridal fitting and two evening dresses to complete by the end of the week.’

Coleen is a dressmaker who makes such beautiful gowns and is always in demand, especially at specific times of the year.

Prom dresses for school leavers are a big thing, as are ball gowns for black-tie events.

More recently she’s been getting requests for wedding dresses, which she has to carefully consider.

She’s reluctant to do bridal wear full time knowing she might one day encounter a Bridezilla.

She whips a paper mask from her bag and fastens it over her face. ‘You can’t be too careful. Winter viruses are so easily transmitted to other people,’ she mumbles.

‘Probably too late,’ I tell her. ‘You have already breathed in as you entered the germ zone.’

She heads to the kitchen area and begins to unpack a shopping bag onto the kitchen counter. ‘Chicken soup will help with your cold. It’s from the deli,’ she informs me.

‘It’s not a cold, it’s flu!’ I protest.

‘I also have some nice soft bread rolls,’ she says, ignoring me. ‘I thought sourdough would be a bit scratchy on your throat. Oh, and I bought some fresh ginger and honey. You have lemons, don’t you?’ she asks, before locating a mug. I point to the lemons in a wire fruit bowl on a shelf.

She sprays her hands with antibac once more before she flicks a kettle on, and soon enough I am presented with a delicious warming drink.

‘You really are a pal,’ I manage to croak, but my voice has all but disappeared now and I feel a little lightheaded.

I’m not sure what I would do without Coleen – she has come to my rescue so many times. In front of the camera, I appear to be the most self-assured, confident presenter out there, yet off screen I often have a crisis of confidence.

I mean sure, I am good at writing foodie reviews but there are probably dozens of presenters who would kill for my job, having worked their way up in the industry and taken on several questionable roles in the process.

Just like Amanda Lewis. My presenting job on Britain’s Best Cook kind of fell into my lap after a slightly drunken chat when I was sitting next to the producer one evening at a wedding.

‘Don’t you think most people are handed an opportunity in life?

’ Coleen had reasoned when I had been doubting myself.

‘Being given a chance is one thing; proving you can come up with the goods is another,’ she told me firmly.

‘My mum once got someone a job at her hair salon as a favour, but they didn’t last five minutes. ’

‘Because they just couldn’t cut it?’ I had joked, and we roared with laughter. But that’s the thing with Coleen, she always makes not just me, but everyone around her feel better. I often think that she would make a good counsellor.

‘Anyway, you should make the most of being holed up here; it’s crazy out there and it is only the first day of December,’ she tells me now. ‘I even came across some Christmas carollers.’

She shakes her head, and her silky blonde bob falls back into place as it always does.

My curly hair has a mind of its own and takes time and lots of taming products before it looks the way it does.

This morning it resembles a burst cushion and will have to stay that way – at least for the time being.

‘Some people like to spread the cost of Christmas, though.’ I remind Coleen of those who can’t afford to go out all at once and grab a big haul of gifts.

There was a time when I would have been one of those people, picking up presents throughout the year, and taking advantage of sales.

‘I suppose so.’ She warms the soup in a microwave before pouring it into a bowl, along with a fresh bread roll.

‘Oh, this smells delightful. Thank you, Coleen, I really do appreciate it,’ I rasp.

‘You’re welcome. I am sure it will do you some good.’ She glances at her watch. ‘Right, I must dash. I’ll call you later. Back to bed after your soup – I am sure there are a ton of Christmas films you can get your teeth into, now that it’s December.’ She winks.

‘Sounds perfect,’ I croak.

She air-kisses me from a safe distance, and I slowly manage to finish every drop of the delicious soup, before crawling back to my bed.

I still can’t believe I’ll miss the live TV show – but I can barely speak.

Amanda as my replacement, though? I mean, I would never wish bad things on anyone, yet a part of me is hoping that she doesn’t make too good a job of it.

If she does, then who knows what might happen?

Maybe I will be replaced by the ten-years-younger-than-me glamorous blonde. Great.

I flick the TV on, and find a suitably cheesy, happy-ever-after movie. If only real life were like that, I sigh to myself. The guy in the movie is impossibly handsome, not to mention a real gentleman, holding doors open and complimenting the main character at every opportunity.

I suppose psychologists would call it love bombing, given that they have only just met at a Christmas market and he has already bought her a coffee, told her she is beautiful and invited her to accompany him on an overnight stay to New York.

I find myself hoping that alarm bells are ringing in her head.

That is before I remind myself it’s a movie, where everything is magical and improbable.

I bet she doesn’t come down with a stinking virus on their next date.

I watch the credits roll before snuggling down beneath my expensive feather duvet and allow myself to sleep once more. Sleep is the best medicine, I tell myself, hoping I’ll feel better soon.

Drifting off, I think how differently we all deal with heartbreak.

I couldn’t eat a thing and lost almost a stone in weight when my dad died over four years ago.

My appetite has been a little off after Ade and I split too.

Thankfully that form of grieving hasn’t gone on for long – it would be inconvenient to say the least, in my line of work.

I was always close to my dad – and my mum once upon a time, but not so much these days. Not that she is a bad mum or anything, she’s just hardly ever around since Dad passed away, seemingly wanting to fill her time with activities that take her off somewhere.

She is currently in Kenya volunteering at a game reserve.

We keep in touch by emails and phone calls, though, and she sometimes sends me some cute videos of the animals.

I reflect that it might be nice when she returns home in a couple of months to get some quality time together.

Perhaps a spa break in a nice hotel or even a few days in the sun.

I shuffle to the kitchen to make myself a hot drink and then peek out of my curtains and glance out at the view that never fails to lift my spirits.

An apartment block to the left has a Christmas tree in the window, the lights gently twinkling, reminding me that Christmas Day will be here before I know it.

Soon enough, I’ll be offered free mulled wine and all manner of Christmas goodies at restaurants and cafés across town, in the hope I will endorse them in my weekly column. Last year I was gifted so many boxes of shortbread and panettone, I donated them to a local food bank.

Flicking through some photos on my phone, I come across several from two years ago at Christmas time with Ade.

He had joined me at a pub in the city after I had just dined at a new Asian restaurant for a review.

Sadly the restaurant has since closed. The restaurant business is so fickle and astronomical rent rates in the city centre don’t help.

The photo shows us smiling and raising a glass, a roaring fire in the background, its surround decorated with a Christmas garland. It was exactly the type of pub Ade liked, and similar to the one in our old neighbourhood.

In some ways, it also made me think of the pub in the Yorkshire village I was brought up in.

Everyone knew each other and there was often a celebration of one sort or another.

Adults and children alike would have a wonderful time, and a bouncy castle would be erected in the outside area to keep the kids entertained.

Around this time of year the village had a tradition of all the children, me included, decorating the Christmas tree outside the church with handmade baubles and glittery snowflakes, our excitement infectious.

There is a lot to be said for the simplicity in the village, and I can’t help but smile when I think of Christmases gone by, when Dad was still here.

Sitting on my sofa and admiring the festive view with my hot drink, I check my phone for any messages, but there is nothing apart from the earlier one from Coleen.

I idly think about what would have happened, had I stayed in the village. Neighbours and local church people always rallied when someone was ill. Even with a bout of flu, someone would appear with homemade soup or a remedy sure to make you felt better, which would instantly lift your spirits.

I don’t really have the energy to reply to my messages anyway, so it is just as well I don’t have any. Time to finish my drink and catch up on a little more sleep. And pray my recovery is speedy.