Carolyn for Christmas

  A NineStar Press Publication

  www.ninestarpress.com

  Carolyn for Christmas

  ISBN: 978-1-911153-08-5

  ©Copyright Lucy Carey 2015

  Cover Art by Aria Tan©Copyright 2015

  Edited by Lisa Cox

  NineStar Press, Ltd.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, NineStar Press, Ltd.

  Published in 2015 by NineStar Press, Waterford, Ireland.

  Table of Contents

  Carolyn for Christmas

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  About the Author

  NineStar Press, Ltd.

  Carolyn for Christmas

  Lucy Carey

  Dedication

  To L.C., K.W., and C.U: The trifecta of support and general awesomeness.

  Author’s Note

  One of the two main characters’ names in this story is Saoirse—just like actress Saoirse Ronan. For those of you not familiar with the name, it’s an Irish (Gaelic) name meaning “Freedom.” It’s a wonderful name, in my opinion, but I know it’s not the easiest to pronounce if you’re not familiar with it. With that in mind, here’s a rough pronunciation guide: SEAR-sha. Easy!

  With that cleared up, hope you enjoy Saoirse and Carolyn’s story.

  —Lucy

  Chapter One

  Every year, the council of a little Irish town pulled out a box of street decorations, dusted them off, and set to work checking that every bulb in the chain of lights was working. Annually, like clockwork, a man called Davey Byrne climbed a ladder in a little back room of the council offices on the second Friday of November to take down the lights. He’d take a week to make sure that none had any faults and to untangle any knots that had knotted themselves into the cable. It didn’t matter how carefully he packed the lights away—when it was time to take them out again, there the knots were.

  He didn’t mind, really. He found the task of loosening the giant tangles relaxing at this point. It had become his favourite ritual; he’d been responsible for the Christmas lights for eighteen years now.

  Of course, as she walked arm in arm with her friend, Mags, Carolyn Roche didn’t know any of that. She didn’t know about Davey Byrne or how carefully he tended to his decorating duties. All she knew was that the twinkle of green and red lights overhead was a sure sign Christmas was coming.

  “Jesus, Carolyn, will you hurry up? I’m feckin’ freezing!”

  It was hard to make out Mags’s expression from under the shroud of the giant, purple, wool scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, but it was teasing, gentle.

  They were on their way to Kelly’s pub—their first night out in too long a time. They’d met in college and become firm friends. But then, life got in the way, Carolyn reflected. It had been easier straight out of college to keep their social life going until they both got “grown-up” jobs. Then Mags had a baby. Pretty soon, it had started to require an MI5-level of planning and coordination just to meet up. That was why this night out was pretty special to Carolyn; Mags had travelled all the way down to have a night out and sleep over. Carolyn was going to make the best of the opportunity to catch up with a good friend.

  She stopped staring up at the Christmas lights and picked up her pace a little. Before Mags had hurried her, Carolyn hadn’t even noticed how slowly she’d been walking. This time of year always cast a kind of spell on her. Surrounded by the buzz of the season, she often found herself lost in her thoughts, a blend of nostalgia and hope for the future slowing her step and clouding her senses.

  Over the clack of her high heels on the concrete footpath, Carolyn heard giggling. Across the street, by the gates of the town’s grey-stone church, a child was laughing while another was howling. A little boy—maybe five or six, with glowing red cheeks and ash-brown hair—was in fits of giggles. His mother ushered him toward a car, dragging him by his coat sleeve. Obviously whatever sermon he’d heard in Saturday night mass, where Carolyn guessed they were coming from, had had no effect on him.

  “Santa won’t come to you if you don’t start being nice to your sister,” his mother hissed.

  His little sister, a girl of about four or five in a wine-coloured velvet coat, jutted out her lip to emphasise her mother’s point. Inside their car—a big van of a thing with enough seating for a soccer team—a man of about thirty sat with the light on, studiously avoiding the argument. The sound of a Christmas song danced out through a cracked window as he looked in the opposite direction to where his family stood.

  Carolyn laughed to herself. Sometimes it wasn’t so bad still being single. She clutched Mags’s arm tighter.

  “Come on then, Margaret Hannon. Before you turn into an ice cube on me.”

  Kelly’s was always hopping on a Saturday night, but this evening Carolyn and Mags had to push hard through the frosted glass and dark-wood front door just to get in. A few patrons had been leaning on the door, and they turned impatiently, indignant at being moved from their standing spots. Carolyn shot them an apologetic smile as she passed.

  The walk to the bar was slow and weaving, the crowd moving as if one big mass of clothes and skin, as the two friends picked their way around flailing arms and gesturing hands.

  The bar was barely visible from where they stood but for the strings of tinsel and decorations hanging over it.

  Carolyn scanned the crowd. She spotted a few of the pub’s regulars dotted throughout the bobbing and chattering throng of people, but most of the night’s clientele were newbies. There were several different but distinct groups of people who stood out—each group comprising people wearing Santa hats and reindeer ears, knitted jumpers with Christmas trees and bow-wrapped presents on the front, and dangly, light-up earrings. They sang carols and howled approval as their buddies downed shots.

  Carolyn turned to Mags and tutted.

  “Bit early for all these Twelve Pubs of Christmas get-togethers, isn’t it? I can barely hear myself think.”

  Mags squinted at Carolyn, her face contorting as she stared hard at Carolyn’s moving lips. She held her hands up to her ears and shrugged.

  “What are you saying?” she shouted above the din. “I can’t hear you over all these Twelve Pubs eejits.”

  Carolyn snorted. Mags wasn’t one to sugar-coat her opinions. It was one of Carolyn’s favourite traits of her friend.

  She reached out and clutched Mags’s hand to firmly but delicately lead her around the crowd and up to the bar. They squeezed through a tiny gap in the throng and planted themselves as close to the barman as they could.

  From the speakers, Wizzard’s I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day had just started to play. A roar went up from one of the Twelve Pubs groups—a troop of about ten middle-aged, red-cheeked men, all of them with pints of lager and stout in hand. A couple of the men were doubled over in laughter. One put his pint on a nearby table and pulled a blushing twenty-something-year-old woman up to dance.

  The mood was infectious; Carolyn’s cynicism melted easily. She was grinning as the barman made his way over to her.

  “Howya, Carolyn,” he yelled over the din. She recognised him as Greg Martin—a guy she knew from around. He was a nice chap, big into his metal bands. “What are you having?”

  Another mass ripple of laughter went up from the grou
p of men and he laughed.

  “If they’re like this on the first of December, God knows how they’re going to survive until Christmas.”

  Carolyn stepped onto the brass railing at the foot of the bar to lean in to hear better. The surface of the bar was scuffed, the varnish rubbed off in places, and she narrowly avoided soaking her coat sleeve in whatever was spilled on it.

  “Bloody packed in here, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head and laughed, grabbing some empties from the bar as he answered.

  “Silly season has well and truly started.” From the other side of the bar, a serious-looking man stood waving a fifty euro note. Greg ignored the money-waver but rolled his eyes at Carolyn. “Gobshite can wait,” he muttered, before smiling again. “Anyway, what can I get for you?”

  “One gin and tonic”—Carolyn turned briefly to Mags, who confirmed the order with a nod—“and a Jack and Coke please.”

  That would be one of the only Jack and Cokes she’d have, she told herself. Carolyn had been drinking Jack Daniel’s and Coke since she’d started to drink years ago, but lately, she could only have a couple before she had to switch to something a little easier. Otherwise, the hangover in the morning was dire.

  Greg put the two drinks in front of her on the bar with another smile, grabbed a note from her hand, and quickly made change.

  “Talk to you later.”

  Carolyn smiled back but he was already turning to another punter. She poured a little tonic and cola from the plastic bottles on the bar, and grabbed the drinks.

  “Where the hell are we going to get a seat?” she yelled at Mags.

  Mags leaned into Carolyn, narrowly dodging around an elbow to the forehead, and grinned.

  “Because I am so brilliant, I spotted a couple of seats. And they’re right by the fire. Come on!”

  “You star!” Carolyn yelled as she followed behind. “I don’t know what sort of witchcraft you had to do to get them, but—”

  She stopped as her friend arrived at the two empty, low stools at the edge of a big table. Her stomach plummeted to her toes as she spotted a familiar face. It might not have been witchcraft that brought them to those seats, but she could certainly see a witch close by. Carolyn shook her head.

  “No, Mags,” she hissed. “We are not sitting here.”

  Mags turned to look up at Carolyn—she’d already sat down before Carolyn had a chance to voice her objection. Mags made no move to get up, instead fixing Carolyn with a baffled stare.

  “What are you talking about, you mad egg? It’s this or the smoking area outside and I’d much rather be by this nice, toasty fire.”

  Carolyn’s palms itched with a sudden sweat and her feet stayed rooted to the spot. She bent over to whisper in Mags’s ear as Mags supped from her drink.

  “Listen, I’ll tell you later, but we’re not sitting here. I’d rather stand.”

  Mags crunched an ice cube between her molars and then sighed deeply.

  “My feet are killing me. I’ve told you I just can’t do heels anymore since the kiddo. There had better be a good reason for me having to move my hefty arse from this seat.”

  Like a reflex, Carolyn said, “It’s not hefty, would you stop,” but she wasn’t really listening for Mags’s response.

  * * * * *

  Who the hell did that one think she was?

  Saoirse Barrett narrowed her eyes and took a long sip on her Chardonnay. She was momentarily distracted from her irritation as the wine hit her tongue and she grimaced at the taste of it. Pub wine was just the worst.

  It certainly wasn’t making the sudden tension any easier to take. She did her best to look nonchalant, like she wasn’t bothered by the rudeness that had arrived at her table. At the other end of the table, Carolyn bloody Roche was staring in Saoirse’s direction, with an expression on her face like she’d just got a whiff of dog shite.

  Saoirse had watched Carolyn and her friend in the too-high heels tottering this way with mounting dread. The closer they got, the more Saoirse had started to wish that Carolyn would maybe just fall into the big, crackling, open fire beside Saoirse’s table. It was bad enough she had to put up with Carolyn once or twice a week at rehearsals; spending a Saturday night looking at her sour face was anything but her idea of fun.

  And now, to add extra insult to the matter, Carolyn was trying to drag her friend away from her seat at the end of Saoirse’s table, like Saoirse was the troublemaker.

  That bitch, she thought. Like I’d even offer her a seat.

  She nudged her friend, Lorna, who was feigning interest in a conversation about the recession with some random guy in an expensive shirt. As pleasantly as she was smiling, Lorna had gone dead behind the eyes. She’d welcome Saoirse’s interruption.

  “Jesus, they’ll let anyone in here,” Saoirse said.

  Shit. Saoirse had meant to whisper the barb but it came out louder than she’d been expecting. Must be that cheap Chardonnay.

  Carolyn whipped around from dragging her friend away and gave Saoirse a stare that sent a shiver down her spine. She’d obviously heard.

  “And a Merry fucking Christmas to you, too,” Carolyn snarled, then curled her lip and turned away.

  Thank God, Saoirse thought. That could have turned really ugly. As much as Carolyn had changed in the past few years, Saoirse knew her of old—she came from one of the rougher estates in the town and would likely make mincemeat of Saoirse in a fight, if she was so inclined.

  The heavy, aggrieved clatter of Carolyn’s heels on the stone floor was like music to Saoirse’s ears. She took a swig of her Chardonnay to hide her relieved expression.

  “God, the state of her,” Lorna whispered as they watched Carolyn’s retreating form. “You’d think with getting that job, she could afford not to dress like some sort of goth reject.”

  Saoirse didn’t quite agree with the assessment—she thought Carolyn’s shape in her tight, black jeans tucked into studded boots and her short leather jacket, impractical for the cold, suited her. She kept the thought to herself and continued guiltily appreciating the swish of Carolyn’s hips as she strode through the crowd.

  * * * * *

  Tiny, angry Morris dancers. That’s who had taken up residence in Carolyn’s head—she was sure of it. She took a few deep breaths before she cracked open her eyelids, the stream of light through the gap in the curtains burning her eyes.

  From downstairs, she could smell the waft of bacon rashers being grilled, could hear the sizzle of sausages in a pan. Mags was whistling to herself, in appreciation of a song on the radio.

  How the hell could she be so chipper at this time of the morning?

  What time is it?

  Carolyn rolled over slowly, the movement sending the Morris dancers tumbling to bang against the front of her forehead. The pain settled into a dull throb.

  Carolyn picked up her phone from her bedside locker to check the time. Fuck. It was midday already. She was supposed to have been awake a couple of hours ago. She mentally prepared herself for the effort and then swung her legs over the side of her bed, landing her feet into her slippers. Her stomach lurched.

  Gingerly stepping across the thick, clothes-strewn carpet, she let out a little groan. How had she managed to get so drunk last night? She was supposed to have been taking it easy, to be enjoying her good friend’s company. Instead, she’d worked her way through best part of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  She plodded down the stairs, grabbing the banister tightly for balance, and walked to the kitchen. If she’d thought the light through her curtains was bad, the blast of light from the lower winter sun that streamed in through the kitchen window was torture. She blinked a couple of times.

  “Morning,” she croaked to Mags, who was turning sausages in a frying pan.

  Mags turned to look at her without breaking from her cooking.

  “Morning, sleepyhead. I thought the smell of breakfast might get you up.” She grabbed a couple of plates from the cupboard. “How are
you feeling?”

  Carolyn slumped into a chair at the kitchen table and rubbed her face.

  “Not great, I gotta say. I think I may be dying.”

  Mags laughed briefly, but then her face changed to an expression of concern.

  “What happened that you got that drunk? It’s not like you.”

  She was right, Carolyn thought ruefully. Usually, Carolyn was mature, responsible. Because Carolyn worked as a solicitor, people expected her to have a little more sense. But it was like all sense left her last night.

  Mags switched off the gas ring under the frying pan, put the pan under the warm grill, and turned off the switch at the wall. She picked up two cups of tea and brought them over to the table.

  “Thanks,” Carolyn said as Mags slid a milky mug of tea to her. She sipped it slowly.

  “It was that eejit last night, wasn’t it?”

  Carolyn looked at her through pain-narrowed eyes and jutted out her lip, like she didn’t know what Mags was talking about. Mags wasn’t letting it go.

  “The gobshite with the blonde hair and the snotty attitude in Kelly’s. You were fine until we bumped into her. After you saw her, you were like a woman possessed. After the fourth drink, you even stopped bothering with a mixer.”

  That would explain the taste in her mouth. Carolyn put her head on the glass tabletop and sighed at the relief of the coolness on her skin.

  “Long story,” she said after a beat, her voice muffled into the glass. “Childhood enemies. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  Mags gave a sceptical, “Mm-hmm,” and Carolyn knew she wouldn’t be easily assuaged. She lifted her head from the table to look Mags in the eye.

  “Look, I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately, what with the Christmas holidays coming up in work and everything with my mam. I just got a bit carried away.”

  Mags still didn’t look too convinced, but she stopped prodding.