Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
Page 43

‘REUBS!’
‘What? It’s going to be an awesome party!’
He pointed over to where the tennis court usually was. In its place was a bar made of ice.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ said Polly. ‘Oh my goodness, really?’
‘Really,’ said Reuben. ‘Don’t try the vodka luge until everyone’s finished being served, okay?’
‘Duh,’ said Polly. ‘But still. I mean. Incredible.’
‘Thank you,’ said Reuben. ‘Have you seen Kerensa?’
Have you seen Kerensa? was becoming quite the refrain.
‘I’m not sure she isn’t too big to be in a party mood,’ said Polly.
‘Well tough,’ said Reuben, jutting out his bottom lip and looking about six years old. ‘She used to be fun and also not a whale.’
‘Reuben, she’s about a million months pregnant. Nobody’s expected to be fun at this stage.’
‘I thought she’d be one of those really cute bouncy pregnant women,’ said Reuben mournfully, as someone carted what appeared to be blocks for an igloo across the garden. ‘Not one of the gigantic elephant ones.’
‘I don’t think anyone chooses how they get to be when they’re pregnant,’ said Polly. ‘I think it just happens and then you hope for the best.’
‘I’ve been hoping for the best for months,’ said Reuben.
Another person walked past with an ice sculpture of a bear. Polly glanced at it, then looked back to Reuben, slightly horrified.
‘How big is this party?’
‘Who knows? Who cares? I’ve got a planner. Listen. I wanted to talk to Huckle, but he’s gone AWOL too. It’s not like Huckle to actually do some work.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Polly crossly. ‘He works a lot actually.’
‘Yeah yeah, here are some bees, look at the bees, buzz buzz buzz. That’s not work, is it.’
‘He’s actually doing a lot of sales…’
‘Yeah, okay, whatever. But you know my wife, Polly. Tell me, is this normal? Huh? Is it normal for a pregnant woman to go batshit bananas and all weird and bizarre all the time?’
‘Some women eat coal,’ pointed out Polly.
‘Yeah, but my wife isn’t some women,’ said Reuben, still pouting. ‘I mean, my wife is totally the greatest, right? So. What’s going on here? What’s up? I think I have the best wife, but she’s schlubbing around like Schlubby McSchlubberson. On holiday.’
‘Listen, Kanye West,’ said Polly, angry suddenly, even though she knew Reuben had a point. Actually, this made her angrier. ‘It’s her body. It’s her pregnancy. It’s not all about you.’
‘Yeah it is!’ said Reuben. ‘This is my son! It is totally so about me!’
‘It’s about both of you.’
‘Well, yeah, I realise that. But at the moment I’m not even in this picture. And man, normally I’m all over like everything.’
A bunch of surfy-looking guys, all ripped and handsome, wandered over and high-fived Reuben. As usual Reuben looked like he didn’t have the faintest idea who any of them were, and tiredly returned the high-fives whilst totally ignoring the surfers’ effusive greetings.
‘It should be about me a little bit, right? Not just somebody mumbling past me and being tired all the time and ignoring me and disappearing on secret missi—’
Reuben closed his mouth as if he’d said something he shouldn’t.
‘What secret missions?’ said Polly.
‘Well I don’t know, do I?’ said Reuben crossly. ‘If I did, they wouldn’t be secret. It’s ridiculous, she’s never here.’
He sighed, and looked as deflated as Polly had ever seen him, all the bounce draining out of him even as the enormous DJ rig started sound-checking right behind him, the coloured lights bouncing off the fake snow.
‘All right?’ said Father Christmas – the most Father Christmassy Father Christmas Polly had ever seen, with a full white beard, a proper fat belly, kind creased eyes, the works. He was leading a real – no, surely not. But yes, it certainly smelled real – reindeer.
‘Yeah, whatever, Santa,’ said Reuben, and the round man wandered off.
‘Look,’ said Polly. ‘Honestly. When the baby comes, everything will be different. I’m sure it will. It’s just hard, pregnancy.’
‘Good different?’ said Reuben. ‘What if it gets worse?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Polly. ‘But I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
She wasn’t in the least bit sure. But Reuben seemed a little cheered.
‘Okay,’ he said.
‘Just the blues of being, like, fifteen stone,’ said Polly.
‘Yeah,’ said Reuben. ‘I can relate. Totally. I’m sure that’s what it is too. Yeah. Thanks, Polly. You’re a real pal.’
Polly felt awful.
Reuben turned round, his freckled face brightening up.
‘Okay, everyone! Who’s ready to PARRRRTAAAAAYYYYYY?!’
‘Yeah!’ came back a plethora of voices from the people setting up. Everything was in position now, and guests were starting to arrive; they were nearly ready to begin.
‘Not you, Polly,’ reminded Reuben. ‘You’re working.’
‘I KNOW, you putz,’ groaned Polly, and she headed back into the kitchen with some relief, as the speakers cranked up, and ‘It’s CHRRRIIIIIISSSSTTTTMAAAS’ came rolling over the incredibly expensive stereo, and the doors were opened and the guests started to pour in and the party began.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Polly rushed around with the other caterers, who were making great vats of mulled wine, even though the vodka luge was clearly much more popular, and huge winter stews that scented the air with cranberries and what Polly suspected was reindeer, though that hardly mattered, since none of the skinny-looking model girls – how did Reuben even know these people? – would eat a morsel. They were all too busy downing drinks and smoking on the pristine fake snow that now carpeted the stunning lawns at the back of the house, which was completely festooned with fairy lights of all colours.
It was beautiful, incredibly beautiful, and she felt a great sadness suddenly. Reuben threw wonderful parties. She shouldn’t be here, slaving away over pastry, while Huckle and Kerensa were God knows where (Reuben himself was in the middle of a great crowd of people taking selfies, then studying them thoughtfully, deleting the pics they didn’t like. This appeared to be what constituted socialising now). If it had been the four of them together, she thought wistfully, they’d have been having so much fun.