Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read!. Catherine Ferguson

       Chapter One

      Why is it that giving something up makes the thing you can’t have a hundred times more desirable?

      When I decided to stop snacking between meals, for instance, I had this weird, recurring dream where a monster made entirely of Wotsits (Really Cheesy flavour) was terrorising my village and the only way I could stop him was to tie him down and eat him.

      Tough work, but someone had to do it. Did I mention this was actually a daydream? (Joke. I’m really not that disturbed.)

      But the point is, I used to love my lazy Sunday mornings. Until I met Nathan and they became a thing of the past.

      And now I can only dream about them …

      Ah, the luxury of surfacing naturally, without an alarm braying manically in my ear … followed by oodles of delicious ‘quality time’ with Nathan … and then a little while later, when we’re feeling totally blissed out, maybe breakfast in bed with the newspapers …

      Nathan raps on the bathroom door.

      ‘Leaving in ten minutes, Lola,’ he calls cheerily. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

      ‘Er – right with you.’ I turn on the taps much too quickly and promptly drench the crotch of my hill-walking trousers.

      Scrubbing at the area with a towel, I eye the waistband critically in the vast mirror above Nathan’s butler sink washbasin.

      If these trousers were any tighter, I’d be waving bye-bye to my circulation.

      But since my only other sports outfit is in the wash, they’ll just have to do.

      I unzip the top inch and breathe out thankfully.

      The trousers were a Big Mistake, bought three months ago in the excited aftermath of Nathan asking me out for the very first time.

      He’d suggested a four-hour hill walk followed by a bite to eat at a local vegetarian restaurant. My best friend, Barb, raised a single eyebrow at the proposed itinerary. But I just laughed and said I thought it showed a refreshing originality on Nathan’s part. I mean, who needs predictable?

      As with any thrilling first date, I decided it would be criminal not to treat myself to a new outfit.

      So yes, I confess, the much-too-tight, figure-hugging khaki green trousers I’m wearing were chosen not for their hi-tech breathable and waterproof qualities. But rather with the goal of getting a second date.

      The Lycra top isn’t great, either. It was a birthday gift from Nathan and it’s a little on the snug side, with my ample chest spilling out where it’s not supposed to. Wearing black with my straw-coloured hair and even paler complexion makes me look a bit peaky.

      And hungover.

      Which, of course, I am.

      My stomach shifts queasily at the memory of the fizz we drank the night before to celebrate Nathan completing his personal trainer course.

      It’s not just the alcohol making me feel a tad gross this morning. There’s also the small matter of waking at four with a raging dose of the munchies.

      I tiptoed downstairs and opened the fridge. (More as habit than anything. With Nathan a strict vegetarian, verging on vegan, I’ve learned not to get overly excited.)

      Once when I was rooting around in there (Nathan had popped to the shops to replenish his stock of mung beans), I managed to find an ancient packet of yogurt-covered raisins right at the back behind the alfalfa sprouts and his home-whizzed sheep’s curd spread.

      Last night, no such luck.

      There wasn’t any point hijacking the bread bin, either.

      Nathan’s ‘bread’ tends to be full of random ingredients that really have no place at all in a nice, decent loaf – things like dried berries, wood shavings, bits of pan scourer, that kind of thing.

      But then – rummaging through his cupboards, I struck lucky.

      Pushed to the back was a lovely big box of Belgian chocolates.

      Unopened.

      I got them out, nodding approval at whoever gave Nathan those because they clearly had very good taste. I turned the box over to examine the pictorial contents.

      Then I remembered it was me.

      I bought them the very first time he cooked me dinner at his place – not realising, of course, that anything apart from ninety-nine per cent cocoa solids weren’t generally permitted across the threshold.

      Belgian chocolates aren’t the usual food I go for to satisfy night-time cravings.

      But hey ho, I thought, any port in a storm.

      I ate most of the top layer then hid the rest in my bag to take home. (They’d already been there three months and would soon start turning an odd colour. It would be a shame to waste them.)

      I stifle a yawn as I brush my teeth.

      There was a real nip in the air before the heating clicked on at seven, and an hour later, it’s still dark outside. It feels unnatural rising before the birds on a Sunday, especially on a shivery morning in mid-October.

      But