‘Pyjamas?’ I shook my head and pulled Manny’s coat closed across my chest. ‘No, these are very trendy co-ords, everyone’s wearing them. Seriously, if you could all laugh right now, that would be amazing.’
‘But you haven’t said anything funny?’ the first man replied. ‘Why would we laugh?’
As Michael walked up to the table, I threw my head back, roaring hysterically and clutching my sides. ‘Oh, you,’ I gasped as I reached for a glass of wine that was not mine. ‘Really, you ought to be a comedian. Tell me, have you ever considered starting a podcast?’
‘Gwen?’ My ex-boyfriend stood over me, his face a charming shade of beetroot and his arms folded across his chest.
‘Michael!’ I exclaimed. ‘What a coincidence, fancy seeing you here.’ I gestured towards him and then waved around the table at the three blank faces. ‘Pals, this is my friend, Michael. Michael, these are … my pals.’
‘We’ve never seen her before in our lives,’ the woman whispered, covering her mouth with her handbag. ‘Please alert security.’
‘She’s so funny,’ I said, taking another glug of borrowed wine. ‘Isn’t she so funny?’
‘I thought I was the funny one?’ The man sat to my right dropped a crepey hand onto my thigh, gave it a firm squeeze and winked. I blanched. So this was how it felt to be hoisted by your own petard; I’d always wondered.
‘What’s going on?’ Michael asked as I delicately removed the hand from my leg. ‘Why are you here? And why are you wearing pyjamas?’
‘They’re called co-ords,’ the woman replied sagely. ‘But they do look like pyjamas, don’t they?’
‘It’s been lovely to catch up,’ I said, slapping the dirty old man’s hand away as he reached out for a second squeeze of my leg. ‘But I’ve actually got to dash. Enjoy your turkey, everyone.’
‘We don’t eat turkey,’ the man whohadn’ttried to touch me up under the table said with a sneer. ‘This is a capon.’
‘Apologies, I’m very common.’ I stood up, took one last swig of Patricia’s wine and raised my hand in a farewell. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone.’
‘Can I help you at all?’
A crotchety-looking man who was not the man I’d spoken to on reception but could definitely play him in a movie appeared out of nowhere and hovered besidethe table. The little gold nametag on his jacket declared his name was Dick and I had no problem believing it.
‘This woman is in my wife’s seat,’ declared the handsy man. ‘She sat down and demanded we all start laughing, please have her escorted from the premises.’
‘A minute ago you were trying to touch me up,’ I pointed out indignantly. ‘Come on, it’s not like I was trying to re-enactDog Day Afternoon, is it? I just sat at the wrong table.’
‘And which table was madam supposed to be sitting at?’ Dick asked.
A quick glance around the room suggested no one here was about to claim me.
‘Now I think about it, I could be in the wrong restaurant,’ I replied politely. ‘Apologies.’
Clinging to what was left of my dignity, I turned to walk out of the restaurant as fast as my little legs would carry me. Which wasn’t that fast, considering I was wearing the least aerodynamic coat known to man and there were several tightly packed tables between me and the exit, but it was still quite fast. At least fast enough to knock Father Christmas off his feet when he unexpectedly turned the corner into the restaurant.
We fell in slow motion, his arms windmilling as he toppled backwards, me on top of him, holding my hands up in front of my face. The sounds of screaming children drowned out the jaunty rendition of ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ that played through speakers in the ceiling, and we hit the ground with a loud grunt. The soft padding of his belly broke the worst of my fall and I rolled off his prone body, my knee squishing something soft as I righted myself onto all fours.
‘My balls!’ Santa yelled, pulling off his lush, fake beard. ‘She’s bust my bloody nuts!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I cried, shuffling backwards on my hands and knees, attempting to reverse out of the situation and stop myself from making a joke about Santa’s sack. It was not easy.
Knives and forks clattered onto plates and capons went cold as the beardless Old Saint Nick rolled around with his hands tucked up between his thighs. I scuttled away, staggering to my feet to survey the chaos but as ever, I could only see Michael, a look of true horror on his gorgeous, annoying face.
‘What is going on in here?’
A smartly dressed, elderly woman stood in the doorway, little red handbag hanging from the crook of her arm, a sprig of holly pinned to her blouse.
‘Patricia?’ I asked, straightening the collar of my pyjamas. She gave me a silent nod. ‘Your husband is a dirty old man.’
‘Roger did this?’ she gasped as Dick approached, his face like thunder.
‘I think I’d better go,’ I replied, skipping around her. ‘Merry Christmas, Patricia. Enjoy your capon.’