The Christmas Swap, page 1
THE CHRISTMAS SWAP
A Novel
TALIA SAMUELS
Dedicated to Grani Frani and Grandpa Derek, unwavering supporters.
MONDAY, 18 DECEMBER
CHAPTER ONE
MARGOT
“So, you and I have been together for five months,” I say to the man I met four days ago.
“No,” Ben says lightly, his hazel eyes fixed on the winding, icy road ahead. “Six months.”
“I don’t think so.” I glance up at the grey snow pelting down on to the ironically named sunroof of Ben’s car. “Six months is too round. Too uniform. When concocting a lie, you want to avoid box-fresh perfection.”
“Hmm. It’s good to see that my girlfriend is such a well-practised liar.”
“Fake girlfriend,” I correct him.
“Yes, yes,” Ben mutters, lifting a hand from the steering wheel and waving me away as if this is nothing more than a minor technicality. “We’ll circle back to our anniversary later then. Remind me of your name? ”
I whip around to face him. Is he stupid?
“Obviously I know that it’s Margot Murray,” he says with a little laugh, both hands back on the wheel. “But is there anything else? Nicknames? Middle names? Isn’t ‘Margot’ French? Are you French?”
Ah. Of course Ben remembers my name. He first came across me through my online marketing business, Margot Murray Digital. He’d have to be more than a bit slow to forget the name I’ve plastered all over my website and socials.
“Non, I’m not French,” I say. “I was named after a random great-aunt whom I never met. I don’t have any nicknames. And my middle name is May.”
“M, M, M. ”
“Mmm, indeed. And is there more to Ben than … Ben?”
“Not at all,” he says with an easy smile. “Just Ben Gibson. It’s not even short for Benjamin.”
“Fantastic,” I say. I could do with everything about Just Ben Gibson being as straightforward as his name if I have any hope of putting on a convincing performance as his life partner over the next week or so.
God, it does sound insane when put so plainly. Yeah, I’ll be spending my Christmas with this near perfect stranger, swindling his doting parents into believing that I’m his lovely new girlfriend, how about you?
I can’t help it—I sigh. This Christmas was supposed to be the most magical in all my thirty-two years of life. Taylor and I were going to be spending it in the Bahamas, completely ignoring the significance of the season as we sipped on rum punch by the pool. Obviously that plan fell apart. Everything fell apart. Our tiny Islington flat was stripped of Taylor’s stuff, the trip was called off, and my share of the (very) partial refund was sent to my account without a word. In the span of one drizzly November afternoon Christmas was cancelled.
And then there was Ben. Ben who I’d been talking to for weeks already as I worked on a major project his jewellery company had hired me for. Ben who could never grasp what I meant by SEO or PPC but always made sure to tell me I was doing a great job and that the website I was designing looked fantastic. Ben who invited me to his company Christmas party because I was basically part of the team now, and it would be great to finally meet in person, and he didn’t think I should miss out on all the fun on account of being self-employed.
To be completely honest, my idea of fun isn’t spending a Thursday evening with someone else’s inebriated colleagues, but I didn’t want to be rude to one of my top clients, so I turned up to the party alone and ordered a large glass of red at the open bar. Ben raced over to me with a huge grin on his face and a paper crown from a Christmas cracker on his head. He introduced me to his employees and their spouses as the Computer Whizz and stuck by my side all evening as we mingled with the obnoxiously happy couples. He skipped past work talk to chat to me about our shared love of wine and dogs, and he ensured that I had a constant supply of canapés and Merlot. He laughed at all my jokes with shaking shoulders and occasional adorable snorts.
His face fell when I said I’d be spending Christmas alone this year.
I hadn’t seen what the big deal was. Why would I want to hang out with my mum and her latest toy boy for the day, especially now that Nana is no longer here to act as a buffer and I have no siblings to share the pain with? Why would I accept a pity invite from some friend who’d just seat me between their snotty three-year-old and perverted uncle?
Ben had all but choked on his wine when I’d said that.
I’d made a mental note to be more professional. And he’d made an insane offer to have me round for Christmas.
“It isn’t a pity invite,” he’d hastened to add. “I’d really love it if you’d spend the holidays with me—and my family—for a week—at our manor house—out in the country!” He raised his voice louder and louder over the blaring music. “All you’d have to do is pretend to be my girlfriend!”
It felt like it was my turn to choke on the wine then. Or, better yet, to back away slowly from the maniac I’d only just met in person for the first time that night.
Instead, Ben was the one to take several steps backwards.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m coming on too strong. As soon as the words left my mouth, I heard how crazy they sounded. The idea just came to me suddenly and I got all excited because I don’t want you to be left on your own for Christmas. And I don’t want to be alone either. I’m thinking of myself, really. I’m asking you for a favour. Because I … well, I’m kind of the only singleton in my family. Everyone else is coupled up. Even our Rottweiler Mitsi has bagged herself a mystery man. Year after year, I’m the only Gibson who turns up for the holidays alone. So I thought that if you were going to be alone too, maybe we could be together instead? That way, my family could stop bombarding me with questions about why I’m still single, and you’d have a clear reason for being there. It’s a really nice place, Margot. A big country estate in Cheshire, with a manor house that my parents run as a hotel for most of the year. We’d sleep in separate beds, so there wouldn’t be any funny business. It would just be a nice holiday, and we could drink loads of wine and hang out with the dog and have a good time. That’s all I want, because everyone deserves a lovely Christmas, because it’s the most wonderful time of the year, because people come together from far and wide, because we all—we all—”
“Ben,” I interrupted. “Breathe.”
He stopped suddenly and we stared at each other.
We both fell about laughing.
“I promise I’m not as mad as I sound right now,” he said, composing himself. “I’m not an axe murderer or anything. I just think this could work out nicely for both of us.”
I searched his face, which was as innocent as a little boy’s, and I glanced down at his arms, which were very skinny and could not have wielded an axe even if he wanted them to. An image shot through my mind then: a birds-eye view of myself sitting all alone in my empty flat on Christmas Day, with only the ghost of Taylor’s things to keep me company.
“Our house has a wine cellar and a spa …” Ben added.
I packed my bags the next day.
And now here I am, on Monday afternoon, four days after the office Christmas party, being driven down the M40 by a strange man to a strangers’ mansion.
I do know what’s supposed to happen here. If the cheesy films they ram down your throat at this time of year are to be believed, Ben and I are meant to fall in love for real, finally snogging on Christmas morning under the mistletoe, or something equally gag-inducing. But there is zero chance of any of that happening. As attractive as Ben is, with his floppy dark curls and clear complexion, and that strong jaw that I can see contracting as he focuses on driving, he is not my type. I’m more a fan of blondes for one. And I prefer longer hair. Freckles really do it for me—as do softer, rounder features.
Then again, Taylor ticked none of those boxes and I was totally lovesick for her.
The real issue with Ben is that he is a he.
So no. There is no threat of real romance blossoming this Christmas. Ben knows that I’m a lesbian, and I know that he’s a harmless kook. The whole thing is very simple. I will just be having a nice little holiday and then I’ll be on my merry way. Nothing complicated whatsoever.
With that comforting thought, I relax back against the soft leather seat and snuggle up deeper inside the huge woollen scarf that I am basically wearing as a blanket. The sky outside has already darkened to an inky blue, and within minutes I am drifting off to sleep, soothed by the idea of swapping the smoggy grey city for the idyllic English countryside.
CHAPTER TWO
MARGOT
When I stir awake, my neck is stiff and my mouth tastes stale. There’s a little string of drool hanging from my lips. I will almost definitely have been snoring. It’s a good job I don’t want Just Ben Gibson to fancy me for real, I think, as I pull my scarf over my mouth to contain the worst of my post-nap breath and start circling my head to stretch out my neck.
“Hey, how long was I—”
I stop. I’ve just seen where we are. We’re driving between two long rows of pine trees, which are all dusted lightly with snow, although no more is falling; the sky is now cloudless and fully darkened to black. We’re moving slowly, gravel crunching under the tyres as we make our way up a long driveway that cuts through a vast estate of manicured lawns. Up ahead: a tremendous mansion.
“We’re … here?”
I thought I’d nodded off for thirty minutes—forty at a push. But if we’ve already arrived at the manor, the
It’s impossible. There’s no way I can stroll into this looming estate and convince Ben’s entire family that we’re in a committed relationship. It was enough of a stretch telling my mum that we’re friends.
“Ben who?” she had demanded three days ago, when I’d called to tell her about my new Christmas plans. I had of course left out the more unique features of the arrangement, but Mum was still managing to make the whole thing sound ridiculous. “I don’t know any ‘Ben.’ I’ve never met him, have I?”
“No,” I said snippily. “Why should you have met him? I don’t bring my friends round for juice and fairy cakes any more, do I? I’m a grown woman.” I wasn’t acting like it, and I knew it. Talking to my mum often causes me to inhabit my teenage personality again, and the backslide through time seemed to be happening even quicker than usual during this phone call.
She tutted. “All right, tetchy. But surely I should have at least heard of this guy?”
“Why? I don’t have to report who my friends are to you.”
“No, you don’t. I just thought that I might have been aware of a friend who you’re close enough with to spend Christmas with his family instead of with me, that’s all.”
I felt bad then. Mum’s voice was still loud and nagging, but I recognized the thread of hurt in her words. I quickly revisited the idea of eating Christmas lunch with her as usual. We would have burnt potatoes and Bisto gravy, and the radio would blast all my favourite indie bands instead of crappy Christmas tunes. We would fight, definitely, but it would be resolved by the time pudding was bought out, and we would chase the sugar with Quality Streets and sweet mince tarts, and watch all the best over-the-top telly and laugh harder than the shows deserved.
Mum continued. “It was bad enough that you were going to be going away with Taylor. I thought now that your swanky, show-off holiday was cancelled, you’d be content to spend the day at home like normal.” She paused. “Is she why you’re running off to the countryside? Is this all about Taylor?”
I bristled. It was so typical of Mum to find a way to blame everything on Taylor—to try to stick her nose into my business and cast her petty judgements. She would be even worse at Christmas, given all the excitement and stress and free-flowing alcohol of the day. Suddenly the festive memories that I had been conjuring up shifted, and I saw that Mum wasn’t at the centre of them at all. It was Nana. Nana bought the joy and the laughter and the sugar. Mum and I just orbited around her light. Now that Nana was gone, Christmas at home would never be the same again, and it would be best for both of us if we accepted that and let the old traditions go. That was why I had planned to go abroad with Taylor, and it was why I had to stick to my guns and escape to the country with Ben. Mum would be okay. She would spend the day with a boyfriend, who was either already around or would be found some time in the next week.
“It’s nothing to do with Taylor,” I said. “Ben just needed a friend around this Christmas, so I’m stepping in. I’m sorry I hadn’t mentioned him before, but we’ve got a lot closer recently. He’s been around for years. He’s … he’s my best friend.”
Here in the real world, he’s still a stranger. I look at him now, staring straight ahead at the tree-lined drive with his hands clamped on to the steering wheel. He must be so furious with me for wasting so much time sleeping. I’m furious with me.
“Home sweet home!” he says in a sing-song voice, surprising me. His face breaks into a smile, a dimple showing on his left cheek. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah … yes,” I say slowly, completely stumped by the calmness and the sing-songing. “I’m sorry I was out for so long. I know we were meant to—”
“Oh, it’s fine. You needed to sleep, so you slept. I kept the music quiet so it wouldn’t wake you.”
He nods to the radio. It’s turned right down, but I can just make out the grating strains of a sickly-sweet Christmas song. The one where a squealing popstar tells you that all she wants for Christmas is you. Yes, you, sitting on the sofa in your stained sweatpants gobbling down stale gingerbread. You-ooh-ooh.
I reach forward and turn it off. Then I remember my manners and mumble my thanks.
“It’s really fine.” Ben shrugs. “Besides, we’ve still got loads of time to get to know each other. My family aren’t here yet, remember?”
Oh yeah. I do remember. The Gibsons are all away right now. I don’t know exactly who is where because I haven’t even learned anyone’s names yet, but I recall that Ben’s parents are enjoying a few days away after closing their hotel for the remainder of the year so that the family can have the manor all to themselves for Christmas. I guess that’s just the sort of thing you do when you’re a) family-orientated and b) filthy rich. Mr. and Mrs. Gibson won’t be back here until tomorrow evening.
“We’ll do all our homework later tonight,” Ben says. “Plenty of time for it. And there’s no need to stress about the tiny details anyway. It’s not like you’ll be getting grilled about my favourite colour.” He’s silent for a moment. “Which is blue.”
I laugh. “Mine’s green.”
“Perfect. My precise favourite colour is cobalt blue. It’s a little bit dark, but also a little bit bright. A lovely deep colour. Very calming. It makes me think of the ocean, and glass beads, and the country of Greece, and—”
I raise a hand to stop him. “My favourite colour is still green.’
“Cool. Yeah.” He nods. “Let’s stick to the basics for now. I’m a dog person, which you already know, and I like coffee over tea, and apple juice over orange. Oh, and we’ve been dating for five months—you’re right. And we didn’t meet through work, I don’t think, because the power dynamics could look a bit icky. Instead, we met at a coffee shop near my work. You had your head stuck in a book and accidentally spilled your latte all over my best suit. I took your number in place of an apology, and the rest is history. Et cetera, et cetera. It’s all sorted, okay? You can relax.”
He’s right. I can relax. We have all night to iron out the details of our relationship. And I did need that sleep. I’ve been working flat out the last few days, spending the entire weekend cramming in all my meetings, completing SEO reports, and pre-scheduling social media posts and marketing emails for my clients, all so that I can actually clock off for Christmas. Taylor always hated me bringing my laptop on holiday with us. We would have such a fantastic time, splashing in the pool and feeding each other new delicacies and making full use of the hotel’s king-size bed, but then I’d have to sneak away to get a few hours of work done and Taylor would be furious that I was bursting our perfect bubble of bliss for the sake of reading some emails. I finally realized, too late, that she was right. I need a proper break. So this year, I’ve left all the stress of my life behind in London, and I am going to relax.
I’ve clearly picked a fantastic venue for it. Ben is pulling up to the house now, parking next to a pale stone water feature, and I’m getting my first proper look at the place. It’s bloody ginormous: three stories high and at least twice as wide, with several pointed triangular roofs and a small army of chimneys on top. Frosted ivy climbs all over the red-brick walls. Through the nearest leaded window, I spot a real Christmas tree, flawlessly decorated with glinting golden lights and ornate baubles. There’s none of the cheap tinsel you’d find at my mum’s house, and it’s a world away from the tiny plastic tree Taylor picked out for us because clutter infuriates her. It’s a bona fide winter wonderland. I’d be willing to bet there’s even a real fire roaring inside. I might even be able to smell the smoky warmth of it in the air; I’m definitely getting cinnamon and cloves.
“So,” Ben says, “shall I show you around?”
Yes. Yes, I shall be shown around, and I shall make myself at home sweet home. I might even keep an eye out for interior design inspiration. My flat is due a bit of update now that half its contents have been removed, and it can’t hurt for me to ask Ben where his parents got some of their things from so that I can look online for discounted, second-hand, knock-off versions later.
