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sigh out loud.
    ‘He only called me a little bit,’ I say, somewhat defensively. ‘And I didn’t even pick up the phone. I just let it go straight to voicemail. Even though I was there.’ I hope they appreciate that this is the equivalent of a snowball remaining frozen in the depths of Hell.
    My friends don’t look as if they do, so I spell it out for them. ‘I’ve already been hurt by Crush. Very hurt. Do you really think that I’m stupid enough to open myself up to all that stuff again with Marcus?’
    My friends look as if they do.
    ‘Give me more credit than that,’ I say huffily.
    ‘We’re just worried about you,’ Autumn tells me. ‘Spend the day with one of us. You can come to my parents’ house with Addison and me.’ But even Autumn doesn’t look as if she thinks that’s a great idea. ‘Don’t be alone.’
    ‘Tell us where you’re going?’
    ‘Don’t worry.’ I give a light-hearted laugh. ‘I’ll be surrounded by people.’
    ‘Lucy Lombard.’ Chantal sounds stern. ‘I’d break both of your legs if I thought you were going to go
anywhere
near Marcus again.’
    ‘I’d break both of my own,’ I tell her, and having recently broken a limb I know how painful that is, so it’s not a threat I make lightly. So it looks like my Christmas is going to be spent singing along with Dick Van Dyke and chewing the sleeves of my chocolate-scented T-shirt.

Chapter Eight
    W aking up alone on Christmas morning is not a great feeling. This is definitely a time designed for lovey-dovey couples and families – however warring. This is a time for making up, forgetting old hurts, putting feuds aside. This is not a time to be by yourself. Even though I’ve never actually achieved this scenario with my own family, I can’t help imagining everyone else out there having a warm and loving holiday together, gathered round the Christmas tree opening their presents.
    I plod into the kitchen and stick two chocolate Pop-Tarts into the toaster. There’s a bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge and I suppose that I could start on it now – there’s nothing to stop me. I’ll be back on my cheap and cheerful wine by tomorrow, so I might as well make the most of it. If you’re going to have empty calories, make them expensive ones, that’s what I say. So I crack it open, let the cork ricochet off the ceiling and swig heartily from the bottle. The bubbles make me do a little burp. Hmm. Not bad.
    I take my breakfast, such as it is, into the lounge and sit in front of my tree. My red chilli lights wink happily at me. Even the sight of me, miserable and alone, can’tdismay them. There’s no great pile of presents here. In fact, there aren’t any at all. My parents both gave me cheques – they know my needs – and I’ve opened and eaten everything else I was given. Except for Chantal’s chocolate T-shirt – but the day is still young.
    Staring at the phone, I try to curb my urge to speak to Crush. Would one little call have hurt him so much? I can’t believe that he hasn’t got in touch with me at all. He could at least have contacted me to say that he was sorry and that he was a low-life and that, frankly, I deserved better than him. I look at the clock. His Christmas Day will nearly be over. He’s probably been on the beach, barbecuing succulent prawns with Miss Skanky Pants in a skimpy bikini and simply doesn’t care about the broken heart he’s left behind. Choking down a bit more of my Pop-Tart, I follow it with a swig of champagne. I wonder if I’ve even crossed his mind.
    Still, I
am
going out today. I wasn’t just saying that to appease my lovely mates. I was determined not to sit here at home feeling pathetically sorry for myself. There are people much worse off than I am. I can’t actually bring any to mind, at the moment – but I’m sure there are some.
    Taking myself into the bathroom, I have a good, vigorous scrub-down under the shower, which instantly makes me feel a lot better. I