Not My Christmas

By Debbie McGowan

Christmas at the Davenports has never been a relaxing affair, so when the opportunity for a little alone time with a beautiful, available woman comes Charlie Davenport’s way, she takes it, breaking several family traditions and risking the wrath of her siblings. But it’ll be worth it, right? And she can always make it up to them later...or next Christmas.

* * * * *

For readers of the Hiding Behind The Couch series, Not My Christmas comes several months after Reunions (Season Seven) and immediately after The Advent of Reason.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beaten Track Publishing
• Release date: Dec 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781786453976

Debbie McGowan

Debbie McGowan is an award-winning author of contemporary fiction that celebrates life, love and relationships in all their diversity. Since the publication in 2004 of her debut novel, Champagne—based on a stage show co-written and co-produced with her husband—she has published many further works—novels, short stories and novellas—including two ongoing series: Hiding Behind The Couch (a literary ‘soap opera’ centring on the lives of nine long-term friends) and Checking Him Out (LGBTQ romance). Debbie has been a finalist in both the Rainbow Awards and the Bisexual Book Awards, and in 2016, she won the Lambda Literary Award (Lammy) for her novel, When Skies Have Fallen: a British historical romance spanning twenty-three years, from the end of WWII to the decriminalisation of homosexuality in 1967. Through her independent publishing company, Debbie gives voices to other authors whose work would be deemed unprofitable by mainstream publishing houses.

Book preview

Christmas Tree

Contents

The Davenport Family Christmas Tree

Not My Christmas

About the Author

By the Author

Beaten Track Publishing

1

Who’s sober?

Mud-splattered, sweating and too south of sober to answer in the affirmative, Charlie speed-unzipped her coat, threw it at the hooks and scooted behind her mum to the downstairs loo. She shoved the door with her knees, dropped pants and sat heavily, exhaling in relief. That was a seriously close call.

As she zoned back in, the sounds of Davenport Christmas resumed on the other side of the door—

Give me that! Teddy demanded.

No! It’s not yours! That was Pete.

Not yours either!

Nobody would believe they were in their late twenties, the way they squabbled, especially at Christmas.

"I sa-a-i-id…" Their mother upped the decibels. …who’s sober?

Still nobody answered. Charlie emerged from the loo to find her looming over them like the Death version of the Ghost of Christmas Past—or was that Future?—but in a snowman apron, lilac fluffy slippers and full festive glitz.

Am I talking to myself?

Charlie ducked her mother’s arm to reach the living room but was brought up short by the mess of toys—the actual kids’ toys—and wrapping paper. She made to grab the Xbox controller from Pete, just getting a touch on it before Teddy swooped in and snatched it away.

My turn, he said with a victorious grin and sprawled on the couch.

I’m not sober, Ben informed them from the far end of the living room where he was screwing the back on to the radio controller for the racing car his daughters had proudly presented him earlier. As if to prove his insobriety, his hand slipped—Fff…errari approaching the starting grid—and he quickly put the car down on the floor, rubbing at his palm. I’m fine, he said. Nobody panic.

Nobody was, Pete pointed out.

Did someone say Ferrero Rocher? Tilly ducked around their mother and did a brief reccy of the room, scowling when it confirmed the absence of confectionery.

Don’t start on the chocolate now, their mother snapped. "We’ll be having dinner in forty-five minutes—if one of you goes and gets cranberry sauce from somewhere."

Where, exactly? Ben asked.

You forgot the cranberry sauce? Charlie blinked, incredulous. Their mother made lists. And lists of lists. She never forgot anything—even the stuff they wished she would.

Mother, how could you? Teddy looked aghast.

I didn’t forget it! I…dropped the jar.

Ohhhhhh! her assorted offspring exclaimed in unison.

Your dad can’t go, obviously.

Obviously, Charlie echoed. Pete and Teddy snorted but didn’t pass comment seeing as they’d all been hammering the booze since eight that morning—or all bar Luke, whose sprogs had given him the gift of food poisoning—I knew there was something off about that pig in a blanket, but what could I do? Sounded like a great excuse to stay in bed, Charlie thought, but whatever. It was now quarter to one in the afternoon, and while they weren’t blind drunk, none of them was sober enough to drive anywhere.

We can manage without, can’t we? Ben suggested.

His siblings gasped en masse—the four in the living room. Ellie was in the kitchen, interfering with Christmas dinner—Can’t help it, I’m a natural manager. Control freak more like—same as their mother—and on Christmas Day, something as trivial as ‘no cranberry sauce’ was a catastrophe of global proportions.

Wouldn’t happen if we had Christmas at home, Charlie muttered—about the lack of shops as opposed to the general potential for the day to implode, although the same applied.

Ben shrugged. You don’t have to come here if you don’t want to.

Yeah, right. She’d been joking, sort of joking. OK, not really joking, and she knew better than to bring it up, but it was true.

You really don’t, Ben said obstinately.

Charlie pinched her lips between her teeth, determined not to answer back.

"I mean, my house is the biggest, and we all agreed it makes the most sense to do Christmas here."

So much for her determination. Ellie and James have a big house too. And, you know, our house didn’t shrink after you left home, did it? She looked to Pete for backup, seeing as they two were the last to fly the nest.

Pete said nothing, focusing all his attention on tidying away the packaging from the Xbox, which wasn’t his Christmas present anyway. Teddy relinquished his claim on the controller and made a hasty exit, whistling ‘It’s That Most Wonderful Time’.

I don’t see why we can’t take it in turns, Charlie said.

Absolutely, Ben pretended to agree. "You’re welcome to take the mantle, Charlotte. Any time you like, or, you know, when you get a place of your own."

It took every bit of willpower she possessed, but Charlie let it go because really, what was the point? They always did Christmas at Ben’s house. Yes, it was massive and flash with seven bedrooms, a converted barn and all kinds of stuff for the kids to do, like the quad bikes and dirt/mud track he’d set up since last Christmas—a ‘business venture’, he claimed. But it was also out in the sticks on the outskirts of a tiny village with a pub, a church and a post office, bloody miles from anywhere with shops open on Christmas Day, lest anyone forget the cranberry sauce started it. Or started it this time.

Every year they had this fight—every year since Ben bought his massive, flashy house and said, "Hey, why don’t we do Christmas here for a change?!" And their mother claimed he wasn’t the favourite!