“Okay, so tell me about Davo.”
Ash dropped the list onto the table and took another sip before answering. “Well—and I’m surprised Chloe didn’t mention this—but I guess the big thing is that he’s my ex.”
Jules must have done a crappy job of hiding her surprise because Ash laughed. “Yeah, it’s probably a little weird that we still hang out together, but mostly it’s okay.”
“No, no, sorry. It’s not as weird as you might think.” Jules filled Ash in on her parental situation.
“And everyone’s fine with it?”
“For the most part. I mean, sometimes I can tell it’s not great for my dad, but he’s a good sport.”
“Does he have someone?”
“No, not right now. He did bring someone to Christmas a couple of years ago—Paula—but that did not go well.”
“Why’s that?”
“She was … I don’t know.” Jules puffed out a sigh. “Actually, I do. She was okay, nothing special, and definitely not good enough for my dad, who is like the best guy in the world, but all that aside, she was only a few years older than me.”
“Ergh …” Ash made a face that cracked Jules up.
“Yeah. Anyway, it was a little tense all around and they ended up driving back to Boulder on Christmas night. They broke up not long after.”
“Well, I hope tomorrow won’t be anything like that.”
“You hope?”
“There’s something wrong with my glass,” said Ash brightly, holding her empty glass aloft, obviously deflecting. She jumped up and retrieved the bottle from the fridge. Jules held out her glass for a top-up and Ash poured it carefully, making sure it didn’t froth over the rim.
Jules only had one more question and then she’d let it lie. “So, how long ago did you two break up?”
Ash, back in her spot on the couch, frowned. “Um, about eight months ago?” She posed it as a question and Jules frowned.
Okay, now she only had one more question. “And how long were you together?”
“Five years.” Whoa. Five years might as well have been forever. In the past decade, Jules’s longest relationship—if you could even call it that—had lasted about five weeks. Jules watched Ash pick at her sweatpants, removing some non-existent lint, and something occurred to her.
“And does the breakup have anything to do with the ‘I’m a bitch’ comment?” Ash was anything but a bitch, but someone had planted that seed.
Ash’s head nodded slightly. “It was a fight … the one where we broke up. He called me a selfish bitch,” she said quietly. “He’d got offered the use of this holiday house up north for a long weekend, but I had this work event … Anyway, things had been kinda stale between us and he really wanted us to go away together … Look, I know he didn’t mean it; he apologised straight away, but …”
“It stuck.” Jules knew exactly how a word could be hurled at you, even just one time, and embed itself and grow. “Slut” had been that word for her. Apparently, losing your virginity to a boy you thought you loved, a boy with a big mouth and an even bigger ego, was enough to earn that disgusting moniker. She shoved the thought down deep where it lived.
“Ash?” She looked up and Jules saw the glisten of tears in her eyes. “Oh, Ash.” She was down the other end of the couch in a flash, one arm wrapped tightly around her new friend’s shoulders and her chin resting on Ash’s head. She heard quiet sniffles.
“I miss him so much, Jules. It was just a stupid fight and we should never have broken up, but it’s been months now and …” Ash’s words were swallowed up with tears.
Jules patted Ash’s arm, not knowing what else to do. This was already turning out to be the most dramatic Christmas she could remember—and that included the one with Paula.
*
“Um, hey, don’t take this the wrong way, but is that what you’re wearing for Christmas lunch?”
Jules, freshly showered and made up, looked down at her crisp white cotton top and pale pink shorts. “Yeah, I was, why?” She thought she looked nice, certainly nicer than if she was at home for Christmas.
Ash was standing in the kitchen, having just cleaned it for the millionth time. The salads were made, all three of them a huge step-up from the salads of shredded iceberg lettuce, cucumber rings, and anaemic tomatoes she’d grown up with. One was a Christmas salad with raspberries, strawberries, dates, and walnuts on a bed of greens; it looked amazing. There was also a giant platter of shrimp—“prawns”, as the Aussie called them—and lemon wedges in the fridge, and the ham was glazing in the oven. Jules had happily done Ash’s bidding for most of the morning fuelled by sparkling wine and Christmas cookies.
Even the table was set.
It looked beautiful—white tablecloth and napkins, ironed to perfection; Ash’s good dinnerware—also white; Riedel wine glasses—sparkling, white, and red; water glasses; Chloe’s good silverware; and as many blue decorations and candles as there probably were in all of Australia, including a centrepiece of a tall glass vase filled with tiny glass ornaments—also blue.
There were these things at every place setting called crackers, long tubes with ribbons on either end, decorated in silver and blue. Ash said they were traditional, but traditional where? As beautiful as everything was, there was nothing traditional about this Christmas.
No ceramic dishes shaped like Santa brimming with red and green M&Ms, no Christmas stockings in all shapes and sizes hanging from the fireplace, no fireplace, no bedraggled tree cut down by the menfolk and dragged inside, then decorated as though by a kindergarten class. No snow.
No, this Christmas was anything but traditional. It was perfect.
“Oh,” Jules said, finally realising. Her eyes flew back to the ornate table. “It’s formal.”
“Yeah, sorry, I don’t mean to be a bi— Um … a cow or anything …” Ash trailed off.
“No! Oh, my god. That’s on me. I totally flaked is all. I mean, at home we just wear jeans and sweaters. I
