Chapter Text
As much as he had protested that it is not a holiday worth celebrating for him, Poirot was now happy and dare I say even grateful that we showed him the many joys of an English Christmas. A few weeks ago it was merely a joke between friends but things just seemed to fall into place. Having no family to visit for Christmas, my usual plans for pheasant shooting with old friends in Scotland fell into the water- literally, as an unusually rainy autumn caused the river to swell, flooding the ground floor of the Lavingstons' lovely country manor, and with repairs still underway they sadly couldn't receive guests for the annual event. Then a similar fate befell Miss Lemon when her sister's husband fell ill a few days ago and the doctor sent him and his wife to the South to the seaside for a swift recovery. Unable to make this trip herself, she, too, was now stuck in London and so the plan was hatched. It was quite a lovely Christmas and despite his reservations about English cuisine, Poirot even enjoyed the traditional Christmas lunch- pudding and all! It was rather lovely, like Christmas with the family, except we must have made quite a funny family portrait. Especially now after Japp joined us for drinks, explaining that his wife was essentially comatose after their Christmas lunch, apparently wishing not to be disturbed. The only thing we did not indulge in for Poirot's sake was the presents- no matter how hard I suddenly found it not to purchase any, as suddenly the shop windows seemed to be filled with lovely things for everyone.
I followed Poirot from the kitchen to the living room, where Miss Lemon and Japp where standing with their drinks and Japp now prepared to pour us ours. Poirot had stopped sort of halfway through the door and not wanting to push past him I simply hovered by his side, waiting for a cue to move. I hadn't yet made an effort to join the conversation, or even listen to it so far. The heavy meal, drinks and Christmas spirit had left my brain quite foggy, but blissful. Suddenly I felt something pull down on my tie and just before I realised it was a hand, I felt something press into my face and all at once I realised it was Poirot's hand doing the pulling and Poirot's face doing the pressing, and more specifically, it was Poirot's mouth pressing against mine- and in that moment it was already over. He pointed above us and with a mischievous smile he exclaimed:
"One of your English traditions, Hastings: The mistletoe!" and he laughed out loud. More laughter filled the air as Japp and Miss Lemon joined in, and still staring at Poirot laughing heartily I realised it was at my expense that they were laughing. I felt a deep shame build up inside me in that moment, even though I considered myself more resilient than that to little pranks from my friends. All I could do was stand there unmoving, with numb lips and even number limbs.
Day 1 - December 26th
It was surely past midnight as I lay awake in my room. It had gotten quite late before Japp and Miss Lemon left. I felt bad that in a way I was glad when they did. Perhaps, I thought, I was still angry with them for the joke they all played on me earlier. I had had an uneasy feeling in my stomach when Poirot and I were left alone in the apartment, and I was relieved when I retired to my room. They hadn't told me whose idea the joke was, in fact it seemed they had completely forgotten about it all after their laughter subsided. But now I wondered anew- did they conspire against me and hung it up behind my back? Was it Poirot's idea and it took even Japp and Miss Lemon by surprise? It seemed so unlike Poirot, pulling my tie and endangering his moustache like this. I had felt his moustache against my lips, and had I made any movement with them it surely would have been messed up. But Poirot probably knew that, he knew I wouldn't make a movement- why would I.
Day 2 - December 27th
Since there were no presents, Boxing Day had been slow, especially after I had risen extraordinarily late. It didn't, however, occur to me until today that between the late evening on the 25th and the time I rose on the 26th, the mistletoe had been removed. None of the other decorations had yet. It confirmed my belief that they had all conspired and either Japp or Miss Lemon took it down and back home with them, as one of them must have been the one bringing it here.
Day 3 - December 28th
I didn't want to bring it up again. My face still burned every time I thought of it, but I so badly wanted to know whose idea it had been. Even now, taking down the decorations, I couldn't bring myself to ask. Occasionally I'd peer into the boxes behind Poirot's back to see if he had secretly put the mistletoe there, but if he was the one to put it up and take it down, he had done a good job at hiding it. I didn't much care for this sneakiness. In fact, I was quite upset by it- taking down the mistletoe right after successfully playing this joke on me robbed me of a chance at playing my own joke, on my own terms. Why should Poirot be the only one who gets to humiliate me with such a surprise? Why not leave it up so I could even the scoreboard the next time the opportunity presented itself? It felt rather unfair to me now. Poirot may always boast about being one step ahead of me, but I would get my payback.
Day 4 - December 29th
I had come up with a plan for my revenge. After going about several possibilities a thought occurred to me. I could easily arrange to be at home on New Year's Eve and I knew Poirot would be too. I could simply recreate the scene and catch him in his blissful unawareness at midnight. I would get to be in on this joke and finally be rid of this shame about being caught so unawares and laughed at so cruelly.
Day 5 - December 30th
My plans very nearly were ruined! A letter arrived today from a Mrs Dupree, asking for Poirot's counsel. She asked for him to come up to call on her at her house in the North and I was quite afraid when I read it because I knew Poirot might not return by New Year's Eve. However, Poirot declined, saying something about the lack of challenge and importance, but I had a feeling it was his aversion to cold, English countryside homes that really motivated him to this choice.
Day 6 - December 31st
The fire crackled in the fireplace and Poirot and I had spent much of the day just sitting and talking. He was in high spirits because of some thing or other in the newspaper that quite interested him and clearly presented a mystery worthy of his little grey cells. I merely smiled, watching him gesticulate excitedly as he presented the facts to me, pointing out the missing clue he was determined to find. To me the solution seemed quite obvious but it was always good to see him enjoying himself.
We had a lovely view of the park from the window behind Poirot's desk, so luckily Poirot declared it unnecessary for us to go outside into the cold to see the fireworks- we would have a perfectly adequate view from up here. Perhaps even better than out there, I had declared. So we found ourselves by the window, with only little light to illuminate the apartment in case the glare spoiled the lights outside. Some kids were already setting off some sparklers, even though the radio told us it was not quite time yet. The countdown started and I looked at Poirot who couldn't help but smile an almost boyish smile of anticipation. Quite suddenly I remembered my plan. I had nearly forgotten about it and it came to me as the voice on the radio reached 5. 4. 3. 2. 1.
Day 7 - January 1st
Auld Lang Syne came softly through the speaker as the fireworks outside exploded, the loud bangs muffled by the window. Lights danced all around us and illuminated Poirot's face in reds and greens and yellows. He turned to me with a kind smile, his eyes glowing with the excitement of the event, looking as if he was about to say something but I leaned down. If Poirot flinched at the touch of my lips against his, I didn't notice. But I had hoped anyway that he would freeze up as I had. I couldn't quite tell though, and soon realised that it was because I had closed my eyes. An unfortunate instinct. And if Poirot's kiss had happened so fast I couldn't even register it until it was over, I felt like hours were passing now. But Auld Lang Syne was still playing when I pulled back, opened my eyes and said:
"Another one of our... English... traditions" but my voice was quiet and croaky and died before I finished the last word. I beheld Poirot's utterly astonished face and must have regarded him with a similar expression in return. It didn't seem like he understood my little joke, which was understandable I suppose, because I wasn't laughing about it myself. Nobody was laughing because there was nobody here to witness this humiliation I had planned to cause him. Instead it was I who felt humiliated, again. I had failed to elicit the response I had hoped for and now had made a fool of myself once over. Perhaps I had made the mistake of lingering too long, curious to register the sensations I hadn't had the time to register on Christmas Day- the way his moustache not quite tickled but certainly caused quite a funny sensation; or how extraordinarily soft his lips felt, not in the least stiff as I expected having taken him by surprise, but instead responding like a soft down cushion, giving way under every movement. Had I moved? I looked to make sure his moustache was intact and it looked alright to me, although I knew Poirot had higher standards than I. I noticed the slightest smile was tugging at his lips and to my horror realised I was once again about to be laughed at. Avoiding eye contact entirely by looking to the floor, I excused myself.