Chapter Text
Christmas dinner. The rowdy pub, families everywhere, itchy jumpers, crackers, plenty of beer, lots of roasties, Pervy uncles we don’t see often for a good reason; it’s all part of the fun at Christmas. My family’s made it a tradition of having a Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve at the local pub, it’s great fun, we all pile in and fill up on roast lamb and have a good old natter.
I’m sat in my usual spot between my brother Rufus and dad. We’re all just getting settled, not having ordered yet (not that we really need to - the wait staff know us better than anyone), so it’s just the usual rowdy family conversation and drinks. I’m sat there, trying to avoid judgement as always.
I yawn slightly and fish through my pockets for a cigarette, needing to occupy my fingers with something other than tracing the lace detailing on the tablecloth. Nana gives me a very disapproving look.
“Now, Christine, you shouldn’t be smoking indoors, let alone at the dinner table! It’s obscene?!” She chides, gesturing to the pack of Marlboros and unlit ciggie on my lip, the filter picking up the deep red of my lipstick..
See - since turning 30 I’ve sort of lost.. the ability to care about many, many things. Things that were horridly interesting at 20 are increasingly dull at 30 - or even 25! I don’t care about dating, waiting around for ‘the one’ - though I’d like one, I won’t invest all my energy into it, I don’t care about what others think (unless in a professional setting), or if I look sick without makeup, or how much I smoke, swear or drink. My filter went out the window when mum was born without one. Once you learn the only constant figure in your life is you, things get easier. You learn to relax, stop clenching your teeth, stop fretting over men, women, friends, etc. it’s nice. you find your people that think similarly to you, ones that you can still have good debates with. I’m happy, I wear suede blazers over old fashioned knit jumpers with teeny skirts and tights at Christmas, work a cool job in a cool office, smoke whenever I want (within reason), curse like a sailor, live like a spinster and go to gigs every other night.
I put my cigarette away and raise my hands in surrender, prompting a laugh from Rufus.
“Mum, her name’s Victoria, not Christine. Everyone calls her Vic?” Dad sighs, my bad had always been a point of contention between my parents and my nan. It’s ‘tradition’ to name the first girl of each generation Christine.. well, mum didn’t like it and neither did dad, so they went with Victoria Beatrice Pierce. Ain’t that neat? I love it, think it’s very regal.
“Well it’s tradition, William?! Not like you and your loose-moral-ed wife would know anything about tradition, your new wave ideas parenting.” She huffs, she never liked mum, mum just sits there, sipping her wine while rolling her eyes.
“Don’t dare insult my wife.” Dad shoots back - he takes no shit about his darling wife, Janie.
“I could certainly take her in hand.” Uncle Dan pipes up - dad’s older, pervy brother, complete with handlebar moustache and total douche-ery. He leers at my poor mother like some absolute creep, dad kicks his shin hard under the table, making him whine. I can see that look in mum’s eye that she always gets when dad defends her.
“Hands off my wife, Daniel.” Dad shoots the whimpering Daniel a cold glare. God my dad’s cool as fuck?
“Please! Look at her? Pregnant before marriage, drinks and swears like a sailor?” Nan carries on.
“Oh stuff you all, I need a smoke.” I get up and strut off, hearing Nan’s tuttering about ‘unladylike’ and such. Lean against the cold brick wall of the pub, smoking as I plan my great escape. The Cotswolds, or maybe Paris? Or some fancy place in London even, with a dog, maybe some kids, and a gorgeous hubby to look after them while I go out and make tonnes and tonnes and tonnes of money. Oh what a dream! I’m interrupted from this fantasy by a somewhat northern voice cutting through my thoughts.
“ ‘Scuse me Miss, don’t suppose you could light my cigarette?” A lanky pair of fingers holding the cigarette lean to a rather tall man with this.. limp brown hair over his face. He wears these thick glasses and has small-ish lips. He’s charming in an odd way. He looks older than me. God I’d climb him like a tree. I like the sort of.. lanky, thin, effeminate looking men.
“Sure.” I shrug and light his cigarette for him. “Aren’t you that lad from pulp?” It finally clocks for me. I saw Pulp last month - they’re great. Now I’m face to face with the singer? Almost a touch awestruck.
“Jarvis cocker, miss…?” He waits for my name, taking a tentative drag of his cigarette.
“Victoria. Pierce if you want the last Mae..” I smile
“Nice name. Victoria’s actually my favourite tube station?” He smirks cheekily, I just laugh at the slightly pathetic joke.
“Why, thank you? I thought a man like you would have better humour, no?”
“Ah, sometimes, darling, rather hit ‘nd miss these days. What’s a sweetheart like you doing out here all alone, hm? No boyfriend about to keep you warm?” He smirks, leaning down to my level. He’s a good head taller than me.
“I’m here with my family - and I ain’t got a boyfriend.” I shrug, smoking. “Just need an escape from them.”
“Really? A pretty young thing like you?” He teases, smirking cheekily.
I can’t help but laugh - I haven’t been called young since I was like.. 25? “Please.. I’m 30.” I shrug.
“That’s still young darling, don’t be silly.” He smirks, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m 32.”
“When’s your birthday?” I ask, gently.
“September 19th of ‘63.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “When’s yours? Let me guess, 1975?” He teases, gesturing a cigarette at me.
“December 5th 1965.” I brush my hair off my shoulders and up into a messy bun - leaving much to be desired. I wouldn’t say I’m entirely desirable. I’m attractive, sure, but that’s all it extends to. There’s only so much a wiry frame and hair over my eyes can do to a man, and lets me real, I’m okay with that.
“ ‘65? So you’re an old thing like me?” He chuckles.
“Old twats club, aye?” I tease, fist bumping him as we both laugh a bit.
“So, you’re a music fan, huh?” He smirks slyly. “You coming to our next gig?”
“The one in London? Yeah. Why?”
“Want to come backstage for a little while after, darling?” He smirks, leaning in, “Maybe even before too? Whatever you fancy?”
“You’ve only just met me?” I look up at him.
“I can trust that dry wit of yours. You’re harmless, what’ll you do? Bite my wrist, short arse?” He quips.
“Oh shut up.” I roll my eyes, sighing. He’s annoying. “I’ll go, alright? You happy?” I chuckle, brushing my hair behind my ear.
“Very happy, love.” He smirks and kisses my neck, just under my ear. “I’ll get you a backstage pass, alright, just meet me a little before the gig? And wear that skirt again?” He gestures to my denim skirt, his hand reaching to pinch my bum, asshole, I slap his hand away.
“Oi! Keep off? Not yet?” I glare a hole through him, he backs off, chuckling.
“Sorry darling.. so, will you be coming home with little old me after the gig on Friday?” He smirks slightly.
“I’ll have to think about it.. but maybe?~” I tease gently.
“Oh don’t give us a maybe, sweetheart?” He pleads in that lovely northern drawl. “Yes?”
“Yes. I’ll come home with you.” I smile.
“Brilliant. I think that ciggie’s more than finished darling, don’t you ought to be going back into your family? Won’t your mother be worrying about her dear daughter talking to strange men?” He teases. I roll my eyes, write my number down on a piece of paper.
“I’ll chat to you later. You better call me?” I shoot him a Little glare and walk back inside.
“Victoria? Jesus, how long’s it take to smoke? Mum chides as I sit down, brushing greying hair behind her ear. Nana just rolls her eyes.
“Probably behind the back with some strange man - wearing skirts like that!” She chides, I just roll my eyes.
“I was just chatting to a guy who needed a light about a band we like..” I sigh, putting my hair up into a bun.
“You smell of men’s cologne, little sister~” Rufus teases, I roll my eyes.
“Yeah? I was standing next to a man?” I sass back, rolling my eyes, annoyed.
“More than standing next to?” He teases, I shove his shoulder.
“See! Hooking up with strange men behind the pub? Her lipstick’s smeared?” Nan insists.
“Jesus Christ, Agatha would you stop assuming my daughter’s a whore?!” Mum starts.
“Well when there’s evidence?” She answers back. I just roll my eyes. The conversation’s cut short by the waitress delivering our roasts and drinks.
I start slowly eating my potatoes, ignoring whatever else is going on around me, I’m just drifting off thinking a little of Jarvis. God he’s charming, in some awkward little way. I’m into it.
“Vic? Vic!” Mum looks over at me.
“Hm? What?” I look up.
“Will you pass the gravy please, sweetheart?” She sighs as I finally pass the gravy.
I finally manage to get away with a couple cards and candles and get home: thank god. On goes my ‘Mrs Claus’ slip I got from this stupid lingerie store, it’s red with that tacky white fur trimmings around the edges, plus elbow high gloves. It’s like the adult version of those slightly cringey Christmas pyjamas.
I settle into bed with a cuppa, ready to fall asleep until I get a call..
“Hello? Vic speakin’ who’s this?” I yawn slightly.
“Guess?” Jarvis coos into the phone.