Marianne’s life had been a marshmallow cloud until she read that card. OK, maybe life was an exaggeration. But certainly her week had been a sweet fluffy nimbus of sugary goodness – up to that point. The card hadn’t even bothered her that much at first. Indeed, her initial reaction had been laughter. The kind of sharp giggle jolted out of you before your brain has a chance to kick into gear.

The envelope had been left on her desk while she was putting the empty mugs away in the office kitchen. It was December 24th, around 3PM. Everyone was packing up early to go home for the holidays. And there it was: a plain red square envelope addressed ‘Marianne’.

She looked around. No one close by taking any interest, the potential giver of the card. Damn, she thought, I won’t have time to send a card back. Card-giving wasn’t common in the office. In fact, Marianne couldn’t recall a single one being exchanged during the festive run-up. So as she picked up the envelope, she was curious, and not a little flattered.

Tearing open the flap, she managed to shred it into a series of stunted teeth, wondering whether anyone on earth had the ability to open an envelope without doing so. She slipped out the glossy card from inside.

It was decorated with a single silver snowflake. A touch plain, in Marianne’s opinion. Like one of those multipack cards you got reduced at the end of the season. But she didn’t mind. After all, it was the thought that counted.

So standing by her desk, surrounded by colleagues packing up their things and switching off their computers, Marianne read her card. First came the cattleprod giggle, then a frown, which deepened like a child’s when they realise their ice cream is melting down their fist. There were six words inside the card. And it only took six words to break her.

‘Dear Marianne,

Have a shit Christmas.’

•

Staring at it, Marianne had to reread the words several times before they sunk in. Yes, that does indeed say shit where it should say lovely. Could it have been a misspell, a slip, a trick of handwriting? No.

Two things cut into her straightaway. One: the careful cursive and fine ink used to write such a foul message. Second: that the card had clearly been addressed to her, both inside and out. There was no escaping this note had been meant for her. No ‘wrong card in the envelope’ wriggle-room.

Fearing she was on the verge of tears she had not left the house prepared for this morning, Marianne swiftly gathered up her bag and jacket and marched out of the office. She didn’t even switch off her computer or say a final goodbye as she passed her colleagues.

‘Hey, h-’ Jake began as she barrelled through the front door. He trailed off at the sight of her ashen face. ‘What’s happened?’

She handed him the card without a word, headed into the kitchen and switched the kettle on. When she returned, cup of tea clasped in hand, its steam warming her chin and softening her face, Jake looked up from it.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’ he said, a slight – cautious – smile on his face.

‘Not a very funny one if it is,’ she said.

‘Who sent it?’

‘I don’t know. It’s unsigned.’

Her boyfriend turned over the card, inspecting it all over as if he might be able to deduce the culprit. ‘Hmm,’ he said, and placed it on the side table.

‘Hmm?’ she repeated. ‘Is that all you can say – hmm?’

‘Well, what do you want me to say?’ He held up his hands for a moment, before going into the kitchen for his own cup of tea.

‘I don’t know…’ Marianne said, deflated. Later that evening she was stewing on the card while putting the finishing bows on homemade crackers for tomorrow’s big dinner, though the card was clearly eclipsing any other thoughts as she had put the prize for Jake’s aunt Peggy inside the cracker for his dad, which surely wouldn’t do. ‘Who could have sent a thing like that? Who?’

‘Well, presumably someone at your office,’ Jake replied innocently, his mind more focused on the telly.

‘Yes, I know that much,’ she snapped.

‘I don’t know, have you upset anyone recently?’ he asked.

A gasp almost escaped Marianne. That thought hadn’t even crossed her mind – upset anyone? Her honest-to-God motto in life (which had coincidentally been the earnest motto of her primary school also) was to be kind and considerate to others above all else. It was one of the things she prided herself on most.

But had she done something? She flipped through the past weeks like one of her magazines, searching out that one offending article. There had been that curt reply from Linda when she’d chased her for an interview confirmation. ‘Done it already as requested,’ Linda had written. Did that blunt, passive aggressive email hide a greater resentment of Marianne?

Then there was the look Tracey had given her when she’d complimented her skirt. A look that said, How dare you mention the skirt my mother gave me when she’s just been diagnosed with another brain tumour, you insensitive BITCH! Had Tracey sent her the poison message?

And what about Larry, the new boy in operations? She’d only just been introduced to him when Becca made her guess his age. Yes, she’d suggested ‘around thirty’ in a wavering, questioning voice. Yes, she’d seen his face fall and his brow furrow in disappointment beneath his growing forehead and prematurely thinning hair. How was she to know he was only twenty-three? If Larry was the writer, the card should have been sent to pot-stirrer Becca, not her. Or to his parents, for calling him Larry.

Marianne put down the crackers in a fluster. The list of people she’d offended just went on and on. Linda, Tracey, Larry, the new woman in accounts whose name she still didn’t know, the man whose jokes she never got, the chap in Pret a Manger she knocked into, that lady on the bus with the embarrassingly similar dress, the window cleaner she’d forgotten to tip for Christmas… but who had wished her a season of excrement?

•

‘Don’t worry about it, no point getting paranoid,’ Jake said sleepily as he rolled over and turned out the lights. ‘Forget about it; it’s Christmas after all.’

But Marianne could only lay there, wired, staring up at the dark ceiling.

•

When she did wake – a jolting snap-to as if her body was embarrassed to have switched off – Jake had already gone. She’d forgotten he had a morning shift at the hospital, leaving her to prepare the dinner for his incoming family. It was the first time they’d hosted since moving into an apartment together, so tensions were already high enough without this dammed Christmas card.

Dear Marianne, have a shit Christmas.

The banal joviality in the tone made her pulse with rage undimmed by the fresh morning.

Have a shit Christmas.

Why should she have a shit Christmas? She, who tried so hard to be kind and thoughtful, who put in so much for so little reward.

God damn it, why am I letting this get to me? she thought.

She looked at the clock. 9.30 AM.

God damn it! Marianne jumped out of bed and raced downstairs to fluster about the turkey.

•

Christmas had always been her favourite time of year. Since she was a child, it had been a warm season brimming with cinnamon and cheer. A time of nothing to do but relax with family, enjoying each other’s company. A call back to a rose-tinted past when even strangers on the street greeted each other with joy. Now that Marianne was a working adult, the mythical stretch of festivities had by necessity been shortened to a long weekend or week at most, but she intended to enjoy its magic all the same. Perhaps that was why the card had thrown her so off kilter – the thought that it could all be ruined. That someone out there could wish it ruined.

Marianne had to find out who that person was.

Dropping her attempts at roasting their dinner, she paced the hallway, thinking hard. Someone in the office had dropped off the note, in the very short period of time she had been away from her desk. Had they waited for a clear path, staked out by the printer perhaps, spying behind the office plant, awaiting the opportunity to avoid recognition for their deed? Perhaps. Had they held back until the confusion of home time to do said deed undetected? Almost certainly.

She whipped out her phone and shot off a couple of Facebook messages to the people who worked on the desks around hers. Hey, happy Christmas! Just wondering if you happened to see who left a card on my desk last thing yesterday? No worries if not x.

A half-hearted stab, she soon reflected. She couldn’t recall any of them being around at that time (and perhaps even one of them was the culprit – maybe Ruth opposite with her evil eyes). She would have to dig further. A single ‘Happy Xmas hon x’ reply confirmed this.

Truth be told, Marianne had struggled to make any what she would consider real friends since starting at the firm. If she was perhaps even more honest with herself, she’d struggled to make any real friends since leaving secondary school.

What was it that made it so hard for adults to bond with each other? Was it the digital age that prohibited them from taking social occasions seriously? A Whatsapped ‘Soz can’t make it now, have a great time tho!’ – such a casual, upbeat dismissal of their friend’s importance that barely anyone reacted to these days.

Marianne tried to fight against this, she really tried. Always the first to suggest after work drinks or a Macmillan coffee morning, always the last to be invited if someone else did happen to organise an outing.

Jake was fine, of course he was, but he couldn’t be her entire social life. He couldn’t offer that easy-going escape that only friends can.

Marianne had hoped that she was liked at work. Before this card, she had even believed it. But now… at least one of them there would gleefully see her hurt. And who could she call on for help? Did she have any allies?

On her laptop, she logged into the company directory. They may not be her friends, but at least she could contact them. Being in HR had its benefits. This thought made her laugh, for a moment. Sweet wafts of turkey filled her nose as she got fired up, and began calling. Having made a list of people she could remember seeing on the fateful afternoon – yesterday – she found their numbers and rang each in turn.

Most of the conversations ran pretty much the same. A spill of Christmas mirth, running over from the celebrations the person had just been called away from. Then bemusement – Why are you calling me today? A questioning laugh. You’re trying to track down a card? Followed by a fast diminishing patience as they realised yes, this was indeed why Marianne was phoning to interrupt their holiday, and yes indeed, she was determined to get an answer. The goodbyes were terse.

But on the fifth call, she got her answer.

Katryna, a bubbly Polish lady, had been spotted leaving the envelope on her desk. Marianne hadn’t the slightest idea why she could be involved. They’d barely spoken more than a couple of times, worked on different floors and couldn’t possibly have any reason for bad blood.

No point deliberating, she thought. Time to act.

She picked up the phone and called her. Katryna’s sister answered, wished her a merry Christmas, and said Katryna was out walking the dog but would be back soon. She promised to get her to return the call then.

How many more poison letters is she dropping off on her ‘walk’? Marianne found herself musing.

She thanked the lady and was just hanging up when Jake came through the door. ‘What’s all this smoke?’ he coughed. Black fumes had leaked out from the kitchen without her even noticing. Jake barrelled into the fog and cried out. ‘Jesus Christ, Marianne, everything is burned! Everything!’

•

While she tried to tell him she’d discovered who’d left the card on her desk, Jake was fast becoming as fraught as her.

‘Would you shut up about that bloody card? My parents will be here in’ – he checked his watch – ‘less than twenty minutes. And we have nothing to serve them.’ He held up a pan half-filled with a blackened mound of sprouts.

‘Some of this is edible,’ Marianne replied, crunching into a charred carrot. ‘The turkey’s just black on the surface. That’s the main bit sorted, the rest is just dressing.’

Jake looked at her like she was crazy. He muttered about this being so unlike her, but there was no time for a real argument. They scraped off the food as best they could and served up just as the doorbell rang.

‘Hello, come in, happ-’ was all Marianne got in to her guests before the phone rang. She darted out the hallway mid-sentence, leaving Jake and his family startled.

‘Big news on the line?’ Jake’s dad, Peter, joshed. Jake shrugged and ushered them inside.

‘Dinner’s just on the table,’ he said, gesturing at the salvaged spread. His mother’s nose wrinkled at the sight of the cremated veg, but she smiled quickly to hide it.

‘Looks lovely, dear,’ she said.

Once the family were sitting down, Jake cast a stern glance down the hallway. Marianne buzzed out of the kitchen.

‘What is it-?’ he began.

‘It’s not her,’ she interrupted. ‘It wasn’t Katryna. Well, it was in a way. Someone asked her to leave the card on my desk. It was Dave. Dave from accounts.’ Her words came out in a furious tremble. ‘God knows why. I tried to phone him but no answer.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Now you know. Can we please just sit down and enjoy our family Christmas?’

•

But knowing wasn’t enough. Marianne realised this before Jake had even finished cutting the first slice of turkey. She had to know why. What could she have possibly done to offend Dave from accounts? As much as she tried to keep the thoughts down, they kept coming back like a noxious gas. It didn’t help that Jake’s dad kept prodding her to find out what the fuss had been about. Jake could only laugh him off or change the subject so many times while Marianne was set in silence, uneating and scraping at the beds of her nails.

Eventually he caved, and told them about the card.

Peter guffawed, the hearty, meat-filled laugh ploughing through her concentration. The cement mixer of half-eaten turkey and vegetables in his face set her blood boiling. ‘It’s just a silly prank, dear. It doesn’t mean anything.’

Marianne snapped. A lifetime of playing the nice girl for no reward crumbled in an instant. She jumped to her feet, her chair crashing to the floor.

‘Fuck you, it matters!’ she screamed into the stunned face of her potential (or not so potential) future father-in-law. Then she grabbed the closest thing to hand – the remaining hunk of turkey – and lobbed it at him. It bounced off his plate and into his neck with a gloopy fluck.

The room was transfixed. Before the spell could break, she fled.

Marianne drove. Her head pulsed. Her mind drifted between transient thoughts, like a fever dream, only settling on one: I have to know why.

She’d found the address, and now pulled into Dave’s driveway. Sounds of laughter and tinkling glasses came from inside. Fairy lights blinked up the pathway as Marianne marched past.

Her fist beat on the door three times before Dave opened up. He took in her tear-strewn, ravaged face with surprise. A paper crown topped his head.

‘Why?’ she said in a savage whisper. ‘Why did you send it?’

‘Huh?’

She lifted up the card as evidence – the crappy card with the crappy grey snowflake on. ‘Why did you send me this? Why do you want me to have a shit Christmas? What did I do to you?’

He looked at the card, recognition dawning in his eyes. But this didn’t turn to anger or shame, just amusement. ‘Ohh…’ he said. ‘That was meant for the new Marianne, in accounts. It was just a joke between us, about how Christmas cards are always so banal and insincere that they no longer mean anything.’ He grinned. ‘Geddit?’

This time, as she dropped the card and crumpled to the ground beside it, Marianne got the joke. It had started to snow.

‘Shit Christmas’ is included in my first collection of short stories, alongside nine other darkly comic tales.