With my very best wishes for a peaceful Christmas,
Shirley Booth
Assistant Store Manager
‘Misunderstanding?’ said Simon. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘Maybe Mum got stuck in the lift and wigged out?’ suggested Luke. ‘You know she hates lifts.’
‘She never goes in the lift at Inglewood’s,’ said Hattie. ‘She always uses the escalator.’
Simon sighed. ‘We better go and find out. I need to get her a present anyway.’
‘Haven’t you got her a present yet?’ Hattie looked at him accusingly.
‘Yes. But I think I need to get her something better.’
Instinct told him that the slow cooker he’d got her from Argos wasn’t going to do the job. To be fair, she had asked for it. But it showed little imagination and less generosity. He hadn’t even had to leave his desk. He’d ordered it online and had it delivered to the office. It was in the car boot, waiting for him to wrap it in some leftover paper that he would pinch from her.
He felt ashamed. Lizzy was brilliant at presents. They were always thoughtful and funny and personal and often had a theme, even if it was just a colour scheme. One year she had got them presents that began with their initials – he’d had socks, slippers, swimming goggles, a sweater, a bottle of Shiraz and a Stereophonics CD. None of the gifts were highly original on their own but by linking them she had made them special, somehow.
‘Get dressed,’ he told the twins. ‘See you outside in ten.’
He hoped that this wasn’t too little too late, and prayed that on Christmas Day she would be sitting in the living room ripping the paper off a huge pile of presents with her usual smile. That she would absolutely realise how much he bloody loved her. How much they all loved her.
20
Cynthia had forced herself to get up and get dressed. She had a long shower, then put on a pair of cream slacks and a gold jumper in honour of the time of year, blow-dried her hair and put on a full face of make-up. Appearance was everything.
She sat at the table for two in her kitchen. There was a glass of ruby red breakfast juice in front of her and a plate with two slices of granary toast. She could never face food until about eleven. Her appetite had vanished after Neville died, and she hated eating on her own. She nibbled one of the triangles, but it felt like dust in her mouth.
The space opposite her felt more glaringly empty than ever. Neville should be there, sipping his tomato juice, waiting for his poached egg to reach peak firmness – he liked them hard, not runny, so he could cut them into four and spread their pale yellowness onto his English muffin.
Oh, how she missed looking after someone. It was an overwhelming need that wouldn’t ever be fulfilled now. No one needed her. They had their own lives, their own support systems. She felt superfluous. Surplus to requirements.
The days stretched out in front of her. Christmas Eve tomorrow, then Christmas Day looming, black and empty. What was she to do? Where should she go? Everyone else on the close would be trotting off to friends and relatives. She’d seen a couple of them head off earlier today, laden with luggage and presents.
Were there friends she could go to? She could make up some excuse as to why she wasn’t with her own family. A bout of illness? But you had to know someone very well indeed to gatecrash their Christmas Day, and she didn’t feel confident enough to call anyone, for fear of hesitation or a false ‘Of course you must come to us’ accompanied by out-of-sight grimacing and eye-rolling.
As a widow, she felt a nuisance. Easy to overlook. She could just stay in bed for Christmas, she thought. Make her way through the side of smoked salmon and the couple of bottles of champagne and the box of white chocolate truffles that were sitting in the fridge. She’d had them delivered, originally to take to Amanda’s. She never turned up empty-handed.
She spooned some more marmalade onto her toast to make it less dry.
Buck up, Cynth, she told herself. She was not going to let the chain of events crush her. There must be something she could do; some constructive way she could spend the day. It was probably too late to book a hotel somewhere or fly to warmer climes. She chewed her toast, turning over the possibilities.
She remembered an article she’d seen recently about people helping out the homeless on Christmas Day, serving them dinner, entertaining them, bringing them into the warm to make them feel included at a time of year when one could feel very alone.
She felt a surge of enthusiasm for her idea. This was the way forward. In fact, she would do this every year, so she wouldn’t ever need to feel unwanted again. And Neville would have approved as well. He’d done so much for charity. Quietly. He wasn’t one of those men who wanted to be pictured in the local paper handing over money. He was discreet. And he’d believed that charity begins at home. She remembered him dressing up as Santa at work: all the factory workers would bring their children in on the last Saturday before Christmas and he would give every one of them a present. He might have made a lot of money but he gave away more than people realised.
She looked up homeless charities in Birmingham on her iPad. She was shocked by what she read: how many homeless there were, their stories, their bleak futures. She was cheered by the possibility of offering them warmth and company, even if it was only for one day.
There was one charity in particular that caught her eye – not the biggest, but it seemed to have great success in turning round the people it helped. There were lots of stories of people who had lost everything, including their self-respect, but had found their way again, picking themselves up and going on to lead happy lives. She wanted to be part of that. How wonderful, to give someone hope.
She remembered a film she’d watched recently. Diane Keaton falling in love with a man who lived wild in the woods near her Hampstead house. Maybe that could happen to her. She’d strike up a relationship with an entrepreneur who’d fallen on hard times. She’d give him something to live for, give him a reason to get himself back on his feet. They’d fall in love, travel the world …
She couldn’t help laughing at herself. She was getting carried away. She might not fall in love – how could she, when she still loved Neville? – but she could make a difference.
Galvanised, she picked up her phone.
‘My Christmas plans have fallen through unexpectedly,’ she told the person who answered. ‘I want to offer myself to help out at the refuge over Christmas. I don’t mind what I do – peeling spuds, washing-up. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.’
She was somewhat surprised to hear a sigh.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ was the reply. ‘We’ve got all the help we need. We’re never short of offers at Christmas. It’s very popular, helping out on Christmas Day. It’s the rest of the year we have a problem with.’
There was an implied criticism in her tone.
‘Oh,’ said Cynthia. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?’
She was fazed by the response. Somehow she’d imagined a cry of joy, profuse thanks and being welcomed with open arms. Not that she was in it for the glory.
‘What about a donation? Money is what we need. You can set up a direct debit via our website.’
‘I see.’ Cynthia could tell by the weariness in the girl’s tone that she was not the only person to have had the same bright idea. ‘Well, of course. I’ll do that straight away.’
‘Thank you and merry Christmas,’ the girl replied, her reply automatic and far from heartfelt.
Cynthia put the phone down. She felt somewhat crestfallen.
By the time she had phoned a third charity, and got pretty much the same response, she felt utterly despondent. She couldn’t even give herself away on Christmas Day. Everywhere she turned, a door was shut in her face. She felt even worse than she had after she’d finished her conversation with Amanda. She hadn’t thought that was possible.
She walked over to the fridge and pulled out one of the bottles of white wine resting in the bottle rack. She didn’t even look at her watch. She knew it wasn’t midday yet.
She didn’t give a figgy pudding what the time was.
21
‘Mrs Kingham accidentally left the store with one of our dresses yesterday. Our security guard apprehended her outside the shop. She still had it over her arm.’
Shirley Booth, the assistant store manager, was looking at Simon with a mixture of pity and curiosity. He felt as if he was an object of interest; as if she had heard something about him and wanted to see it for herself. He wasn’t sure he cared for her scrutiny, especially as she had initially refused to give him any details about yesterday’s incident, until he had explained that Lizzy had gone missing.
He and Hattie and Luke were standing in Shirley’s office. He’d shown her the letter.
‘You mean you arrested her?’ he asked.
‘We took her into the office for questioning. I could see it was a mistake after just a few minutes. I’m highly trained. I can spot a liar at fifty paces. I could see Mrs Kingham had made a genuine mistake.’
‘Mum would never, ever nick anything,’ said Luke. ‘She’s just not that sort of person.’
Shirley smiled at him.
‘You’d be surprised. We have the most respectable people in here stealing things. And we have to take it seriously. We have zero tolerance on shoplifting. Times are hard and people don’t see it as stealing.’
‘Don’t they?’ said Hattie.
Shirley shook her head sadly.
‘The amount of times people tell us that the prices we charge cover our losses. As if that makes it OK.’ She nodded over to a TV screen in the corner. ‘We’ve got hours of CCTV – sometimes we scroll through it just for fun, to see the people we’ve missed. It’s better than telly.’
She chuckled at the thought.
Simon sighed. ‘How did she seem to you?’ he asked. ‘When she was in here?’
Shirley put her head to one side, as if considering how truthful to be.
‘Like all of us. Stressed out by Christmas. She said she didn’t care if she ended up in prison because at least she’d get some respite.’
‘Did she really say that?’ Simon was shocked.
‘I can tell you, I’d be right there with her. Christmas is a special sort of hell.’
‘Hell?’ Simon looked baffled. ‘I thought it was supposed to be fun.’
Shirley Booth gave a hollow laugh.
‘Spoken like a true man.’
Simon shot her a glance. He didn’t like her tone.
‘Thank you for the voucher,’ he said. ‘Or were you worried she might sue?’
Shirley looked at him. When she spoke, her tone was soft.
‘I just thought she needed spoiling,’ she said. ‘If the manager found out, I’d probably get the sack.’
Her words hung in the air, the criticism not just implied, but blatant.
Simon tried not to flinch. He felt a ripple of anger at this woman for judging them. Yes, they had been thoughtless, but no more than that.
‘Thank you for your time,’ he said stiffly. ‘Come on, you two. Let’s go.’
The three of them went back out to the front of the store and stood at the bottom of the escalator, slightly shell-shocked.
‘She was a bit harsh,’ said Hattie. ‘Christmas is fun. And Mum loves it.’
‘She does do everything, though,’ said Luke. ‘To be fair.’
‘Because she wants to,’ said Simon. ‘Trust me. I spend a lot of time asking what I can do to help. And she always says she’s got it under control.’
‘It’s because she doesn’t like asking or admitting she needs help,’ said Hattie. ‘We should just have done things, without being asked.’
‘Or remember the things she did ask,’ said Luke gloomily.
Simon looked at his watch. It was heading for lunch and he had run out of ideas about what to do next. He hoped beyond hope that by the time they got back Lizzy would be home, laughing at herself.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘We need to get her a present. Hattie, what do you think Mum would like? More than anything?’
‘What’s the budget?’
‘There is no limit,’ said Simon. ‘Your mum is priceless. Doesn’t she need a new handbag? The strap on hers keeps snapping.’ Simon was proud of himself for coming up with such a practical suggestion.
‘She’s always going on about those coffee machines,’ added Luke. ‘When she comes to pick me up from Hal’s. They’ve got one and she always raves about it.’
‘Good idea.’
‘And I think you should choose her some perfume,’ added Hattie. ‘I’m pretty sure she ran out.’
‘OK,’ said Simon, mentally adding up the tally so far, though he didn’t care what it came to. He’d mortgage the house up to the hilt to get her back and make her happy. ‘Let’s get started. Hat, you choose the bag because I haven’t a clue. Luke, go and check out the coffee machines. I’ll do perfume.’
He looked at Hattie, who was looking pale and uncertain. Which was unusual for her, because she was one of the most certain people he knew. She seemed to be finding it hard to breathe. All around them people carried on with their shopping, immersed in their own last-minute purchases, unaware of their family drama.
‘Hat?’
‘Sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about Mum.’
‘It’s going to be OK,’ said Simon. ‘She’s having a bit of a wobble, that’s all. She’ll be back. Mum loves Christmas.’
Hattie nodded, trying to seem convinced.
‘Hey. What about a foot spa?’ suggested Luke.
Hattie rolled her eyes. ‘That is so last century.’
Luke looked wounded. ‘I think she’d love one. She’s always complaining her feet hurt.’
‘That’s a brilliant idea, Luke,’ said Simon. He didn’t want the twins squabbling. They usually got on well, but he could see they were both upset and trying not to show it, which made them querulous. ‘Let’s all meet back here in fifteen minutes and take a view.’
Hattie wandered into the handbag section. What would Mum like best? Hobo? Cross body? Tote? Suede? Patent? Something neutral or a hot pop of colour? She reached out and picked up a tan bucket bag with red stitching, feeling it for quality and looking inside for useful pockets.
She still felt slightly sick from their encounter with Shirley Booth. She almost felt as if the woman had been talking directly to her. She had definitely looked her in the eye when she gave that spiel about shoplifting habits. Hattie felt paranoid and uncomfortable. Her heart had missed several beats when Shirley had talked about watching people on the CCTV. Her mouth was still dry.
Even drier than it had been the first time she’d stolen something.
She’d done it to impress Kiki. Hattie felt slightly hypnotised by her. Kiki had no veneer. She didn’t sugar-coat any of her opinions. She wasn’t snaky, like the other girls at school. She didn’t have that syrupy icing. She was to the point. You were never in any doubt what Kiki really thought. And that’s what drew Hattie to her. Her brutal honesty and her defiance and her shameless lust for adventure. She wanted to be like that too. To not care what anyone thought, and to do whatever you wanted without fear of reprisals. To be daring. Not care about the rules.
She was flattered that Kiki liked her. She was desperate to remain her friend because Kiki was a doorway into a glittering, glamorous world that fascinated Hattie. Her house was like a Hollywood mansion, her parents were supercool and there were always parties and people and music. It was like being in one of the videos Kiki’s dad directed.
Kiki was very blasé about it all.
‘They’re all very shallow,’ she said, dismissive. ‘They’ve got no conversatio
n.’
Hattie wasn’t sure she had either. But she was swept along in Kiki’s slipstream; her anarchic daring. A few weeks’ ago, Kiki had insisted they try hitch-hiking.
‘My mum used to do it all the time. She went all the way to Switzerland when she was our age.’
‘That was in the olden days. It was way safer.’
‘No, it wasn’t. They had loads more weirdos back then. Mum said everyone was always in love with their teachers and having affairs left, right and centre. Come on. We’ll go to Stratford.’
Hattie stood next to Kiki on the main road, hoping that no one she knew would see her, praying that no one her parents knew would see her and report back (that was one of the problems with white and blue hair; you didn’t blend in much), and terrified of who would stop to pick them up. They stood there with their thumbs out, and she felt as if she was in a movie, chancing her luck on the interstate highway.
Boringly, it was a middle-aged gardener with an ancient pick-up who stopped. He chuckled at them.
‘Very old school,’ he said. ‘Hop in.’
They climbed into the cab and slid onto the bench seat. Inside, it smelled of rich earth and rain and sweat – not horrible sweat, but the sweat of someone who’d been working hard.
‘Do your parents know you’re hitchhiking?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t think anyone did any more.’
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ said Kiki. ‘I’ve texted your number plate to my boyfriend.’
The gardener raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought I was doing you a favour,’ he said, nettled. ‘I can drop you here if you want.’ He slowed the van down.
‘I’m sorry about my friend,’ said Hattie. ‘She’s a bit paranoid.’
Kiki widened her eyes. ‘I don’t think so,’ she chided Hattie, then turned to the gardener. ‘Dude, it’s OK. I’m just laying the boundaries. So we all know where we are.’
He pushed a tape into his cassette deck by way of reply. The Eagles blared out ‘Lyin’ Eyes’.
‘It’s like we’ve gone back to 1978,’ exclaimed Kiki. ‘Who has a tape deck in their car? Haven’t you heard of Bluetooth?’
Christmas at the Beach Hut Page 14