One Christmas Star

by Mandy Baggot

  He stroked her hair and closed his eyes, willing her quaking to cease, for her to calm. Her hair felt like silk beneath his fingers and the scent she had – pinecones and winter berries somehow mixed with books and Biro ink – did crazy things to his brain. He wanted to protect her so badly, to soothe her, to make her feel better, but he wasn’t sure who exactly needed who more in this moment.

  *

  Emily’s heart actually hurt. It was a deep, swell of pain like she might never ever be the same again. What was this outpouring? Why was she crumbling here and now? With Ray. She came to a little, realising she had been properly howling like a fox might when finding nothing but soggy ramen in the bins, and stilled. Her eyes were pure fluid and so sore… and she was in Ray’s arms… his body wrapped around her, firm and solid…

  What was happening to her? She’d been to visit her parents too?! How had she thought that could help? And she was still enveloped in Ray’s powerful embrace…

  ‘Sorry,’ Emily said, wriggling herself upright again.

  ‘I thought “sorry” was banned.’

  She couldn’t look him in the eye yet. She had been so horribly angry and said some awfully accusing things. She didn’t condone what he had done at all but Mr Jackson… that ugly-mannered man really would have struck Jayden if Ray hadn’t stopped him.

  ‘Listen, Emily, I’d understand if you wanted me to leave. I…’

  ‘I don’t want you to leave. That wouldn’t change anything at all. And… I know I was angry when I came in, but I really don’t think you did entirely the wrong thing.’

  ‘No?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘No… I mean, Mr Jackson was going to hit Jayden. Hit Jayden. Again.’

  ‘Again!’ Ray exclaimed. ‘He’s hit him before!’

  ‘Yes… no… probably.’ She took a breath. ‘It’s unconfirmed.’

  ‘His bruised eye,’ Ray said with a knowing nod. ‘His dad did it.’

  ‘I don’t know that. Not for sure. And I can’t do anything about it. Not really.’

  ‘I should have torn his skin harder. Sorry, no, not sorry.’ He took a breath. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Emily said. ‘I know what you meant.’ She leaned back against the wall again, touching it with the tips of her fingers.

  ‘So, how were things?’ Ray asked. ‘After I left the school.’

  Emily sighed, a vision of Susan in full-on intelligence gathering mode, reeling off all the questions the Head knew she was going to need the answers to if Mr Jackson made a formal complaint. ‘Mr Jackson stopped screaming and Mrs Jackson took him and Jayden home. Mrs Clark then re-enacted several scenes from Line of Duty trying to get me to tell her your identity which led me to create a fictional company called “Rent-A-Santa”. I told her I had hired you from there. I said I would call the made-up company, endeavour to find out who the Santa actor was if Mr Jackson formalised things.’

  ‘Emily,’ Ray said, shaking his head.

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ she continued. ‘Then, later, after I’d apologised to everyone in the room – on the microphone – and Dennis had ripped open another bag of liquorice wheels and Susan had eventually stopped calling all things “abominable”, I went round to the Jacksons’ flat.’ She sighed. ‘Mr Jackson had gone to the pub, so Mrs Jackson let me in, and I had a chat with her about Jayden and what had happened and my concerns. Although she was stony-faced to begin with, I think some of what I said got through. She was going to suggest that Mr Jackson didn’t take things further by calling the police and I said that if she ever needed any help from me, as a concerned person and not as a schoolteacher, she only had to ask.’

  ‘Emily, you didn’t have to do that for me,’ Ray said, shaking his head again.

  ‘I didn’t just do it for you, Ray. I did it for Jayden. The very last thing I want him to think is that school isn’t a safe place for him. It’s about the only place I think he does feel safe and I don’t want the Jacksons to suddenly take him out of Stretton Park to somewhere that might not care as much as I do.’

  The thought that Jayden’s life could be made even more difficult than it currently was had been the driving force behind her daring to set foot in his home again after the last memorable visit.

  ‘What can I do?’ Ray asked her, his tone sincere. His eyes locked with hers. ‘Tell me what to do to make this better for you.’

  ‘Well,’ Emily began, straightening herself up as a little strength returned. ‘I told you I’m not a giver-up, and the other day I read something that said you can’t change the things you’ve done, so you shouldn’t dwell on them. You should, instead, focus on moving forward and affecting matters you can influence.’

  ‘A fresh start.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emily said. ‘That.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘So, it might seem like everything has changed, but really nothing has changed. Mr Jackson is still a bully. No one knows who Fighty Santa was. The bishop and the suffragans saw none of it. I still, very much, need help with the Christmas show.’

  ‘OK,’ Ray said.

  ‘But, Ray, that can’t happen again. Ever. It’s a school. My children are all ten-years-old. I don’t want their normal to be like an episode of Jeremy Kyle.’

  ‘I get that. It will never happen again.’

  She looked at him, drinking in all of his manliness. She had told him a little white lie when she’d described the aftermath of the scuffle. She had protected his identity not for him, or even for Jayden, but for her. Because having him in her flat, and in her life, was, despite the crazy drama, making her feel more alive than she had in a long time. And a text from Allan had helped confirm that it wasn’t such an odd realisation to have.

  Be nice to Ray. You know as well as I do that that brute deserved everything he got. I like Ray. I like him a lot. And I’ve heard from a very reliable source that there is NO truth to those rumours in the press. Live, my darling. Simon would want you to live xxx

  ‘Well, I’ve been writing, while you weren’t here,’ Ray continued. ‘For your show. OK, it’s a little bit out there. It’s based on Jona Lewie’s “Stop the Cavalry”. I’ve called it… wait for it… “Can’t We Have A Carvery?”.’

  Emily couldn’t stop the smile from forming on her lips.

  ‘Because, I figured, not everyone has the whole Charles Dickens kind of Christmas, do they? Some kids, they’ll be wanting something else, won’t they? I’ll play it to you if you like.’ He stopped then and looked at her, as if to gauge her reaction.

  ‘OK,’ she answered, for the moment satisfied that the world was indeed still turning. ‘I’ll make hot chocolates.’

  Thirty-Eight

  Barnard Park, Islington

  A Week Later

  ‘This is better, isn’t it?’ Ray asked her, patting the bench next to him, encouraging her to join him. He breathed in the wintry air like it was food for his soul. Then he began playing his acoustic guitar, simply getting straight in to the song they were still trying to perfect a week on.

  ‘It’s cold,’ Emily replied, teeth juddering. ‘The flat was warm.’ She shuffled forward, boots kicking late fallen leaves on the park ground. It was close to eleven o’clock at night. It was now December. Most people, more sensible people were inside in these temperatures, going to bed or catching up on the latest Facebook news. They weren’t sitting on a park bench with a guitarist who was wearing sunglasses in the pitch black.

  ‘The flat was killing our creativity,’ Ray answered. ‘It happens sometimes. You get to a certain place and you need a change. A shift in location. New air.’ He patted the bench again. ‘Come on, sit down. We’re going to sing through that verse again.’

  ‘Here?’ Emily asked. ‘In public?’

  Ray took his hands away from his guitar and spread them wide, indicating the rather empty parkland. There were a few teenagers over by the adventure playground getting up to-who knew-what, but they were far enough away not to bother them or hopefully he
ar them. The only other occupants of the space were the frosty boughs of the trees above and around them and the stars in the night sky.

  ‘There’s no one here,’ Ray told her. ‘And when you’re me, that’s a great thing. So, come on, sit down with me before a reporter pops out of the bushes or something.’ He looked up at her. ‘Besides, you are gonna have to sing these songs in public at the show. To more people than the holy God squad.’

  As if she really needed reminding…

  ‘I know,’ she sighed sitting down next to him.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked, strumming a chord, then stopping, hand flat on the strings. With his other hand he took off his sunglasses, positioning them on top of his beanie hat-covered head.

  ‘Nothing.’ That really translated as everything. And she knew, she wasn’t fooling Ray at all. They had started to get to know each other quite well already. She now knew he definitely wasn’t a morning person. That he made coffee and put the milk in first. He also wasn’t really a TV-watcher. He played music all the time. On his guitar. On his phone. And he whistled, rather brilliantly. She was a little bit envious.

  ‘Good,’ he answered. ‘Because, I keep telling you, you have a great voice.’

  And he never stopped reiterating that. Each time they got down to the business of songwriting and rehearsing he would tell her how good she was. There was now a tiny, tiny part of her that was starting to believe it a little.

  ‘Sing the first verse,’ Ray encouraged.

  ‘On my own?’ Emily exclaimed as if Ray had told her to walk the Great Wall of China unaccompanied and in heels.

  ‘Well,’ Ray said, casting his gaze around the park. ‘We could ask those guys over there to join in if you want, but they seem pretty engrossed in the swings.’

  She could do this. Why couldn’t she do this? Ray was right. She was going to have to sing out loud and proud with her children in a few weeks. She needed all the rehearsal she could get.

  ‘OK,’ she answered, shivering as a wave of cold air seemed to chill her bones. ‘Play the introduction.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Parker,’ Ray answered with a grin.

  She held her breath – and her nerve – as Ray strummed the acoustic guitar for the beginning of their altered version of ‘Stop the Cavalry’ by Jona Lewie. She started to sing:

  Mum is peeling sprouts, sister selfie pouts

  The cat is climbing up the Christmas tree

  Auntie’s on the wine, will dinner be on time?

  Santa’s late again, misery

  Where’s the Roses tin? Put that in the bin!

  Can’t we have a carvery?

  ‘Yes!’ Ray announced, stopping his playing and smiling at her. ‘That was great! You nailed the phrasing. The kids are going to pick that up no problem.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Emily asked. She hoped so. She didn’t want her children to feel under any of the pressure she was, but she did want them to care enough to put on the best show they could. But for them to enjoy it and have fun was, of course, the most important thing.

  ‘Yeah, I really think so,’ Ray told her. He played another chord. ‘So, did you sing with Simon?’

  Emily laughed then. ‘God, no. Simon wasn’t really into music. He was more of a reader. Thrillers and mysteries, the occasional biography if it was a rugby player he admired.’

  ‘You never sang to him?’ Ray asked. He nudged her arm. ‘Never did any karaoke? Because, I’m telling you, I could see you up there, you know, doing a little Alanis Morrisette, or maybe Adele.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She swallowed, nervous butterflies nesting in her stomach.

  ‘Hey, I’ve done karaoke,’ Ray admitted. ‘You know, I think it’s more terrifying singing along to lyrics on a screen in front of a pub full of pissed people, trying to emulate Michael Jackson when you’re pissed yourself, than it is doing your own gig singing your own songs.’

  She turned her head to look at him. ‘You sang Michael Jackson at karaoke?’

  ‘Is that judgement I’m hearing?’ Ray asked, nudging up close to her again.

  ‘No, I’m just trying to think what Michael Jackson song you would choose to sing.’

  ‘Guess,’ Ray said, his tone teasing.

  ‘“Beat It”?’

  He laughed. ‘No.’

  ‘“Thriller”?’

  ‘Are these serious guesses, Emily? Or are you taking the piss now?’

  ‘No!’ She laughed and dug her elbow into his ribs, budging him up the bench.

  ‘If you say “Billie Jean” next I’m not sure we can stay friends.’

  ‘Well, I’m running out of MJ songs here.’

  ‘OK,’ Ray said. ‘Enough guessing. I’ll play it for you.’

  And just like that, Ray started to make music with the guitar, almost a beat-box sound, fingers moving over the strings then tapping the wooden body of the instrument. She instantly recognised it as Michael Jackson’s ‘Remember the Time’. She should have guessed that was much more Ray’s style. Over the last week she had listened to his songs on Spotify – on the Tube on her way to school, in the staff room at lunchtime – enjoying every note. It was so hard to try to correlate the soft, honeyed tones mixed with something also so raw and deep, with the man the press was still trying to condemn and the other tender, easy-going individual who sat on her sofa every night.

  Emily watched him intently. His long fingers moving over the fret board, his hair falling out from under his hat, those full lips forming the words as he sang about falling in love and holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes…

  She shivered, hard, and Ray stopped playing immediately.

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she answered, through teeth that suddenly wouldn’t stop juddering.

  ‘You’re cold,’ Ray said, lifting the guitar up and off his body, placing it on the floor and leaning it up against the bench.

  ‘I… can’t feel my fingers,’ Emily admitted with a laugh. She started rubbing her hands together. ‘I should have brought my gloves.’

  ‘Here,’ Ray said. He took hold of her hands, linking her fingers together, then cupped them both with his large hands.

  His hands were so much bigger than hers. They were warm from his guitar-playing and hers had all but disappeared inside.

  ‘Better?’ Ray asked.

  ‘A… bit.’ She still couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

  ‘Here, let me try something.’ Ray brought their joined hands up to his mouth and opened his fingers a little before putting his lips to the gap. Emily was already tingling from the close contact and then… he blew. Hot breath tickled over her fingers and suddenly her digits weren’t the only things that were heating up… Slowly, he breathed a bit more, a little deeper, and as he let the breath go into their joined hands, their eyes connected.

  Emily’s head was spinning now. She should look away. She should focus on the Christmas lights she could see far across the park, or the youths on the play drawbridge, or the frost-coated grass. She should not carry on looking into Ray’s dark amber eyes as he delivered central heating to her fingertips. What was it with his skills in bringing her temperature up?

  ‘I should…’ He cleared his throat. ‘We should… go through the song again,’ Ray said, suddenly letting go of her hands. ‘Before you get cold all over.’

  She wondered what part of her he would blow on first if more than her hands froze up… She quickly regrouped and nodded, rubbing her hands together. ‘Yes.’

  ‘From the top then,’ Ray said. She watched him pick the guitar back up and strike a chord.

  Thirty-Nine

  Harley Street, Marylebone

  Ray was running through ‘Can’t We Have A Carvery?’ in his mind while Dr Crichton shone two types of torch down his throat. He began to sing the lyrics in his head…

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Dr Crichton asked, springing up from his throat inspection and hitting Ray with more evil eye than a Marily
n Manson video.

  ‘Having a torch put down my throat that’s actually heating up my tonsils?’ he answered.

  ‘You were singing,’ Dr Crichton exclaimed. ‘I told you specifically not to sing.’

  ‘Er…’ The doctor had obviously gone mad. Perhaps he needed to check in with one of his psych counterparts. ‘I don’t know anyone who can sing without singing… except those people on YouTube who sort of sing like they’re trapped in a box.’

  ‘Ray, I am a very specific doctor. You know that. That’s why you’re on my books. You were singing. Your throat was moving while I was looking at it.’

  Wow, that was impressive. His throat moved of its own accord while he was mentally singing. Although Dr Crichton was not making this sound like a good thing.

  ‘And I believe you’ve been singing since our last appointment despite my warnings to you.’

  What could he say? His doctor was an expert in his field. He wasn’t going to be duped. He obviously had been singing, more than ever over the past week or so. As well as the work he and Emily had been doing for the Stretton Park Christmas show he had spent two whole days in the studio recording tracks for his new album and putting together a small set of songs to perform at Ronnie Scott’s. Finally, he had a little money – Saturn Records had caved once they’d seen the beginnings of results – and Deborah had really been pulling things together for him since their meeting with Ida. The press had been fed photos of him going to and from the studio – fresh-faced, alcohol-free – and the performance at the renowned jazz venue was going to be full of supporters – his fan club members and social media followers as well as hand-picked journalists promising feel-good articles. But he still needed to put on the best show of his life. Any chink in his voice or hesitance in his piano-playing and he knew the tables would turn once more. Being in the spotlight was a constant carousel. You never knew which way it was going to turn the from one minute to the next…