How the In-Laws Wrecked Christmas
Page 4
‘Ben, I need to know—’
‘Just leave it!’
‘And I heard you saying you’ll never have a child with me … did you mean that too?’
‘For God’s sake, Anna,’ he snaps, ‘just bloody well let me sleep.’ He shuffles to the furthest edge of our Olympic-sized bed, and within seconds he is snoring.
All is quiet as I slip out from under the covers. I don’t go to the countryside often – I have no reason to, really – and had never realised how very hushed it is, and how every sudden sound – the bark of a dog, the hoot of an owl – seems to pierce the darkness.
And by God, it is dark out there, I note, glancing out of our bedroom window as I pull on my jumper, jeans and boots, and quickly bundle my other possessions into my zip-up bag.
I creep out of the room and tread lightly downstairs. It’s nearly 2 a.m.; I heard the last of the guests leave an hour or so ago. I step into the drawing room, expecting to see glasses and plates and buffet remains strewn everywhere, but the only evidence of the party seems to be a tall glass, half full of what looks like flat G&T, perched on a lace doily on the piano. The staff have already done their work.
I glance at the photo of Ben and Louisa. She looks joyous, I decide. Of course she does – she was only 26 (she – like me – is three years younger than Ben), and their wedding was a lavish affair, as far as I can make out, held here in the grounds of the house.
I prowl around the huge room, breathing in the pleasant scent of sweet cigar smoke. Spotting a large, leather-bound album on the table, I place my bag at my feet and open it to the first page.
It’s Ben and Louisa’s wedding album. It definitely wasn’t out earlier; someone must have been looking through it tonight. How very festive! The pages are of the quality, creamy type – almost as thick as cardboard – and the pictures have been neatly mounted with old-fashioned golden photo corners. The album opens with the same shot as the framed one on the table. On the next few pages are various portraits of Ben and Louisa; all stiffly perfect, Louisa smiling brightly with her perfect teeth on show. There are reception shots of numerous guests, a close-up of a three-tier cake, decorated with tiny lemon flowers, and a black and white shot of Ben and Louisa dancing on the lawn.
I continue flicking through pages until I spot one of Clara, grinning broadly and gripping Louisa’s arm. Louisa’s smile is different this time. It’s sort of … frozen. You can see the veins in her neck and a rather alarmed glint in her eyes. On the next page is another of the two of them. Instead of her wedding dress, Louisa is wearing an elegant pale blue sleeveless dress, and Kate Middleton shoes – high, glossy and beige. Clara’s arm is linked through Louisa’s. Her other hand resting on Louisa’s stomach. Although small and neat, the bump is clearly visible.
Again, Louisa’s expression is hardly that of the radiant bride. It’s actually saying, fuck, get me out of here. Well, I know that feeling.
I make my way through to the hallway and to the front door now, finding the keys in a wooden bowl on a shelf. There are several locks. It takes a few moments’ fiddling, during which Nell ambles towards me, sniffing around me with great interest, before I manage to open the door.
I step out into the cold night. The last thing I see, before I close the door behind me, is Nell’s rather quizzical face.
The outside lights have been turned off, but the moon is casting enough silvery light to make me visible to anyone who might happen to glance out from any of the numerous front windows. Unlikely, though. They were all pretty pissed and will be out for the count. Thank God for Charles’s extensive collection of fine wines, whiskies and gin.
My breath mists as I stride along the lawn, away from the house. A few metres ahead sits something that looks like one of those carved stone balls you see perched on walls, either side of an ornate wrought-iron gate. It’s the beginning of our snowman, blurred by a fresh fall of snow. I place my bag on the ground and start to roll it. My gloves are somewhere in the depths of my bag, but it doesn’t matter: this won’t take too long. Daisy was right: the snow is now perfect for making a snowman.
I check my watch. The moon is shining brightly as if it has been turned up a notch. I keep rolling and rolling, until the ball is too heavy to push anymore and my fingers are stinging with cold. I roll another ball for a head and place it firmly on top of the body. I rummage about in the bushes for stones for eyes, plus brittle twigs for a nose and a mouth. Then I delve into my bag for my bobble hat and pull it onto the snowman’s head.
When I glance back at the house, my heart judders. Someone is looking out, watching. I freeze, my mind conjuring up a myriad of excuses as to why I’m out here in the middle of the night, building a snowman with my packed weekend bag at my feet.
The small figure waves, silhouetted against the yellowy light in her bedroom.
Daisy. So she’s still up, waiting for Santa. I wave back, then turn away as my phone bleeps with a text. He said he’d text when he was at the end of the drive. I stop and read it just to make sure, because I still can’t quite believe he’d drive all the way from London just because I was having a lousy time.
I’m here, it says. Love J x.
The snow crunches as I make my way along the drive, wishing I had a torch, and still amazed that Jamie had decided to not bother drinking on Christmas Eve. That was a first. Me too. No one realised I was clutching a glass of sparkling water with a slice of lemon in it all night.
His ancient Mini is in view now. I run towards it as, seeing me, he jumps out and pulls me in for a hug.
‘You’re here,’ I exclaim. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this for me …’
He laughs and brushes hair from my face. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘But what about the party at home? I mean, it’s Christmas Eve! It’s always our favourite night …’
‘Not without you, it isn’t,’ Jamie says. Then he kisses me, as gently as a falling snowflake, on the lips.
‘Oh,’ I say, smiling.
‘Um … is that allowed?’
I laugh as he picks up my bag and drops it onto the back seat. ‘God, yes. Jamie, I don’t know what to say …’
We climb into the car. He starts the engine and pulls out into the dark country lane, which will take us through those picture-perfect villages until we are back in London again, in time for Christmas morning.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he says, fiddling the rather temperamental stereo until a corny Christmas songs comes on. ‘Ten points if you can name this,’ he adds.
I smile. ‘I can’t think, Jamie. I can’t actually play this right now. Um … I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘What is it?’ he asks, looking concerned. He pushes back his light brown hair distractedly. ‘Don’t say he’s asked you to marry him?’
‘God, no,’ I exclaim. ‘No, it’s not that. I … I’m pregnant. I did the test yesterday.’
‘My God,’ he murmurs, then his face breaks into a grin. ‘That’s amazing, Anna. That’s fantastic news. You’ll be a brilliant mum, you know that …’
‘I’m really happy,’ I say. ‘It’s mad, I know – and I’ll be doing it on my own …’
‘On your own? What d’you mean? What about Ben?’
‘What about him? I’m not with him anymore. I don’t love him, Jamie …’
‘But what does he think? About the baby, I mean?’
‘I haven’t told him yet. It was going to be his Christmas surprise …’
His fingers wrap around mine. ‘Oh, darling. It’ll be fine. No, better than that. It’ll be brilliant!’
‘I know,’ I say, unable to stop smiling. ‘I know it will. It just feels right.’
Jamie’s eyes shine as he looks at me. ‘And you won’t be doing it on your own,’ he adds. ‘You have me, you have all of us. We all love you, Anna. Me especially. But maybe I shouldn’t say that …’
‘You’re allowed to say it,’ I say, laughing. ‘You can say it as often as you like …’
Loved Fiona’s short story? Then read on for an exclusive extract of her new novel, As Good As It Gets?
Available to pre-order now.
February 14, 1997
Dear Fraser,
Happy Valentine’s Day! Sorry this is late. You see, a few of the girls at work got flowers today and that made me think of you.
It also made me wonder why your phone number’s unavailable. Perhaps it’s broken? And maybe you’ve injured your hand and haven’t been able to write? If so, I sympathise. I know you don’t handle pain well. I’m still smirking at the memory of you being agonisingly constipated after wolfing that massive bag of toffees on the train to Amsterdam.
Surely, though, phone issues aside, you could have got in touch somehow? You know – just to tell me you’re okay and haven’t died (maybe you ARE dead? But then, wouldn’t someone have tracked me down and let me know?). In fact I don’t really think of any of that. You know what I do think? That you’re scared, Fraser. You’re a terrified boy who – despite all your promises – has decided to run away.
BLOODY COWARD!!!
Honestly, I didn’t expect this from you. ‘It’ll be fine,’ you told me, that day when we drove down to Brighton. ‘It’ll be amazing. I’m so happy. Please don’t worry about a thing.’ Do you remember saying all that? The ensuing silence suggests you were lying through your very nice, very posh teeth.
So I’ve made a decision. I’ve stopped hoping you’ll get back in touch at some distant point and throw me a crumb of support. I’m not scrabbling around like a fat pigeon, waiting for your scraps. You were right – our baby and I will be just fine. We don’t need you.
Goodbye, Fraser.
Charlotte
PS Actually, I wish I could be a pigeon for just long enough to shit on your head.
*
February 19, 1997
Dear Charlotte,
I hope this finds you well. My name is Arlene Johnson and I am Fraser’s mother. After receiving your charming letter he wishes to have no further contact with you. I trust you will find both the enclosed cheque and small gift useful, and sincerely hope that there will be no further correspondence between yourself and my son. Please remember that he is only 19 years old and has a promising future ahead of him.
Yours,
Arlene
Enclosed:
1 cheque for £10,000
1 packet Chirpy Nut and Seed Mix For Wild Birds
*
February 23, 1997
Dear Arlene,
That was kind of you, trying to pay me off. Thanks, too, for reminding me of Fraser’s age. I am aware of how old he is. I’m only 21 myself and some might say I have a promising future too. The last time I saw him, we drove down to Brighton in the middle of the night and sat on the seafront watching the sun coming up. He seemed very happy about the baby. We both were. It might not have been planned but we decided we could make it work and that we wanted to be together.
Obviously, he’s had a change of heart. I’d be grateful if you could ask him to contact me. I know he’s a very capable boy and I’m sure he could manage to write a letter himself instead of getting his mummy to do it for him.
Charlotte
Enclosed: 1 torn-up cheque. Perhaps you could use it as confetti, when Fraser marries a more suitable (preferably un-pregnant) girl?
*
February 28, 1997
Letter returned to sender. No further correspondence.
Chapter One
Present Day
‘Hey, beautiful!’ the blond boy yells, nudging his friend. They watch, admiring, as the shopping crowds mill around us. There are more glances as we walk: some fleeting, others more direct. All this attention isn’t for me; Christ no, that hasn’t happened since Madonna vogued in a gold conical bra. Even then, it pretty much amounted to a bloke up some scaffolding yelling, ‘Your arse looks like two footballs!’ I’d adoredmy stretch jeans until that sole cruel comment killed the love affair stone dead. Not that I’m the kind of woman to take any notice of construction workers’ remarks. I mean, I’ve only festered over it for twenty-three years …
Anyway, of course it’s not me who’s causing virtually every young male in this over-heated shopping mall to perform a quick double-take. I am thirty-eight years old with wavy, muddy brown hair that’s supposed to be shoulder-length but has outgrown its style, yet isn’t properly long – it’s just long-ish. That’s what my hair is: ish. I am also laden with copious bulging bags, like a yak. Judging by the odd glimpse in mirrored surfaces, I note that I have acquired a deathly pallor beneath the mall’s unforgiving lights. I also have what the magazines term ‘a shiny breakthrough’ on my nose and cheeks.
The cruel lighting, of course, is not detracting from my daughter Rosie’s beauty. Leggy and slender, with a cascade of chestnut hair which actually gleams, like polished wood, she’s marching several paces ahead, lest someone might assume we’re together. Faster and faster she goes, on the verge of breaking into a trot, while I scuttle behind, tasked with carrying the shopping. Incredibly, Rosie doesn’t seem to notice the glances she’s attracting from all these good-looking young males. Perhaps, when you’re so often admired, you simply become immune to it.
I stop, dumping the bags on the floor and checking my hands for lacerations while she courses ahead. ‘Rosie!’ I call after her. ‘Rosie – wait!’ While there are no open wounds, I have acquired a callous on my left palm from lugging Will’s birthday presents through the mall. Sure, I could have bought them online, but when we stumbled upon a closing down sale earlier, I couldn’t resist grabbing a quality turntable, headphones and speakers (yes, I am transporting speakers – i.e., virtually furniture) at bargain prices.
At first, I comforted myself with the thought that my husband will enjoy unearthing his vinyl collection from the loft, and be able to re-live those heady, music-filled evenings of his youth. Now, though, I’m concerned that Will, who’s been without gainful employment for six months, might view my purchases as ‘something to fill your copious spare time’ – type gifts – i.e., faintly patronising, and not something I’d have thought of buying when he was busy being a senior person with an environmental charity. It’s his birthday tomorrow; he’ll be forty-one. I have already stashed away a blue cashmere sweater and the delicious figgy fragrance he likes. Maybe that was enough. I don’t want him to think I’m festooning him with presents because I feel sorry for him … oh, God. Things were so much simpler when he went off to work every day, either by Tube to his Hammersmith office or off in his car to some marshy bit of London, with his waders and big waxy jacket stashed in the boot. He doesn’t even have his own car anymore. He sold it, saying, ‘I don’t need it, do I? So what’s the point of keeping it?’
‘Better for the environment anyway,’ our son Ollie added, in an attempt to cheer him up.
Through the shopping crowds I glimpse Rosie in her baggy red top and skinny black jeans which make her legs even longer than they really are. They are limbs of a foal, or a sleek gazelle. She canters past Gap and Fat Face with her hair billowing behind her before performing a swift left turn into Forever 21.
Please, no – not Forever 21. The shop is vast, almost a city in itself, with its own transport system (about fifty escalators) and populated by millions of hot-cheeked teenagers snatching at skirts in sizes that didn’t even exist (six! four!!) when I was that age. Size ten was considered tiny then. I’m what’s commonly termed a ‘curvy’ fourteen: neatish waist nestling between ample hips and sizeable boobs, which aren’t quite the blessing one might imagine. In the wrong kind of outfit, they make me look as if I have one of those huge German sausages – a kochwurst, I believe they’re called – stuffed up my top. Or a bolster, like you find on posh hotel beds. Those weird cylindrical pillows you never know what to do with and end up throwing on the floor. Chest-wise, I have to be careful with necklines so as to
avoid a stern matronly look. Yes, a big rack can be sexy in the right context. Too often, though, it gives off an ‘I am unfazed by bedpans’ sort of vibe.
I peer through the enormous glass frontage of Forever 21. It’s packed in there, virtually a scrum, as if these highly-charged girls are terrified that the supply of sequinned T-shirts and iridescent leggings is about to run dry. I can imagine the pained looks I’d attract if I dared to hobble in with my sacks of stereophonic equipment, never mind tried to enter the changing rooms and try anything on. They’d probably call security and wrestle me out of the building.
I hover at the doors with my bags clustered around my feet, like someone who has unexpectedly become homeless. I’ll never find Rosie in there. She might as well have gone to China. Another woman, presumably a mother, loiters nearby, pursing her lips and stabbing irritably at her phone. There’s also a scattering of boys and men, all waiting, presumably wondering what the heck their girlfriends and daughters have been doing in there for eighteen hours.
After what I regard as an acceptable browsing period, I call Rosie’s mobile. No answer. I actually don’t know why she has a phone – or at least, why I pay the contract for it. It’s supposed to enable us to stay in contact. When she was younger, she’d constantly call and message me while she was out. These days, she texts me about once a month. They usually say ‘ok’ or ‘yeah’, although she does still put a kiss, for which I’m grateful.
A woman strolls by with a little girl who looks about seven years old. ‘Shall we go for ice cream, darling?’ the woman asks.
‘Yeah,’ the girl enthuses. ‘Can we go to that place where they sprinkle Smarties on?’
‘Of course,’ the woman replies, causing a wave of nostalgia to crash over me. How excited she is, out shopping with her mum, like Rosie used to be with me. I’d only suggested coming here so we could spend some mum-and-daughter time together, because I know she prefers shopping malls with their weird, artificial atmosphere and piped music to actual streets with proper weather and pigeons and sky. But I’d imagined that we’d at least stroll around together, and stop off for hot chocolate and cake.