by Jane Tara
She blinked a few times, but he was there. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was absolutely frozen. She waited for him to do something, anything. But he didn’t. He just stared at her … and she stared back. She wanted to run to him, to touch him, to hold him close and never again let go … but she didn’t dare move because she somehow understood the absolute fragility of this moment. One final moment …
And then the world re-entered.
“Entschuldigen!” a man’s voice apologized as he jostled her to one side. She staggered, and when she looked up again, Geoff was gone.
She pushed her way through the crowd, to the tree. Where was he?
“Geoff. Geoff!”
Another couple stepped out of her way and gave her a strange look as she passed.
“GEOFF!”
Eva circled the tree. Nothing. She paused in the spot where he’d been standing. Gone. A sob escaped her throat. Her hand flew of its own accord to her chest. Oh god, he’d been there. He’d been there for her. She lifted her chin upward, looking through the branches of the Little Heart Tree at the sky beyond. Snowflakes fell on her face. She’d never got her kiss here. But he’d come. He was here for here. And it was enough.
CLEMENTINE
Clem,
This is your Christmas present. It’s a keychain stun gun that lets off five million volts. Now listen carefully. DO NOT CARRY THIS ON THE PLANE. Pack it in your suitcase. Then, when you get to New York, carry it on you at all times. Not because New York is dangerous. It’s not. It’s a great city. But if Sam is a psychopathic axe murderer, then you have this to protect you.
Love,
Deb
PS: Make sure you go to the Met, and the carousel at Central Park and also Times Square. Don’t bother with the Empire State Building. You don’t like heights and there’s heavy security. They might question the stun gun.
*
Dear Debra,
Thank you!!!!! You always give me the best pressies.
Where are you? You haven’t answered my texts. Your phone is off. You’re not in your room. You’re never up this early, which means you didn’t come home last night. Can you let me know you’re okay?
Anyway, by the time you read this, I’ll be on my way to New York. I took your advice. I’m staying at the Montana Hotel on Lexington Ave. And I’ll be carrying your Christmas present, so even if Sam is a psychopathic axe murderer, I’m safe.
I know you think I’m nuts, but you don’t know Sam like I do.
Please support me. Don’t be angry with me. I can’t stand not talking to you. I miss hanging out with you all the time. I miss my best friend. I want to share this with you. I’m so excited. Sam thinks I’m going to Spain after all—what a surprise when I knock on the door!!!!!
I’ll be back on New Year’s Eve. I’d love to see the New Year in with you. Please, please, please. Stop being such a moody cow and call me.
Love you,
Clem
AMANDA
Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?
Henry David Thoreau
*
Christmas Day
Amanda hated that she was nervous. Wasn’t Christmas meant to be relaxing? Perhaps it was for some people … Like, Dylan, her son. But then a constant diet of Minecraft and A-grade weed (of course she knew!) was bound to help numb his brain. Granted, Dylan’s twin, Caitlin, wasn’t very relaxed, but Amanda suspected that was because she’d recently gone on the pill (either that or she’d had breast implants) and it was affecting her hormones (even more than being sixteen did). Usually psychotic in spurts, Caitlin had turned into Medusa twenty-four hours a day. Amanda could hear her now, screaming at Zack, who, in true ten-year-old style, added fuel to the fire by mimicking her.
Amanda was tempted to drop a Valium, but the last time she’d done that was three years ago when Peter’s parents came for Christmas lunch. They’d left that day finally understanding why Peter had dumped Amanda for Maxine. Maxine would never fall asleep on the turkey.
Not that it mattered now. Maxine and her immaculate manners were history. As were Charlotte, and Martina, and Kat. Peter went through women like Amanda went through Kleenex in spring. His behavior was also due to allergies. Peter was allergic to commitment.
Until now.
Peter had been with Alice for six months and the changes were obvious. He wasn’t as brash, or as loud, or as annoying anymore. He didn’t need to be the center of attention constantly. He was present and focused when he was with the kids, and he rarely glanced at his watch during the prerequisite swap-over conversation he had with Amanda.
Amanda had always managed to maintain a semblance of friendliness with Peter, for the sake of the children, but she still disliked the bastard. Not because he’d left her for Maxine. Oh no, she’d disliked Peter for years before he’d finally walked. Year by year as their marriage unraveled she had marveled at the fact that she’d bred with someone so completely self-absorbed. She would often stare at him across the dinner table and wonder what it was that had brought them together. What she’d fallen for. It was as though she had relationship amnesia.
If she’d found it difficult to put her finger on then, it was impossible now. He was a stranger. A stranger she saw in her children—and if she was honest, it annoyed her a lot. She hated it when Zack’s lips curled at a certain angle just before he yelled, and when Dylan gave her a patronizing snarl, and there was this thing that Caitlin did with her chin—pure Peter! And in those moments she’d try so hard to find even a dying ember of that thing she’d loved in Peter, so much that they’d had these kids.
But recently, he’d changed. He’d been, if not completely likable, then close to it. Their conversations were pleasant. While there had certainly been times when she’d fantasized about Peter being hit by a comet, the truth was she’d fantasized more often about him treating her with respect. Peter’s recent behavior gave Amanda hope that they were headed in that direction. And it was during one of their more enjoyable conversations that Zack had asked if his father could come over for Christmas and Amanda had agreed. Bring Alice, she’d said at the time. It would be good for the kids.
Amanda had never met Alice, which was why she was now nervous.
“Maaaaaaarm.”
It was never just Mum. It was always a dragged-out, neighborhood cats brawling, caterwauling, fingernails on a blackboard sound that emanated from Caitlin’s mouth. Amanda often tried to recall those distant days when she’d bounced her daughter on her lap and encouraged her to say, “Mum, mum, mum.” It was the sweetest sound in the world back then and she was riddled with guilt that it bugged her so much now.
“What, Caitlin?”
Caitlin marched into the kitchen. “Zack just told me to eff off.”
Amanda glanced at the top cupboard that housed the Valium. It was calling her name in a much sweeter voice than any of her children had used for years.
“Caity … please, just do me a favor and ignore him. He’s ten … and male …”
No other explanation needed. Even Caitlin nodded. She turned to leave but Amanda stopped her.
“Caity … are you and Damien having sex?”
Caitlin looked as though Amanda had just asked her to eat a live kitten sandwich.
“I was young once too, you know.” Amanda blanched, horrified by her own inanity. She changed tack. “I adore babies, but I don’t want to be a grandmother just yet.”
“You won’t be.”
“Seriously, darling, I couldn’t handle it. I’m only forty-two. I’d go nuts if you got pregnant.”
“I won’t.”
“But accidents happen.”
“Mum, I’m on the pill …”
Ka-ching! She’d walked straight into that one. Amanda patted her daughter’s arm and moved over to the sink, where the turkey was laying stark naked, legs in the air. Amanda sighed. Apparently she was the only one in the room who never found herself in that positi
on.
“Anything else you want to know?” Caitlin’s voice was a mixture of fear and loathing.
“Yeah, sure, what’s Alice like?"
Caitlin stared at the ceiling for a moment, as though the answer was hanging from it. “She’s cool.”
That was a given. All Peter’s girlfriends had been cool. It came with the territory. He’d dated a trail of young, successful hipsters, who fed his ego and drained his bank account. Amanda hardly considered herself to be a complete nanna. She’d been one of London’s hottest stylists when she’d met Peter. Back then, she too was thin and gorgeous, a regular on the scene … She’d boinked Michael Hutchence in a nightclub toilet once, for christsake.
That version of her was as dead as her celebrity shag.
Nowadays, her hips were bigger, her breasts were smaller, and no amount of make-up could hide the lines around her eyes, but she didn’t feel completely unattractive. And she had a wardrobe most women would kill for, thanks to her boutique, the Pantry. (Her boutique that Peter had often called her hobby, but was in fact one of the things she was most proud of.) She knew she wasn’t ready for the wreckers just yet. It’s just there were moments, usually moments when she was feeling good about herself, that she would catch a glimpse in the mirror … and she looked like her mother. Amanda had morphed into her mum, and that was never a good thing for a woman’s self-esteem. Especially when the women Peter now dated were so young.
She could picture Alice now, sexy, edgy and streamlined—a bit like Peter’s new Mercedes—and it made her want to puke. Instead, she grabbed a handful of stuffing and shoved it up the turkey’s arse.
“Oh, turkey, I christen thee Peter …”
The phone rang, but before she could pull her hand out of Peter the turkey’s arse, Zack pounced on it.
“Who is it, Zack?”
Amanda could hear Zack having one of his one-ear-on-the-TV-the-other-on-the-phone conversations. “Yeah … yeah … yeah … I’ll tell her.”
Zack hung up and returned to the television.
“Tell me what?” Amanda called out.
“Something about Dad’s brother being here for lunch.”
“He doesn’t have a brother.”
“Oh, and they’re running late.”
“Your father? Late?”
Amanda yanked her hand out of the turkey and a big chunk of stuffing flew through the air and hit her in the head.
“Oh for f … udge fudge fuck.”
Amanda washed her hands in the sink and then ran her fingers across her hair. Yep, just as she’d suspected. Stuffing in her hair. Lucky they were late. It had to be Alice’s fault, because Peter was a stickler for being on time. If she and the kids weren’t ready to walk out the door ten minutes before they needed to, all hell would break loose. Dylan had christened his father “The Minute Nazi.”
Amanda zipped into the bathroom, hung her head over the sink and washed the stuffing from her hair, which ruined the blow-dry she’d paid for yesterday afternoon. She raised her head and looked in the mirror and willed herself not to cry.
“It’s only hair.”
It wasn’t only hair. It was her pride. It was her shield today, against her failed marriage and Peter’s new-found happiness. Against her single status. She wanted Peter’s girlfriend to see that she too could have a boyfriend if she wanted. That she hadn’t been tossed aside. That she was freaking fabulous too. But now she had naff hair, which clearly indicated she was anything but.
“Why do I care what she thinks?” Amanda muttered.
She combed her hair down. It was a lost cause now. At least she had a great cut and color. There was no sign of the dark roots or stray gray. Not on her head anyway. She’d recently found her first gray down there. She was mortified. How would she ever let any man near it again? She’d shared the news with Sadie, her friend from her book club, who also happened to be the most interesting person she’d met in years. Her advice was to get a Brazilian.
“Seriously, I can’t believe you still have a jungle down there. I know it’s kind of retro and cool right now, but honey, if it’s going gray, get rid of it.”
Amanda had nearly peed her pants laughing, as she often did when she was with Sadie. But there was no way she was waxing that. As far as she was concerned, bald ones were not for adult women.
Amanda checked the house for the tenth time. Reasonably clean, reasonably tidy, with an air of faux cheer thanks to the overdecorated tree. She’d long since removed any obvious signs of Peter, apart from some photos in the kids’ rooms. Alice wouldn’t know that they’d bought the piano on a whim, thinking it would be fun to learn to play together. (They never did.) Alice would see the couch and form an opinion on its shape and color, but not know that Zack had been conceived there. Amanda drifted over to the tree. Alice might notice all the decorations, but how could she know that each and every ornament had been bought somewhere different, on one of their trips overseas. The Christkindlmarkt in Vienna, the Marché Saint-Germain in Paris … Bergdorf Goodman in New York. And perched on the top was the star Peter had bought her in Venice and placed on the tree himself each and every year of their marriage. For the past three years, Amanda had clambered up there and done it herself with the help of a stool and a strong vodka cranberry juice.
Peter was lucky. He’d walked out this door and straight into his brand-spanking-new apartment where there were no ghosts to haunt him. It would be easy to shag someone new in a new apartment. Even if Amanda did finally meet someone, she could hardly shag on the kitchen floor. She still remembered Peter puking there. (Dodgy oyster … nearly killed him.) Or in the shower with the tiles she hated, but that Peter had insisted on.
Peter still lived here, embedded in the walls, whether she liked it or not. Perhaps it was time to move. She’d moved on, emotionally. That wasn’t the problem. She didn’t want him back. She wasn’t angry with him anymore. Not constantly, anyway. And she definitely dreamed of meeting someone else. She’d been on a few dates, no one special, but she was certainly open to loving again. More than that, she yearned for it. But where the hell would she meet a man? She ran the Pantry and was a full-time taxidriver/tutor/shrink/jailer for the kids. Ideally, the perfect man would just ring the doorbell. Today would be nice. Santa’s perfect delivery—FedSex. Like that would ever happen.
If Peter got her anything for Christmas she’d probably die of shock. She’d spent every year of their marriage hoping, praying he’d get her something decent for Christmas. It never happened. The first few years he got her underwear: the type of lacy lingerie that men buy women thinking they’re being generous, when everyone knows the gift is for them. Around their fourth Christmas together, Peter had started giving her whitegoods and household appliances. The vacuum for the car was a particularly memorable year.
Peter hadn’t bothered getting Amanda anything since the divorce. She at least made the effort and got the kids a gift to give him. Admittedly last year it was an aftershave she knew he hated. But this year, with his girlfriend in tow, there was no way she was going to look like the bitter ex-wife. She’d bought them a gourmet hamper from Fortnum & Mason.
Amanda relaxed a little. The house looked fine. It would all be okay. She just needed to … stop sweating. What? Why was she sweating?
“DYLAN!!!!” Amanda legged it down the hall and flung open his bedroom door. “Did you turn the heating up again?”
“Did you knock?”
“I’ll knock you. I’ve told you not to do that.”
“I’m cold.”
“Because you haven’t moved for a week. Get up, get the blood flowing.”
She was about to lecture him on drugs, blood clots and teenage mental illness when the doorbell rang.
“Goddammit, Dylan.” Like it was his fault.
The doorbell was Amanda’s cue to really start sweating. Not moist palms and a light sheen. More like “I’ve just run a marathon across the Sahara Desert” type sweat.
“Turn that bloody heater dow
n now!” she snapped and bolted for her room.
She grabbed the handtowel in her bathroom and pressed it under her armpits. Then she lifted her arm and took a sniff. Not good.
The doorbell rang again and she heard Zack bounding down the hall. Being ten, he hadn’t yet reached the Age of Lethargy.
Amanda gave herself a quick wash, a coat of deodorant, a dab of scented oil, and slipped on a fresh shirt. It wasn’t new, like the other one, but at least it didn’t smell like a camel. She glanced in the mirror, saw her mother … and wished to hell she kept the Valium in the bathroom instead of the kitchen.
“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrm!!!!!!”
Time to face them. Christ she hated Christmas.
Amanda made her way down the hall. She could hear Peter talking, and then laughter … Dylan’s, Zack’s, Caitlin’s … and another laugh, husky, sexy … Alice.
Amanda flapped her arms up and down to ward off more sweat. She felt like the turkey … and just as helpless. Three deep breaths and a couple more flaps … and she marched straight into battle.
“Sorry, everyone, I just had to …” Amanda locked eyes with Alice. The whole room spun like a roulette wheel: place your bets. It couldn’t be …
Alice looked just as stunned. She moved toward Amanda.
And suddenly both woman burst into tears. Peter started to introduce them, but they didn’t seem to hear him.
“Mandy?”
“Ali?”
They flew into each other’s arms.
“Oh my god! Ali! Is it you? It’s you?”
“It’s me. Mandy … I never … I just … Oh, wow, Amanda?” Alice touched Amanda’s face, as if she wasn’t sure she was real.
Amanda’s tears flowed. “I can’t believe it.”
And they held each other tight again.
“I know, I know.”
Alice and Amanda finally withdrew from their embrace and stood facing each other. Peter and the kids stared at them, speechless, countless questions hanging thick in the air. There was a moment of absolute silence. And then Amanda’s tears turned to laughter.