by Nicky Wells
“Why not,” I conceded, not wanting to give into my children’s demands quite so easily. “That would be nice.”
“Pizza!” my children exclaimed as one, and Dan agreed on my behalf.
“All right, all right.” I tugged at Josh’s costume. “It’s a bit early though, and you’d better get changed.”
“It’s never too early for pizza,” my son contradicted me, sounding quite in-role still, before scampering off to change. I shook my head.
“They’re growing up so quickly,” Dan observed. “It’s unreal. It seems like only yesterday they were babes in arms…”
“…and now they’re feminists and budding comedians with wise-crack repartee,” I concurred. “And it’s only going to get worse.”
“Wha’s a femist?” Emily chimed up, and Dan ruffled her hair yet again.
“A feminist,” he repeated the word slowly for her benefit, “is a little girl who thinks it’s better to be the king than an angel.”
Emily regarded him with big eyes, and I simply knew she was storing this nugget of information for future reference, but she said nothing.
“Can we go now?” Josh burst into our little scene, fully, if haphazardly, dressed, and Dan grabbed his hand.
“Let’s go,” he declared, leading the way with a child at each hand.
Chapter Forty-Four
We got three more days with Dan before he disappeared again, having been summoned to the studio to start making up for lost time. I warned him to take it easy, but he brushed my concerns away, making promise after promise not to burn the midnight oil like he had before. Consequently, we didn’t see him much at all, not even on the weekend. I received texts and took telephone calls, and I spoke with Jack several times, beseeching him to send Dan to bed at a reasonable hour, but I had no insight into whether my rock star was being sensible. The only aspect of his life I could control was whether or not he ran himself ragged trying to fit the Jones family into his schedule, and I blocked that avenue one hundred percent, much as it pained me.
In actual fact, with Christmas being so close, days flew by without me having time to draw breath. School and playschool broke up for the holidays, and I kept us busy with making Christmas decorations, baking cookies, going to carol concerts, and even braving a panto, Peter Pan. I cried real tears at the very bad and very saucy jokes, while the children were beside themselves with glee at the funny acting and outrageous capers.
When the cast erupted into a spirited rendition of ‘Gangnam Style’, Josh stood on his seat and danced, and, amid many giggles, I had to persuade him to come down and dance with both feet on the floor. It was a resounding success, and we were all worn out with laughter and shouting by the time we arrived home. I put my overexcited kids to bed at nine, promising them a trip to the Christmas market the following day, Christmas Eve.
“So much excitement and busy-ness in the time that’s meant to be the quiet coming of Christ,” I mused to myself, not for the first time, as I settled in front of the telly with a glass of mulled wine. Since Steve’s death, Christmas had been one of the most difficult times for me. The first year, my parents had tactfully invited us to spend the holidays with them, away from our familiar surroundings, memories, and the inevitably empty space by the tree. Steve’s parents had made a similar offer, and so we had oscillated between the two well-meaning sets of grandparents, the kids duly distracted, me barely coping with the loss.
It had gotten easier, of course, and the previous year, we had even been quite jolly. But this year, my parents had booked a cruise in the Caribbean, completely taking me by surprise when they had asked my permission in March to be absent for this year’s Christmas so they could fulfill one of their lifelong dreams. Of course I had sent them booking the cruise of a lifetime and hadn’t given the twenty-fifth of December another thought. Gradually, I had become used to the idea of spending Christmas in London and had gracefully but firmly declined Steve’s parents’ invitation.
Lately, I had secretly wondered…nay, hoped, that perhaps we might see Dan over Christmas. After all, he kept calling us his loan family and we had all become so close over the past six months, even though we hadn’t necessarily seen him very much recently… But still, I had hoped. I should’ve simply asked him, I surmised. It was entirely possible that Dan was hoping for the same, but didn’t want to intrude. It was, in fact, quite likely that the both of us were simply being too polite or too confused to make that call. One way or another, I hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t said anything. I was trying very hard—if unsuccessfully—not to feel hurt about this, reminding myself that we had no real claim on him.
So now, on the eve of Christmas Eve, I was questioning my judgment of facing the festivities alone with the kids. In a house that was dark and quiet, with a gaudily bedecked Christmas tree sparkling silently in a corner of the lounge, I couldn’t help wondering whether I was doing the right thing. How would we get through the next two days? Would it even occur to the kids to wonder where their father was? Would they still feel the pain? Would I be enough for them?
The phone rang at this very opportune moment and I pounced on it gratefully without even looking at it. If it was Steve’s mum again repeating her offer of Christmas asylum, I might just accept.
“So…tomorrow,” Dan’s voice emerged from the handset somewhat unexpectedly and without greeting or preamble. “When are you all coming?”
My mulled-wine brain struggled to catch this curve ball. “Tomorrow? Coming where?” I repeated, befuddled.
Dan laughed. “Sweetheart, I got the tree waiting to be decorated by the two young Joneses, a deli feast waiting to be consumed in the evening, and a turkey prepped and ready to be cooked on Christmas Day. I can’t do this on my own. I thought you were all helping me?”
My spirits soared. Christmas with Dan, after all?
“That would be awesome,” I gushed while a tiny voice at the back of my head muttered, it would be awesome, but what message will the kids take away from this?
Dan picked up on my infinitesimal hesitation. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing!” I tried to reassure him as much as myself. “We’d love to come. How…What did you have in mind?”
“Surprise! Get here when you can and leave the rest to me.” There was a definite smile in his voice, and I found myself smiling also, even though we couldn’t see each other.
“I kind of promised the kids to take them to the Christmas market on the South Bank tomorrow. Shall we get to you when we’ve done that? Or before? Or…” I petered out, getting the distinct feeling that there was a hurt vibe coming down the line. “Why don’t you come with us? The kids would love that. I’m not thinking straight. I’m saying everything back to front here. So sorry, I…I was having a funny moment, and when you rang, I didn’t quite get my head ‘round it all and…” Verbal diarrhea carried me through the awkward moment.
Finally, Dan laughed. “I was beginning to think you didn’t love me anymore,” he teased, and the ‘L’ word carried clear with his strong timbre. A trickle of goosebumps ran down my back, but I didn’t get time to enjoy them.
“Tell you what, get here when the kids are up, and then we’ll see what we fancy doing. They shall have their Christmas market, don’t worry. We’ll play it by ear. What do you say? It is Christmas Eve, after all, time for taking it easy and making merry,” he coaxed.
It was my turn to laugh. “Okay, we’ll come over for breakfast,” I agreed.
“Don’t forget your PJ’s,” Dan instructed, a distinct hint of mischief in his voice.
“Pajamas?”
“Well, unless you plan to head off tomorrow night and then be back with sleeping kids first thing on Christmas morning?”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” I wasn’t doing well at playing this gracefully, but Dan forgave me.
The kids had a little lie-in the following morning, so I hastily loaded the car with their presents, then threw blankets and bags with clothes over the top. By th
e time my offspring rose, the car looked as though we were departing for a two-week holiday. I told the children we were headed for Dan’s, and they got dressed quicker than ever before, all thoughts of Christmas under our own, lovingly decorated tree completely forgotten.
The smell of freshly perked coffee and croissants baking in the oven greeted us when we arrived at Dan’s house, and Christmas rock songs were playing on the iPod in the kitchen. Dan wore a reindeer apron and a set of antlers on his head and quickly outfitted us with similar accessories. Needless to say, the kids were ecstatic, more so when, after breakfast, Dan let them loose on the enormous, but bare, Norwegian spruce that graced his lounge. There were boxes and boxes of ornaments scattered about the sofas: baubles, tinsel, angels, stars, pine cones with silver snow, hand-made fabric bows, lacquered apples…a riot of styles and themes, but my children fell on the lot and got decorating with gusto.
Dan pulled me down on the sofa to watch, his eyes full of vicarious excitement. “This is grand,” he whispered, sounding a little choked. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
“It’ll be gaudy and lopsided,” I warned him.
“I don’t give a monkey’s what it looks like. Look at their faces!” Dan was still rapt.
I took in the scene through his eyes and I had to agree, it was picture book perfect. “Thank you,” I said softly. “This means a lot.”
Dan put an arm around my shoulder and gently pulled me into him. “Thank you,” he retorted. “It means the world to me.”
It took Josh and Emily the best part of an hour to trim the tree. Then Dan heightened the magic further.
“Perfect,” he announced when Josh declared the job done. “Now for the candles. But that’s a job for your mummy and me.” He produced another box from under a sofa, this one filled with silver clip-on candle holders. “The candles are over there,” he pointed, and I spotted a box of tiny white candles on the sideboard. It was our turn to adorn the tree while the children watched us from the sofa, and we performed our task with such ease it felt as though we had done it many times before.
“Real candles,” Josh enthused when we were nearly done. “We’ve never had real candles before. Can we light them?”
“No, let’s wait until tomorrow.” Practical me immediately tried to manage the situation, thinking of wax and drips and messy floors, not forgetting the risk of fire from burned-down candles and the ensuing need to replace them from ditto. But Dan had other ideas.
“Of course,” he agreed. “Wouldn’t be much fun otherwise.”
He handed Josh and Emily a long safety-taper each and let them light the candles that they could reach, not flinching even once when wax dripped onto his wooden floors. He swiftly finished the job off with the higher candles and turned the electric lights off. The tree looked spectacular, if predictably lopsided.
“It’ll be even better when it gets dark,” Dan promised the children, then launched into the next phase of his plan. “Now then. I think your mummy deserves some pamper time. I hear you wanted to go the Christmas market. What do you say, I take you, and we leave Mummy to relax for an hour or two?”
Huge screams of joy indicated the kids were more than happy with this plan, and Dan shot me a meaningful look. “Are you okay with that? I…there’s something I need to get and I don’t want you to see. I’ve fixed the guest room properly for you. It’s all yours. I even got your favorite bubble bath. You don’t need to do anything, no cooking or anything, it’s all taken care of. Just relax. My first present to you—what do you say?”
Needless to say, I said ‘yes’, although it felt slightly odd being left behind in Dan’s house while Dan and the kids went off on a secret mission together. I had no idea what he had planned but actually, I was excited by the prospect of not being in charge. Singing Wizzard’s classic Christmas song at the top of my voice, I unloaded the car and hauled the presents and clothes upstairs.
On account of having my hands full, I had to push the door to my customary guest room open with my bottom, and I nearly dropped my cargo in shock when I stepped in. ‘Fixed the guest room properly for you’ was the understatement of the century. ‘Created your own personal haven’ would have been more accurate. Gone were the pine bed and big wardrobe. In their place, a white four-poster bed waited for me, with gauzy curtains and a colorful quilted cover. It looked at once elegant, dreamy, and decadent.
The far wall was hidden behind a row of mirrored wardrobe doors, and there was a brand new white carpet with red and blue rugs scattered around tastefully. Last, but not least, there was a dinky antique dressing table and a big, squashy armchair by the newly opened and restored little fireplace. This was my dream bedroom, had I but enough money to furnish my own sleeping quarters in this manner.
I set my bag down and ventured into the other guest room, which also had had a makeover. Dan had installed a massive bunk-bed of sorts, but the bottom bunk was at a forty-five degree angle to the top bunk and stripy canopies turned both beds into secret hideaways. There was a big children’s wardrobe, a brand-new dark-blue carpet—sensible choice—and a big storage unit with cheerful plastic boxes for storing toys and bric-a-brac. The kids would be over the moon. They would never want to go home!
Completely overwhelmed, I sat down on the bottom bed and fingered the pink bedding absent-mindedly. What did this mean? Granted, at one point the Jones family had spent a lot of time in this house, but I had put a stop to that since Dan was back, to keep him from burning out all over again. What was he proposing?
Proposing…proposing…posing… The word echoed around my mind, bouncing off the walls and fading slowly. I was feeling dizzy, but I pulled myself up short. Dan had always been a face-value kind of man. It was obvious, and had been for some time, that he thought of the children and I as his kind of family-by-proxy, and I presumed he was simply indulging this idea. Whether there was a hidden agenda, a deeper meaning to his action…
“Probably not,” I ruminated, rising to my feet and padding back to my own room. “He’s probably just wanting us to be comfortable when we do stay. And anyway…” I kicked off my shoes and succumbed to exhilarated joy. “Who cares? This is fab!”
I did a good movie-heroine impression of launching myself onto the four-poster with a squeal and bouncing up and down. My next stop was the en-suite bathroom, which had also had a bit of a makeover, and I found my favorite bubble bath waiting for me as promised. I turned the taps and squirted a liberal amount of shiny, pearlescent bath essence into the water before discarding my clothes and diving in.
Chapter Forty-Five
I was still in the bath when the doorbell rang. Feeling lazy and rather enjoying my bubbles, I elected to ignore it, but the ringing wouldn’t cease. If anything, it got more persistent until I finally relented. I wrapped myself into a fluffy bathrobe and padded downstairs, leaving little wet footprints along the way. Being ever cautious, I attempted to look through the spyhole first, but the view was obscured by something large and white. I was debating whether to zip round to the kitchen to take a peek out the window when the buzzer went again, and I swung the door open in the sheer desire for the noise to stop.
“Finally,” a muffled and highly impatient voice greeted me from behind a large cardboard box. “I thought there were nobody here.”
The cardboard box began to move forward and I stepped back before I got squashed.
“Where you be wanting this then, love?” the voice continued. “In the kitchen?”
“Um…what is it?”
The cardboard box stopped moving and turned a fraction, then tilted sideways as the owner of the voice tried to look at me. He wore a chef’s hat.
“What is it? Are you joking?”
I tied the cord of my dressing gown more firmly around my waist, as if the gesture of propriety would help, and shook my head.
“This is your Christmas dinner,” the man informed me. “Where do you want it?”
“In the kitchen, I suppose,” I ordered, pointing tow
ard the door to the left. I was still computing the implications of the unexpected arrival of food when another cardboard box walked in, followed by another, and another. A veritable army of home delivery chefs was invading Dan’s house, and I had no idea whether they were in the right place. After the last chap had shuffled past me, I closed the door and followed them into the kitchen, where I was met by a hive of activity. Tray after little tray of food was being unpacked from the cardboard boxes, some placed on the side and others stacked in the fridge.
“This is your turkey,” the original voice suddenly informed me, and I turned to inspect the bird. “It won’t fit in your fridge. Do you have anywhere else…?”
Thankfully, the front door opened before I had to come up with an answer, and Dan and the kids bounded in.
“Ah, the food’s here,” Dan enthused, and immediately took charge of placing the turkey into storage. The kids rushed at me, sporting tinselly bopper-headbands and chocolate-covered mouths, and told me all about the fabulous time they had had at the Christmas market.
“Dan says we’re going to have a big party tonight,” Josh gushed, and Emily nodded, her shiny boppers accentuating her every move.
“Are we now?” I asked. “I was beginning to get that impression.”
Dan flashed me a look across the kitchen. “Only a little party,” he corrected. “Only with the band.
“Ah. Only the band,” I repeated.
“Well, and their families. They’re due to arrive any minute—”
He never got time to utter the “now” as the doorbell rang again. Dan laughed. “That’ll be them. You might want to…” He gestured loosely at my dressing gown attire. I let out a gasp and scurried up the stairs as quickly as my feet would carry me.
“Party…party…he never mentioned a party, what am I supposed to wear? I didn’t bring any clothes for a party,” I muttered under my breath as I sorted through the small amount of clothes I had brought. “Jeans and a top will have to do.” Holding up my current favorite black top shot through with golden thread, I shrugged and got on with getting dressed and made-up.