by Hilary Boyd
‘It’s just … it makes me nervous … that I’ll, you know, do something while we’re making love and it’ll hurt the baby.’
‘So you do care about the baby.’
‘Of course I care.’
‘It’s just that you haven’t said a word about how you feel.’
‘No, well, not my style is it? Banging on about that sort of stuff.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘I can’t imagine what sort of father I’ll make.’ His voice was low, as if he were talking to himself. ‘I mean, what does it involve, apart from the practical stuff?’
‘Just love, I think. You had a good father. Be like him.’
‘He never hugged me … never really touched me at all. It was Mum who did the hugging.’
‘I’m not sure my dad did much either.’ Flora tried to remember her father on the brief visits he made from Saudi. All she could see was an image of him laughing with a glass in his hand. ‘We must hug our baby lots,’ she said, still unable to picture herself and Fin with a child.
*
The normally immaculate kitchen, pungent with the aroma of roasting goose, was a sea of preparation: bread crumbs for the sauce lay in a heap on the marble work surface, alongside apple peel and cores; a colander full of half-boiled potatoes; a plate of bloody giblets from the goose; squeezed lemon halves, torn foil, the inevitable Brussels sprouts still in their net bag; a pile of silver serving spoons waiting to be polished, a half-full bottle of red wine.
Prue wore a large butcher’s apron over her pink tracksuit, and sweat poured from her flushed face.
‘Thank God you’re here. This is a bloody nightmare. I thought goose would be way quicker than turkey to cook, but it’s still practically raw. We won’t sit down for at least another two hours at this rate.’
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.
‘Nobody minds on Christmas Day,’ Flora soothed. ‘We can just ply them with booze and quails’ eggs when they arrive. Tell us what to do.’
Fin was set to peeling sprouts, Flora to polish the silver.
‘Where are Bel and Philip?’
‘I sent them out to get some brandy butter for the pud. God knows where they’ll find any – not the sort of thing corner shops stock. I’m absolutely sure I bought some, but I’ve searched high and low.’ She groaned. ‘I’ve been so busy on this Pelham Crescent house, I don’t know if I’m coming or going.’
By the time the guests arrived, Prue had calmed down, changed into an elegant mulberry wool Nicole Farhi dress and downed a couple of glasses of Prosecco.
‘You didn’t ask Jake did you?’ Flora asked as the bell rang for the second time.
‘I did actually.’
‘Prue! What were you thinking?’
Her sister gave her a surprised look. ‘You and he parted on good terms didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, but that’s hardly the point. It’ll be bloody embarrassing in front of Fin.’ Jake had texted her a couple of times over the previous months. Just friendly hope-it’s-going-well messages, which she’d replied to in kind. She would be happy to see him; she just didn’t know how Fin would react.
‘Because he doesn’t know about him?’
‘No … because … well, just because.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. No one cares about that sort of thing. It was just sex, and before Fin came back anyway. He can’t expect you to have been celibate all this time. I’m sure he wasn’t.’
Flora said nothing, just focused on her task of turning every potato in the large roasting tray before putting it back in the oven. Her sister had always held a pragmatic view about sex. ‘Never apologise, never explain, even when there are photographs,’ was her favourite saying when told about a friend’s infidelity.
Prue was peering into her face. ‘You look a bit … stressed.’
‘Do I?’
Her sister put her head on one side. ‘Yes. Well, perhaps not stressed exactly. Maybe just a bit peculiar … something not quite right, anyway.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out the truth to Prue, but Philip came into the kitchen just then, towing behind him a painfully thin woman in her forties, wrapped in extensive charcoal cashmere, with dark hair to her shoulders and sharp, pale-blue eyes.
‘Marina! Happy Christmas!’ Prue went over to give a carefully controlled air kiss to her friend’s cheek. ‘You know my sister, Flora, and her boyfriend, Fin McCrea?’
Marina’s eyes lingered on Fin, and Flora could see why. He looked so handsome, rugged and athletic – even though he was convinced he’d ‘gone soft’ – quite a contrast to the more effete professionals and media types who frequented Prue and Philip’s parties.
‘No, I’m not sure I’ve had the pleasure,’ the woman said.
Flora noted Fin’s response with surprise. All week he’d been moaning about having to be polite to her sister and brother-in-law’s ‘pompous’ friends, but now, almost instantly, he gave Marina a dazzling smile such as she hadn’t seen in ages. And as he did so, he seemed to straighten his spine, draw up his head, as if he were shaking himself free of a burden. So different from the brooding, almost resentful expression that she witnessed on an almost daily basis.
The other guests arrived in dribs and drabs over the next hour. Jake was the last. He looked cute, carefully dressed in his usual black and white.
‘Hey, Flora. Happy Christmas.’ He gave her a hug. He smelt of a spicy sandalwood aftershave. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘And you, Jake.’
Prue did the introductions as they all stood around in the large kitchen. ‘You know Billy … and my friend Ginny … Marina Bell, Jean-Pierre all the way from Paris, John and Victoria from next door. And this is Flora’s other half, Fin McCrea.’ Her sister took a quick gulp of champagne from the glass on the work surface. ‘Jake’s responsible for my gorgeous kitchen, so if anything goes wrong with the lunch, we can blame him.’
They all laughed and waved acknowledgements, including Fin, who reached across and gave Jake a friendly handshake. He’s forgotten I told him his name was Jake, Flora thought, letting out a long breath of relief. Fin had been very jealous in the past, especially of the doctors she worked with, although she’d never given him cause.
Everyone got steadily more and more drunk as they waited for the goose to be cooked. Flora had met most of them before and had very little in common with any of them, except Jake. She did her best, for Prue’s sake, but the rich smell of the goose was making her feel a bit queasy and she struggled to join in.
‘How’s it going?’ Jake asked, pulling out her chair for her as they finally sat down. The table had been decorated by Bel with hundreds of silver candles – in amongst lurid pink reindeer, pulling sleighs piled high with silvered pine-cones and crackers.
‘Yeah, good.’
Jake’s eyes flicked towards Fin at the other end of the table. He lowered his voice. ‘Worked out this time?’
‘So far.’
He grinned at her, his blue eyes deliberately flirtatious. ‘Well, offer still stands if he does another runner.’
‘Thanks!’
Marina, it turned out, was an editor and partner in a small publishing company, Grayson Bell, that did mostly travel and lifestyle books. Fin had been entertaining the table with his mountain adventures through most of the goose course, and Marina, seated next to him, hung on his every word.
‘God, I can hardly survive the winter inside my centrally heated flat,’ she commented, as he finished telling his most recent escapade. ‘Let alone braving minus forty-something. And the terror of being perched on an almost vertical ice slope … why on earth do you do it?’ She smiled up at him.
‘Because I enjoy it I suppose,’ Fin replied. ‘It seems more frightening when you don’t know what you’re doing. But I’ve trained for years, since I was a kid really.’
‘Yes,’ she purred, ‘but it’s so brave to even train for something so dangerous.’
&
nbsp; ‘It’s not brave. It’s just what I love most in the world.’
Flora felt her heart tighten with sadness at the almost religious conviction in his voice. She didn’t look at him, and no one challenged his words. If they had, he would have protested that of course he hadn’t meant he loved climbing more than Flora. But she knew that in his heart he did.
‘No, he’s right, it’s not brave,’ Prue chimed in, her tone loud and argumentative from too much wine. ‘It’s bloody stupid. Climbers are worse than drug addicts. They need a fix even if their personal life is falling down around their ears.’
Fin laughed, then pinned Prue with a cynical stare. ‘And you’re not addicted to anything then?’
To Flora’s astonishment, Prue looked uneasy and actually blushed. ‘You mean work,’ she said after a moment.
Fin nodded slowly, still staring at her sister. ‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.’
Flora saw Prue shoot a glance in her direction, but turn quickly away when she met Flora’s eye.
‘Have you thought of writing some of these stories down?’ Marina was asking him. ‘We’re always on the lookout for that sort of book. People never tire of inspiring tales of heroism, and climbing’s hot now.’
‘Is it?’ Philip queried.
‘Definitely. Nick and I were looking at the BMC figures only the other day. Membership has tripled in the last twenty years, apparently – probably helped by all those climbing walls.’
‘I’ve written the odd thing in the past.’ Fin was seemingly unaffected by his peculiar exchange with Prue. ‘I had a gig doing reviews for climbing equipment for a while – it’s a good way to get free stuff. And I wrote one piece about climbing as a boy in the Lake District.’
Marina’s eyes sparked up. ‘Great. Well, why don’t you jot some ideas down and come in after the holidays? Our office is in Great Portland Street. I’ll introduce you to Nick and we can make a plan. You two will definitely get on, he’s nuts about mountains.’
Flora, still puzzled, took some plates through to the kitchen. Bel was standing against the marble island, texting on her phone.
‘Having fun?’ Flora asked.
Bel pulled a face. ‘Alright for you, you’ve got Jake. My side of the table’s bum. That French guy sounds as if he’s trying to keep his teeth in – can’t understand a word he says – and the grisly neighbours just sit there, getting hammered and moaning about house prices … like, what part of that do they think is interesting?’
‘Not all larks my side either. Ginny has monopolised Jake, and I’m stuck with Billy telling me about the sprinkler system on his back lawn.’ Billy was a sad, rather overweight journalist who’d lived next door to Philip and Prue in their old house in Pimlico. They only ever saw him at Christmas, where he was a permanent fixture.
Bel grinned. ‘Wish we could creep off down to yours and watch Some Like It Hot. Dad put it in my stocking.’
‘Wish we could too.’
Flora bent to put the rinsed plates in the machine, but when she came up she suddenly found her head spinning. She reached for the side and clung on, hoping she wouldn’t be sick.
‘Flora? Flora, are you alright?’ Bel was at her side, guiding her to a chair. ‘You’ve gone green … I’ll get Mum.’
‘No … no, don’t. I’m fine. I had a bug and it’s not quite gone. Please don’t get Prue, she’s a bit over the limit and she’ll just make a fuss.’
Bel looked worried. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. I feel better already. It was just coming up too suddenly from the dishwasher.’ She managed a smile, wiping away the clammy sweat from her forehead. ‘Will you tell Mum I’ve gone to lie down for a while? Don’t make a big deal of it.’
‘Can’t I come with you?’
‘I think I just need a sleep.’
Bel looked disappointed. ‘OK. But text me if you need me.’
Fin came clattering down the stairs minutes after Flora had taken off her clothes and was about to get into bed.
‘What’s up, you look rough.’ He stood in the doorway to the bedroom, his face flushed, a stupid expression on his face as if he were trying to control his features.
‘I felt a bit dizzy.’
‘But you’re alright now?’
She nodded, although she still felt lightheaded.
He stood watching her for a moment, then came towards her. ‘God, you’re beautiful.’ He pulled her to him, his hand cupping her breast roughly. ‘Look at this, so perfect …’ he pinched her nipple hard then bent his mouth to it.
She winced. ‘Ow!’
He pulled back. ‘Christ, Flo, can’t I even make love to you any more? We haven’t touched each other since you found out you were pregnant.’
‘Just be gentle. I told you yesterday, my breasts are really tender.’
‘This is how it’s going to be from now on, isn’t it?’ His tone was heavy with resignation.
She slid past him and got into bed, pulling the duvet around her shoulders.
‘You’ll always have some excuse. Every man I’ve ever talked to says the same thing. As far as a woman’s concerned, once she’s pregnant it’s Job Done. Sperm’s safely collected, man totally redundant.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Is it rubbish? So you’d be happy for me to make love to you now, would you? As long as I’m “gentle”.’
‘No, because you’re drunk,’ she said, turning her back on him.
He groaned. ‘So what? That never stopped us fucking each other’s brains out in the past.’
‘You’ve forgotten. You never used to drink in the past.’
Fin swore under his breath and she heard him leave the room, then stomp upstairs and slam the door.
It was after nine when he came back, sheepishly clutching a foil wrap of goose and a small Tupperware pot containing apple sauce. She was watching a cheesy American romance on Sky.
‘Hey.’
‘How did it go?’
‘You know. More drinking. More food. But I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since I last saw you.’ He sat down beside her. ‘I’m so sorry, Flo. I was a pig earlier. You were right, I was drunk, but that’s no excuse for being beastly to you.’ He picked up her hand and dropped a kiss on it. ‘Forgive me?’
‘Of course.’ She leant against him. ‘I’m sorry too. I don’t feel myself.’
‘I don’t either.’
She laughed. ‘Pregnancy by association – nasty condition.’
‘You’re a nurse, you should have warned me.’
This time it was she who kissed him, pulling him down onto the cushions until they lay against each other. They made love without bothering to turn off the television, the trite dialogue burbling on in the background heard by neither of them.
It was only later, when she was making some goose sandwiches with brown toast and apple sauce, that she remembered her unease at the jibe Fin had launched at her sister.
‘What did you mean when you accused Prue at lunch of being addicted?’
Fin was beside her, putting the kettle on for some tea. He hesitated.
‘Well, she is, isn’t she? … totally addicted to work.’
‘She looked so embarrassed though, as if you’d found her out in some dodgy sexual practice.’
‘Ha! Didn’t notice.’
‘Didn’t you? She actually blushed.’
He had his back to her. ‘She was probably just flushed from all that bloody Prosecco. Hate the stuff, it gives me raging heartburn.’
‘I wish I’d been drunk. Those things are hell when everyone else is and you’re stone-cold sober. I felt like a sodding gooseberry.’
CHAPTER 16
28 December
Flora sat beside Dorothea, holding her hand. The old lady was in her chair in the sitting room, tucked around with a wool rug. She looked tiny and frail, her skin almost transparent – she’d had barely enough strength to make the journey from her bed to the sitting room on the
frame.
‘She’s been sleeping a lot,’ Mary had told her the morning before. ‘You’ll see a big change in her just in the five days you’ve been away. That flu really took it out of her.’ The night nurse had shaken her head. ‘Not sure we’ve got much longer.’
‘So you had a good Christmas?’ Flora asked Dorothea now, her heart going out to her, wondering how it felt to be so close to the end of your life.
‘It was … lovely … Rene came to see me and brought her daughter … Rosie I think it was. I can … muddle her up with her sister.’
Flora let out a long breath. ‘Personally, I’m quite glad it’s over.’
The old lady looked at her keenly. ‘Don’t you enjoy Christmas? People don’t.’
‘Sometimes …’
‘But not this year.’ Dorothea paused. ‘May I ask why not?’
‘Oh, just family stuff. It’s a bit stressful at home at the moment.’
‘I hope it’s not that young man of yours … causing trouble.’ She suddenly looked rather fierce.
‘He doesn’t mean to,’ Flora replied, giving in to the intimacy of the moment, the quiet room, the sympathetic ear of a person who had no axe to grind. ‘But he’s having problems with his life and it makes him cross.’
‘Men can be so … childish sometimes,’ Dorothea was saying.
Flora smiled. ‘Can’t they just?’
‘Never be put upon, dear. Stand up for yourself.’ There was a spark in Dorothea’s washed-out blue eyes now, and her voice took on a new vigour, all hesitancy vanished. ‘My generation never did. Men took terrible advantage.’
‘In what way?’
‘In every way. We were … chattels … really no more than that.’
Flora was astonished by this feminist declaration from the ninety-three-year-old.
‘At least we earn our own money now.’
Dorothea nodded. ‘That helps, I’m sure. But habits … die hard.’
In the ensuing silence Flora realised she no longer cared about the boundaries she’d so carefully maintained in the nurse–patient relationship. She’d known Dorothea for a long time, and so intimately; they understood each other.