by Jojo Moyes
It was growing dark outside. My jet-lagged brain suddenly registered what this meant. "Oh, wow. What time is it?"
"Time you gave me my presents?" Thom's gappy smile swam in front of me, both hands raised in prayer.
"You're fine," said Treena. "You've got another hour before Sam finishes, plenty of time. Thom--Lou will give you whatever she's got once she's had a cup of tea and found her deodorant. Also, what the bloody hell is that stripy coat thing you dropped in the hall? It smells like old fish."
Now I was home.
"Okay, Thom," I said. "There may be some pre-Christmas bits for you in that blue bag. Bring it over here."
--
It took a shower and fresh makeup before I felt human again. I put on a silver miniskirt, a black turtleneck, and suede wedge-heeled shoes I had bought at the Vintage Clothes Emporium, Mrs. De Witt's Biba scarf, and a spritz of La Chasse aux Papillons, the perfume Will had convinced me to buy, which always gave me confidence. Thom and Treena were eating when I was ready to leave. She had offered me some pasta with cheese and tomato but my stomach had started to work its way into knots and my body clock was screwed up.
"I like that thing you've done with your eyes. Very seductive," I said to her.
She pulled a face. "Are you going to be okay to drive? You plainly can't see properly."
"It's not far. I've had a power nap."
"And when will we expect you home? This new sofa bed is bloody amazing, in case you're wondering. Proper sprung mattress. None of your two inches of foam rubbish."
"I'm hoping I won't need to use the sofa bed for a day or two." I gave her a cheesy smile.
"What's that?" Thom swallowed his mouthful and pointed at the parcel under my arm.
"Ah. That's a Christmas stocking. Sam's working on Christmas Day and I won't see him till the evening so I thought I'd give him something to wake up with."
"Hmm. Don't ask to see what's in there, Thom."
"There's nothing in it that I couldn't give to Granddad. It's just a bit of fun."
She actually winked at me. I offered silent thanks to Eddie and his miracle-working ways.
"Text me later, yeah? Just so I know whether to put the chain on."
I kissed them both and headed for the front door.
"Don't put him off with your terrible half-arsed American accent!"
I held up a middle finger as I exited the flat.
"And don't forget to drive on the left! And don't wear the coat that smells like a mackerel!"
I heard her laughing as I shut the door.
--
For the past three months I had either walked, hailed a taxi, or been chauffeured by Garry in the huge black limousine. Getting used to being behind the wheel of my little hatchback with its dodgy clutch and biscuit crumbs in the passenger seat took a surprising amount of concentration. I set out into the last of the evening rush-hour traffic, put on the radio, and tried to ignore the hammering in my chest, not sure whether it was the fear of driving or the prospect of seeing Sam again.
The sky was dark, the streets thick with shoppers and strung with Christmas lights, and my shoulders dropped slowly from somewhere around my ears as I braked and lurched my way to the suburbs. The pavements became verges and the crowds thinned and disappeared, just the odd person glimpsed instead through brightly lit windows as I passed. And then, shortly after eight, I slowed to a crawl, peering forward over the wheel to make sure I had the right place in the unlit lane.
The railway carriage sat glowing in the middle of the dark field, casting a golden light out through its windows onto the mud and grass. I could just make out his motorbike on the far side of the gate, tucked into its little shed behind the hedge. He had even put a little spray of Christmas lights in the hawthorn at the front. He really was home.
I pulled the car into the passing place, cut the lights, and looked at it. Then, almost as an afterthought, I picked up my phone. Really looking forward to seeing you, I typed. Not long now! XXX
There was a short pause. And then the response pinged back. Me too. Safe flight. xx
I grinned. Then I climbed out, realizing too late I had parked over a puddle, so the cold, muddy water washed straight over my shoes. Oh, thanks universe, I whispered. Nice touch.
I placed my carefully purchased Santa hat on my head and pulled his stocking from the passenger seat, then shut the door softly, locking it manually so that it didn't beep and alert him to the fact that I was there.
My feet squelched as I tiptoed forward, and I recalled the first time I had come here, how I had been soaked by a sudden shower and ended up in his clothes, my own steaming in the fuggy little bathroom as they dried. That had been an extraordinary night, as if he had peeled off all the layers that Will's death had built up around me. I had a sudden flashback to our first kiss, to the feel of his huge socks soft on my chilled feet, and a hot shiver ran through me.
I opened the gate, noting with relief that he had made a rudimentary path of paving slabs over to the railway carriage since I had last been there. A car drove past, and in the brief illumination of its headlights I glimpsed Sam's partially built house ahead of me, its roof now on and windows already fitted. Where one was still missing, blue tarpaulin flapped gently over the gap so that it seemed suddenly, startlingly, a real thing, a place we might one day live.
I tiptoed a few more paces, then paused just outside the door. The smell of something wafted out of an open window--a casserole of some sort?--rich and tomatoey, with a hint of garlic. I felt unexpectedly hungry. Sam never ate packet noodles or beans out of a tin: everything was made from scratch, as if he drew pleasure from doing things methodically. Then I saw him--his uniform still on--a tea-towel slung over his shoulder as he stooped to see to a pan--and just for a moment I stood, unseen, in the dark and felt utterly calm. I heard the distant breeze in the trees, the soft cluck of the hens locked nearby in their coop, the distant hum of traffic headed toward the city. I felt the cool air against my skin and the tang of Christmassy anticipation in the air I breathed.
Everything was possible. That was what I had learned, these last few months. Life might have been complicated, but ultimately there was just me and the man I loved and his railway carriage and the prospect of a joyous evening ahead. I took a breath, letting myself savor that thought, stepped forward, and put my hand on the door handle.
And then I saw her.
She walked across the carriage saying something unclear, her voice muffled by the glass, her hair clipped up and tumbling in soft curls around her face. She was wearing a man's T-shirt--his?--and holding a wine bottle, and I saw him shake his head. And then, as he bent over the stove, she walked up behind him and placed her hands on his neck, leaning toward him and rubbing the muscles around it with small circular motions of her thumbs, a movement that seemed born of familiarity. Her thumbnails were painted deep pink. As I stood there, my breath stalled in my chest, he leaned his head back, his eyes closed, as if surrendering himself to her fierce little hands.
And then he turned to face her, smiling, his head tilted to one side, and she stepped back, laughing, and raised a glass to him.
I didn't see anything else. My heart thumped so loudly in my ears that I thought I might pass out. I stumbled backward, then turned and ran back down the path, my breath too loud, my feet icy in my wet shoes. Even though my car was probably fifty yards away I heard her sudden burst of laughter echo through the open window, like a glass shattering.
--
I sat in my car in the car park behind my building until I could be sure Thom had gone to bed. I couldn't hide what I felt and I couldn't bear to explain it to Treena in front of him. I glanced up periodically, watching as his bedroom light went on and then, half an hour later, went off again. I turned off the engine and let it tick down. As it faded, so did every dream I had held on to for the past six months.
I shouldn't have been surprised. Why would I? Katie Ingram had laid her cards on the table from the start. What had shocked
me was that Sam had been complicit. He hadn't shrugged her off. He had answered me, and then he had cooked her a meal and let her rub his neck, and it was preparation for . . . what?
Every time I pictured them I found myself clutching my stomach, doubled over, as if I'd been punched. I couldn't shake the image of them from my head. The way he tilted his head back at the pressure of her fingers. The way she had laughed confidently, teasingly, as if at some shared joke between them.
The strangest thing was that I couldn't cry. What I felt was bigger than grief. I was numb, my brain humming with questions--How long? How far? Why?--and then I would find myself doubled over again, wanting to be sick with it, this new knowledge, this hefty blow, this pain, this pain, this pain.
I'm not sure how long I sat there, but at around ten I walked slowly upstairs and let myself into the flat. I was hoping Treena had gone to bed but she was in her pajamas watching the news, her laptop on her knee. She was smiling at something on her screen and jumped when I opened the door.
"Jesus, you nearly frightened the life out of me--Lou?" She pushed her laptop to one side. "Lou? Oh, no . . ."
It's always the kindnesses that finish you off. My sister, a woman who found adult physical contact more discomfiting than dental treatment, put her arms around me and, from some unexpected place that felt like it was located in the deepest part of me, I began to sob, huge, breathless, snotty tears. I cried in a way I hadn't cried since Will had died, sobs that contained the death of dreams and the dread knowledge of months of heartbreak ahead. We sank slowly down onto the sofa and I buried my head in her shoulder and held her, and this time my sister rested her head against mine and she held me and didn't let me go.
18
Neither Sam nor my parents had expected to see me so for the next two days it was easy to hide in the flat and pretend I wasn't there. I wasn't ready to see anyone. I wasn't ready to speak to anyone. When Sam texted I ignored it, reasoning that he would believe I was running around like a headless chicken back in New York. I found myself gazing repeatedly at his two messages--"What do you fancy doing Christmas Eve? Church service? Or too tired?" and "Are we seeing each other Boxing Day?"--and I would marvel that this man, this most straightforward and honorable of men, had acquired such a blatant ability to lie to me.
For those two days I painted on a smile while Thom was in the flat, folding away the sofa bed as he chatted over breakfast and disappearing into the shower. The moment he had gone I would return to the sofa and lie there, gazing up at the ceiling, tears trickling from the corners of my eyes, or coldly mulling over the many ways I appeared to have got it all wrong.
Had I leaped headfirst into a relationship with Sam because I was still grieving Will? Had I ever really known him at all? We see what we want to see, after all, especially when blinded by physical attraction. Had he done what he did because of Josh? Because of Agnes's pregnancy test? Did there even have to be a reason? I no longer trusted my own judgment enough to tell.
For once, Treena didn't badger me to get up or do something constructive. She shook her head, disbelieving, and cursed Sam out of Thom's earshot. Even in the depths of my misery I was left mulling over Eddie's apparent ability to instill in my sister something resembling empathy.
She didn't once say it wasn't a huge surprise, given I was living so many thousands of miles away, or that I must have done something to push him into Katie Ingram's arms, or that any of this was inevitable. She listened when I told her the events that had led up to that night, she made sure I ate, washed, and got dressed. And although she wasn't much of a drinker, she brought home two bottles of wine and said she thought I was allowed a couple of days of wallowing (but added that if I was sick I had to clear it up myself).
By the time Christmas Eve arrived, I had grown a hard shell, a carapace. I felt like an ice statue. At some point, I realized, I was going to have to speak to him, but I wasn't ready yet. I wasn't sure I ever would be.
"What will you do?" said Treena, sitting on the loo while I had a bath. She wasn't seeing Eddie until Christmas Day, and was painting her toenails a pale pink in preparation, although she wouldn't admit as much. Out in the living room Thom had the television turned up to deafening volume and was leaping on and off the sofa in a pre-Christmas frenzy.
"I was thinking I might just tell him I missed the flight. And that we'd speak after Christmas."
She pulled a face. "You don't just want to speak to him? He's not going to believe that."
"I don't really care what he believes right now. I just want to have Christmas with my family and no drama." I sank under the water so that I couldn't hear Treena shouting at Thom to turn the sound down.
He didn't believe me. His text message said: What? How could you miss the flight?
I just did, I typed. I'll see you Boxing Day.
I observed too late I hadn't put any kisses on it. There was a long silence, and then a single word in response: Okay.
--
Treena drove us to Stortfold, Thom bouncing in the rear seat for the full hour and a half it took us to get there. We listened to Christmas carols on the radio and spoke little. We were a mile out of town when I thanked her for her consideration, and she whispered that it wasn't for me: Eddie hadn't actually met Mum and Dad either so she was feeling nauseous at the thought of Christmas Day.
"It'll be fine," I told her. The smile she flashed me wasn't very convincing.
"C'mon. They liked that accountant bloke you dated earlier this year. And to be honest, Treen, you've been single so long I think you could probably bring home anyone who wasn't Attila the Hun right now and they'd be delighted."
"Well, that theory is about to be tested."
We pulled up before I could say any more and I checked my eyes, which were still pea-sized from the amount of crying I'd done, and climbed out of the car. My mother burst out of the front door and ran down the path, like a sprinter out of the starting gates. She threw her arms around me, holding me so tightly I could feel her heart thumping.
"Look at you!" she exclaimed, holding me at arms' length before pulling me in again. She pushed a lock of hair from my face and turned to my father, who stood on the step, his arms crossed, beaming. "Look how wonderful you look! Bernard! Look how grand she looks! Oh, we've missed you so much! Have you lost weight? You look like you've lost weight. You look tired. You need to eat something. Come indoors. I'll bet they didn't give you breakfast on that plane. I've heard it's all powdered egg anyhow."
She hugged Thom, and before my father could step forward, she grabbed my bags and marched back up the path, beckoning us all to follow.
"Hello, sweetheart," said Dad, softly, and I stepped into his arms. As they closed around me, I finally allowed myself to exhale.
--
Granddad hadn't made it as far as the step. He had had another small stroke, Mum whispered, and now had trouble standing up or walking, so spent most of his daylight hours in the upright chair in the living room. ("We didn't want to worry you.") He was dressed smartly in a shirt and pullover in honor of the occasion and smiled lopsidedly when I walked in. He held up a shaking hand and I hugged him, noting with some distant part of me how much smaller he seemed.
But, then, everything seemed smaller. My parents' house, with its twenty-year-old wallpaper, its artwork chosen less for aesthetic reasons than because it had been given by someone nice or covered certain dents in the wall, its sagging three-piece suite, its tiny dining area, where the chairs hit the wall if you pushed them back too far, and a ceiling light that started only a few inches above my father's head. I found myself comparing it distantly to the grand apartment with its acres of polished floors, its huge, ornate ceilings, the clamorous sweep of Manhattan outside our door. I had thought I might feel comforted at being home.
Instead I felt untethered, as if suddenly it occurred to me that, at the moment, I belonged in neither place.
--
We ate a light supper of roast beef, potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, a
nd trifle, just a little something Mum had "knocked together" before tomorrow's main event. Dad was keeping the turkey in the shed as it wouldn't fit in the fridge and went out to check every half an hour that it hadn't fallen into the clutches of Houdini, next door's cat. Mum gave us a rundown on the various tragedies that had befallen our neighbors: "Well, of course, that was before Andrew's shingles. He showed me his stomach--put me quite off my Weetabix--and I've told Dymphna she needs to put those feet up before the baby's born. Honestly, her varicose veins are like a B-road map of the Chilterns. Did I tell you Mrs. Kemp's father died? He's the one did four years for armed robbery before they discovered it had been that bloke from the post office who had the same hair plugs." Mum rattled on.
It was only when she was clearing the plates that Dad leaned over to me and said, "Would you believe she's nervous?"
"Nervous of what?"
"You. All your achievements. She was half afraid you wouldn't want to come back here. That you'd spend Christmas with your fella and head straight back to New York."
"Why would I want to do that?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. She thought you might have outgrown us. I told her she was being daft. Don't take that the wrong way, love. She's bloody proud of you. She prints out all your pictures and puts them in a scrapbook and bores the neighbors rigid showing them off. To be honest, she bores me rigid, and I'm related to you." He grinned and squeezed my shoulder.
I felt briefly ashamed at how much time I'd intended spending at Sam's. I'd planned to leave Mum to handle all the Christmas stuff, my family, and Granddad, like I always did.
I left Treena and Thom with Dad and took the rest of the plates through to the kitchen where Mum and I washed up in companionable silence for a while. She turned to me. "You do look tired, love. Have you the jet lag?"
"A bit."
"You sit down with the others. I'll take care of this."
I forced my shoulders back. "No, Mum. I haven't seen you for months. Why don't you tell me what's going on? How's your night school? And what's the doctor saying about Granddad?"
--
The evening stretched and the television burbled in the corner of the room and the temperature rose until we were all semicomatose and cradling our bellies like someone heavily pregnant in the way one did after one of my mother's light suppers. The thought that we would do this again tomorrow made my stomach turn gently in protest. Granddad dozed in the chair and we left him there while we went to midnight mass. I stood in the church surrounded by people whom I had known since I was small, nudging and smiling at me, and I sang the carols I remembered and mouthed the ones I didn't and tried not to think about what Sam was doing at that exact moment, as I did approximately 118 times a day. Occasionally Treena would catch my eye from along the pew and give me a small, encouraging smile and I gave one back, as if to say, I'm fine, all good, even though I wasn't and nothing was. It was a relief to peel off to the box room when we got back. Perhaps it was because I was in my childhood home, or I was exhausted from three days of high emotion, but I slept soundly for the first time since I had arrived in England.