by Fiona Gibson
Momentarily distracted, Kerry picks up the carefully handwritten note from her bedside table, which had fallen out of Aunt Maisie’s Christmas card:
Dearest Kerry, I know from your last letter that things have been incredibly difficult lately. Sending you all my love for a happy and peaceful Christmas and, who knows, perhaps you and the children will manage to come out to stay for some much-needed sun?
Kerry folds up the sheet of thin blue paper and slips it into her top drawer. She has tried not to dwell on how bizarre Christmas will feel this year, although it’s clear from the enormous stash of presents still to be wrapped that she’s tried to compensate for something lacking. Anita has invited them over for lunch tomorrow, then the children will be whisked off by Rob to spend Christmas evening at his parents’ house, where they’ll have Boxing Day too.
It’ll be fine, she tries to reassure herself, biting off strips of Sellotape. After all, plenty of families manage Christmases like this. But what about the new year? Her resolutions are usually along the lines of ‘start running, do stomach crunches, drink less wine’. Not ‘divorce Rob’. A lump forms in her throat and her eyes suddenly fill with hot tears. She blots them with a corner of her duvet and focuses on wrapping the easel instead.
With the children now installed in front of a second movie – call the childcare police – Kerry tackles the last of the gifts, coming up for air three hours later to the sound of a sharp rap on the door. Buddy leaps from his basket with a cacophony of barks as she takes the enormous, cellophane-wrapped wicker hamper from the delivery man.
It is stunningly presented with flamboyant ribbons and bows, and filled with delicious things to eat. There are Italian wines, plus pickles, chocolates and cheeses: the perfect offering to take to Anita’s tomorrow as a way of saying thanks. Blinking away more tears, Kerry peels off the tiny envelope and extracts a card. To Kerry, she reads, still our beloved daughter. A very happy Christmas from Mary and Eugene xxx.
She carries the hamper to the kitchen table and is untying its flashy red bow when her mobile rings. ‘Kerry? It’s James.’
‘Hi,’ she says, quickly wiping her eyes on her sweater sleeve.
‘Just wondered how things are going. Um … are you all organised?’
‘Yes … just about.’
There’s a small pause. ‘You sound a bit … upset.’
She exhales. ‘A hamper just arrived from my in-laws – my ex-in-laws, I mean. It’s a sort of ritual but usually, of course, it would be for all four of us. I didn’t expect it this year.’
‘Oh, that’s sweet of them.’
‘There’s even some Camembert and Brie,’ she adds, ‘which they don’t usually include – it’s normally Italian goodies all the way …’
‘Luke’s test-running melted Brie with cranberries as a kind of seasonal special,’ James chuckles. ‘I thought it was a bit over-ambitious, even for around here, but it’s actually proving quite popular.’
Kerry smiles. ‘I might try that. I’m taking the whole lot to my friend Anita’s tomorrow – we’re invited for Christmas Day. What are you up to?’
‘Um … I thought it was going to be a miserable little turkey dinner for one, but Luke’s girlfriend’s parents have asked me up to their holiday place in Norfolk. Bit of a mercy mission, I suspect, but kind of them, even if it means a board game marathon.’ She laughs, then he adds, ‘Sorry I haven’t called, Kerry. It’s been crazy in the shop. We’ve had orders for huge buffets from people who’ve been let down. A couple of sandwich places have gone out of business and it seems like all their customers have come flocking to us …’
‘I’m glad it’s going well,’ she says.
‘Um, I hope Freddie’s ear’s okay now?’
Hmmm. A little belated, she decides. ‘He’s fine, thanks. Anyway, enjoy your Christmas,’ she adds, wandering through to the living room where the children are sprawled beneath blankets, looking cosy as anything on the sofa.
‘You too. And, um … maybe we could meet up for lunch sometime during the holidays?’
‘Sure,’ Kerry says, ‘that sounds great. Bye, James.’ With a smile, she switches on the multi-coloured Christmas tree lights and places Mary and Eugene’s note among the clutter of cards on the mantelpiece. Then she snuggles between her children on the sofa, the three of them basking in the glory of their undeniably tacky yet beautiful twinkling tree.
Chapter Forty-Three
‘So you’re not the editor of the magazine,’ barks Jens, Nadine’s Swiss father, across the restaurant table. ‘Just the deputy editor.’
‘That’s right,’ Rob says pleasantly, ‘but I’m quite happy with that. It’s actually through choice.’
Jens frowns in bafflement at Candida, his blonde, rather fragile-looking, English wife. If Nadine was taken aback when they called her from Heathrow this afternoon, having opted for a last-minute Christmas in London, Rob was downright horrified. He hasn’t shown it, though. So far, he has been a study in charm and manners, despite being invited to dinner in possibly the only restaurant in North London which still seems to think it’s 1976.
‘And why did you choose this?’ Jens wants to know, fixing him with small, rapidly blinking blue eyes.
Because I didn’t want the sodding Steak Diane. ‘I just fancied something light’ – Rob prods his unyielding risotto with his fork – ‘with that big Christmas dinner looming tomorrow.’
‘No, no, I mean the deputy editor position and not editor.’
‘Erm …’ Rob forms a rictus smile. ‘You see, on magazines the deputy tends to be more hands-on in the office, especially in a small team like ours. Whereas the editor has to be out there, schmoozing advertisers, being a figurehead …’
‘And you don’t want to be a figurehead?’ Jens’s startled expression suggests Rob actually said, And you don’t believe in wearing underpants?
‘Er, not especially, no.’
‘But the editor is paid more?’
‘Yes, of course, but I’d rather have job satisfaction—’
‘Even when you have my daughter and a baby to support,’ Jens cuts in, scratching his thick, pink neck.
‘Dad,’ Nadine says quickly, placing a small hand on her father’s arm. ‘Rob’s happy. He’s really good at what he does. Let’s leave it, okay?’ She casts Rob an apologetic smile which does nothing to thaw the chilly atmosphere. Rob already feels as if he has spent half of his adult life in this restaurant with its thick beige tablecloths and napkins folded into swan shapes, or possibly geese. There are too many wine glasses – four each, for some unfathomable reason – and a few feet behind him, Rob can hear the miserable dribble of some hideous fountain.
‘I’m sure you are, Rob,’ Candida says kindly. ‘I think Jens is just a little concerned about …’ she casts Nadine a fond look ‘ … how you’ll both manage. That’s why we came, to make sure everything’s all right.’
Oh, sure. The caring vibes are overwhelming, Rob reflects, resorting to picking out a lump of stodgy rice that had become embedded in a molar. While Nadine gamely attempts to further boost his PR as fabulous boyfriend and father-to-be, he takes a moment to assess the curious family he’s found himself plunged into. Jens is a large, fleshy man with a face that was probably once classed as handsome, but is now softened by several chins which wobble as he chews. Candida was clearly a beauty – all high cheekbones and kind, baby-blue eyes – but, being far too skinny, has a rather alarming, sinewy neck which, to Rob’s mind, moves in an almost alien way as she speaks. Plus, she has the misfortune to be named after a yeast infection.
‘So, what are your plans for tomorrow, Rob?’ she asks pleasantly.
‘Erm, I’m going to my parents’ in Kent in the morning, then after lunch I’ll pick up my children from my wife’s – my ex-wife’s – friend’s place and take them back to Mum and Dad’s.’
‘Very complicated.’ She emits a tinkly laugh.
‘A lot of driving, yes,’ he says inanely, ‘but at least it’ll keep me
off the drink.’ Otherwise, you see, I’d be a raging alcoholic …
‘Hmmm,’ Jens grunts. ‘And you, Nadine – you say you’re spending Christmas Day with friends?’
‘Yes. Sasha and Harriet share a flat and neither of them are going home this year so, um … we thought it’d be fun to get together.’
‘Are you cooking, sweetheart?’ Candida asks.
‘We’re, er … having a sort of stir fry,’ she mumbles, lowering her eyes and flushing pink. ‘Rob did ask me to go to his mum and dad’s but it’s family time for him.’
Jens raises a greying eyebrow. ‘So you have children already, Rob.’
He nods morosely. ‘Just the two.’
‘And they live with their mother?’
‘Er, yes, on the south coast. I see them most weekends, though.’ Jens scowls, as if not entirely sure that Rob is telling the truth, and a terse silence descends. ‘So where are you staying in London?’ Rob barks, too loudly.
‘We’re at Charles and Alicia’s round the corner,’ Candida says brightly, as if Rob should know immediately who she’s referring to: Oh, Charles and Alicia! Do give them my love …
‘Excuse me a minute,’ he says, pushing away his vomit-like meal and bounding up from his seat. He strides across the sparsely-populated restaurant, wondering how, in one neat move, he’s managed to transform Christmas Eve from being a lovely occasion, bubbling with excitement as his children set out Santa’s mince pies and beer, to being grilled about his career prospects by a terrifying Swiss man. Rob doesn’t even need the loo. He just craves a few moments’ respite from Jens’s booming voice and the creeping sense that his natural charm is faltering somewhat.
From inside the locked cubicle Ron hears someone coming into the gents and sploshing noisily into the urinals. He sits on the loo, hiding, until the man goes away, and decides he needs to think up some safe conversation topics. That’s the only possible way he’ll get through this dinner alive. Idiotically, in an attempt to establish some common ground, he had planned to announce that his own father is Italian, but realises now how lame that would sound: ‘So you’re from Switzerland, Jens. Well, my dad’s from Verona. How amazing that you both come from other countries!’ No, that won’t do at all. Something about Switzerland then? Banks, mountains, being neutral during the war … Christ, Jens would probably stab him with his steak knife for that. It would be as crass as meeting an Austrian and asking if they like The Sound of Music …
What about cuckoo clocks? They could have a fascinating discussion about novelty timepieces. No, that’s even worse. And now he’s thinking about Kerry, who’s probably in a flurry of last-minute wrapping right now, with a glass of wine at her side. His mobile rings, and he almost cries with relief when it’s her.
‘I was just thinking about you,’ he blurts out.
‘Were you?’ There’s an awkward pause.
‘Yeah. I, er … was just wondering how you were getting on with things. Wrapping presents and doing the stockings and all that … have you put out mince pies?’
‘For Santa?’ Her voice softens. ‘Yes, of course we have, and a carrot. All the usuals.’ She reverts to a more business-like tone. ‘Anyway, I’ve just remembered, Mia really wanted gold pens in her stocking and I’ve forgotten to buy them.’
‘Gold pens,’ he repeats flatly.
‘Yes, gold ink ones, I mean. Kind of rollerball things, you know? She’s been doing these brilliant Tutankhamun drawings and wants to colour them in gold, so …’
‘But she’ll open her stocking first thing with you, won’t she?’
‘That doesn’t matter. If you could get them and give them to her at your mum and dad’s …’
He runs his tongue over his lips. ‘Er … I’m sort of out at the moment.’
‘Well, there must be a late newsagent’s open, couldn’t you just—’
‘Kerry,’ he interrupts, ‘I’m out having dinner with Nadine and her parents.’
‘Oh.’ There’s a pause. ‘So … how’s that going?’
Aware of the weirdness of conducting a phone conversation in a toilet cubicle, he lets himself out and inspects his waxy face in the mirror above the hideous scallop-shaped basins. ‘It’s absolutely fucking terrible.’
‘Is it? Oh dear …’
‘It’s not funny. Her dad obviously hates my guts, looks like he’d happily smash the water carafe over my head …’
‘And why would he hate you, Rob?’ Kerry’s voice trembles with mirth. ‘What could this man, the father of a pregnant twenty-year-old, possibly have against you?’
‘It’s probably because I ordered risotto,’ he snaps before ringing off, the gold pens request evaporating immediately as he steps out of the gents.
Rob pauses, taking a moment to examine his fingernails before rejoining the table.
‘So you’ve found yourself a zuckervati,’ Jens is declaring loudly across the room. ‘He’s twice your age, Nadine. A grown man with a family he hardly sees. Children of his own he doesn’t care about …’
Rob winces, rooted to the spot. What the hell does this man in his disgusting shirt – murky green with contrasting white collar – know about his family? He’s just told him he sees his kids almost every weekend, for Christ’s sake. He can hardly do more than that. Anyway, how dare Jens pass judgement on Rob’s parenting when, as far as he can gather, he can only be bothered to shift his paunchy arse to visit Nadine about once a year?
‘A zuckervati,’ Jens repeats. ‘I can hardly believe this is what you’ve settled for.’
Now, what could that possibly mean? Zucker … sugar. Vati … father, perhaps? Sugar daddy?
‘Jens, please,’ Candida hisses. ‘Let’s not spoil the evening.’
‘It’s not like that, Daddy,’ Nadine murmurs. ‘Age doesn’t come into it. It’s not relevant …’
Their table is obscured by an alabaster statue of a woman clutching an urn from which blue-tinted water is dribbling. Realising he must look bizarre, loitering by the loos rather than rejoining the happy group, Rob takes out his mobile again and pretends to check his texts.
‘So is he divorced?’ Jens wants to know.
‘Not yet, Daddy, no.’
‘Well, it would be nice to know if he’s planning to marry you – I assume he’s already living with you in the flat …’
‘Um … we’ve haven’t even talked about getting married yet,’ Nadine replies wearily. ‘And he’s sort of between homes at the moment. He’s mostly at mine but the sale of his house has got caught up in a chain so there’s been a delay there. It should all be sorted very soon.’
‘Hmmm.’ Jens pauses. ‘And what happened to the other one you were seeing?’
‘What, you mean Eddy?’ she asks. ‘That was just a casual, on-off kind of thing.’
‘At least he’s closer to your age, and an editor …’
Rob can sense his blood coagulating as he makes his way back to the table. He takes his seat and snatches the menu that’s the precise glossy orange of a cling peach.
‘What d’you fancy, Rob?’ Candida asks sweetly.
He can barely speak. So, Nadine had an on-off kind of thing with Eddy, did she? He glares at her, wondering if it was on or off at around the time he slept with her, and if there’s a chance that the baby …
‘How about sharing a crème brûlée, Rob?’ Nadine suggests with a smile. ‘Or a lemon sorbet?’
‘Oh, yes, Nadine was telling me your father’s Italian,’ Candida witters nervously. ‘You must have had some lovely sorbets in your time!’
Rob blinks at this assortment of ridiculous people with whom he has been forced to have dinner. He feels his upper lip sticking to his top teeth as he replies, ‘Not really, Candida … in fact I think I’ll pass on dessert. I really couldn’t eat another thing.’
*
‘I promise you, it was nothing,’ Nadine insists, buttoned up to the neck in fleecy pyjamas as they lie side by side, without touching, in bed. ‘It was just … you know. A f
riends-with-benefits thing.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. This isn’t a movie, Nadine.’ Rob turns away sulkily.
‘Well, what else am I supposed to call it? We were never serious. It was just …’ She tails off lamely. ‘A bit of fun.’
Rob glowers at his brown suede slippers neatly paired up on her lilac bedroom carpet, their backs worn shiny and completely flattened by his heels. He’s almost living here now. As well as his slippers, he now keeps his dressing gown, some toiletries, six pairs of boxers and a decent Italian coffee percolator at her place. All of this – like them becoming a couple – seems to have happened without him considering what’s actually going on, and whether he wants it.
‘Who else have you shagged from the office, then?’ he asks flatly.
‘That’s completely offensive,’ she snaps. ‘There’s no need to be so spiteful.’
He presses his lips together, his heart pumping away at what feels like twice its regular speed. They travelled back in the cab from the restaurant in near silence, Nadine mistaking her father’s rudeness as the cause of Rob’s ill-humour.
‘Have you done it with Frank?’ he blurts out.
‘No! Jesus, Rob …’
‘That new post boy with the dyed yellow hair?’
‘Shut the hell up.’
‘It’s just …’ He pauses. ‘I realise I know so little about your past …’
‘So I’ve got one,’ she barks. ‘I’m young, Rob. I’m not forty years old, I don’t look baffled if someone asks if I’m on Twitter …’