It’s always there to some degree.
But seeing Dad’s grief tonight – so raw even after all these years – has made the guilt almost unbearable.
I love my dad so much. We’ve always had a really close father–daughter relationship. But what would happen to that bond if Dad were to find out that my selfish actions contributed to the death of his beloved son?
Tears start sliding down my face.
Rosie is on her feet, rushing to comfort me. ‘Hey, hey, don’t cry, little sis. Dad will be fine.’ She kneels down beside my chair and smoothes a lock of hair behind my ear. ‘You know how emotional people get at Christmas. We’re all entitled to let off steam now and again. Lola, look at me.’
She grabs some kitchen roll and starts dabbing at my wet face, murmuring, ‘He’ll be fine. You’ll see. Bet you a packet of strawberry chews, Dad’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘You remember the strawberry chews?’
‘Of course I do.’ She smiles, matter-of-factly. ‘They were Jack’s favourite. Can’t get them in Spain, so I always overdose on them while I’m here.’
I stare at her, an aching lump in my throat, feeling Rosie’s pain beneath the briskness. ‘Do you think Mum will ever recover from Jack’s death?’
She sits back down but keeps hold of my hand. ‘If you want my honest opinion, I think Justine hit the nail on the head.’
‘Justine?’
‘Yes. She shouldn’t have yelled like that. But what she said about this family never talking about Jack? I think she’s absolutely right. I’ve thought about it a hell of a lot over the years. How else do you come to terms with such terrible grief? You talk about it.’
‘Dad wouldn’t let us talk about Jack after Mum had her breakdown. He was only doing what he thought was best for her.’
She sighs. ‘Yes, but was it really best for her? And us?’
I stare at her wordlessly.
‘It’s taken its toll on every single one of us,’ she says sadly, rubbing my hand.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, hun, it doesn’t take a Masters in Psychology to work out why you’re always so eager to please in your relationships.’
‘You mean with Nathan?’
Rosie knows all about that tragic part of my romantic history.
Skype is a wonderful thing.
She nods. ‘Nathan and a few others I won’t mention. You think about others’ feelings at the expense of your own, which is lovely. But isn’t it time you started caring about yourself a little more? Deciding what you want in life and really going for it? And not letting self-centred knobs like Nathan hold you back?’
I stare at her in confusion. Is that how Rosie sees me?
I swallow hard. ‘Am I really that pathetic?’
Rosie looks horrified. ‘No! Lola, you’re amazing. You’re kind and loving and you’re a far better person than me. I’m selfish. I ran away from the situation at home, remember? In the end, I couldn’t bear the silence and the buried grief. But you stayed put and helped Dad look after Mum. You’ve spent years following Dad’s lead. Tiptoeing around Mum as if she were an unexploded bomb. Terrified of saying the wrong thing and pushing her over the edge again.’
She stares at me sadly. ‘Honestly, Lola, I don’t know how you coped. I hated the atmosphere at home after Mum’s breakdown. The way we were never allowed to mention Jack in front of her. He was my little brother, for God’s sake. I wanted to be able to remember him – all the fun times – with the people who loved him as much as I did.’
Her eyes shine with tears. ‘I can understand Dad thinking he needed to keep Mum insulated from the horrors of losing a child. But – I don’t know. Shouldn’t she be over it by now?’ She winces. ‘I don’t mean over Jack. You’d never be able to get over losing your child. It’s hard enough losing a brother.’
I nod, seeing the picture a little more clearly. ‘If she’d gone for counselling all those years ago when Dad kept asking her to, she probably would be better by now.’
Rosie sighs. ‘She can be so bloody stubborn.’
‘I know. And what sort of a life has Dad had? He’s spent the last few decades being Mum’s rock. But he lost a child, too.’ I stare at her, my throat aching. ‘Oh God, Rosie, if you’d seen him tonight …’
‘Stop it. He’ll be fine.’
I shake my head. ‘But he won’t be fine. He never will be. And it’s all my fault.’
A wave of grief washes over me.
But I’ve said it.
At last I’ve spoken out loud the words I’ve been afraid to say all these years.
I stare at Rosie, waiting for the punishment I always knew would come.
She laughs. ‘All your fault? How do you make that out?’
My throat has closed up.
I open my mouth to speak but the words won’t come out.
‘Lola?’
When I swallow, it feels like broken glass.
I look up into Rosie’s kind eyes, tears flooding down my face.
‘It was my fault Jack died. I killed him, Rosie.’
I lie in bed later, my head whirling with disjointed thoughts and images: Dad’s despair as he grabbed hold of the Christmas tree; his car disappearing into the night; Mum’s look of bewilderment when she heard he’d left without a word.
And, most terrible of all, the shocked incomprehension on Rosie’s face when I told her the truth about what I did to Jack.
I’ve gone over the details of that terrible day so often, it sometimes feels like it happened only yesterday.
It was a Saturday in December and Rosie, who was eleven at the time, was hanging out with some of her friends in the village. Rob, who – at nine – was a year younger than me, had slept over at a friend’s house the night before and wasn’t yet back.
Dad was at work so it was just Mum and me in the house with Jack.
Memories of my brother have faded with time but what remains is his cheeky grin and infectious giggle and the way he used to run at me so I could swing him round and round. He’d shriek with delight and I’d swing him higher and faster.
The day it happened I was trying to build a tower with a pack of cards. Rob had bet me I couldn’t do it and I remember being determined to prove him wrong. But Jack kept running through and gleefully knocking my painstaking efforts flying. At first, I laughed and tickled him in revenge. But the joke wore thin and, eventually, I shouted at him to stop. He ran crying to Mum and she took his side, which felt so unfair.
Mum kept him in the kitchen with her for a while. Then she popped her head round the door and said she was nipping next door to borrow a knitting pattern from our elderly neighbour, Mrs Hopkirk. Would I keep an eye on Jack?
As soon as Mum left, Jack started badgering me to go out into the garden. It was a cold, blustery day and I didn’t want to leave my card tower. But Jack kept pestering me, and before too long, his whinging had turned into a full-scale temper tantrum. I could hear him trying to get the back door open but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t manage it. Then it went quiet and I realised he’d got out.
I ran through and watched him outside, haring around the garden in his slippers.
I shouted for him to come and get his coat and wellies on but he just ignored me, so I closed the back door and let him get on with it. Mum was always saying it was good for Jack to run around and let off steam.
So I went back to my card tower and forgot about him.
Only when Mum came back and asked where Jack was did I realise it had started to pour with rain and Jack was still outside.
Mum ran out and brought him in and she was really snippy with me. I don’t remember her telling me off but I could tell she was annoyed. She fussed over Jack and made him change his clothes, even though he wasn’t all that wet.
I remember feeling fed up that she was giving Jack all the attention and ignoring me. But at the same time, I felt ashamed. Mum had left me in charge. I should have made sure Jack stayed inside with me.
Then next day, Mum found some spots in his mouth and realised he had measles.
Rosie, Rob and I had all been through the measles and chicken pox stage and we were absolutely fine.
But for some reason, Jack wasn’t. He got really ill and developed an infection in his lungs.
I remember going to see him in the hospital.
He died on Christmas Eve. Three days after his fourth birthday.
I’ve always known it was my fault Jack died. I should have taken better care of him.
Mum never said she blamed me. But I was always aware that she knew. That if it hadn’t been for my carelessness, my cheeky, infuriating, gorgeous little brother might still be alive.
Rosie had listened intently, holding my hand, as I told her what happened.
She hadn’t known any of it – I hadn’t told a single soul and neither had Mum – and I could see Rosie was shocked.
The silence when I finished seemed to last a lifetime.
She looked at me with intensely sad eyes.
It was probably only a few seconds, but the panic I felt waiting for my sister’s reaction was so horrible I really felt I was going to be sick.
What if she hated me?
Tears started trickling down my cheeks.
Rosie scraped back her chair and bent over to hug me and I sobbed messily into the comforting warmth of her sleeve, just so grateful she didn’t seem to be rejecting me outright. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had.
My flood of fear and grief was laced with relief.
I’d held on to these horrible thoughts about myself for so long, to finally have them out in the open was bliss in a strange way.
‘Lola, you were ten years old,’ Rosie murmured, close to my ear. ‘Only a kid. You didn’t lock Jack out, hun. You just forgot.’
‘But it was my fault he died,’ I blurted out, my body heaving with sobs.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ she insisted. Dropping to her knees, she held up my face. ‘Lola, it wasn’t your fault. How could it be? It wasn’t the rain that killed him. It was the infection brought on by the measles.’
‘Yes, but maybe he’d never have got the measles if he hadn’t been outside in the cold.’
She shook her head. ‘You can’t think like that, Lola. You were ten years old. Listen to me. You did nothing wrong. Nothing! It was not your fault.’
She was trying her best to comfort me. But I could see her mind ticking over. The slight uncertainty behind her assurances.
She was wondering if Jack dying really could have been my fault.
I escaped as soon as I could, claiming I was shattered and gulping down the brandy Rosie brought me, before fleeing upstairs with Jasper’s key. I let myself in as quietly as I could, assuming Seb would be asleep, but to my surprise, there was a light on in the living room.
Seb appeared. ‘How was the food?’
‘Great, thanks.’ I hurried past him into Jasper’s bedroom, not wanting him to see my puffy eyes and wrecked make-up. I felt a big enough fool already for having snogged the poor guy in his own kitchen while the dinner burned. That all seemed a lifetime ago now.
‘Let me know if there’s anything you need,’ he called after me.
‘I will. Thanks.’
I pushed the bedroom door shut behind me and leaned back against it with a shaky sigh.
All I wanted was the oblivion of sleep.
Three days until Christmas
CITRUS TEA LIGHT HOLDER
These pretty tea light holders cost pennies and are so simple to make.
You will need:
1 orange or lime
Tea lights
A bowl of water (optional)
•Cut a slice off the top and bottom of an orange or a lime, so that the fruit sits flat.
•Then scoop out the flesh and insert a tea light.
•You could float some in a bowl of water.
•Or arrange them in a line to light the way to your door for a party.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When I wake next morning, my head aches and my mouth is dry as a bone. It’s after nine. Josh is sure to be up and about, wanting breakfast.
I ease myself out of bed and cross to the window, the pounding in my head intensifying. I pull back the curtains, hoping that last night was all just a horrible dream and I’ll see Dad’s blue Citroen parked in the street.
It’s not there and panic flutters in my chest.
I eventually locate my mobile under a pile of yesterday’s clothes and phone Dad again but it goes straight to voicemail.
My body aches as if I was in a physical fight last night and, with a sigh, I realise I don’t have clean clothes with me. I ran upstairs last night after confessing all to Rosie without even thinking what I’d need.
I stand under Jasper’s power shower, letting the deluge of hot water pound my scalp and my back, and slowly ease away some of the tension. I’ve brought no toiletries with me so I pick up a ‘for men’ shower gel/shampoo combo and sniff. It’s lemony and fresh so, feeling a little guilty, I pour some out and lather up my hair.
The scent of it has a strangely uplifting effect on me. I breathe deeply and a shiver runs through me.
I look at the description on the bottle, searching for the mystery, mood-enhancing ingredient.
Then it dawns on me that it must be Seb’s shower gel, bringing back thoughts of our close encounter in the kitchen the day before.
Oh God, so it’s Seb who’s the mystery mood-enhancer.
I swallow hard.
The memory of being pinned by his big, muscular body to the fridge freezer, while feeling the very opposite of frozen, is a disturbingly erotic one.
I turn my face up to the shower and quickly rinse Seb out of my hair.
Afterwards, wrapped in a towel, I wonder if I dare brave the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. I can’t function without it and I have a feeling I’m going to need all the crutches going if I’m to get through the day ahead.
After listening at the door, I walk in to an empty kitchen.
The kettle is a far more stylish affair than our old thing. The instant I switch it on, it make a rush of busy noise that makes me nearly leap out of my skin. I glance at the door and pull the bath towel round me more firmly.
Now. Jar of instant coffee?
I’m searching around in likely places, when Seb’s deep voice says, ‘Cupboard, top right.’
I reach up without thinking.
And the towel slips.
I manage to catch it before it hits the floor, revealing way too much bare flesh for my liking. Including the discreet tattoo of a butterfly at the base of my back, just above my right buttock.
Maybe he wasn’t looking.
I turn to find Seb, in a dark green robe, bringing butter out of the fridge.
‘English muffin?’ he asks, slicing them on a breadboard and popping them in the toaster.
‘No thanks. I’m not hungry,’ I say truthfully, trying not to notice his bare chest, visible beneath the loosely tied robe. He’s obviously not a pyjama man, then.
He brushes past me to reach into a cupboard and I flinch as a bolt of lust zips through my entire body.
‘There you go. Just milk in mine,’ he says with a heart-stopping grin, placing a jar on the counter in front of me.
‘Thanks.’ I grab at two mugs, clashing them together embarrassingly. And when I try to spoon coffee into them, my hands are trembling so much, coffee granules spill all over the bench. I wipe them up and then, of course, there’s a horrible brown mess on the dish cloth which I then have to try to rinse under the tap. One-handed. Feeling painfully self-conscious.
To make matters worse, I can’t help feeling Seb is quite enjoying watching me making a total arse of myself.
Finally, the coffee is made.
‘I’d never have had you down as a tattoo girl.’ Seb grins.
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me,’ I reply, sounding a lot more sinister than I actually mean to.
Coffee in hand, I bolt back to Jasper’s bedroom, taking my burning face with me.
Downstairs, I walk into the flat to find Rosie, who’s never been a morning person, still dozing in the sofa bed.
The only reason she’s able to do this, instead of being bombarded with demands for breakfast, is because Josh has somehow worked out how to plug his PlayStation into the TV and is playing some computer game with the sound down low.
‘Hey, Josh. Did you sleep all right?’
‘Um. Yeah.’
‘Was the sofa bed comfy?’
‘Um. Yeah.’
‘Would you like some crunchy nut cornflakes?’
‘Yes, please, Auntie Lola.’
Throughout this dialogue, Josh’s thumbs have never stopped their manic twitching.
‘We have entire conversations where his eyes don’t leave the screen,’ murmurs Rosie. ‘You get used to it. It’s scary but all the kids are the same.’
I sit down on the sofa bed. ‘You must be exhausted after yesterday.’
‘I am a bit.’ She opens her eyes and struggles into a sitting position. ‘Is Dad back?’
I shake my head and she frowns. ‘God, I hope he’s okay. If he would only pick up his phone, just so we know he’s all right.’
‘By the way, how’s Alejandro?’
Rosie shrugs. ‘Fine. Spending Christmas with his parents in Madrid, I think.’ She’s trying to sound cool but there’s a tell-tale flush to her cheeks. ‘Right, let’s get this show on the road. Josh, stop playing on that thing and talk to us instead. You don’t see Auntie Lola every day, do you?’
There’s no sound from Mum, who’s in Barb’s room, or Justine and Rob, so I make a late breakfast for the three of us and we sit in the festive nook, chatting about their life in Spain and what Josh would like for Christmas.
While he’s away cleaning his teeth, Rosie murmurs, ‘I’m going to pop out and buy a few more things for him today, if you don’t mind. I wanted to travel as light as possible on the way over here.’
I nod, glancing at my watch. It’s nearly eleven and I can hear movement from my bedroom.
‘Look, why don’t I take Josh out? We can go into town on the bus. And you can go shopping.’
Mistletoe and Mayhem Page 22