by Sandie Jones
‘What’s all this about?’ he said, turning towards me, his face serious.
I moved closer to him and lifted his arm over me, as I laid my head in his lap. A diversion tactic to give my cheeks time to cool down.
‘I guess I just feel that there’s large chunks of your life that I don’t know about yet,’ I said, ‘and I just want to know everything that there is to know.’ I gave a little laugh and picked up his hand from where it rested on my stomach, and held it to my lips.
My heart was thumping as I waited for a response. Had I pushed it too far? Was he just going to get up and walk out?
The seconds ticked by like hours and I tried to gauge which way he was going to go as the pulse in his thigh beat against my cheek.
‘What do you want to know?’ he said, finally.
I let out the breath I’d been holding in. ‘Everything!’
He laughed. ‘By that, I assume you mean my love life. Isn’t that the only thing that girls really want to know about?’
I lifted my shoulders and wrinkled my nose. ‘That obvious, eh?’
He looked down at me, and I could see the fairy lights in the tree reflected in his eyes. My stomach flipped as he smiled. ‘Okay, you go first . . .’ he said. ‘Where’s the most unusual place you’ve ever made love?’
I almost choked, and sat up. ‘That’s easy . . . I had a one-night stand on a cricket pitch, but you already know about that.’
‘Tell me again . . . slowly,’ he teased.
I went to hit him round the head with a cushion but he caught it mid-flight.
‘Okay, so have you ever been in love?’ he asked.
‘It’s not your turn,’ I said.
He tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes or no?’
The moment had suddenly become laden with anticipation. Funny, isn’t it, how the very real physical act of sex, even with unnamed strangers, can be spoken about with humour and joviality, yet talking about an unseen emotion called love is fraught with tension.
‘Once,’ I said, determined to keep my voice calm and steady.
‘Who with?’
‘A guy called Tom. I met him at work, when I was going through my retail period.’
He looked at me questioningly.
‘You know. Between my hairdressing and interior design phases.’ I’m sure I’d given him a quick run through my haphazard CV at some point.
‘Ah.’ He sighed. ‘The enlightenment years.’
I smiled, grateful to him for relieving the intensity of the conversation.
‘So, what happened?’ he asked.
I cleared my throat. ‘We met when I was twenty, went out for close to three years, and I began to think we had a future.’
‘But?’
‘But, despite how I felt about him and how he claimed to feel for me, he still managed to sleep with someone else.’
‘Oh,’ he mustered. ‘How did you find out?’
‘It was with a very good friend of mine, dear Charlotte, who decided that she was actually more in love with him, than she was a friend to me.’
‘Christ. I assume you’re not friends anymore.’
I laughed wryly. ‘Funnily enough, no. I haven’t spoken to her since, and have no intention of speaking to her ever again.’
‘So, was he your last boyfriend . . . before we met?’ he went on.
‘Seriously, you’ve had five hundred questions and I haven’t even had one,’ I said, laughing. ‘He was my only serious boyfriend. I’ve had other relationships over the three years since, but nobody of any significance, until I met you.’
He smiled.
‘Now, it really is my turn,’ I said.
He sat back and stared straight ahead, avoiding my gaze.
‘So, what about you? Have you ever been in love?’
His foot nudged the edge of the cobalt-blue rug that lay under the coffee table. I didn’t want to force anything, if it was still too raw. I waited a moment longer. ‘It’s not important,’ I said, far more brightly than I felt. ‘If it’s . . .’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
I chanced it. ‘With Rebecca?’
He nodded. ‘She was the one I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with . . . but it wasn’t to be.’
His answer made me wish I’d never asked.
‘But anyway, enough of all that,’ he said, as if shaking himself out of the place he was in. ‘I wanted to ask how you’d feel about spending some time together over Christmas. If it’s difficult, I understand . . . you know, if it’s . . . I just thought . . .’
I reached across and put a finger on his lips. Smiling, he said, ‘Is that a yes, then?’
He pulled me towards him and kissed me. ‘So, you’ll come for Christmas dinner?’ he asked excitedly.
I wrinkled my nose up. ‘I can’t come on Christmas Day.’ His shoulders dropped. ‘But you could come down to my parents. They’d love to meet you,’ I added.
‘And you know that I can’t,’ he said, sadness in his voice. ‘Mum’s on her own as James is having lunch with his girlfriend Chloe, so she needs me there. It’s a tough time of year for her.’
I nodded. He’d already told me that his father had died two days before Christmas.
‘Why don’t you come down on Boxing Day?’ he said.
‘But my brother and his wife are coming for lunch, and they’re bringing the baby.’ Though even as I was saying it, I knew it was an easier ask of me to go to him, rather than him come to me. My parents had each other and Stuart, Laura and the baby. Pammie would be lucky to see a neighbour.
‘I guess I could drive down late afternoon . . .’ I offered.
‘And stay over? We could go for a drive the next day, find a nice pub or something.’
We sounded like two over-excited children hatching a plan.
The next day, I called Pammie to check that she was okay with it. It seemed the courteous thing to do.
‘Well, this is a turn-up for the books,’ she said, which immediately put me on the back foot.
‘I’m so sorry, Pammie. I thought Adam had already spoken to you. He said he’d call you first thing this morning.’
‘No, dear,’ she said. ‘But no matter. It’d be lovely to see you. Will you be staying down here?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Though I probably won’t be there until early evening.’
‘So, will you be wanting tea with us?’ she asked.
‘My mum’s doing a turkey for lunch, so just a little something in the evening would be lovely,’ I said, not wishing to come across as rude or ungrateful.
‘But we won’t wait for you . . .’
‘Goodness no, you just carry on and I’ll be there when I can.’
‘Well, it’s just that Adam gets so hungry and he’ll be starving by then,’ she went on.
‘Yes, of course. I understand. You go ahead and I’ll just have tea with you all later.’
‘So, we’ll all eat together then?’ she went on, as if she wasn’t hearing me.
‘Perfect,’ I said, though I didn’t really know what I was agreeing to anymore.
7
It had sounded a great idea at the time but, in reality, once I was at Mum and Dad’s, I’d have been happy to stay there. It was warm and cosy and reminded me of Christmases past when, as an excited seven-year-old, I’d shake my little brother awake in the middle of the night. We’d creep down the stairs, so terrified of seeing Santa Claus, yet not wanting to miss him either.
‘He’ll know we’re not asleep,’ Stuart would whisper. ‘And if we’re not asleep, he’ll not leave any presents.’
‘Ssh,’ I’d reply, my heart in my mouth. ‘Cover your eyes with your hand and just look through the tiniest crack in your fingers.’
We’d feel our way along the banisters and shuffle slowly towards the tree in the corner of the front room, passing the fireplace where we’d left a glass of milk and a mince pie. I’d peer out between my fingers, the light of the moon il
luminating the room just enough to see the remainder of a mince pie on the plate. I’d gasp.
‘What is it? Has he been?’ Stuart would cry eagerly.
I would be able to make out the shapes of wrapped presents under the tree and my heart would leap for joy. ‘He’s been,’ I’d say, barely able to contain my excitement. ‘He’s been.’
Twenty years on, and not much has changed. Despite it being Boxing Day, we’re still treating it as if it was Christmas Day itself. We’re still gathered around the same old tree. ‘If it’s not broken, don’t fix it,’ Dad has repeated for the past decade, even though there’s clearly a withering branch or two needing assistance. Mum is still insistent that the presents underneath it have nothing to do with her, and Stuart and I exchange a look, as if willing ourselves to believe it.
‘So, how’s the new romance going?’ my sister-in-law, Laura, asked in between mouthfuls of Mum’s famous roasties.
I nodded, my own mouth full of crispy Yorkshire pudding. ‘It’s going well,’ I said, smiling.
‘Ah, she’s got that twinkle in her eye,’ said Dad. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Valerie? I told your mother you had that twinkle in your eye again a couple of weeks back.’
‘Again?’ I asked.
‘Didn’t I, Val?’ he called out to the kitchen, where Mum was filling a second boat with gravy. ‘Didn’t I say she had that twinkle in her eye again?’
‘What do you mean, again?’ I asked, laughing. Stuart and I rolled our eyes at each other. It wouldn’t be Christmas if Dad didn’t have too many sherries.
‘He means since Tom,’ tutted Mum, as she bustled into the dining room, her obligatory apron still on, though why she only wore it at Christmas when she cooked every other day, I’ll never know. ‘Honestly, Gerald, you’ve got the tact of a . . .’
I looked at her expectantly.
‘Go on, Mum,’ said Stuart. ‘The tact of a what?’
‘The tact of a . . .’ she repeated, though where she was going with it was anybody’s guess.
I snorted.
‘We’ve got three different conversations going on here,’ moaned Mum in mock protest. She gives off a good impression of it all being too much, but I know for a fact that she loves nothing more than having her family around her. And now we have little Sophie she’s even happier.
‘So, whose eyes were twinkling?’ asked Dad, almost to himself.
‘You said Emily’s were,’ Mum said, rolling her eyes. ‘Because she’s got a new boyfriend.’
‘When am I going to get to meet him, then?’ asked Dad loudly. ‘I hope he’s not a bastard like that other fella.’
‘Gerald!’ Mum shouted. ‘Watch your language.’
‘How long have you been together?’ asked Laura, genuinely interested.
‘Oh, only three months, not that long,’ I said flippantly, but instantly regretted making what Adam and I had sound like a casual fling. ‘But I’d like you to meet him.’
‘Well, you just make sure he treats you right this time. Don’t take any of his . . .’
‘Gerald!’
We all laughed, and I wished that Adam was there. I wanted him to meet my nutty lot just so he knew what he was letting himself in for.
I left reluctantly, knowing I’d miss the drunken charades and Mum’s inability to remember how many syllables were in Dances with Wolves. Stuart gave it to her every Christmas, just so we could see her attempt to mime it, yet, every year, she treated it as if it was the first time she’d ever heard of it.
‘Take care of yourself, sweetheart,’ Mum said, as she hugged me at the door.
If it wasn’t Adam I was going to, I’d have stayed right there, in her warm embrace. She smelled of mulled wine and oranges.
‘Thanks Mum. I’ll call you when I get there.’
‘Do you fancy an eggnog before you go?’ asked Dad, as he came to the door, his paper hat askew. ‘I bought a bottle specially.’
‘She can’t, Gerald,’ chastised Mum, ‘she’s got to drive. And who drinks that stuff anyways?’
I smiled to myself and kissed them all goodbye, and gave baby Sophie an extra squeeze, before dragging myself out into the cold air. Unsurprisingly, the roads were clear – I imagine because most sane people were settled in for the night, unwilling to leave the warmth of their fires and unable to resist the lure of one more sherry.
It was dark by the time I pulled up outside Pammie’s cottage, one of five in a row, their flintstones cheek to jowl. The white wooden door swung open before I’d even turned my lights off, and Adam’s bulk filled the porch, his cold breath billowing, at odds with the warmth of the light that spilled out from the hall behind him.
‘Come on.’ He beckoned, like an excited little boy. ‘You’re late. Hurry up.’
I looked at my watch. 5.06 p.m. I was six minutes later than expected. We kissed on the porch. It felt like forever since I’d seen him. It had only been three days, but when Christmas is in between, it makes you feel like you’ve lost whole weeks sitting indoors, watching telly and eating until you’re sick.
‘Hmm, I’ve missed you,’ he whispered. ‘Come in. We’ve waited for you. Dinner’s about to be served.’
‘Dinner?’ I faltered. ‘But . . .’
He kissed me again as I took off my coat. ‘We’re all starving, but Mum insisted we wait for you.’
‘All? But—’ I began again. Too late.
‘There she is,’ exclaimed Pammie, scurrying forward to hold my face in her hands. ‘Oh, you poor mite, you’re freezing. Come on, let’s get you fed. That’ll warm you up.’
I looked at her questioningly. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ve just eaten . . .’ I started, but she had already turned and was heading towards the kitchen.
‘I hope you’re hungry,’ she called out. ‘I could feed an army with this lot.’
Adam handed me a glass of fizz and, nerves frayed, I was grateful for the cold tingle on my tongue.
‘What have we got for tea?’ I asked, careful to keep the word ‘tea’ light, as if I could actually will it to be.
I kept a fixed smile on my face as Adam said, ‘It’ll be easier if I tell you what we haven’t got.’
‘Adam, I can’t . . .’ I tried again, as we walked into the dining room, but when I saw the table, beautifully laid out for four, with sparkly placemats, crisp white napkins carefully rolled into silver rings, and a red-berry and pine-cone centrepiece, I didn’t have the heart.
‘Here you go,’ said Pammie, in a sing-song voice, as she carried in two plates, laden down with a full Christmas dinner and all the trimmings. ‘This one’s for you. I’ve given you extra as I knew you’d be hungry by the time you got here.’ My heart sank. ‘I do hope you like it. I’ve been in the kitchen most of the day.’
I smiled through gritted teeth. ‘Looks lovely, Pammie.’
‘You sit here,’ she said. ‘And Adam, that’s you there. Sit, and I’ll go and get the other two.’
I looked at him as she left the room, and tilted my head towards the empty seat, its place setting laid out just as beautifully as the other three.
‘Oh, that’s for James, my brother,’ he replied, in answer to my silent question. ‘He showed up unexpectedly on Christmas Eve and he’s been here ever since. Thought I told you that on the phone?’
I shook my head.
‘James,’ Pammie called out. ‘Dinner’s ready.’
I looked at the plate in front of me. Even if I hadn’t eaten for a week, I still wouldn’t be able to get through this mountain of vegetables. I could just about see the corners of the thick turkey slices poking out from beneath two Yorkshire puddings. The colour of the crockery was unknown.
My bloated stomach groaned and I discreetly undid the top two buttons of my skin-tight trousers as I sat down. Thank God for my long blouse, as I was straight back up again as James walked into the room.
‘Don’t get up on my account.’ He smiled, holding out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, finally.’
Finally?
I liked that. It implied that we’d been together longer than we really had. And Adam had clearly spoken about me.
I smiled tightly, suddenly aware of how awkward it felt to be sat with a complete, yet very relevant, stranger.
Adam hadn’t spoken much about James, aside from to say that they were polar opposites: Adam worked in a high-pressured job in the city, whereas James had started up a small landscaping business on the Kent–Sussex borders. Adam was the first to admit that he was motivated by money, yet James was quite happy to live from one day to the next, as long as he was outside doing what he loved.
I watched him as he sat down, then reached across for the salt and pepper, his mannerisms the same as Adam’s. They looked very much alike too, except James had longer hair and sharper features, his face unlined and without the telling strain of working in the city.
Maybe we’d all look like that if we weren’t out there, slaving away, fighting for the next deal and, no doubt, working ourselves into an early grave. Meanwhile, he just ambles along, doing what he loves, and hey, if he gets paid for it too, that’s just a bonus.
‘James here has had a bit of girl trouble,’ whispered Pammie conspiratorially.
‘Mum,’ he moaned. ‘I’m sure Emily doesn’t want to know about that.’
‘Of course she does,’ she said indignantly. ‘There isn’t a woman in this world who doesn’t love a gossip.’
I smiled and nodded, still summoning the strength to pick up my knife and fork.
‘Mind you, we’re not quite sure she was right for him in the first place, are we?’ she went on, clasping her hand around his as it rested on the table between mouthfuls.
‘Mum, please.’
‘I’m just saying, that’s all. Just saying what everyone is thinking. She had a lot of, what shall we call them? Issues. And if you ask me, he’s better off out of it.’
I managed a small bite of everything, bar the Brussels sprouts, eight of which were lolling about in a swathe of gravy.
‘Oh, goodness,’ Pammie cried, as she caught me putting my cutlery down. ‘Do you not like it? Have I done something wrong?’