by Jenny Colgan
‘Well, Jake can get a few of those!’
‘Exactly!’ Tina said again.
Her joy was infectious. Rosie hugged her.
‘Are you sure—’ began Tina.
‘No!’ said Rosie. ‘For the last time, Apostil is not being the ring-bearer. He’ll eat it or spew on it. That’s what he does!’
Tina sighed.
‘But he was going to be my something borrowed!’
Rosie gave her a look. At least one thing was falling into place. She couldn’t bear to think of what had happened yesterday.
‘No. No no no NO. Dammit.’
Rosie had stared miserably at the floor.
‘I don’t know what other choice we have.’
‘Here’s the choice we have. I don’t leave my job, which I love; you don’t leave your job, which you love; we don’t leave this village, which we love, and we work it out.’
Rosie blinked.
‘I’ve thought and thought and thought, and I just don’t know how. Go live with your mother?’
Stephen swore copiously.
‘We need to be near the hospital,’ said Rosie. She’d spoken to the consultant that Hye and Moray had both recommended and she seemed excellent. She had walked past the school one day and seen the children hanging off the monkey bars and screaming and running and throwing balls. Apostil would be able to do all of those things with a prosthesis. But they had to put the effort in, she knew. It wasn’t a simple procedure, and it was a long and complicated rehab. But with all her nurse’s soul she knew it was worth it, and she couldn’t work out why Stephen was being so stubborn about admitting it.
‘In some grotty, cramped little house?’
‘It’s a house,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re just being a snob.’
‘Fine,’ Stephen had snarled. ‘Call me a snob if that solves everything. Tear us away from our entire lives so you can chop his hand off. Go for it.’
‘It’s not like that!’
The doorbell had rung, and Rosie had opened it without thinking. Standing there fiddling with her red spectacles was Joy. It took everything Rosie had not to swear.
‘Ah, the father, I presume,’ twittered Joy. Rosie looked at her. She wasn’t normally this friendly.
Stephen looked at her in a hostile fashion.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m from social services. Just checking up on Baby!’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ said Stephen, turning away. ‘Great. Just what we need. You’ll be pleased, Rosie, she’ll probably be on your side.’
‘It’s not about sides,’ protested Rosie. ‘We’re all on the same side. Doing what’s best for our son.’
‘Yes, except what you think is best for our son is growing up in a dump and chopping off his fucking hand.’
‘STEPHEN!’
Rosie had literally never been so cross with him. She could have thrown something at him. Apostil started to wail.
‘Don’t mind me,’ said Joy, in a voice that was meant to be calming. ‘But babies often pick up on tension in the household.’
‘Well I shall leave the household then,’ said Stephen, picking up his satchel. ‘Let the coven get on with it.’
‘AND HE’S NOT WEARING THAT DRESS!’ shouted Rosie after him, still incoherent with rage. All she got in response was a slammed door.
There was a long pause. Rosie tried to soothe Apostil. Great tears plopped from her eyes on to his soft curly head. Joy made no effort to comfort her, simply made more notes on her iPad.
‘Um, tea?’ said Rosie eventually.
‘No thank you,’ said Joy, pressing a button emphatically.
‘Are you … I mean, what are you doing? Are you making a report?’
‘We always make reports,’ said Joy.
She glanced at her watch.
‘Right, I must get on. Do you think you can keep things calm for Baby? I can send a team in if needs be.’
‘NO!’ said Rosie. ‘No, we’re fine! We’re fine, just … I mean, we’re fine.’
‘Is he coming back?’
‘What do you mean? Of course he’s coming back.’
Stephen leant heavily on his stick as he walked crossly down the main street. People hailed him as he went, but one look at his lowered brow and they quickly marched on. Old habits died hard round Lipton. He took a sharp right and headed up the hill.
Even though he couldn’t bear to admit it, he knew deep down that Rosie was right; that trying to pretend that everything would be okay with Appy’s arm was not going to get them anywhere. The idea of uprooting their lovely life, away from the fresh air and the outdoors and home, and moving to somewhere noisy and hemmed in and full of stress and pressure … Stephen squeezed his eyes tight shut. Well, if they had to do that, at least he ought to get paid.
He came back an hour later. Joy, thank God, had gone, but Rosie was still cross with him. He knew this because she told him straight out.
‘I’m still very cross with you.’
‘Isn’t that what you say when you want to kiss and make up and then have sex so that everything’s all right again?’ he attempted.
Rosie shook her head.
‘No! And I can’t believe you think that being high-handed with someone who can take away our son and put him in a home is some kind of a joke.’
Stephen kissed Apostil fiercely.
‘But she’s a horrible old boot.’
‘She could be Adolf fucking Hitler, you still have to impress her!’
Rosie never, ever swore. Stephen looked at her.
‘I have an idea,’ he said.
‘Does it involve you sucking up to the social worker?’
Stephen shook his head.
‘No. But it might help. I’ll need to go away for a couple of days.’
She looked at him mistrustfully.
‘Where?’
‘London.’
‘Seriously?’
He shrugged.
‘Can’t hurt.’
‘Well, see that lovesick psychologist of yours while you’re down there. Tell her what you said when Joy was here and see if she agrees with me or you. And if she says you, that’s because she’s lust-fuddled and you’re STILL WRONG.’
‘Are you still cross with me and Apostil?’ said Stephen, nuzzling the baby under the chin.
‘I’m not cross with him,’ said Rosie.
‘Oh well, I’m halfway there,’ said Stephen.
Rosie bit her tongue. She wasn’t happy about Stephen going to London, not a bit. But the fact that he was looking for a solution rather than sticking his fingers in his ears and pretending this wasn’t happening was a big step forward.
Stephen took the first train to London. His old friend Piers came to meet him, as instructed, at St Pancras. They sat in a flashy champagne bar full of people shouting at waiters or into their phones or anything other than talking to each other.
Piers was as round and pink-faced as ever. Stephen had known him since school; he was an amiable bumbler, who had nonetheless managed to make an absolute fortune. His new lifestyle of extremely beautiful girls and eyewatering tabs at nightclubs where he didn’t even know who he was paying for didn’t look like much fun to Stephen, and it was starting to show on his girth and the broken veins across his nose.
‘So, crawling back to forget your principles?’ said Piers in a jolly fashion, ordering a bottle of the best champagne on the menu, even though Stephen was drinking coffee.
Stephen didn’t smile.
‘It’s all got a little more complicated.’
‘Thought as much,’ said Piers. ‘Women, huh, they’re all the same. Did she pretend to be all sweet and innocent till she had you and now it’s oh buy me some shoes, let’s go to this restaurant, let’s fly to the Maldives? They’re all the same, grasping minxes.’
Stephen tried to think of the last time Rosie had asked him for something. He couldn’t. She never bought herself anything either. The only time she spent money was on Lilian, wh
ose thin skin only responded well to cashmere, or M&S at a push, and who loved beautiful clothes.
‘Not quite,’ said Stephen.
‘Got her pregnant then? If they can’t get you one way, they’ll always get you another.’
Stephen screwed up his face and decided not to go into it.
‘I’m just … I was just wondering … I mean, if I was to start in banking … I mean, would it be too late?’
‘Let’s see,’ said Piers, draining and refilling his glass in a satisfied manner. ‘I could start you off, but you’d be up against the eighteen-year-old barrow boys and the weird maths quant geeks. It’s fifteen-hour days on the computer now. You’d start cold-calling, though. Fourteen, fifteen hours of cold-calling a day, to offload our absolute shit. Bonds and big bundles of crap we couldn’t possibly sell to anyone with a brain in their head who can read our small print or understand what we’re selling, which they can’t, because it’s also our job to make it as obscure and confusing as possible. If you get good at selling toxic shit on some thick-ass pension funds in the north – no offence – we’ll put you on to better stuff. Defence firms, fags, all the slash-and-burn accounts nobody wants. Take it from there.’
There was a long pause. Stephen stared at his empty coffee cup. He wondered if Rosie had known that this was what would happen, and figured that she had. No wonder she’d been happy to let him come.
‘It was good to see you, Piers.’
‘Seriously, you’re going back to bury yourself in the country?’ said Piers, amazed.
‘I’d do anything to help my family,’ said Stephen. ‘But I cannot think of a quicker way to blow us apart than working like you guys.’
‘Great!’ said Piers, unperturbed. ‘Then we’ll be single men on the town again. You are ace at pulling. Even your limp seems to help.’
‘Thanks, Piers.’
‘What are you going to do, take a night shift at a chicken factory?’
Stephen sighed.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘And PLEASE don’t invest my pension fund.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, my old mucker. I’m sticking all mine under the bed.’
Diane, Stephen’s therapist, put her fingers to her lips, then crossly put them down on her notepad again. Outside it was freezing; London was heavily weighted down with Christmas lights, swaying gently in the breeze. There was a massive tree in the lobby of the smart Harley Street offices, where the beautiful receptionist who spoke four languages had tidily ticked Stephen’s name off the list, and sent him straight up to the elegant room with its antique desk, expensive roped curtains and striped wallpaper. There was a couch, but Stephen preferred to sit in the heavy leather armchair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, stick by the side of the fire. Diane was trying not to look at his legs.
‘Do you think you’re subconsciously trying to sabotage this?’ she asked calmly. ‘So you don’t have to move?’
Stephen looked horrified, and ran his fingers through his thick hair.
‘Oh God, what kind of a monster am I? Do you think I’d mess with my wife and child just so I didn’t have to move house?’
‘That’s one possibility,’ said Diane. ‘Or perhaps you’re trying to delay making a decision of another kind …’
She left the statement open-ended. Stephen stared out into the frosty morning.
‘I …’ He swallowed hard, then took a quick intake of breath as he realised something. ‘I don’t want Apostil to be in hospital.’
Diane nodded, pleased.
‘And why not?’
‘Because … because I can’t bear to be in hospital.’
She made a mark on a piece of paper.
‘Because?’
‘Because …’
Stephen knew it was important to go through it, to say it; that every time he relived the accident, the hideous stench and horrors of the field hospital, the lives blown apart, every time he could confront it head on, the monsters of his imagination grew a little smaller.
‘Because I was there. I was blown up. I lost his uncles. I can’t lose him. I CAN’T lose him.’
There was a long pause in the consulting room. Diane looked at him levelly. He looked back, a slight twitch around his mouth.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he said.
‘Does Rosie think you’ll lose him? What about Moray?’
Stephen shook his head.
‘God, no, of course not. It’s a relatively straightforward operation.’
‘Hospitals will never be that straightforward to you,’ said Diane, glancing at her watch. ‘But I rather think you can deal with it, don’t you?’
Stephen nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
‘You’re …’ Diane never talked on a personal level to her clients, but she couldn’t stop herself as he hauled himself out of the chair to go. Two tiny spots of pink appeared on her high cheekbones, but you would have had to be very close to her to see them. ‘You’re doing well,’ she said, then cursed herself for it.
‘Thank you,’ said Stephen, an unexpected smile lighting up his face. He felt better already. ‘Merry Christmas.’
Chapter Sixteen
Rosie, on the other hand, had lain awake half the night, alternately furious, and paranoid that Joy was going to activate something terrifying at social services and come and take Apostil away.
After kissing Apostil a lingering goodbye and handing him over to Mrs Laird to look after, she marched down the street, her boots crunching through the snow. She could tell from the cutting wind on her cheeks that it was freezing, but although she hated to admit it, inside her despised waxed jacket she was warm as toast. She sighed. Oh well. At least she knew, even if her shadow on the snow looked uncomfortably like a yeti.
‘Hey there,’ she said, falling into step with Edison and his family.
‘Hello, Rosie!’ said Edison, slipping a mittened hand in hers. She squeezed it.
‘Hey, you,’ she said. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘To school!’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’re doing a Great Big Secret Thing! I can’t tell you what it is.’
Rosie looked at him.
‘That’s not very secret.’
‘Secrecy is tyrny,’ said Edison.
Hester glanced over.
‘Where’s your baby?’ she enquired.
‘I sent him to the amusement arcade with a cupful of two pees,’ said Rosie. ‘Is that wrong?’
Hester frowned.
‘I thought you were doing attachment parenting.’
The gigantic Marie, who was nearly one, was wriggling and squirming in her tight sling, grabbing handfuls of her mother’s hair and kicking her in the stomach to indicate her fervent desire to escape.
‘Um, no, just regular.’
Rosie tickled Marie, who instantly raised her pudgy little fists in a gesture that unambiguously meant ‘GET ME OUT OF HERE.’
‘She looks lively,’ said Rosie, smiling and caressing Marie’s round rosy cheeks.
‘She’s very calm and centred, actually,’ said Hester. ‘We use baby massage and baby sign.’
Marie bit Rosie’s finger.
‘Ooh, what’s that the sign for?’
‘“Don’t invade my personal space”,’ said Hester. ‘I don’t know anyone who likes getting fingers pointed in their face, do you?’
‘No,’ said Rosie.
Edison squeezed her hand.
‘I really do want to tell you my most big and exciting surprise.’
‘Really?’ said Rosie. ‘Am I in it?’
‘Yes!’ said Edison. ‘And the other woman who—’
Rosie hushed him and crouched down in the snow. Her new jacket really was amazing.
‘It would be,’ she said, ‘a real gift to me and a real delight if you would consider not spoiling the surprise, Edison.’
He blinked behind his glasses.
‘Only if we have secrets, is bad.’
‘For some things,’ said Rosie.
‘Do you think you could possibly make an exception just for me?’
Edison was nothing if not kind.
‘Of course for you,’ he said.
Hester gave a big sigh.
‘I’m trying to teach him about WikiLeaks,’ she said. ‘So thanks for setting that back.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Rosie as they reached the school gates. ‘Have a good day, you guys!’
Edison waved and walked in to join his great friend and acolyte Kent, and Rosie said hello to the mums milling around and felt a little cheered. Most of them asked her about the wedding – it seemed Tina and Jake had invited pretty much the entire village, and Rosie felt nearly as nervous and excited as her friend.
At the scout hut, there was a large truck backed up in front of the door, big black track marks through the pristine white snow. All around, the branches of the trees were piled high; every so often, with a splash, some would fall off. Rosie looked up with trepidation.
‘Is that going to fall on the bride?’
‘You want me to personally polish all the snow off the branches?’ said Jake, emerging from behind the truck and smiling.
‘No,’ said Rosie, giving him a hug. ‘What’s the lorry for? Stephen’s bringing the champagne down later.’
‘Tina’s cousin worked at the hotel. She managed to save all their Christmas decorations from the basement and got them sent over, along with some extra chairs. They’ve been really helpful, considering their boss is going to prison for arson and they’ve all lost their jobs.’
‘Wow,’ said Rosie. ‘That really is amazing.’
Sure enough, from out of the lorry two men were bringing rows and rows of fairy lights, great big tough, industrial ropes of them. There was power in the hut, but they’d also rented a spare generator to provide for the heating and extra lighting, and everyone went to it with a will.
Inside, even though it was early, Mrs Arknop from the bakery had sent down jam doughnuts, and there was a large tea urn dispensing steaming drinks for everyone, but it wasn’t that which caught Rosie’s attention. The large hut, with its plain plank walls and rough wooden floor, had been transformed. What felt like miles of thick holly had been hung in great luxuriant arches around the walls, and the fairy lights were already going up and being tested, creating great walls of shimmering white. Each corner contained a Christmas tree; they were being lavishly decorated – no wonder the hotel had been losing money, thought Rosie – with little rocking horses, silver bells, red ribbons and hanging gingerbread men for the children. Rosie would add her own supply of chocolate Santas.