by Amy Dunne
“If that’s what you want, then sure.” Holly gave a shrug. “But there are other careers that would allow you to work with books and people. The publishing industry is one. Bookshops and charities are another two. You don’t have to make a decision right now, Catherine. Think about it for a while.”
Catherine gave a nod. “I suppose.”
“Make it one of your New Year’s resolutions. You know, to move on to a career you feel passionate about.”
“Have you any resolutions?” Catherine asked, glad to turn the spotlight again. Her head was killing her and her vision kept swimming in and out of focus.
“Actually, this whole experience has made me think a lot about my future. There’s so much I want to do and experience. As soon as I get back home I’m going to rent out the spare room in my apartment. The extra money will help me out, and I’ll also have company. Then I’m going to make an effort to catch up with family and friends. Since opening the business I’ve been neglecting them.”
Holly spoke with enthusiasm, smiling and gesturing animatedly. Catherine forced down the rising fear they wouldn’t get rescued in case her thoughts somehow turned that fear into reality.
“And I’m going to make a real concerted effort to lose some weight. I’ve never been this big before.” Holly patted the material over her stomach.
“You’re perfect the way you are.”
Holly met Catherine’s eyes before her gaze darted away. “You think so?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Holly said shyly. “I also want to get another tattoo and maybe another piercing.”
“You have a tattoo?”
“I have two. This is the first.” She pulled back the material on her right arm, bunching it up past her elbow. Tilting her arm slightly, she presented her forearm so Catherine could see.
Catherine took in the black outline of a butterfly; its wings were coloured with blue and green ink. It was beautiful and she had to almost restrain herself from reaching out to touch it. “It suits you.”
“That bump to your head has made you cordial. But I’ll take any compliments I can get,” Holly said. “My other tattoo is a lot bigger.”
“Can I see it?”
Holly blushed. “As much as I love showing it off, it isn’t worth the risk of developing frostbite. Plus, there’s not enough room in here for me to do a decent striptease. You’ll have to wait until we get out of here.”
“Oh,” Catherine said lamely. Forget the heater and many layers. All Catherine needed was for Holly to keep talking like this and she was at risk of spontaneously combusting. Flirting was practically a different language to her and one subject she’d always flunked out of. She supposed, under the circumstances, she could give it a go and if she humiliated herself like she usually did, she could always blame the concussion. “Whereabouts on your body is it?”
“It starts from around here.” Holly pointed to below her hip. She trailed her index finger slowly upward. “And it goes to here.” Her finger stopped beneath her right breast.
Catherine gave an audible gulp. “Is it another butterfly?”
“Nope. A winding branch with pink cherry blossoms.”
Catherine tried to imagine it, but had to quickly give up as a barrage of inappropriate thoughts filled her mind’s eye. “Is there a meaning behind them?”
“My dad’s always called me his little butterfly, so before I went to France I got it done. He wasn’t overly impressed, though. As for the cherry blossoms, I totally fell in love with the design. It reminds me of Paris in springtime. What about you, any ink?”
“No. Tattoos aren’t my thing. I’m not an exciting enough person to express myself in a creative outlandish way. No offence.”
Holly laughed. “None taken. You have your ears pierced.”
“Yes,” Catherine said. She automatically felt the plain studs in her earlobes. “Beth encouraged me to get them done on a drunken night out when we were at university.”
“You rebel,” Holly said, teasing. “Do you regret having them done?”
“Not really.” They were a reminder she’d once let her hair down and done something spontaneous. And also that Beth could be a bad influence. “It really hurt, though, and put me off ever getting another one. I don’t have a strong pain threshold.”
“Are those the original studs?”
“Yes.” Catherine felt a little embarrassed. “I meant to take them out and try wearing earrings, but I never got around to it.” The truth was she’d been too self-conscious about trying earrings and she was scared it’d hurt.
“How’s your head feeling?” Holly asked. “You’re a little green around the gills.”
Before Catherine could reply, a huge gust rattled the car. The wind sounded like an eerie wailing, as if a banshee were right outside. It was enough to ruin their comforting pretence that everything was okay.
Catherine snuck a glance at the gauges; they had already used up over half the tank of petrol. The storm still raged and showed no signs of letting up any time soon. How much longer would they have heat and light? She couldn’t bring herself to do the maths.
“Can I ask a favour?” Catherine asked. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. The inside of the car was spinning and exhaustion was settling in.
“Of course.”
“Will you tell me about your family’s Christmas traditions?”
“But you hate Christmas.”
With her eyes still clenched shut, she removed her hand and felt as her glasses fell back into place. “I’m tired of hating it.” And she was. She’d carried this huge chip on her shoulder and hole in her heart for years. She’d blamed Christmas and everything associated with it for the death of her parents. She’d allowed the bitterness to thrive, and every year she’d fed it with more pent-up anger and hurt. Christmas, as a concept, had become alien to her. She’d always convinced herself Granny Birch had felt the same way, but now she was plagued with doubt. While sorting through her house Catherine had discovered a loft full of decorations that had never been opened or unwrapped. Had Granny Birch secretly purchased the decorations in the hope that one year, Catherine might finally let go of her hatred and blame? That together they might have celebrated and enjoyed themselves like everyone else?
She could only speculate, but that was enough to stab her heart with guilt and regret. Yes. Granny Birch had been waiting for Catherine to come to terms with her grief so they could share a Christmas together. It had never happened, though, because Catherine had been blinded by pigheadedness and selfishness and now it was too late. She could never retrieve those lost years. But she could change her mindset. She could make this Christmas—providing they survived, of course—the best one ever, for Holly, Beth, Katie, Florence, and perhaps even herself.
Holly started talking and Catherine lay back against the headrest, listening intently. She imagined everything Holly described in vivid detail, and after a little while began picturing herself and Holly doing the things she spoke about.
Together they decorated the tree. They hung their stockings over the fireplace. Wearing new pyjamas, they snuggled on a sofa watching a film. It was called A Wonderful Life. Catherine had never heard of the film, but Holly described the gist of the plot. They prepared the ingredients for Christmas dinner and wore their woollen jumpers. Catherine felt contentment. The Christmas she visualized with Holly and herself was bliss. A fleeting thought resonated: if she were to die right now, she’d die happy. Then she succumbed to slumber.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Catherine?” Holly’s voice spiked with stress. “Please wake up. Please.”
Catherine’s mind was groggy, and opening her eyes took real effort. Blearily, she looked across at Holly.
“You can’t sleep. I think you’ve got concussion and it’s dangerous. You’ve got to try and stay awake.”
Catherine didn’t want to stay awake. As nice as it was to be looking at the real Holly, she much preferred the dream she
’d been having. They were safe and enjoying a romantic Christmas in her dream, not huddling together in a damaged car trying not to freeze to death.
“Say something, Catherine.”
The more awake she became, the shittier she felt. Her body was stiff and sore. She craved a well-needed stretch, but the cramped space wouldn’t permit it. The whole of her head throbbed painfully. Her stomach felt icky, as if she might retch at the slightest provocation.
“How long was I out?” she asked in a raspy voice.
“Maybe twenty minutes or a bit longer. You turned so pale and your breathing…I freaked out.”
Catherine gave a dismissive wave of her hand. She slowly bent forward and picked up a bottle of water. She took a sip and her stomach lurched. Queasiness settled over her like a fog. The temperature had grown cooler, but the vents were still streaming hot air. A ghost of vapour accompanied each of their breaths.
“Will you tell me about your gran?” Holly asked. “From the snippets you’ve shared so far, she sounds like an incredible woman. I’d love to hear more.”
Catherine screwed the top on the water bottle and returned it to the footwell. It would hurt to talk about Granny Birch, but that wasn’t enough of a reason to not do it. She had been an incredible woman. The more people Catherine told about Granny Birch, the closer she felt to her. Plus it kept her memory alive and kicking, a sentiment Granny Birch would’ve appreciated.
“She was eighty-three when she died. She described herself as being as tough as old boots, and she was. She was obsessed with Elvis. She used to play his songs constantly. As a teenager, I begged her to turn them off, but she wouldn’t hear of it. He was the King and the only man in her life after Granddad’s death.” The memory of the radio blaring out his songs and Granny Birch’s voice singing along made Catherine smile. “She always said that to have no vices was a sign of a wasted life, and she had more vices than most. She smoked cigars like a chimney, drank whiskey like a fish, and swore like a sailor with Tourette’s. She was always playing cards or bingo for money with her fellow old farts—that’s how they referred to themselves,” Catherine said. She didn’t want Holly to think she was being disrespectful. “But her absolute favourite pastime was gardening. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t grow. Her garden was her pride and joy.”
For a while, she kept on talking, saying the slightest little thing that popped into her head. She explained the little traditions they’d made over the years. Like having Chinese takeaway at Christmas and on all other special occasions. They’d then play a game or ten of poker for the grand prize of damp matches.
She mentioned their constant disagreement about the supposed medicinal properties of whiskey. Granny Birch insisted decent whiskey countered the symptoms of colds, flu, headaches, and basically any ailment. If it didn’t work, it meant there hadn’t been enough whiskey administered in the first place. In hindsight, Catherine couldn’t recall a time when Granny Birch had been anything other than as strong as an ox, so maybe there was an element of truth in it.
There had also been many escapades, a few of which she’d been fortunate to share in, but most which she’d only heard about. Like the time a man tried to mug Granny Birch. She’d taken to calling him “the sonofabitch,” and had beaten him within an inch of his life with her purse. She’d then chased him three blocks while he tried to run away. Her story had spread, and she’d been interviewed on the local TV, but her use of “the sonofabitch” cut her interview short. Catherine’s heart ached, but it was a good pain. A pain showing she had loved Granny Birch very much. “She helped me with my stutter, too,” Catherine said softly
“How long have you had your stutter?” Holly asked. She kept the eye contact, seemingly unfazed about asking such a personal question.
“After my parents’ deaths it seemed to come on overnight. They think it was caused by the emotional and psychological stress, although they could never be certain. All I know is it made my life miserable. I got picked on relentlessly at school. I had no friends, and my confidence disappeared into nothing. I used to hide away in the library during lunch and at break times so I could read books and avoid people. For years, I barely spoke to anyone except Granny Birch and the speech therapist she hired. That’s why I’m not good around people. I lack the skills and finesse needed for social interactions.”
Why was she telling Holly this? She never mentioned her stutter, let alone divulged her inability to interact with others. It was something she kept locked up tight to avoid making herself vulnerable.
“You’ve been fine around me and you haven’t stuttered for a while now.”
Catherine realised Holly was right. “It only comes on when I’m stressed or nervous.”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been in a more stressful or nerve-wracking situation than the one we’re in right now.” Holly reached out and gently caressed one of Catherine’s hands.
Catherine’s breath hitched in her chest. Holly’s thumb traced ticklish circles across the back of her hand. It made her skin break out in goose bumps, each tiny hair standing on end.
“I’ve a confession,” Holly said.
“Okay.”
“We’ve kind of met before. Twice, actually.” Holly twiddled the stray curl with her spare hand. “We never spoke, but I watched you from afar. The first time was at Katie and Beth’s wedding. I was eighteen. And then I saw you again at Florence’s christening.”
Well, that answered the previous night’s questions. Holly had been at both occasions, but Catherine still had no recollection of seeing her.
“I noticed you. How could I not? There was something about you that captured my attention. Both times I wanted to go over and strike up a conversation, but then I saw you were with the redhead.”
“Paula,” Catherine said. Speaking the name invoked an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
“Anyway, I never did have the guts to try and speak to you. But I did ask Katie about you. When Beth mentioned it was you who’d be travelling with me, well, I was pretty stoked. God, that sounds so stalkerish.”
Catherine forced a smile. “No, it doesn’t.” That’s nothing compared to what I got up to last night.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Was this a trick question? The last thing Catherine wanted to do was hurt Holly’s feelings, but the idea of lying sent alarm bells ringing in her head—unless they were from the concussion. “I wasn’t in a great place during either of those occasions, but especially not during the christening. Paula and I were having major problems, and I think I repressed a lot of memories. The ones I do have are tarnished.”
“You could’ve said no. I wouldn’t have been offended,” Holly said. She gave Catherine’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I remember thinking you looked tense. Sexy, smouldering too, but also tense. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I’m kind of curious about what happened with you and Paula?”
Catherine had been honest and over-shared all the other personal issues in her back catalogue. What was one more?
“I met Paula when I was twenty. We were together for eight years.” She took a moment to consider how much she would tell Holly before deciding it was easier to say it all. “I came back from work one evening and her stuff was gone. After a week, I managed to track her down. She’d moved in with the owner of an art gallery. They’d been having an affair for eighteen months. When I asked how she could hurt me after everything I’d done for her, she told me I’d brought it on us, that it was my fault she’d sought the arms of another lover. She said I was a cold, boring workaholic—”
“Bitch!” Holly said hotly. “And what a steaming crock of bullshit. How dare she have the audacity to do and say those things to you? Jeez. I knew that conniving ginger bitch was trouble the first time I set eyes on her.”
Catherine was so stunned by the ferocity of Holly’s angry words, she burst out laughing. Holly frowned, and Catherine tried to explain. “I doubt Granny Birch could
’ve described her better.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Holly grinned mischievously. “I am sorry, though.”
“I was a mess for quite a while. I ended up on antidepressants and became a workaholic, but Granny Birch was having none of it. She gave me the kick I needed to pull myself together, and that’s when I started volunteering. I’ve been off the tablets for over a year now.”
Holly moved closer, her torso leaning over the gearstick and handbrake. “I think you’re one of the most honest people I’ve ever met. I have a proposal for you.”
Catherine couldn’t speak. Her gaze was transfixed by Holly’s gleaming lips. She wondered how they would feel pressed against her own. What would they taste of? She was desperate to bridge the remaining gap and find out.
“If we get out of here, I want to do something with you.”
Catherine managed a high-pitched squeak as Holly moved closer, but still not as close as she would’ve liked. Holly’s breathing matched hers in quickening short bursts. Her warm breath caressed Catherine’s face and teased that her lips would taste sweet.
“I want us to make this a Christmas to remember. I want to see you experience all of the little things that make it so special for me.” Holly squeezed Catherine’s hands, her body rigid with urgency. “I want us to make it ours. What do you s—”
Catherine surged forward, pressing her mouth firmly against Holly’s. She was acting on instinct once again and it felt foreign to her. Her brain went into overload, shocked by her behaviour, while her mouth sought more.
Holly’s lips were softer than she could’ve imagined. With a tentative flick of her tongue, she tasted her and was proven correct. Holly did indeed taste sweet.
With a half groan, half growl, Holly pulled Catherine closer. She opened her mouth and deepened their kiss. Catherine felt drunk off the intimacy. It’d been so long. She closed her eyes and relinquished control. In the darkness her senses heightened and her lust became a fierce driving force.