What Happens at Christmas

by Evonne Wareham

  But the ghost love, calling Stren back to the past, chaining him with guilt at causing her death? It was romantic, dramatic, lending emotional punch to the story and heart-rending pathos in the final act of release and forgiveness.

  There was something buried there, she knew that instinctively, but the facts didn’t fit. In no way was Drew responsible for his wife’s death. Lori had read the story in the papers. Kimberly had been returning, with their baby, from the seaside town where they’d spent the day flat hunting. Instead of travelling with them, Drew had stayed on to catch the next train, because he had an interview for a job. The crash had simply been a terrible accident.

  So why?

  Survivor guilt, because he should have been with them? The helpless feeling that he might have been able to do something to save them – or at least been there at the end? Had they maybe argued, before she left? Was it somehow tied up with the successes he’d achieved? His life had moved on in unimaginable ways and theirs had been impossibly brief.

  He was looking at the box, not meeting her eyes. ‘A part of me …’ He stopped. ‘I felt … I felt … As if I had been set free.’ His voice was flat, harsh and unfamiliar. His body jerked as he turned on the admission to look at her, eyes dark and bleak. ‘I didn’t want to be married, with a baby, stuck in some crappy flat in a crappy job, struggling to make ends meet, proving that I started life unwanted and worthless and that was how it was always going to be.’ The words came out in a rush. ‘I knew the way the world looked at me, that I wasn’t worth anything, that I didn’t deserve anything. I wanted to write. I had these stories, people in my head, demanding to be let out. I wanted to let them out more than I wanted to be a husband and a father.’ His voice broke as he ground to a stop.

  Lori folded her hands on her lap. Much as she ached to touch him, it wasn’t the time. Not until they’d got beyond this.

  ‘You were eighteen,’ she offered carefully. Not a justification, but maybe a reason.

  ‘Young and stupid.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Now that he’d made the confession some of the bleakness had gone from his eyes, but the pain was still there. The pain of self-loathing? She hadn’t expected this, but perhaps she should have? ‘Did Kimberly know?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head, vehemently. ‘I’m sure of that. She wanted a fresh start, by the sea. She was full of plans for the baby, for our own home.’

  ‘So she died believing in it. Does that make it worse or better?’

  He shoved his hand into his hair in a familiar gesture. ‘I really don’t know. I defrauded her of her dreams, in order to have mine.’

  ‘You weren’t responsible for what happened to that train. You didn’t want her dead.’

  ‘No, but, I might have wanted her gone.’ He was digging his fingers into his scalp. Gently she pulled his arm away, then let go. ‘I loved her. And the baby, but it was a needy love. On both our parts. Both brought up in care. We clung to each other. The baby, of course, was an accident. We were kids, too stupid to manage the precautions properly. But Kimberly wanted that baby. She was so happy and I felt about ten feet tall because I’d given her that. And I wanted to stand by her, to provide for them, which is why we got married.’ His voice was softening now, with recollection. ‘We didn’t have the proverbial pot to piss in, but love was going to conquer all. Then, that day, trailing round dark damp rooms and chasing after dead-end jobs, with dozens of others with a better chance of getting them, it felt like the prison was closing in. And panic. Kimberly was talking about Christmas, about the stuff she wanted for the baby. I didn’t have money to give her any of it. I wasn’t even sure where we were going to get a deposit on a flat.’ He’d folded his arms across his stomach, holding in old pain. ‘And then, all that was lifted off me.’

  And from there the guilt grew. Lori could feel a lump in her throat.

  ‘I got one of those dead-end jobs in the end, and threw myself into the writing. And today I have it all and Kimberly and Tyler have been dead nearly twenty years.’

  Now she did touch him, just a hand on his knee, warmth and contact. ‘You loved them.’ She’d seen the sad little dedication in his first book. ‘Cliché time. Would Kimberly have wanted you to be unhappy?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ His voice was rueful. ‘She had a temper. And the baby. He’d be a young man.’ His face creased with the lost possibilities.

  ‘Around the same age that you were when you fathered him.’

  ‘God, yes. Maybe he would have been the writer, instead of me.’

  ‘And perhaps he would have preferred computer games or taking motorcycles to bits. It’s over, Drew, and you can’t change it by beating yourself up. And no one else can forgive you. You have to forgive yourself, or learn to live with it. Which you have done, all these years.’

  ‘Until I put some of it down on paper. And now I’ve told you.’

  ‘A step towards resolution?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He looked thoughtful and in her eyes his expression was lighter. ‘A step towards something. Thank you for listening.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’ She twisted her fingers into his. ‘I really mean that. I am honoured by your confidence, and I will keep it.’ It was an oddly formal speech, but it felt right to say it. ‘You’re human, Drew. Not one of your super beings with magical powers. Human, with all the rag-bag of messy stuff that comes with it. You suffered a violent, traumatic bereavement that, thank God, few people experience in their lives. Hopes, fears, regrets – all sorts of emotions that you might have been able to resolve were left without an ending. You don’t know what might have happened. You might have made a success of the writing and being a husband and father. People do.’

  ‘And it’s not always about me.’ The words were soft and she sensed a meaning behind them, but he didn’t say any more. He yawned suddenly. ‘God, I’m knackered.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘Do I leave now and take that—’ He nodded at the manuscript. ‘—with me? Or can you take a chance on a messy human?’

  ‘I think I can risk giving it a go.’ Something she recognised as a kind of happiness rippled through her. She pulled him down, for a soft sweet kiss. He rested his head against her shoulder.

  Which is how a delighted Misty found her aunt and Drew when she came downstairs with Lucy, looking for Griff and Polly; fast asleep on the sofa, with the morning sun spilling golden light over the small salon.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Late November

  What were the odds? Two publishers’ Christmas parties in the same hotel on the same night?

  Drew caught Lori on the stairs going down to hers, while he was going up to the suite he’d hired, carrying his bag. He shuffled her into a side landing and using the bag as a barricade, trapped her against a convenient wall. She dared him to kiss her and get lipstick all over her face and his. A luscious deep red, that went straight to his groin and was so going to come off over everything later tonight.

  Balked of her mouth, he put his hands on her instead. The dress was close-fitting dark red velvet and felt like heaven under his fingers. The bodice had some sort of stiffening in it and the contrast of the plush stiffness with the warm softness of the woman inside it had him hard and needy in seconds. Warm, soft, wriggling woman. She squirmed to get away from him, laughing, and he moved even closer. He’d been forbidden her mouth – but he got his revenge, kissing every inch of the curve of her breasts, exposed by the heart-shaped neckline of the dress and offered up by the moulded bodice. She got her own back too, with her hands on him, before she finally managed to squeeze out, pink, ruffled and still laughing, from under his arm, to escape down the stairs. He was still grinning when he reached the suite.

  Now he was standing in front of the mirror, meant to be concentrating on getting the bow-tie just right. He looked down. Remembering the encounter on the stairs had hardened everything again, under his tuxedo trousers, and a king-size bed visible behind him in the mirror was firing his imaginatio
n about what they might be doing there, once the parties were over.

  He set his teeth and focused on the tie.

  Right over left.

  There!

  He let out a soft whistle. He’d succumbed to vanity tonight, and gone for broke. Lori had twice picked him up off the floor, a broken mess. Tonight he was going to look the part, even if she wouldn’t get to see it until later.

  He was looking forward to later.

  There was champagne and a late dinner on order from room service and roses and scented candles and everything else the hotel had to offer that was romantic.

  Tonight, he hoped, would be magic.

  He had a ring, diamonds and sapphires, in a drawer in his flat, but he hadn’t brought it with him. It was too soon. He knew that, but having the ring was a kind of promise. A whisper of sadness hung in the air at the thought of Kimberly, and the tiny diamond chip on the narrow gold band, that he’d bought for her. He’d scraped together every penny he had. She’d been so proud of it.

  Remember that pride, and let the rest go.

  He was seeing a counsellor, finally, who was helping him deal with events nearly two decades old. Other scars were closer to the surface. He shook his head, dislodging the sound of screams in a dark ally. The post-mortems on Phipps and Geraldine had thrown up one surprise – Phipps had succumbed to massive injuries from the collision, but Geri had died of a stab wound to the neck. The police had speculated that a struggle over possession of the knife would explain their failure to appreciate the approaching danger.

  The thought that in an instant of terrible clarity, after Geraldine fell, Phipps might have turned towards the lorry, rather than away from it, hovered in Drew’s mind.

  Writer’s imagination. And you’ll never know for sure.

  He was glad of the impulse that had stopped him mentioning those last few minutes in Geri’s office.

  She was good to a snot-nosed kid. Back in the day.

  He was learning how to put all those memories behind him.

  He turned away from the mirror to look for his shoes, sitting on the bed to put them on.

  His life was moving into new places. He was deep in edits for Stren’s story, but the next book was on the horizon and he knew it had to be different – more of a quest and less of a rollercoaster. There would still be the adrenaline-fuelled set pieces but they weren’t going to be all the book. He hoped he could take the readers with him on that.

  If not …

  Maybe he’d try something completely different? Maybe when he got a new agent, there would be new ideas on the table? He’d had some approaches, but he’d not yet signed with anyone. It would be a new relationship. He needed to come to it as an adult, not the kid he’d been, touting a manuscript that was badly typed and fifty thousand words too long.

  Time to join the grown ups.

  That, and to stop running, and calling it research.

  Hard to think about guilt and blame, and grief, when you’re halfway up a mountain and the only reality is where the next hand and foothold might be. And if you miss that foothold … atonement?

  He finished tying his shoes and stood up. Lori was the constant star in his life now, and he was starting to hope.

  He looked over the softly lit room. It wouldn’t be the first night they’d spent together. But he wanted it to be special.

  Thank you, Lori, for saving my life.

  The party was winding down. Lori drained the last few drops of her elderflower and lemonade and looked around the ravaged room. Balloons and streamers drooped and empty glasses filled most of the available surfaces.

  For a moment her stomach wobbled. Advance copies of the first of her trilogy would be going out in the New Year. Then she would know if she really was an author.

  There was a slight commotion going on at the door. Some good-humoured jeering about a gatecrasher. Curious, she moved forward. The crowd at the door parted and Drew was standing there, looking amazing, his dark hair and eyes emphasised by the stark black and white of the designer tux.

  And the man beneath it …

  She swallowed, over a dry mouth.

  She’d seen him at his lowest, but this …

  Suddenly shy, she took a step back. And then he smiled. His whole face lit up. Looking at her.

  ‘I only came to collect Cinderella, before you lot turn her into a pumpkin.’

  He held out his hand, head tilted in invitation. She closed the gap between them with a rush, losing her breath entirely as Drew swung her up into his arms, amidst more jeers mixed with catcalls of encouragement. She buried her burning face in his neck, embarrassed and loving it in equal measure.

  He didn’t set her on her feet, even when they got to the lift. ‘Top pocket.’

  ‘Huh?’ she lifted her head.

  ‘The key to the room is in my top pocket.’

  ‘Oh!’ She felt about and found it. ‘I thought we were having dinner?’

  ‘We are.’ When the doors opened he still didn’t let her down. Worried about the weight, she squirmed against his chest. ‘Stop that, I like it.’ He nuzzled her neck.

  ‘I’m too heavy,’ she protested, breathless, as he nibbled and nipped his way along her throat. Mercifully the lift was empty and fast and they reached what appeared to be the right door without sprawling on the thick carpet of the corridor. With a deft movement of the key, Drew got the door open, still holding her.

  When they were inside, with the door shut, he finally let her down, to stand in front of him, facing the room, his arms around her.

  ‘Oh!’ She let out a long sigh.

  It wasn’t just a room, it was a suite. Over by the window, with a view out over city lights, a table was laid for two. There was a trolley with covered dishes and an ice bucket, with champagne, on a stand beside it. There were two huge sofas, original art-works and an enormous flat-screen TV that took up half a wall. Through an open door she could see the bedroom, and the corner of what looked like a king-size bed. There were flowers and candles and the air was scented with something complex, subtle and exotic. She turned in his arms. ‘Oh Drew …’ There were tears prickling at the back of her throat.

  ‘You like?’

  ‘I like.’ She laid her head against his chest. ‘When you said you’d get a room, I never expected anything like this.’

  ‘Thought I’d brought you up here to eat pizza and watch dirty movies?’ He leered so convincingly she thumped him.

  ‘Mood wrecker!’

  Alarm flared in his face. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘Neither did I.’ She framed his face with her hands. ‘It’s beautiful. Although pizza would have been fine,’ she added generously.

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ He took her hand and pressed a kiss into the palm. That never failed to send shivery spikes up her arm, in a way that was almost painful.

  ‘Let’s eat. I’m starving.’

  The meal was a fluffy risotto with fennel and prawns and a crisp salad, followed by a chocolate and raspberry mousse that melted on her tongue, with an alcoholic kick in the aftertaste. They gossiped about their respective parties, who they’d seen and what had been said.

  After three flutes of champagne, Lori had bubbles in her head and her bloodstream, and something warm and strong bubbling around her heart.

  One of the sofas was placed in front of the window. When they’d finished eating Drew led her across to it and they sat, wrapped together, watching the lights from the buildings and the traffic far below.

  ‘You can’t see the stars.’

  ‘But you know they’re there.’ Drew nuzzled under her ear, kissing in a slow arc down her neck. She turned in his arms, so that she could reach his mouth, but he held her back. ‘What about the lipstick?’

  ‘I think I’ve eaten most of it.’

  ‘In that case, go and put some more on. I’ve been fantasising about that lipstick all evening.’

  ‘Oh … kinky.’

  ‘Yes please.’ He slid his hand down h
er body as she stood up, making her shiver. She reached down and pulled at his tie, hanging loose now under his collar.

  ‘Come and watch me.’

  The bathroom had huge mirrors, two sinks, a lot of marble and a very large shower. Lori giggled at the way Drew was eyeing it. ‘I can hear you thinking.’

  ‘Thought is free.’

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. ‘I’m putty in the hands of a man who can quote Shakespeare.’

  ‘Good. Now … lipstick.’

  She rummaged in her bag, found the bullet and applied it, lavishly, studying herself, wide-eyed in the mirror. She looked a complete hoyden. Being with Drew made her a different person, a sexy confident woman. Drew was a shadow behind her, eyes on her face.

  She turned, pushing him against the vanity unit with deliberation, watching his pupils dilate as she worked her way down his shirt, unbuttoning it and pushing it aside. She heard the hitch in his breath as she followed the path her fingers had taken with her mouth, branding him with her lips and feeling the muscles of his abdomen vibrate as she printed kisses on his skin, circling lower and lower

  ‘Now I think you’re mine, Andrew Vitruvius.’

  ‘Always.’ His voice was raw and husky. It shimmered over her skin, raising goose-bumps.

  They made it, eventually, to the bedroom and the bed, a tangle of limbs and deep hot kisses, collapsing onto cool slippery sheets. Drew eased down the zipper of her dress. She shivered as air hit her skin, although the room was warm. She’d had the sense to wipe off the lipstick before it transferred itself all over the bed, as well as the white shirt, overcoming Drew’s complaints with kisses and whispered promises, as she dragged the shirt down his arms and tossed it into a corner. The sight of the red lace that was under her dress successfully distracted him.