by Jane Linfoot
‘It’s good to see you without your hat, that’s all.’
I know he’s shared a lot more than he needed to. ‘And now you’re wondering …?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help being curious …’ The way he’s staring at me it’s a lot more than that, it’s like he’s trying to see into my soul. ‘You don’t drink, you don’t date, I give you a onesie to wear and you practically throw up … yet the first time we met I couldn’t get you out of my head because you had this wonderful certainty about you. You were so happy, so much yourself, so different from everyone else in that cabin in Chamonix. So what happened?’ he asks gently.
I really didn’t come in here for him to be digging this deep. ‘Going on a winter sports holiday when I didn’t like skiing, that was certainly different. But everyone alters – you grow up, you live life and it changes you.’ The way his eyelashes are flickering, I’m going to have to give him something more. ‘Okay, I was in a car accident. But I only talk about it to Fliss. So long as I do things for other people and not myself, I’m fine, and I won’t ever need to think about it again. So I’m not being mean, but if you don’t mind I’d rather not discuss it any more.’
‘Whatever gets you through, you go for it.’ He tilts his head. ‘There I go, sounding like a cliché generator. I’m sad you got hurt, but I’m pleased you’re not giving up or giving in.’
I give him a punch on the arm. ‘And I’m sad you won’t get your refund, and I’m sorry you’re having a bad time. But I’m not sorry you broke up with Gemma.’ Oh my, where did that come from? I’m scrambling around my head to find something to add to make it sound better. ‘What I mean is, she was super-pretty on the outside, but anyone who smashes that many decorations is a lot less pretty on the inside.’ But I think we knew that bit already.
I’m suddenly thinking I’ve been in here for ages and the terrible time the kids are going to give me when I come out. ‘I’ve been in here way too long, Tiff and Tansy are convinced I come in here to snog you, I need to go.’
There’s a light dancing in his eyes. ‘And that’s not why you’re here? It seems a shame to disappoint them.’
My eyes are so far open my eyeballs feel like they could drop out.
And then his mouth twists again. ‘Only joking. Obviously.’ He shakes his head. ‘Taffeta and Tulle, what are those two like?’
The sweat is running down my spine in rivers not trickles. ‘Great, I know.’ I’m thinking what else I had to say. ‘Oh, and I need to remind you about mistletoe.’ And I jumped into that with both feet too.
‘So you do want the snogging after all?’ His eyes are really dancing now. ‘I get it, you don’t want to ask, and you prefer surprises. I’m sure we can work with that.’
Oh my. To think I marched in here, thinking I was the one who was going to come out on top. What was I saying about needing to be ready to be astonished?
‘And another thing …’
I’m not sure I’m up for any more of Bill’s afterthoughts, I haven’t got Merwyn in line to march out yet. ‘Go on …’
‘I’ve told Happy Milo to keep his distance.’
I’m taking it in, turning it over in my head, and on reflection, it doesn’t sound so bad. ‘I know there’s been a bit of competition around the Aga the last few mornings, we should definitely work out a rota for the breakfast baking.’
Bill’s staring at me like I’m not getting it. ‘What the hell has the Aga got to do with anything?’
It turns out he’s right, I’m not understanding at all. ‘So what are you meaning?’
Bill doesn’t even look apologetic. ‘I’ve told him to stay away from you.’
Friday
20th December
23.
Marshmallows this way …
Friday begins with another breakfast tussle between Milo and Bill, but this time there’s a variation. Bill is nowhere around, but he’s bagged his pitch first and left Keef to oversee. Whoever the baker with the cool writing is has sent little labels and jars of home made jams, several cards of instructions on how to make perfect waffles. Then there are bowls full of mixture, six electric waffle makers and flour sifters filled with icing sugar.
There’s also a bowl of gluten free and egg free mixture so Scout, Solomon and Sailor have no excuse not to join in. All I can say is, for anyone thinking of giving seven kids waffle irons and strawberry jam and telling them to get on with it – unless you want your kitchen to look like world war three just happened, then don’t. It makes the hot chocolate topping destruction that Milo walked in on look like a hiccough.
I wave an instruction card splattered with jam and waffle mix at Tiff and Tansy. ‘We could do with your laminator for these.’ And they nod back, their mouths bursting with apricot jam and waffles.
As for me, Willow comes gliding by with a strong recommendation for blueberries to balance my aura, so I’m not going to argue. And waffles are one of those things – it’s easy to forget how delicious they are. You can go months, or even years without eating them, but once I close my teeth on the crisp golden crunch and get the softness of the icing sugar exploding on my tongue, all complimented by a large clump of blueberry jam – I seriously can’t stop eating them. As far as the sugar-free breakfast brigade go, they can’t know icing sugar counts because they’re shaking it on their waffles like there’s no tomorrow.
Whoever thought up this breakfast did not anticipate the clearing up time either. It’s a good thing we don’t need a fast getaway for the day’s activities, because Fliss and I are still wiping jam out of the cracks between the floorboards and waffle mix out of Oscar’s hair at lunchtime. But however energetic and unable to switch off Libby is, holidays are about chilling. Today Libby’s holed up in the laundry sorting through parcels leaving everyone else free to run on slowmo. And for once, that’s okay.
We carry on making our deccies, then Tiff and Tansy come and help me and Merwyn hang the pink and orange stars on our tree. Mostly I think they just want to check I’m telling the truth about not having Bill tucked under my duvet. Obviously I wouldn’t have, Keef already told us, he’s gone off up towards St Austell making gin deliveries. Next we go up to their room and cover their tree with their super-pretty newspaper stars and fill in the gaps with silver and gold baubles from Bill’s boxes of randomness. And then we go to their tower alcove for a little make up trial.
It’s very low key. Scraping my hair back out of the way in a headband like Tiff suggests is completely impossible for now. I push my hair back, and offer her my face, just for a few seconds to begin with, because my stomach’s wrenching so hard. I manage a touch of foundation, a whisk of powder off a brush. Then Tiff stands back, swishes her lovely pink tulle skirt with sequins in it. She smiles and says, ‘Not so bad?’ And actually she’s right.
And then Willow’s lot sit down to watch 101 Dálmatas again joined by Oscar and Harriet who don’t give a damn they can’t understand it and are doing a great job pretending to be bilingual. So Fliss comes into the tower room too and we all try out the latest nude lippy shades, and Tansy has a go at our eyebrows, and we all end up looking like we had an accident in the dark with a Sharpie and have to go and scrub them off.
Obviously we’re just marking time, letting our appetites build for the big event of today, the night time market. As we pile out of the cars down on the seafront car park in St Aidan later, it’s after six but it’s been dark for hours. The half moon is spreading its beam across the sky, lighting the clouds from behind, making them luminous, and sending shimmers across the glassy blackness of the sea below. As the wind tosses salt spray in our faces we can hear the waves rolling in and crashing up the beach, randomly splattering out over the railings and onto the promenade. As we make our way along to the harbour, the light strings between the lamp posts are swinging wildly, and below them the wide pavement is heaving with people, most of them wearing Santa hats, all of them shrinking inside the bulk of their padded jackets against the chilly air slicing off the water. As we p
ass the ice rink full of skaters Fliss and I are bumping a pushchair each over the cobbles.
We push towards the stalls, lured by the smells of sweet caramelised almonds, garlicky cheese and roasting sausages. As I hear a familiar voice behind me, I turn to see Bill. ‘No falling over tonight, okay?’
I pull my hat down to stop my ears getting freeze blasted by the cold. ‘No more disasters for me, I’ve had enough, thanks.’
He’s got his hands deep in his pockets and as I catch a glimpse of his open jacket for a nanosecond I can’t help thinking how it would feel to be wrapped up inside there with him. Knowing he’s not with Gemma makes me feel less of a traitor. But I’m kicking myself even more. If I learned one thing from George it was to avoid posh guys who ski. But even if I did want to be with someone like Bill, if he was out of my league before – and he totally was – he’ll be out of my universe with my face as it is now. Realistically I’d probably have more chance with Ian Somerhalder. I’m asking myself why the hell I’m wasting brain time with thoughts like that when we come to Miranda and Ambrose, who’ve stopped right in front of us.
Fliss pulls to a halt next to them. ‘Hurry up you two, you don’t want to miss those roasted chestnuts.’
Miranda raises her eyebrows. ‘Ambie’s thinking he’d prefer dinner up at The Harbourside Hotel.’
Fliss lets out a cry. ‘I thought Christmas markets were your favourite, we couldn’t get you away from the one in Brighton last year.’
Miranda comes in closer and lowers her voice. ‘Apparently he’s not keen on street vendors or crowds or the salmonella.’
Miranda’s whispering, but Fliss’s protest is loud. ‘Aren’t the food and the bustle the best parts? Surely, you can eat at the Harbourside any time, this is only one night.’
Miranda’s putting a brave face on this, but her smile is a little too bright to be real. ‘It’s fine, he’s decided, I’d better run.’ He’s already backing into the shadows without her. If she doesn’t go soon, she’ll lose him.
As she hurries away, Milo leaps from behind us. ‘Actually, I think I’ll join them … if that’s okay with everyone?’ He’s looking at me.
I ignore the double thumbs up Tiff is giving me and answer Milo. ‘You need to be there, we totally understand, we’ll see you back home.’
Fliss is rolling her eyes. ‘Poor Mum. Let’s hope they serve gooseberry crumble for you Milo.’ I get where she’s coming from. What exactly is Milo planning to do if Ambie does propose … throw himself on top of the ring before Miranda gets it onto her finger?
Bill’s straight in with the directions. ‘Left through the harbour, and up the hill. There’s an exclusive outdoor terrace with a patio heater, you can look down on the rest of us from there.’ He turns to us. ‘And I have to nip up to the Parrot and Pirate to see about a gin order, so I’ll catch you later too.’
Then as Bill wanders off, I catch the ping of Fliss’s message tone. ‘Hey, and we have signal.’
She pauses, pulls her phone out of her pocket, as she looks at the screen she’s hissing under her breath. ‘Damn, what the hell is he playing at?’
I check that Tiff and Tansy are far enough in front not to hear, and murmur back over Harriet’s head. ‘Rob?’ He’s supposed to be arriving tomorrow.
She lets out a breath. ‘That’s him saying he’s staying on to work Monday, possibly Tuesday too.’ Her voice is small and she pulls her hood up further and wipes her cuff across her nose. ‘I’m starting to think he won’t turn up here at all. All the signs say he’s baubles deep in a Christmas fling with someone from the office. I mean, what if this is him leaving us?’
I’m blazing inside on her behalf but despairing too. ‘Whatever’s going on, you have to fight this. I know you didn’t want to upset the kids by seeing their dad when he’s not here, but Oscar and Harriet need to Facetime him. If you remind him what he could be losing, it might shock some sense into him before it’s too late.’
Her groan is heartfelt. ‘You’re right. The minute they’re both awake and smiling in the morning, we’ll be in Bill’s room dialling.’
‘In the meantime …’ I raise my voice again ‘… I prescribe German sausage hot dogs all round, with a side of noodles and lashings of melted Swiss cheese and rosti potatoes.’ I sound like I’m channelling my inner Willow, but I know Fliss – she always responds to a calorie rescue. ‘With a mahoosive mince pie ice cream sundae to finish.’
Her face crumples as she lets out a wail. ‘If only I’d lost the baby weight sooner, he might not have …’
I cut her off, because she really shouldn’t be blaming herself here, or beating herself up about her curves which actually look amazing. Again, she’s comparing herself to Libby who does so much pointless nervous dashing she probably does ten thousand steps between the kitchen and the pantry before the end of breakfast. But if Fliss’s soulmate and best friend has truly gone off the marital rails, it’s going to be about much more than a couple of dress sizes. ‘Fliss, we’re tramping the streets, you’re juggling two babies on your own and you got dressed …’
She coughs. ‘A teensy confession, I am still wearing my pyjamas under my clothes here.’
‘That absolutely still counts …’ I’m here to build her up not knock her down. ‘… it’s colder than a bloody fish finger factory, you suspect the love of your life is playing away … for one night only that’s four excellent reasons for a free pass to as much comfort food as you can consume.’ I pause to let her take that in. ‘We’re at a Christmas market with the most delicious food smells ever, you need to make the most of this and I’m going to help you.’
‘When you put it like that …’ she hesitates, but only for a moment ‘… point me to the nearest mulled wine stall!’
After how I felt last year, I know how hard it is for Fliss. When each twinkling fairy light and every twirl of ivy, the busker with a trumpet playing Mad World in the shopping centre wringing your heart out, and each and every light up snowman on people’s porches is resonating to remind you of how happy you should be … but aren’t. Every other time of the year it would just be bad, but thanks to all those TV ads, there’s this belief that Christmas should be a perfect, blissfully happy, together-y time. However unreal that expectation, that’s what you compare yourself to. The belief that you’re failing simply compounds your problems a thousand times, and makes you feel so much more tragic and hopeless.
I suppose in a way, that unreal perfection is what Libby’s trying to recreate – except she never just tries, she strives. And she always does it with ten times more energy and purpose than anyone else in our orbit. But the sad thing is that so far, however much she’s poured in the cash, and however much we’ve heaped in the effort, I can’t honestly say it’s working out. Sure, we’re faking it to the world with our Instagram posts and her Twitter feed and the Facebook posts. If you count the success in likes and retweets, she’s doing amazingly. But if you judge by the long faces and moans of the people at the castle, thus far she’s completely dropped the proverbial ball. Which kind of goes to show, money doesn’t necessarily buy you happiness or success, not every time.
Having said that, I defy anyone to spend time at the St Aidan night market, with the fairy lights reflected in the water, the boat masts etched like dark sticks against the smudgy cloud shadows of the sky, the figures clustered around stalls glowing in the half light, and not feel warm inside. Watching Santa and his elf friend drive through on his cart lit by twinkly fairy lights and laden with presents, with the most wonderful clip clop of hooves and the jingle of bells. Santa pulled by a pony, not reindeer? That definitely works for me.
By the time we’re working our way up the twisting streets between the open shops further up the village, we’ve tried or bought something from most of the stalls, the pushchairs are weighed down with bags of stollen loaves and every kind of stocking filler from soap to tiny wooden toys, and Fliss and I are nibbling on vanilla fudge as a palette cleanser. Our lungs are about to burs
t with the effort of the push up the hill, so when we reach the mews where the wonderful wedding shop is, we turn along it, drawn by the level ground and the snowy sparkle of the displays.
As Fliss and I press our noses up against the glass and take in the gorgeous white tree, the cream lace dress tumbling like a waterfall, the tiny studs of sequins, she lets out a sigh. ‘However wobbly I feel about Rob, looking in here makes me want to get married all over again.’
I can’t help laughing. ‘Maybe Miranda’s long line of ex-husbands are all because she loves wedding dresses.’
As Tiff comes to join us in the soft yellow light from the street lamps, she’s nodding at the next window. ‘Look, they’ve got newspaper stars on loopy strings in the background, a lot like ours.’
I grin at her. ‘And tulle skirts a lot like yours too. They’ve stopped short of the mismatched deccies, though.’
As Bill pops up behind her his low voice makes me jump. ‘You’re spending a long time looking in the wedding shop, is there any significance to that?’
I give a sniff. ‘Bill, how lovely you caught us up here …’ not ‘… we’re just admiring the display techniques.’
He gives me a high eyebrow. ‘A likely story …’
There’s nothing worse than being single and caught swooning over wedding dresses. ‘We’re in the trade, don’t forget.’
Tiff who’s somehow tagged along with us is looking at Bill. ‘My mum says they’re both bitching stylists.’
Fliss’s eyes flash open. ‘Your mum said that?’ There’s no wonder she can’t believe what she’s hearing, Libby’s not exactly famous for dishing out compliments. Realistically, she’s so busy keeping her own balls in the air, she rarely notices anyone else’s, and it’s rarer still that she says anything nice about them.
Tiff’s nodding. ‘The minute she gets that proper shop of her own she’s going to head hunt you both, for sure.’
I wink at Fliss. ‘Whether we want her to or not.’ Libby’s been dreaming about retail outlets for years according to Fliss, but so far it’s always been too big a jump even for her to make.