by Adam Croft
When it comes to the weather, there was a LIGHT DRIZZLE, which makes no difference anyway, because they were standing outside (for ten minutes at most) under a massive bloody awning! As for the wind, you’ll note her husband’s dodgy toupee managed to stay stuck to his head, so it can’t have been that windy!
The celeb thing you already know about. I don’t know what we can do about that, and I know you’ll probably say we should just swallow the £500, but that doesn’t sit right with me. She had HUNDREDS of chances to give me just SOME information on the sort of celeb she expected to open her shitty gallery, and she ignored me every time. If all of her friends are more famous, why didn’t she ask one of them to get their bloody scissors out and cut the ribbon?
Budget… Jesus F* Christ. OBVIOUSLY it was over budget, because she kept changing her sodding mind every five minutes and we had to pay for everything two or three times over! That’s why some of the stuff was still purple, because there was no money left to change it all to white. Most of it had already been delivered and opened.
I know you’ll probably want to pacify her in some way because of the future business stuff, and that’s fine, but I just wanted to convey my thoughts to you, because I sure as hell can’t bring myself to reply to that cow myself.
I’m WFH today, but back in the office on Monday or am on my mobile if you need to get hold of me. Advance warning: keep the volume turned down, because I’ll be LOUD! Grrrr….
G x
P.S…. * The F does not stand for Fred.
As soon as I hit Send I know it probably wasn’t a good idea, but sometimes these things need saying. Anyway, Sue and I get on really well and it wouldn’t be the first time we’d slagged Matilda off behind her back. When you’re dealing with people like that, sometimes you need a virtual punchbag to let out all the rage. It definitely feels much better for getting it all off my chest. At least now Sue will know how I feel and will be able to get that all across to Matilda in a way I know I’d never manage.
Now that’s out of the way, I decide to make myself that cup of tea, take a moment to breathe and then get on with the rest of my work.
12
Saturday 21 December
It’s the day of the annual seaside trip for the beach barbecue, and we’re all heading to Brighton. It wasn’t until we’d all got our hotels and transport arranged that Ben decided to pipe up and mention that Brighton’s got a pebble beach, not a sandy one. Trying to have a barbecue on a British beach in December is usually difficult enough in itself, but trying to lay down picnic blankets on loose pebbles and cobbles is going to add a whole new layer of interest.
That’s not the only thing that seems to have caused some issues, though. Transport has also thrown a spanner in the works. There had been a big debate about which would be the best way to get to Brighton: road or rail. In the end, some people decided to go by train and the others wanted to drive. As it turned out, those of us who went by train somehow forgot to check for engineering works, and we ended up having to change trains twice, as well as lugging our bags through central London between stations. Fortunately for us, we got our schadenfreude when Melissa texted to say they were stuck in traffic because there’d been an accident and the M23 was shut.
At that point, I was just about ready to jump back on the train and go home. I’ve not been looking forward to it anyway, with Nan being so unwell and the argument between me and Cath still simmering away unresolved. It’s not like us to ignore each other, but maybe that’s what we both need right now. It’s going to make today awkward, though.
Finally, eventually, we all arrive in Brighton. The others have parked up and are checking in at our hotel, a street or two back from the seafront, and we walk the short distance down the hill from the station to join them.
Gareth and Melissa have brought their two kids, and Cath and Ben have dragged Ben’s niece and nephew along for the day to keep them company. Cath keeps nudging Ben and giving him little knowing smiles as the kids play in front of them, as if to say “That could be us soon!”. Nauseating.
The weather’s actually pretty good for December — the temperature’s in double figures — and the wind isn’t as ridiculous as I remember it tending to be in Brighton, from holidays as a kid.
When we get to the beach, Cath taps me on the arm. ‘Grace, do you have a sec?’ she says.
We walk a few yards off course, just enough to be able to talk in private.
‘Look, I just wanted to clear the air so today isn’t awkward,’ Cath says. ‘We both said things we didn’t mean, and it’s pointless there being bad blood between us. We’ve only got a few weeks left until the wedding, and I’d hate there to be bad feeling knocking about. For both our sakes.’
I force a smile. ‘Thanks, Cath. I appreciate that. I’m sorry too.’
Gareth and Ben set up the portable, throwaway barbecues and fight to get them lit, while Cath, Melissa and I sit chatting as we watch Tom playing with the kids.
‘He’s great with them, isn’t he?’ Cath says.
‘He is,’ I reply. ‘Gives us a bit of peace and quiet, too.’
‘From them or from him?’ she says, laughing.
‘Both!’
‘Aww, no, he’s lovely. Bearing in mind he hadn’t met any of the kids until half an hour ago, they’re absolutely loving him.’
Melissa and I share a look. I know Cath probably doesn’t mean what she’s saying, and it’s clear she’s trying — perhaps a little too hard — to smooth things over and see the good in Tom. She obviously knows she’s in the wrong, and at least she’s making an effort.
‘How’s the wedding planning going?’ Melissa asks, in a tone that’s a little more probing than I’d expect.
‘It’s alright. Still a few things to sort out, but we’ll get there,’ Cath replies.
Melissa looks at me again and raises an eyebrow as if to say Told you there’s a reason she wants to make up with you.
I look across the pebbles at the kids chasing Tom around, further towards the sea where the stones almost — almost — become sand. I can’t hear what’s being said, but there’s plenty of laughing and shouting and everyone seems to be having a good time. Never mind Cath’s knowing glances to Ben; as I look at Tom I get a glimpse of my own future. Maybe this is what it’ll be like. Long, slightly warmer days, down on the beach, watching Daddy and the kids having fun in the sun.
In that moment, I feel sorry for Tom. For him, this must be both amazing and heartbreaking. Knowing that he can’t have this sort of relationship with his own daughter must break him in two. Maybe that’s why he gets on so well with other people’s kids, I think. It’s his way of getting that out of his system. And that’s why I feel sorry for him: because he’s a natural. He knows exactly what they want to do, precisely what they want to hear. He’s got them engaged, enraptured and excited.
Twenty minutes or so later, Tom jogs back over to us to see how we’re getting on.
‘Yeah, not bad. Looks like you’re keeping warmer than we are, anyway, all that running around,’ I say.
‘I was just going to ask if you wanted to come and look in a couple of shops with me, see if we can get some blankets or camping chairs or something,’ Tom replies. There’s a cheeky glint in his eye that tells me shopping’s not all he’s got planned.
‘That sounds like a great idea,’ I say, and I take his outstretched hand as he helps me up to my feet. ‘Anyone want anything?’
‘Nope, all good here,’ Gareth says. ‘Never too cold for a barbie.’
‘Says the man who didn’t know temperatures could drop below forty celsius before he moved to England,’ Melissa says, laughing.
‘Actually, Tom, there is something,’ Cath says, looking at him. ‘Ben and I have been doing a bit of shuffling around with the wedding plans. Looks like we got our numbers a bit mixed up, and there’s a spare place. We wondered if you’d like to come.’
Tom looks at me, then back at Cath. ‘Sure. That’d be really lovely. Th
anks, Cath.’
13
Tom and I head off towards the road, holding hands as we clamber over the pebbles, my toes cold and numb inside my boots. Even though it’s not a particularly cold day, sitting around on the seafront doing nothing isn’t keeping me especially warm.
‘You cold?’ Tom says, feeling me shiver.
‘A bit. I’ll be alright after a walk.’
‘Never mind a walk. Come on, this way,’ he says, pulling me across the road and up a side street. A couple of minutes later, we walk into a kids’ play park. There’s no-one around, and it strikes me that slides, swings and roundabouts probably aren’t massively popular in the middle of December.
‘This should keep you warm,’ he says, hoisting himself up and climbing along the monkey bars like a chimpanzee.
‘I doubt it. That metal looks freezing!’
‘Should’ve brought your gloves,’ Tom replies, sticking his tongue out at me, making me laugh.
‘You told me it wouldn’t be cold enough for gloves.’
Tom shrugs. ‘What can I say? I lied.’
‘You’re a bad man, Thomas.’
‘Oh yes. Dreadful. Now are you going to just stand there or are you going to come and play?’
‘That all depends what we’re playing with,’ I say, walking over to him, pressing my body up against him and kissing him. I feel like I’m fourteen again, stealing a snog in the park while my friends wait round the corner. For the first time in a long time, I feel free and secure at the same time. I love watching Tom mess around like a big kid, embracing his inner child while still making me feel so safe at the same time.
‘Come on. Roundabout time!’ Tom says, as he starts jogging over towards it, still holding my hand. ‘On you get.’
‘Okay, but be careful,’ I say, giggling. ‘I don’t want to be sick.’
‘You’ve only had two drinks.’
‘Three. And I don’t do well with motion at the best of times.’
‘You could’ve fooled me,’ he replies, flicking his eyebrows upwards seductively.
‘Yeah, well it’s been a long time since that’s happened anywhere near a play park,’ I say, with false coyness.
Tom leans in close. ‘We could always rectify that situation.’
As I move forward to kiss him, he pulls back and grins, before the roundabout starts moving.
‘Tom!’
‘Hold on tight!’ he says, as he starts to spin it faster and faster. Every half-second or so I catch a glimpse of his face as I spin round past him. I don’t know if I’m imagining things, but every time I see it the smile seems to drop slightly, until it’s neutral, then almost angry.
‘Tom, stop,’ I say. ‘It’s too fast.’
He’s not listening to me.
‘Tom, I want to get off. I feel sick!’
I try to stand up, but the force keeps pushing me back down. I grip the metal safety bar and hoist myself round, before waiting for my moment and stepping off. The second I do so, I regret it. My right foot hits the ground and I stop, but the roundabout keeps spinning and I feel a searing pain as the metal bar smashes into my left shin, knocking me off balance and sending me into the sandpit.
I lie there for a moment or two, shocked and in pain, before Tom comes over.
‘Jesus, Grace. Are you alright? Why’d you just jump off like that?’
‘I… I felt sick,’ I say. ‘I asked you to stop… Fuck that hurts!’
‘Where does it hurt?’ Tom says, lifting up my trouser leg. ‘Oh wow. You’ve got quite a bruise there already. You’ll want to keep that covered up.’
‘Why didn’t you stop when I asked?’ I say, trying to catch my breath as the pain slowly begins to subside.
‘I didn’t hear anything, babe. Honestly. If I’d heard you say stop, I would’ve stopped. You know that, don’t you?’
I look up at him, and there’s a look in his eyes I can only describe as neutral. It gives me nothing, but at the same time that’s exactly what I find most disconcerting.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I know.’
I push myself to my feet, fighting against the horrendous pain in my leg, but knowing nothing is broken and I need to get it moving.
I start walking in the direction of the seafront, Tom following a few steps behind me. Neither of us says a word as we walk.
As we get back to the others, Cath calls out to us.
‘Any luck?’
‘Nope,’ Tom says, before I can answer. ‘Had a quick look around, but I don’t think there’s much call for chairs and blankets round here.’
‘Probably because we’re the only buggers daft enough to sit on the beach in December,’ Cath says, laughing.
Tom heads straight back over to play with the kids, and the adults smile as they watch him, the sound of joyous laughter mixing with the crashing waves.
‘I don’t know where he gets his energy from,’ Cath says to me, ‘but I’m pretty sure you’re not complaining.’ As she chuckles, she notices some dirt on my jeans. ‘Well well well. No wonder you didn’t find any chairs or blankets, you dirty little buggers. I bet you’re both warmed up too, eh?’
I force a smile and a small laugh. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than telling her the truth.
14
Wednesday 25 December
It’s odd that Christmas Day should feel different from any other day, but it does. When all’s said and done, it’s just another day. The birds see the sun rise again, the dogs expect another walk, the trees are glad for another extra couple of minutes of sunshine compared to the day before. To all intents and purposes, it’s just another Wednesday. But it’s not. It feels warmer, cosier.
Maybe it’s being around family. Perhaps it’s a throwback to childhood, when Christmas was undeniably a very different day to any other, when we’d wake up to the sound of Christmas songs, rush downstairs and rip open the presents while the smell of roast turkey wafted through the house. There was a wonder, an amazement which can’t ever be replicated in adulthood, but of which we’re reminded every Christmas Day. The annual muscle memory reminding us that this day is different.
The thing I always notice is the smiles. Of course, Mum and Dad are happy to see us whenever we go over, but Christmas Day seems to get you a bigger smile on arrival. It’s not just a case of opening the door and letting you in; it’s warmer, more welcoming. It means more.
Mum’s always done a brilliant job of making Christmas feel relaxed, even though we know she’s running around the kitchen like a blue-arsed fly. This year is different, though.
Everyone was agreed that we should enjoy Christmas as we always do. If Nan thought we were moping about, waiting for the call to say she’d died, she’d flip her lid without a shadow of a doubt. But it’s clear we all feel slightly guilty each time we smile, as if we should be in a period of pre-mourning. But Christmas is a time for family, and for being together, and we should be able to enjoy that without feeling guilty.
Today of all days, I’m thankful for Tom. He’s fortunate enough to be one step removed, close enough to know the situation and the dynamic, but also able to put some perspective on things and allow us to enjoy the day without feeling that he has to keep a lid on things.
It’s at times like this that I realise how lucky I am to have him. Tom’s at his best when he’s like this. He’s kind. He’s supportive. He’s a rock. He’s everything the family man should be, and a family man always shines at Christmas.
He’s taken it upon himself to be the unofficial drinks waiter, making sure everyone’s glasses keep topped up — one of the prerequisites of any good Christmas Day. Mum’s banished him from the kitchen — along with everyone else — and has declared that the next person to ask if she needs a hand with anything will provide an uncomfortable new home for the turkey giblets.
I try to give Tom a knowing look to tell him that maybe it’s not a great idea to keep topping Dad’s glass up. He’s already slurring his speech and getting short-tempered. After ev
erything that’s been going on with Nan he’s not been in the best of moods lately, and I worry that he’s going to act up.
We open a few presents and have a good laugh at some of the jokier gifts we’ve got each other. As a family, we’ve always been fortunate enough to buy the things we want throughout the year, so Christmas for us has always been about lighthearted gifts or those saw-this-and-thought-of-you items. After all, they mean so much more than a bottle of perfume or a necklace — no matter how sweet the scent or large the ruby.
After an hour and a half or so, we realise Mum’s been stuck in the kitchen on her own, and decide on a plan to rescue her. We daren’t offer her any help, but we can definitely insist she stops cooking for a few minutes and comes into the living room to open a few presents of her own. It is Christmas, after all.
Dad draws the short straw and heads out to the kitchen. A few seconds later, he comes back into the living room.
‘Where is she?’ he asks.
‘I thought she was in the kitchen,’ I say. ‘Maybe she’s gone upstairs to the loo.’
Dad heads upstairs, calling for her, and we think no more of it. A couple of minutes later, they come thundering down the stairs and round into the kitchen. We hear raised voices, and I stand up to see what’s going on, but Tom placates me.
‘It’s alright. I’ll go,’ he says.
After a minute or so, Dad comes into the living room with a look of thunder on his face.
‘Well that’s the dinner fucked,’ he says.