Chapter Eighteen
Bailey didn’t meet Monroe’s husband, George, until they all sat down for dinner an hour later.
Monroe and her mother led Bailey into the dining room before setting the table together, moving like two halves of one whole in a choreographed dance. Monroe would carry a steaming dish, raising it high as the shorter Karen swept past her and back into the kitchen. Karen would pour Bucks Fizz with a practiced hand, swinging artfully past her daughter without even looking as the younger woman arranged napkins.
“There!” Karen cooed when all was ready, a soft smile on her face as she looked over the beautifully laid table. Then she bellowed, “Boys! DINNER!”
Out of sight, Bailey’s fingers tangled with the tablecloth as the sound of thundering feet drew closer.
The children arrived first, Will in the lead, with little Charlie dragging at his dressing gown.
“Oh, for God’s sake, take those off,” Monroe ordered, pulling the thick layers from her sons’ shoulders. She turned an exasperated stare at the man who’d just stepped into the doorway. “Why did you put them in these? They’ll get bloody heatstroke!”
“Not a pyjama day without dressing gowns,” the man said mildly. He was tall, like Monroe, but slight. His brown hair was thinning and his mouth was a touch too narrow; his grey shirt was wrinkled and his glasses were slightly wonky. But he had an endearingly distracted air about him that made his appearance somehow charming. His gaze came to rest on Bailey and he gave her a nod, his lips tilted in the ghost of a smile. “Hullo,” he said. “George.”
“Uh, hi. I’m Bailey. Cash’s friend.”
“You’re Uncle Cash’s girlfriend,” giggled Charlie.
“He likes you,” Will whispered, much more seriously. His small face was grave.
“Hey, now,” Cash’s voice came, playful and warm. “Don’t give away all my secrets, boys.” He walked into the room with his usual confidence, but there was something more there, after just a few hours at home—a kind of comfort, an inner contentedness that smoothed his sharp edges. He put his hand proprietorially on the back of Bailey’s chair, then, after a moment’s hesitation, bent down and kissed her forehead. The boys exploded into fits of laughter, and Bailey felt her cheeks heat.
“Quiet!” Monroe demanded. “Sit down. It’s time to eat.”
The chortles continued at a lower volume as the boys moved to the table, nudging each other hysterically. Monroe rolled her eyes and sat beside them, opposite Bailey. And then Bailey found herself between Cash on one side, and his mother on the other.
But by this point, she and Karen were practically best friends. Aside from Bailey’s crippling fear of rejection and strong suspicion that no mother could ever truly accept her darling son’s potential love interest, all was going swimmingly!
Or something.
“Help yourselves, help yourselves!” Karen cried, waving her hands expansively. “Dig in! George, what are you doing loitering by the window?”
George looked at the table with a faint expression of surprise. “Oh. Sorry, Karen.” He wandered over to sit by his sons and began nibbling at a piece of garlic bread, his plate otherwise empty.
“Eat something, silly boy!” Karen demanded, piling her own plate with a small mountain of Bolognese.
“Daddy ate a whole box of After Eights,” Charlie said around a string of spaghetti. “And he didn’t let me have any.”
“Bad for your teeth,” George mumbled.
“Bad for your teeth,” Monroe frowned. “Have some pasta.”
“Leave me, Roe.” But a smile played faintly about his lips
“Have some pasta,” she said again, her voice firm.
He sighed dramatically, then reached for one of the huge serving dishes. Monroe rolled her eyes again.
Bailey hid a smile, her own eyes sliding to Cash. He winked at her, and she shovelled in a mouthful of Bolognese to stop herself from laughing.
“So!” Karen said. “Bailey. What a lovely name that is.”
“Thanks,” Bailey smiled. “It was my mother’s maiden name.”
“Really?” Karen let out a peal of laughter. “That’s wonderful; you match my two! Last names as first names!”
“Oh, right,” Bailey nodded. “Cash and Monroe. Yeah.”
“Everyone thought I was a bit of an odd duck, with those names,” Karen said, leaning in conspiratorially—as though the entire table and half the village couldn’t hear her foghorn voice. “But I was being modern! Before my time, I was! Old is always new again, my love, you remember that.”
“Where is your mother?” George asked suddenly.
Bailey looked up at him, startled by the question. “Um… She passed away. A couple of years ago.” Her gaze flew awkwardly to the kids, who were looking at her with twin expressions of fascination. Charlie’s little mouth hung open, exposing a chewed up mound of Bolognese.
“Oh. You have no family?”
“George,” Monroe hissed, widening her eyes over the boys’ heads.
“What?” He asked. “You told me to make conversation.”
Monroe heaved out a sigh and let her head fall into her hands.
“Daddy,” Will said helpfully, “I think you’re doing the thing Mummy tells you not to do.”
“Oh, dear,” tutted Karen. “You must excuse our George. He’s a bit funny.”
“Mum!” Monroe cried.
“What, love? He is!” She turned to Bailey, patted her arm reassuringly. “He’s very clever, you see. Clever people have nothing about them, everyone knows that!”
Monroe groaned into her hands. Bailey sat stiffly, a polite smile pinned to her face. She had no idea what the appropriate response was here. All she knew was that she couldn’t bear to look at Cash in this moment.
“I’m just trying to find out why she’s here,” George said. “If she’s not Cash’s girlfriend, as he insists, then why has she come to take part in another family’s Christmas? But of course, now that I know she is an orphan—.”
“George, mate,” Cash said, his voice low. “Stop talking.”
“But—”
“Stop. Talking.”
The table fell into an uncomfortable silence. Bailey chewed her spaghetti mechanically, the pasta congealing in her mouth. Through the dining room window, she could see various Christmas lights flashing in the back garden. An illuminated Santa’s grotto blinked red and white.
Suddenly, Cash set down his fork with a clatter. Bailey jumped, finally turning to look at him, and found his eyes boring fiercely into her.
“Bailey is here because I want her to be,” he said. “I invited her because she’s important to me and because I wanted to spend Christmas with her.” He reached out and grabbed her hand, holding it tight on top of the table. Then he turned to look at his brother-in-law. “You understand?”
George nodded as though nothing untoward had occurred. “Yes. Thanks, Cash.”
Cash sighed. “No problem.”
And then, as if on cue, the boys dissolved into fits of laughter again.
“Uncle Cash,” Will wheezed between giggles. “You’re holding hands with a girl!”
Cash gave Bailey a slow smile, the kind that felt like melted chocolate on her tongue. “Yep,” he said.
Bailey aimed for a demure expression, one that showed she accepted all public admiration as her due. But she failed monumentally, and felt her face stretch into a goofy grin instead.
She could get used to this.
∞∞∞
Hours later, after dinner had been cleared up and the kids had been put to bed, Bailey found herself sitting in the living room with Monroe and a half-empty bottle of wine.
The room was vast, yet comfortable and homely. A fireplace sat at the far end, the mantelpiece covered by photographs and children’s paintings. A wood fire burned merrily in the grate, the only source of light in the room aside from the tiny, winking bulbs adorning the Christmas tree.
And what a tree it was. The monstrous thing grazed the ceiling, with no room for a star or angel at its tip. Still, it was weighed down with crimson, gold and cream baubles, along with metres of tinsel and little plastic-wrapped candy canes. Underneath, a sea of beautifully-wrapped presents spread out on the carpet, eating into the room’s space without remorse. It would take all bloody day to open those presents, Bailey thought, but she was more excited than annoyed at the prospect. Watching the kids open their presents, watching the adults share gifts… It would be so different to the Christmases she and her mother had had, along with whichever man might be around at the time.
Not better, she told herself. Never that. But definitely something she’d always wanted to experience.
“You want more wine?” Monroe asked, and Bailey realised with a start that the glass in her hand was empty. Oops.
“No, I should slow down.”
“Rubbish. It’s Christmas. Get wasted in the comfort of your own home.”
Bailey chuckled, shaking her head. “I don’t think so. Anyway, it’s not my home. I’d hate to embarrass myself.”
Monroe rolled her eyes. “Just you wait. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve; Mum will crack open the sherry and won’t stop till Boxing Day. Then we’ll see who’s embarrassed.”
They laughed together, and Bailey marvelled at how quickly the warm, open woman had started to feel like a friend.
But then Monroe’s expression sobered. “Listen,” she said, filling up her own glass. “About George—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bailey said quickly. “Honestly. Don’t.”
“He really didn’t mean any harm. He just doesn’t think before he speaks. And he forgets that other people don’t see things the way he does.”
“Honestly, it’s okay.”
“He likes you, you know.”
Bailey gave Monroe a blatantly sceptical look, and the other woman giggled.
“Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. But he told me that you’re ‘both pretty and pleasant’.” Her voice took on George’s gentle, distant cadence.
“Oh, well. A ringing endorsement!”
“It’s a hell of a lot better than his first comment on my character.”
“Do I even want to know?”
Monroe shook her head with a snort. “Nope. You don’t. Or you’ll wonder why I married him.”
Bailey was already wondering that. But then, she’d learned a long time ago that love was a tricky fucker.
As though she’d spoken the thought aloud, Monroe murmured, “My brother really does like you, though. Doesn’t he?”
“Oh… I don’t know. I suppose so.”
“You suppose so? I’ve never heard him talk about a woman like that. Not ever. Certainly not in front of everyone!”
Bailey shifted awkwardly on the sofa, tucking her feet under her bum. She wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. She wasn’t entirely sure about anything when it came to Cash. But she did know that his words at dinner had lit a spark in her—not one that burned comet-bright and faded just as fast, or one that seared away her good sense. No; it glowed gently, warming her up from the inside out. It didn’t feel like a dangerous love. It felt like the kind of secret that was a pleasure to keep.
Monroe was watching her closely. In the low light, the woman’s blue eyes looked eerily like Cash’s green ones. “My brother is a complicated man,” she said. “We had some difficult times growing up.”
Bailey nodded. She’d heard as much from Cash himself. But then Monroe’s next words caught her completely by surprise.
“Our father beat the shit out of Mum.”
Bailey’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. What the hell did you say to that?
“He was a monster. He was obsessed with her. There was nowhere for her to hide. She ran away and took us with her, and it worked for a while. But in the end, he’d find us, and he’d punish her.” Monroe swirled her wine around the glass, as though they were discussing nothing heavier than tomorrow’s menu. “So I suppose we’re all a little bit fucked. Which is fine. But Cash—”
“What about me?”
Bailey jumped at the sudden sound of his voice, her heart stuttering. In the shadows of the hallway, Cash leant against the doorframe. Darkness danced with light across the sardonic twist of his mouth. His hair fell forward, hiding his eyes almost completely, but she could still see that glint of green, like a tiger peering through tall grass.
Fuck.