Nina
Tuesday, 18 December
‘Morning, Nina,’ calls Boss Fielding over his shoulder in a cheerful voice, as I climb half asleep into the farm’s aged minibus, parked before the snug.
‘Morning,’ I mutter, unsure if five o’clock in the morning aligns itself to morning or middle of the night. My definition is the latter. ‘It’s nice to know the exact time to avoid the Christmas music.’
I tug at the seat belt before acknowledging the presence of Bram and Zach. It takes even longer for me to register that a series of seats has been removed and replaced by an array of ladders and tool boxes. I haven’t missed the twenty-foot giant Nordman fir, wrapped in plastic netting and lying supine secured with haulage strapping upon the lengthy trailer.
‘Early enough for you, is it?’ asks Bram, cocky and wide awake.
‘Not really. Am I allowed to sleep or would that be bad manners?’
A combination of, ‘Bad manners,’ and, ‘Sure, do as you wish,’ are shouted at me by the three men. I’m grateful. I’m still processing Bram’s explanation from yesterday that, ‘It was a joke, Nina,’ and, ‘Seriously, surely you know I’ve got more compassion than that for the needy.’ He wore a sheepish look throughout the explanation to which I listened. Surely, actions speak louder than words?
‘To be honest, I don’t remember volunteering for this task or trip,’ I say, folding my coat into a pillow roll.
‘You didn’t. We nominated you to come to London with us. It’s not every day you get to visit the prime minister’s pad by private invitation,’ explains Zach, touching my hand. ‘Much like you’ve been nominated to show the new girl the ropes come the weekend.’
‘What new girl?’
‘Yep, Dad thought it would ignite your festive passion,’ says Bram, pointing to his father. ‘Yesterday, young Alfie asked if his girlfriend could have some hours over Christmas.’
‘Great! He’s obviously made a lasting impression on you but I’m really not in the mood to train teenagers for part-time work, Boss,’ I chunter, as I settle against the window to sleep.
Boss Fielding shrugs as he steadily drives through the village lanes heading for the motorway.
‘It might lighten the load on the sales yard to have another teenage gofer around the sales yard,’ adds Zach.
‘It won’t help, but I appreciate the sentiment,’ I say, yawning. ‘Wake me up when we arrive in London.’
For the first time in ages, a cosy warmth envelops me and I drift off to sleep amidst the sounds of the Fielding guys bantering between themselves.
*
Never before have I undergone such a security check.
As our minibus pulls up at the black gates of Downing Street, the burly guards armed with huge machine guns swarm around the windows asking for ID.
‘We are expected,’ Boss explains, showing his business details and documents. ‘We’re delivering this year’s Christmas tree.’ Back in October our farm won the British Christmas Tree Growers’ Association ‘Grower of the Year - Champion Tree’ award, and the new wooden sign made for the entrance gate was given pride of place. The accolade entitles the winning farm to donate and deliver the Christmas tree to the prime minister’s front door.
We wait while clearance checks are made and eventually the black gates are opened for us to drive through, into the snow-cleared street. It is like entering a film set, surreal knowing that behind each polished door important state decisions are made and rubber-stamped with top-class authority. The railings are pristine, the door knockers sparkling and the carriage lamp at the entrance to Number 10’s door shines like a beacon.
‘We… are in Downing Street,’ declares Bram, from the passenger seat.
‘You see it so often on Sky News and yet look how tiny it is,’ I add, peering at the wall of photographers, three bodies deep, banked upon the one side.
‘There is nothing tiny about those protection officers.’ Zach laughs. ‘Good luck taking those guys on any time soon.’
We are beckoned towards the end of the street and instructed to park.
‘All out!’ shouts Boss, heaving his frame from the driver’s seat.
After a brief introduction from a suited and booted Downing Street official, we are allowed to unload the Christmas tree, or rather the three men do. I stand back pretending I’m busy supervising and wait for them to stand the Nordman fir upright, soak its roots and place it carefully in a suitable display stand. A wall of camera flashes occurs the minute Larry, the official Downing Street cat, strolls over to inspect the mighty spruce with a feline sniff.
‘She’s all yours, Nina,’ cries Boss, opening a series of decoration boxes provided by Downing Street staff.
‘Me?’
‘Bloody hell, woman, you’ve got some uses with your creative flare… now, jump to it. We need to hurry up if we’re to miss the traffic on the M40,’ he continues.
Oh, great! I turn to view the throng of pavement reporters and news crews all watching the proceedings. It is one thing being creative on the sales yard but before an audience is another issue.
‘Chop chop,’ he mouths, nodding frantically. ‘We’re all having our picture taken once you’ve dressed her in some finery.’
Zach holds my ladder firm and steady, while Bram fetches and carries from the selection of boxes – symbolic given our friendship: Zach always offering support while Bram repeatedly offers me the glitz and glamour.
‘It’s comforting to know that even the prime minster and co. have some crappy ornaments that linger in the decoration box that will never see the light of day again,’ says Bram, holding up a feeble excuse for a tinsel garland.
‘Hurry up, lad… stop wasting time,’ moans his father, supervising the decoration.
*
Angie
I park my car two streets away from Nick’s house in a small cul-de-sac and walk the familiar route back to theirs, that was once ours. The snow has a dirty walked-upon look, as it lingers between snow and yellow slush.
Parking elsewhere feels strange but necessary. I don’t want to give Nick’s neighbours anything to call me about should they recognise my car. They have no reason to involve themselves, but you know what neighbours can be like – they think everything is their business over a morning coffee and a shared packet of Bourbons.
I approach the house as nerves jingle in my stomach. I’ve shaved and moisturised my legs; there’s no pretending, tonight could be a special night. I’ve even bought condoms in case Nick hasn’t.
I note that the winter heather under their lounge window has thrived since planting. Good choice, but who’d have imagined as I planted it last autumn that it would look so impressive the first year after I left.
He opens the front door looking flustered and browbeaten. Our old brown Labrador, Rolo, fusses around Nick’s knees.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, my senses heightened with the anticipation of tonight’s dinner date. ‘Hi there, boy.’ I reach down to pat the dog but Nick bundles me inside unceremoniously.
‘Alfie… he’s running late. He and his girlfriend haven’t gone out yet!’ explains Nick, nervously looking over his shoulder and up the staircase as he speaks.
Great! I take it the father and son honesty chat went well, then.
‘I thought you said he was stopping at his friend’s house.’
‘He was but their plans fell through and… he called his girlfriend around instead. He said they are going out in a minute to the pictures.’ Nick ushers me straight through into the lounge before hastily pushing me towards the kitchen door, from where an aroma of gorgeous cooking is wafting. I trail clumps of snow through the house, having not had time to wipe my feet properly on entering. Rolo lolls closely behind us. Nick firmly closes the kitchen door behind us, before he exhales.
Double great!
‘Nick. Stop!’
I look around the kitchen that took me six weeks to choose from a showroom, two years for us to repay the loan for; my gaze falls on the breakfast bar on which I’d left my ‘Dear Nick’ letter.
‘You did speak to Alfie? You told him?’ I edge away from the door, but Nick stands guard, his hand snared to the door handle should Alfie attempt to enter.
Nick balks.
The dog looks between us and begins to pant.
Sodding hell.
‘Not exactly… I was going to, honest I was, but we started the conversation and…’
‘You bailed out. Friggin’ hell, Nick – this isn’t the way for him to find out about us.’ I snap, trying to keep my voice low but wanting Nick to know just how annoyed I am.
‘Sorry, it just went wrong.’
‘How?’
Nick leans his shoulder against the wooden door to add weight.
I see the embarrassment rise in his face.
‘I began by saying that I started to see someone and that I was liking the closeness we had and…’
‘He mentioned me, didn’t he?’
Nick slowly nods.
‘You might as well tell me.’
‘Before I could say any more he jumped in with, “That’ll put Mum’s back up.”’
‘Are you serious?’ I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. And from my own son, too.
‘How could I carry on with my planned speech? He’d thrown me off track and I couldn’t stop the conversation trail.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘He just kept saying that you’d never believe that I was fortunate enough to meet and fall in love with someone else other than you and…’
‘Our son said that?’ I’ve a good mind to snatch the door wide open and march up to Alfie’s bedroom to prove exactly what I think about his father falling in love. Bloody teenagers – he’s had a girlfriend for all of ten minutes, now he thinks he knows it all. Boy, an unexpected visit from me would wipe the smile off his face.
A banging occurs on the kitchen door.
‘Dad!’
We both freeze. Nick leans his shoulder against the door.
‘Yes, Alfie,’ he calls with a nonchalant tone, holding a palm up to me.
Bloody cheek.
‘Dad, we’re off now. I won’t be late back. The film finishes at quarter to ten so I’ll walk Holly home but… well, enjoy your dinner… with your friend.’ I hear Alfie’s tone change on the word ‘friend’. I can imagine two teenagers giggling on the other side of the door. They won’t be giggling in twenty years’ time if they have the same journey as us. Oh, no, they’ll be bloody grateful for a second chance, despite what their kids think.
‘Bye, Alfie. Holly. Stay safe!’ calls Nick, a smile finally dawning, as we hear their bodies move away from the other side of the door.
‘Friend?’ I’m incensed. ‘A sodding friend.’
Nick shrugs.
‘It’s not a bad title.’
‘It bloody is. Jilly at work is my friend. Phil and Carol are friends… we are not friends.’
‘He chose the wrong word. He doesn’t know what to call his dad’s girlfriend, does he?’
‘Err Mum!’ I snap, feeling belittled by Alfie’s shallow terminology and Nick’s willingness to accept it.
‘Were we not best friends when we were married?’
‘No,’ I retort. ‘Husband and wife, lovers, partners… never friends, Nick – despite what other people say. Who wants their spouse as their best friend and lover?’
We hear the front door slam. Gone.
‘Wine?’
He makes the switch that easily. I answer yes, but I know I’ll be fuming for the next two hours about how our evening has begun. I expected to enter as a guest, instead I’m standing in the kitchen hiding behind a wooden door from my own son. And I still have my coat on!
Nick pours the wine as I remove my coat.
I’m about to ask where I can hang it but, given our previous history, I take myself back through to the hallway. A friend or a dinner date might not know where they hang the coats in this house, but I do.
I return to find two large glasses of wine and bowls of nibbles laid out on the breakfast bar. Nick is donning oven gloves and is bending inside the oven, spooning something in a casserole dish.
‘Coq au vin,’ he says, returning the lid, closing the oven door and removing the gloves.
‘Really?’ I stifle a laugh on two counts.
‘Yes, really. Here.’ He hands me a wine glass. I note just how full it is. Definitely a larger than large glass of wine. Not expecting me to drive home, then, Nick?
‘To us,’ he says, chinking the side of my glass.
‘To us,’ I mutter, before taking a large sip and settling on a high stool.
‘You can go through to the lounge if you wish. I don’t have to watch over this.’
I shake my head. I’m happy here. Sitting in my old kitchen, watching my ex-husband fuss around cooking dinner is a thing I longed to see, would have given my right arm for, in fact, when we were married. I suppose, I gave my marriage up in order to see this view. A wave of sadness lifts from my stomach. My marriage, our marriage. It ended so swiftly thanks to the courts. I had plenty of time to think, rethink and change my mind, but deep down inside, did I always know this would happen?
‘You look sad,’ says Nick, leaning over the counter towards me, glass in hand.
‘Have I messed it all up for all of us?’
Nick shakes his head.
‘It’s salvageable, with time.’
‘But how will you ever trust me again?’
Nick shrugs, sips his wine and stares into my eyes. His silence tells me the inner struggle he’s having.
I nod.
‘And Alfie?’
Nick inclines his head, rolls his lips and pulls a face.
‘The boy’s different, Angie. You showed him the reality of relationships… before he’d had chance to experience the nice side and teenage kicks for himself. He’s under no illusion.’
‘Holly, is it?’
‘Yeah, Holly. She seems a decent kid. She makes him laugh anyway.’
I feel a pang of jealousy. How can someone else make my son laugh?
‘Live nearby?’
‘Over the other side of town… the eldest of seven girls, I believe.’
‘Don’t they own a TV?’ I laugh, shaking my head at the horror.
‘She’s nice. Decent family, down-to-earth types based on what Alfie says… I haven’t met them yet.’
‘Duh! Of course not.’
‘Her parents asked to meet me a few days ago – offered us an invite to Sunday lunch. I said I thought it was too early for such tricks but Alfie seems keen.’
‘Course he’s bloody keen – he’s copping his first feel of flesh. Christ, Nick.’ My anger flares from nowhere. ‘All boys are keen at that age…’
‘Angie… he’s a tad more respectful towards her than that.’
‘Don’t tell me what teenage boys get up to, Nick.’
We fall silent as I remember the teenage kicks I had behind the back of the shops on summer evenings with a plastic bottle of cider and a ten pack of Embassy.
‘Anyway, less about Alfie,’ mutters Nick, stroking my cheek. ‘And more about us.’
I stare into his wide blue eyes. I can see the pain I’ve caused him. Would I trust me in Nick’s position? I don’t like my own answer but vow that, if he allows me to, I’ll make it up to him and Alfie. Though Alfie may prove a tougher challenge.
The timer on the oven sounds, making us both jump.
‘Take yourself through to the dining room, light the candles and I’ll be in in two minutes.’
I’m grateful for a task; it can busy my hands in preference to downing my wine.
*
We lie on the sofa, lights dimmed, limbs entwined, watching a rerun of Die Hard. The wine bottle is empty, the two spent glasses lay toppled over beside the sofa and Nick gently strokes my neck as he stares at the TV screen and I watch his face from the corner of my eye.
‘What time is it?’
‘Nine.’
‘Oh.’
We stare at the screen some more.
‘Have you got work tomorrow?’
‘Yep, the eight twenty-two train into Birmingham,’ mutters Nick, his eyes not leaving the screen. His index finger continues to stroke the base of my neck.
‘You got condoms?’
‘What?’ His tone is one of shock.
‘Condoms. Rubbers. Whatever you want to call them.’
‘Angie… we were married for eighteen years – have I ever used…?’ I watch as he struggles to say the word, let alone use one.
‘Sorry, but things have changed in recent months and, well, I need to be honest with you – if we venture down that path then it’ll need to be condoms.’
Nick hastily untangles his body and sits up, grabs the TV remote and mutes Bruce Willis.
‘Are you saying that… you’ve already slept with other people since we divorced?’
I nod. I did mention it before. I’m not shying away from this. This is the new me. The honest, truthful, direct me, Angie Woodward, honest to the core.
‘Seriously, Nick, we need to talk about this. The world has changed since we were kids and bonking… well, they don’t call it that any more, but anyway, couples need to talk about sex before they decide…’
Nick simply stares.
I’ve caught him totally unaware. What the hell did he think would occur having shared a bottle of wine, lounged on the sofa and with the entire house to ourselves? Nothing? Oh, yeah, well, that was the good old days of our eighteen-year marriage, but this, this was supposed to be our brand-new, mark-two experience and, to be fair, I was expecting a new man.
‘How many?’
I shake my head. That’s none of his business.
‘This is it, all you need to know is that I was safe, that I protected myself and that if I apply the same rules with you… your sexual health won’t be compromised.’
‘Compromised. Are you for real?’ He’s now moved away, sitting at the far end of the sofa like a frightened virgin at a stag do.
I raise myself to sitting. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting this.
‘I’ve had some fun, to be fair, Nick.’ There, I’ve said it.
Nick’s eyes widen.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well…’ I click my tongue and give a cheeky wink.
Nick looks baffled. Almost lost in the conversation. I’m not certain, but under the dimmed light he appears to pale.
*
I swiftly remove my earrings as he hastily leads me up the staircase. They cost a fortune from town and losing one will ruin the pair. He’s in a rush, as we reach the top stair and swiftly take the second door on the right to the main back bedroom. I hesitate; this isn’t where I thought we were heading.
‘I moved rooms,’ he mutters, pushing the door wide and entering. He doesn’t put the light on, which I’m grateful for.
‘Nick,’ I whisper as he releases my hand and faces me in the darkness.
‘Angie.’
‘Is this what you really want?’
I can imagine the look of surprise on his face.
‘Bloody hell, woman… yes.’
I don’t remember removing my clothes, or his. In no time, we are on the bed – our bed, I note; he obviously hasn’t replaced that – our hands snatching and grabbing at naked flesh as our mouths ferociously work at each other’s face and neck.
This isn’t the Nick I knew.
The Nick I knew was gentler, less hurried, more refined. This Nick is ravishing me like our wedding night eighteen years ago.
*
Holly
‘Are you OK?’ I ask as we walk back from the cinema.
Alfie shrugs, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, my right hand adjoined to his left.
‘Is it your dad?’
‘More my mum.’
I wait. Alfie doesn’t need pushing; he’ll say when he’s ready.
The streets are empty and snow has been falling for hours. I wanted to catch the bus for the short journey but Alfie wanted to walk. I stare at the orange haze around each street lamp, beyond which the moon stares as we walk the pavement.
‘You think you can rely on parents, don’t ya?’
I nod. I can trust mine.
‘When you’re little, you think they mend anything that is broken… I broke my Action Man’s arm off but instantly my dad fixed it. Like in seconds, bang, as good as new.’
I know what he means. There’s a story of me as a child breaking a plate that I delivered to my father in twenty or so pieces so he could fix it before my mum found out. The magic didn’t work that time, but I get where Alfie’s coming from.
‘It’s make-believe, you know.’
I learnt that from the plate.
‘It’s as much make-believe as the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. They haven’t a clue what they’re doing – no more than we have, yet they pretend they do.’
‘I gather that’s most of what being an adult is about – pretending you have the answer when really you’re bricking it inside and hoping it doesn’t show on your face.’
Alfie stops dead. My hand is yanked back with his jacket pocket.
‘So, why give us such a hard time?’ He begins to walk again.
‘Alfie, that’s parenting. They’re not supposed to let us know how scared they are. Look at my parents – they’re all smiles and, “Hi, Alfie, how are you?” when you’re there, but the minute you walk out the front door I get the full lecture regarding “nice boys”, “don’t be led astray” and the whole “you’ll always talk to us about stuff that’s worrying you, won’t you?” lectures. Seriously, they like you and yet—’
‘You’re a girl – parents are always going to be over-possessive about girls but—’
‘Hey, cut the crap!’ I snap. I’m not sure if boys are always trying to be top dog or whether us girls simply stay schtum too often for them to realise their arrogance.
‘Sorry, but you know what I mean.’
‘I do, but your dad worries about you just as much as my parents worry about me, so don’t go there!’
‘Mmmm, you’re right, he does.’
I wait. He’s on the brink of saying something; I can feel it.
‘She will hit the roof when she knows Dad has a lady-friend. Seriously, she wants to have her cake and eat it. I’d hate to be a fly on the wall when she confronts him. I won’t be saying a word to discourage him and the new woman, that’s for certain.’
‘She can’t expect him to remain single for the rest of his life.’
‘I think she does.’
Common sense suggests that at some point Mr Woodward was going to run into a nice woman and pluck up the courage to ask her to dinner. From what Alfie has said he waited long enough after the divorce to even venture out of the house.
Alfie retrieves his right hand from his pocket and looks at his watch.
‘Nearly ten o’clock. Do you reckon they’re doing it?’
‘Alfie!’ I exclaim, unsure of how to answer. ‘I’ve no idea. Nor do I want to think about two old people doing the business, thanks.’
‘Nor do I, even if one of them is my old man… but I bet they are.’
We fall about in giggles. It seems the most natural thing in the world to be talking to Alfie like this and yet are we edging nearer to us taking the next step?
‘If I get home and they’re butt naked running around the kitchen, I’m heading back to your parents’ for the night to kip on their sofa. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
‘Come on, it’s getting late,’ says Alfie, as we begin to jog down the road towards mine.
As we near my house the upstairs is in darkness apart from the side landing window, the landing light left on in case the little ones have nightmares. The lounge window is ablaze with the flashing netting, which my mum insisted was pinned up the minute the Christmas tree entered the house. I cringe – it’s utter tack but she loves it. The halogen light blinds us as we enter the driveway. I don’t attempt to complain any more but simply hasten my stride to get out of the glare.
We stop at the front door. I know both my parents are up, but I won’t put the key into the lock before we’ve kissed goodnight. It’s become our routine. The first time I slid the key into the lock, then we kissed and my mum opened the front door wide thinking I was struggling, only to find Alfie’s hand on my butt. She was not impressed with his manners that night.
His mouth is moist and warm. Gone are the complaints about his mum; instead his arms wrap around my shoulders and my arms wind under and around his arms. I can feel his jacket brushing against mine. He’s slightly taller than me, which is nice because it feels protective when we stand like this in the dark and kiss. It seems like we kiss for ages but I know it isn’t, because when I begin to pull backwards Alfie’s mouth follows mine before he releases. He wants more, I know, but no. I have my own ideas of what’s decent. I don’t need my parents on my back telling me over and over again not to make the same mistake they did. I hate it when they use that word; it makes me feel as if they are referring to me as the mistake. They’re not, I know that, but it feels that way. They mean the mistake of having to get married so early, without all the trimmings at their wedding, the teenage holidays with their mates and the chance to buy cars and expensive gadgets. Instead they saved for prams, high chairs and sterilising units. I have my own plans. Holidays, driving licences, full-time jobs and saving for a future…
‘Goodnight, then,’ I mutter, knowing my parents will be watching the clock.
‘One more?’
‘Oooh,’ I tease, knowing full well that I’ll deliver. We come together in an embrace and kiss our goodbye. I pull away and this time Alfie lets me. He knows the routine. He lingers as I turn the key in the lock. He waits for me to wave from the doorstep, go inside and close the door. If I quickly open the door again, as I do tonight, I see him dash to the end of the driveway and head back through the estate, cutting into his estate.
I close the door and chuckle. I really hope he doesn’t find his father in an awkward embrace in the middle of their kitchen but, on the plus side, if he does he’ll be heading straight back here.
*
Nina
We didn’t get back to the farm until gone closing time thanks to a snarl-up on the M40, and the snow blizzard didn’t help matters. I couldn’t be happier to flop onto the sofa, but I can’t escape my thoughts. Today was magical, and for the first time I felt festive – I thought I’d never know that feeling again. To think our farm’s Christmas tree decorates Number 10 for the rest of the month, wow!
Christmas was always such a lovely time at the cottage. We’d go the whole hog: the tree, the lights and a mountain of food for just the two of us. Many years, we’d still be eating mince pies in January and frozen yule logs come February. But every year we went overboard, to hell with the expense.
Last year, I spent Christmas morning at St Giles Hospice while the staff served me copious amounts of hot sugared tea. I brought home his unopened present, which I placed beneath the stairs. ‘What am I to do with an unopened Christmas present containing a new towelling bath robe?’ My dad probably wouldn’t have worn it – but still.
‘Should I plan for Christmas Day? Or could I pretend it was a day like every other?’ I say aloud.
I look across to the end of the sofa. Empty.
Nobody is listening.
*
I cautiously open the cottage door, not knowing who would drop by at ten o’clock.
‘Surprise!’ shouts Kitty, dressed up to the nines and barging past my pyjama-clad frame, Shazza in hot pursuit, in similar attire. ‘No arguing but you’re putting these on, these on and Shazza’s brought her box of tricks for your hair and make-up.’
‘What?’ I yawp, as Kitty holds aloft a sparkly dress, a pair of heels then points towards Shazza’s carry-case. ‘But—’
‘She’s serious, Nina. She’s collecting the Espresso Martini you promised her.’ Shazza laughs, closing the door and herding me towards the staircase.
‘Off you pop,’ orders Kitty, thrusting her items into my arms. ‘Connor’s waiting outside to drop us at The Edge. We’ll get a taxi back.’
‘A nightclub on a Tuesday night – are you serious?’
‘She’s serious, now go!’ shouts Shazza, tweaking her blonde curls in my recently cleaned hall mirror.
*
Angie
‘Alfie, is that you?’ Nick’s voice brings me to. I’m not aware of the time as I snuggle in the crook of his arm and wriggle deeper under the duvet.
‘Shhh, Nick, don’t…’ I utter.
He nods and repeats his call.
‘Yes, Dad, just let myself in. I walked Holly back home.’
‘Yeah.’ His voice seems to be moving nearer to the bedroom door. ‘Did you have a nice night?’
‘Yes thanks, lad. You off to bed now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘See you in the morning, son.’
‘Night, Dad,’ shouts Alfie, before adding, ‘Night.’
Nick smiles. He’s as pleased as Punch about his relationship with Alfie, I can see that. But why did Alfie throw another ‘night’ after his dad’s one?
‘Was that second night for me?’ I whisper.
Nick shakes his head.
‘So, does he usually say, “Night, Dad, night”?’
‘No, but—’
‘He knows you aren’t alone.’
‘Angie, shhh.’
‘Seriously, Nick… he said goodnight to you and then shouted night as an afterthought… to me!’
‘So?’
‘So, your teenage son knows you’ve had sex... tonight with your friend.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but my son, our son has a pretty good idea that I’ve had sex before now.’
I can’t deal with this situation. I shouldn’t have stayed so late. We should have eaten and I should have made my excuses… even though I’d shaved my legs, just to be on the safe side.
I begin to scramble from beneath Nick’s hooked arm.
‘Where are you going?’ asks Nick, rising from the duvet.
‘Home.’
He pulls a face and grabs at my wrist.
‘Why bother? You’re here now, he’s gone to bed… You might as well stay the night and leave first thing in the morning.’ He gives me a wink.
Common sense suggests I leave now. I instantly ignore her good advice and roll beneath the warm duvet, hoping my son remains a heavy sleeper.
*
Holly
My mobile vibrates underneath my pillow. I quickly retrieve it and read his text.
Dad’s date is still here. She’s sharing his room :-O
In the darkness of our bedroom, I blush. Fancy being caught by your son getting up to no good with a new date.
I hope they don’t keep you awake.
I press reply before realising that, given the late hour, that must be exactly what they’re doing.
‘What are you giggling at?’ askes a groggy Hannah, turning over to view my illuminated face.
‘Alfie’s dad’s having a sleepover,’ I mutter.
‘Seriously, at his age?’
‘Duh!’
‘Oh! Urgh! Poor Alfie.’
‘Exactly.’
‘That’s just wrong.’
‘It’s what adults do, Hannah.’
She turns over in bed to face me; her features are ghost-like in the escaping screen light.
‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of doing it,’ she says softly.
‘Hannah?’
‘Holly, seriously… wait.’
‘I don’t need you to tell me what to do, thanks.’
Hannah lifts herself onto her elbow and stares.
‘I’m not sharing this room with another baby if you mess up, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Who said anyone’s going to mess up?’
Hannah snorts, turns over and mutters, ‘I bet Mum and Dad said that an hour before you were conceived.’
I stare at the back of her head. There are times I hate my sisters even more than I hate the fact that I know my parents messed up. This is one such moment.
*
Nina
‘Cheers!’ shouts Shazza, above the din of the music, whilst holding aloft a Mudslide cocktail.
Our three cocktail glasses clink together before we stop talking and sip our drinks.
I don’t recognise myself in the bar’s reflection; goodbye to winceyette-PJ-clad Nina and hello glam girl holding a Manhattan – possibly a new me, though without Kitty’s shoes that pinch a little when I walk.
‘I thought my Tuesday night had descended towards tragic but it’s surprising how gold-painted statues, billowing chalk dust and gold lamé fabric can lift your spirits,’ I reply after sipping my Manhattan.
‘Does wonders for my mood,’ says Shazza, dancing on the spot whilst sipping her drink.
‘Mine too, especially after the day we’ve had,’ says Kitty, cradling her Espresso Martini. ‘Whereas you had a jolly trip to Downing Street.’
‘That bad, eh?’ I ask.
‘We missed you and the twins in the sales yard… let’s put it like that,’ adds Shazza. ‘Though guess who came back?’
I shrug, not sure what she’s on about.
‘Curls guy, the one from the other day. Well, guess what – he didn’t buy a tree again.’
‘Oh,’ is all I manage.
‘You said he was a time-waster, didn’t you, Shazza?’ says Kitty, playing with her straw.
Instantly, I want to defend him, but can’t.
‘He mulled around looking at the spruces, asked Jackie a question about needles dropping and then zoomed off in his flash car – I reckon he’s got a weird fetish for spruce.’ Shazza laughs.
‘Or our Christmas songs,’ adds Kitty.
Shazza stops laughing.
‘If I have to hear Kim Wilde and Mel Smith sing “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” one more time, I swear I’ll snap!’ says Shazza, breaking her tiny cocktail umbrella in two.
‘For me it’s Mariah Carey’s “All I want for Christmas Is You” – and yours, Nina?’ asks Kitty as they both stare at me. I can’t join in. I’m still pondering why Luca visited yet again whilst my stomach twirls at the thought of him.
‘I don’t mind them,’ I lie, purely to save face.
‘Are you serious? You moan more than we do about the music!’ says Shazza, throwing her broken umbrella on the bar top.
‘Yeah, pull the other one, it plays “Jingle Bells”,’ adds Kitty, before erupting into laughter. I watch the pair double up in giggles, gasping for air, their hands waving at each other to ‘stop it’.
This is how my life should be – more laughter and fewer tears. They’ve definitely cheered me up, and not just by mentioning Luca.
*
We admire a group of men strutting by – all shoulders and biceps amidst a cloud of cologne.
‘Be serious now – what’s the score with the twins?’ asks Shazza, her left arm slung about my neck, her right hand waving her third cocktail about.
Kitty leans closer on hearing Shazza’s question.
‘I’m just not sure. Growing up I imagined I’d just know when ‘The One’ showed up and yet, I don’t. It’s as if I’m consciously choosing between two options, two men. One minute it feels right… the next I’m backing away.’ I busy myself with my drink as they both stare.
‘But from which twin?’ asks Shazza, peering at me.
‘That’s the problem… she doesn’t know,’ adds Kitty, shaking her head.
‘I’m certain that Bram and I aren’t a natural combination, especially after the other night,’ I say, adding, ‘I just don’t know as regards Zach.’ Shazza’s left arm quickly unhooks from my neck, and she instantly stands tall, as if I’ve burnt her. ‘What? I can’t help it!’
‘Nothing. You just don’t know how lucky you are, that’s all. Two good-looking lads chasing after you – decisions, decisions.’ She laughs, before glugging at her cocktail.
‘Slow down, Shaz – you’ll make yourself bad,’ warns Kitty, removing the near-empty glass from Shazza’s lips.
‘What’s the worst that can happen? I might be late for my shift… like that’s not the norm, given that my brother Spud hogs the bathroom most mornings.’
Kitty and I exchange a glance.
‘I could die with embarrassment every time our Spud arrives home late – I just know he’s been prowling the farm with his gang. I’ve told him, they’ll come unstuck… but he’s not having it. I feel so guilty when the boss looks after us workers so well.’
‘Spud needs to start listening because Boss Fielding isn’t a happy man,’ says Kitty.
‘Exactly. But hang on, where was I? Oh, yeah, asking Nina about the twins. So, anyway, which one?’
‘I don’t know. I always thought a serious relationship would start as friends, develop a closeness and finally, an invisible bond would draw us together, but this seems so cold, so conscious, so calculated. I just know I want what Kitty and Connor have…’
‘Bloody hell, we all want true love but Cupid’s arrow doesn’t happen for everyone,’ says Shazza. ‘Twittering blue birds, cherubs and stomach flips aren’t guaranteed unless you’re watching Disney.’
‘Maybe I should wait until such a moment comes along,’ I suggest, coyly.
‘Good God, woman, you could be fifty by then and life will have passed you by. Nah – make a decision and go with it,’ says Shazza, emptying her glass.
‘That’s it, I can’t.’
‘So, the question may be, then, do you definitely want your life spent amongst Christmas trees…? Because that’s what their future holds,’ says Kitty.
‘Do I want to be Jackie in twenty years’ time?’ I ask aloud.
‘I’m willing to be Jackie in twenty years’ time – that wouldn’t be a bad prospect in life,’ slurs Shazza, more to herself than the open mouths of Kitty and me.
*
We stagger from The Edge nightclub at half two in the morning, arm in arm, as a new flurry of snow begins to fall. I can hardly walk in Kitty’s shoes but can’t bring myself to go barefoot in the snow.
As we pass him, we each simultaneously stop; turn and peer back at the young guy swathed in a sleeping bag sitting on the nearest kerbstone.
Not a word is said, but Kitty and I exchange a knowing glance, reach for our purses and return to his pitch. Shazza follows suit.
It’s the season of goodwill but that notion alone doesn’t fill your belly with warm food, does it?
‘Merry Christmas to you!’ he calls, clutching three notes in his cold hands as we three traipse happily towards the taxi rank.