Nina
Friday, 14 December
‘I haven’t told him yet,’ I whisper to Kitty as we dress in our layers.
Kitty winces, which makes me feel worse. I should have spoken to Bram before now. And thanked him for being so amazing at the cottage. We could have talked any time during the week but I’m not completely sure about how I feel so the best bet is avoiding such discussions altogether.
‘I feel awful,’ I mutter, pulling on my sweater. ‘I don’t want to go and yet… he’s picking me up at eight.’
‘Nina, you need to stop worrying about Bram’s feelings and think about your own.’
‘But, Kitty…’
‘But Kitty nothing… you’ve put this off for long enough.’
The cabin door closes behind her. I’m alone. As there is no ‘get out of jail’ card coming via my friend, I need to buck myself up. Tonight, it looks as if I’m going on a date.
*
Angie
As I settle at my desk, Jilly swivels her office chair around to stare.
‘And?’
‘It’s getting complicated… with each date we have.’
I don’t bother feigning recovery after yesterday’s absence; Jilly knows I pulled a sickie. She’ll take a duvet day when it suits her family.
Jilly pedals her feet, bringing her office chair and her morning coffee to my desk.
‘Tell me more.’
With our heads together, obscured from the rest of the office behind my tiny fibre-optic Christmas tree, I quickly fill her in on the ‘me and Nick’ situation.
‘So, you’re in a relationship… not content with the dating stage?’
‘We are… but just further along on dates than we were on our original set of dates.’ I pause; I hear my ludicrous remark. Thankfully Jilly keeps a straight face, so I continue. ‘Basically, we’re dating as if we were strangers, but it’s damned hard trying to forget the details of a man that I’ve known all my adult life.’
‘Confusing, then?’
‘For starters, we keep bickering about Alfie – who wasn’t a consideration the first time around.’
‘But still, Angie… he’s going to fly the nest in the next few years – are you sure your future lies with Nick?’
I nod. I am certain. If we can just rebuild the good bits, resurrect the foundations of what could have been – I know we’ll be happy.
‘I could never have returned to my Mike, not after the divorce,’ says Jilly, pursing her lips. ‘I knew once it was dead, it was dead.’
‘And you never regretted it?’
‘Never. Even when our Nina refused to come with me, I knew I’d never go back.’
‘That must have hurt though, Jilly?’
‘It did, when the family court asked who she wanted to be with and she came straight out with it, ‘my dad…’ I was cut to the quick but, still, it was her choice.’
‘How long afterwards did you meet Chris?’
‘Four, maybe five years… but in that time, I never wanted to go back home.’ Jilly watches me as her words linger.
‘I didn’t… until recently,’ I say.
‘Maybe it’s the time of year. Christmas time can do funny things to folk… brings up a lot of sadness and regret in some,’ she adds.
I watch as Jilly’s eyes glisten and flicker before recovering in an instant.
‘Are you not going to contact her?’ I ask, unsure if I should bring up the daughter she rarely mentions.
Jilly shakes her head; the age lines cut deep around her mouth.
‘I don’t know anything about her, do I? I suspect she’s still at the cottage. She’s big enough to make her own choices now. She knows where to find me.’
‘Maybe she felt torn when her dad was alive – loyalty and all that.’ It’s rarely mentioned but I know Jilly’s ex-husband has now passed away.
‘Possibly, I should have fought harder, insisted that she visited at weekends, but the constant friction gets you down, ruins everything and puts a stop to visitations.’
‘That’s been my mistake, I’ve lapsed as regards my time spent with Alfie. I’m picking him up tonight, but I’ve let him down recently.’
‘And now, you’re paying the price. You need to push for it, Ange – seriously, lovey, otherwise it’ll end up like me and Nina.’
*
Holly
‘Holly?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I answer the register as I unpack my history book.
‘Yes, sir,’ a female voice mimics behind me, from the back row. I turn to look but a row of identical blank expressions, smudged kohl liner and orange foundation stares back at me. Paris is one of them, of course.
I face forward, conscious of every word I hear from the back row.
Mr Bennett begins to explain today’s outcomes, drawing one of his crazy and colourful mind-maps upon the whiteboard. I’m looking but I’m not listening, which is unlike me.
Ping!
Something small hits my right shoulder. I turn around but can’t see anything on my blazer. I face the front.
Ping!
It hits my left shoulder. A small piece of white rubber falls to the floor beside my chair leg. I stare at the chewed piece. Obviously, someone has invented a new game.
Within five minutes, there are numerous pieces of chewed rubber scattered around my chair. I didn’t feel them all land, just the majority.
I put my hand in the air.
‘Yes, Holly.’
‘Can I move seats, please, sir?’
Mr Bennett looks confused. ‘Why?’
‘No reason… I just want to move seats.’
The teacher looks around the classroom, as if he can replay the class interaction that occurs each time he turns his back to write on the whiteboard. He can’t and I’m not about to squeal.
I wait patiently as he assesses the class. He knows me too well to know that I haven’t suddenly developed a penchant for moving seats. I can see his cogs twirling. He’s figuring out if it’s the boys beside me who are the pain or elsewhere in the class.
‘Sir… can I just move?’
He nods, cautiously eyeing the class, as the back row hold their breath.
I stand, remove my belongings and move right to the front. Mr Bennett is confused but accommodating. At the front their target practice won’t reach me, ruler or no ruler.
*
‘Holly?’ Alfie’s voice sounds gruff as he calls me from the playground wall. ‘What’s this I hear about your history class? Bits of rubber being chucked at you, who by?’
‘Forget it.’ Someone has snitched in record time; the break bell has only just sounded.
‘No, that’s out of order—’
‘Alfie, it’s just silly girl stuff.’
Alfie puts his hand in mine as we walk along the top wall and down the steps to the bottom playground.
‘You sure?’
‘Sure. Anyway, who told you?’
‘Jordan.’
Jordan Haywood is hardly a fan of mine; he often refuses to sit next to me in class since the time the health advisor in primary school sent me home with a letter informing parents that I had little visitors. Jordan has never forgotten that and I am sure Alfie will know the nit story before long.
‘What plans have you got for the weekend?’ asks Alfie.
‘I’m working at the chemist tomorrow morning and baby-sitting tomorrow night so my parents can attend a friend’s party. What are you doing?’
‘I’ve got a work trial at Christmas Tree Farm – hopefully they’ll take me on for Saturday work. It’ll give me some extra cash.’
‘They were run off their feet last weekend when we collected our tree.’
‘You’ve already got a Christmas tree up?’
‘Oh, yeah. My baby sister has pulled it over ten times already. My mum’s not happy about it.’
The end of break bell sounds, interrupting our conversation. Alfie walks me to my English class and gives me a peck on the cheek, before attending his own class. The rest of the class, lining up outside the room, stare at me as Alfie leaves. I know what they are all thinking: how?
I join the rear of the line and contentedly smile.
*
Nina
‘It didn’t take long to clear the rubbish left by the trespassing teenagers,’ explains Bram, sprawled upon a couch as lunch break begins. ‘Though Dad is getting his hair off about it, but, as Jackie keeps telling him, “kids will be kids”.’
‘The police advised him to get a couple of guard dogs but he won’t,’ adds Zach, settling in an armchair beside the wood burner.
‘He reckons Shazza knows who it is,’ says Bram, removing his scarf.
I give him a quizzical look.
‘Seriously, she made a comment earlier – something about her kid brother and his mates or such like.’
‘She’s never mentioned them to me,’ I answer, unsure if such accusations should be made behind Shazza’s back.
‘Phuh, she wouldn’t, would she?’ Bram says, adding, ‘She needs to warn him, because if Dad gets hold of the little swines, he’ll be done for GBH.’
‘Get away with you. Your dad’s not the violent type.’
‘He is where his livelihood is concerned. These trees are worth a sodding fortune… and to think a bunch of little scrotes are roaming around during the night,’ says Zach.
‘Bram, can we talk?’ I ask, clutching my coffee mug.
‘About what?’ he says, peering at me as his hands busily twist his scarf around itself.
‘Nothing.’ I back out. I will find another time to let him down, or Kitty will scold me again.
Bram screws his face up.
‘You’re a weird one, you know that, Nina?’
I shrug. He isn’t the first guy to make such a remark. Which explains why I’ve never had a relationship last longer than a few weeks at twenty-five years of age.
Zach glances between the two of us, before his packed lunch and Thermos flask dominate his interest.
One by one the team slowly come in for their lunch. It’s the only time that all the staff break together. I sit in the cosy corner of the sofa watching the groups. It’s fascinating to see the working dynamics of the cutting crew with the sales team and the general dogsbody team.
I steer clear of sitting with Kitty, in case she wishes to continue this morning’s little chat. I ignore Shazza in case she wants to confess to having insider knowledge about the trespassing.
*
Time flies when you’re busy avoiding everyone. I move piles of netted spruce around the yard, gathering, stacking and labelling in relation to their species and height, piling them one on top of the other so customers can select with ease. It’s quiet for a Friday afternoon but there’s no doubt that tomorrow will be the start of a busy weekend.
I have my eye on the clock, ready to race from the farm at the first opportunity.
My plan is to buy some new candles on the way home, cheap and cheerful ones from the local shop, to accompany a long, lazy bubble bath. Then dress for my night out, which has become my new term as regards tonight.
That’s when I see him.
He is gazing at me from across the sales yard. A pair of dark hazel eyes staring from deep olive skin, topped with a tumble of brown curls and neat sideburns. He’s leaning against the driver’s door of a blue Range Rover, dressed in faded jeans and a thick winter coat, open to reveal cream knitwear. The scene looks too perfect, like a winter catalogue picture pose.
My stomach flips. A deep rolling sensation sloshes my heart up against my throat.
How long has he been standing there?
I instantly blush and look away as I drag a six-foot Blue spruce along to join its buddies. I sense he’s still watching, as he hasn’t moved an inch. I can’t help myself; I want to look over again to confirm he’s still staring. I look again. Our eyes meet. Confirmed: he’s still staring.
My knees turn to jelly.
He can’t be watching me. Can he?
I give a quick glance over my shoulder, because that would be extremely embarrassing if Shazza is standing behind me, and the guy is actually acknowledging her. Shazza isn’t anywhere to be seen. Nor Kitty. For once in our busy sales yard, nobody is anywhere near me. Suddenly the yard feels very eerie and empty but for me dragging a Christmas tree.
Why does this happen, for the first time in my life, when I’m wearing a million layers of shabby clothing, a red tabard and a bobble hat borrowed from the snug as I’ve left my cute, fluffy girlie hat at home? Seriously, even I would describe me as looking particularly rough at this precise moment.
And yet, he’s still looking.
I dare myself to take a third look. One, two, three… look. And there it is – a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.
Again, my stomach somersaults the length of my insides. I feel as if my lunch is about to come back up and be delivered at my feet.
OMG! This is insane. My heart is pounding.
I return to the original pile and select a new spruce to move.
Do I know him? Is he a friend of the twins who I’ve met at a party? Not that I’ve been to many parties with the guys, not recently anyway.
I sneak another glance towards him.
Is he here to purchase a tree? In which case, someone needs to go and attend to the customer. Though preferably not me, given the current weakness in my limbs.
Or is he here to collect a specific order? I bet that’s it, given the Range Rover. Some commercial businesses order a specific size tree to decorate their corporate reception areas or meeting rooms. They aren’t expected to attend and purchase like the general public, so special arrangements are made for collection and invoices forwarded to their accounts departments. But why hasn’t he gone straight to the cashier’s cabin to hand in his order number? Why haven’t the delivery crew attended to collect and help him load the designated tree? My mind is racing, much like my feet as I drag the umpteenth spruce across the yard.
A sudden thought makes my heart sink – he’s obviously waiting for someone.
Bang on cue, Jackie exits the cashier’s cabin alongside an attractive woman, dressed in a fur-lined gilet, faded jeans and knee-high black boots. The blonde woman bounces down the wooden steps quickly followed by two young boys dressed in identical coats and gloves. I watch their warm goodbyes plus accompanying air-kissing before Jackie hastily returns inside the cabin.
My heart sinks to my boots. I instinctively know in which direction the woman will walk. His.
Taken. Bugger!
I busy myself at the spruce pile and watch under cover of my lowered brow. They exchange a smile as she walks directly to him, placing an outstretched hand upon his jacket sleeve. Her hand lingers as they talk. The two boys dart to his side; play fighting by pulling each other’s hoods. He’s quick to step in and stop their rough play.
My heart sinks a little further. I want to cry.
I turn my back and busy my focus upon the current spruce, which won’t lie flat amongst the others but rocks horizontally, making the pile unstable for the next layer.
I hear their car doors slam, the engine revs and the tyres crunch on the gravel as the Range Rover swings in a huge arc to reverse alongside me whilst I rock an unstable spruce into position.
Don’t look up. Don’t turn around. Just carry on doing your job.
I do both, at the precise moment that I am aligned to his driver’s window.
His hazel eyes meet mine and he smiles, all the way up to his eyes.
I freeze.
He changes gear and drives off.
I stand and stare at the departing registration plate: BN68… The remaining digits and figures blur with the speed of his departure. In seconds, he is gone.
As I continue to watch the empty driveway, the first sprinkles of snow begin to fall upon the sales yard. Big, white fluffy flakes gently drift from above and instantly settle like a delicate veil.
I replay the scene in my mind.
Why didn’t they buy a Christmas tree? Who leaves our farm without a spruce when driving a Range Rover?
I look from the empty driveway towards the cashier’s cabin, the snow beginning to fall faster and denser than before.
I have a good mind to go and ask Kitty what the blonde woman purchased.
*
‘Burr, it’s cold out there,’ I say, entering the cashier’s cabin. ‘And it’s just started to snow.’
The fumes from the small gas heater make your head spin before the warmth is fully appreciated.
‘Has it? I told you to wrap up earlier. Have you much more to do outside for today?’ asks Kitty, perched on her usual stool punching sales figures into her calculator.
‘Not really, it seems dead out there today.’
‘Yeah, Boss has sent most of the staff over to the grottos to ensure they’re ready for tomorrow. He’s paranoid that the kids’ parents will come across a stash of cider cans whilst queuing.’ Kitty laughs.
‘Or, worse still, the Santa will find a stash of cider and quickly repeat last year’s disaster,’ I add, unsure of the true facts due to my absence.
‘Exactly.’
I clumsily change the subject.
‘Did that woman not collect her corporate order?’ I ask, attempting a nonchalant tone.
‘The blonde?’
I nod.
‘No, she dropped off an order for wedding garlands – the size and requirements are quite specific, so she needed to speak to Jackie in person.’
‘Oh.’
‘Why?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘Just thought I recognised her, that’s all,’ I lie.
Kitty grabs the ordering clipboard from the wall hook and flicks through the details.
‘Garlands of holly with extra-long, broad red satin ribbons, double-tied bows and a robin perched on each. It’s for the Christmas Eve wedding.’
‘Mmmm, very specific,’ I say, leaning on the countertop trying to read Jackie’s handwriting upside down. I quickly scan the surname box: Romano. Sounds a tad Italian. His olive skin and dark eyes reignite in my memory – it fits.
Bloody typical.
‘Are you working it?’ asks Kitty, returning the clipboard to its order hook.
I shrug. I haven’t been asked to work a double shift on Christmas Eve, but given the date Jackie probably daren’t ask. She is usually pretty good at organising her wedding staff ahead of time. A double shift would mean working the sales yard from early morning till lunchtime then showering, changing and returning to the farm to work till late at the wedding banquet alongside her hired catering crew. Christmas Eve is unlikely to be a favourable day as regards me working.
‘Hasn’t she asked you to waitress?’
I shake my head.
‘I’m not bothered. I’m a Christmas tree seller not a silver service waitress, unless it suits. You?’
Kitty nods. She always helps Jackie organise the fancy events. They are usually one-offs, mainly large corporate parties or, like this, a massive wedding reception in a luxury marquee amidst our beautiful Christmas trees. Sounds magical, especially if the snow continues.
‘Jackie will ask you, you know that?’ soothes Kitty, covering her growing embarrassment having potentially opened a can of worms.
‘I’d prefer her not to, given the date.’
‘You all right?’ asks Kitty. ‘You seem… distant.’
‘Just confused about tonight’s date… about my dad… and celebrating Christmas.’ I could have mentioned the weird stomach-flip moment that had just occurred outside, but I didn’t.
Kitty gives a sympathetic head tilt, having been sidetracked from the wedding details.
‘I didn’t think life was supposed to be this complicated. As a kid, I thought you grew up, earned money and had the time of your life… when really you lurch from one bad experience to another with very little gratification in between.’
‘Oh, gratification, hey… big word for you.’ Kitty gives a cheeky wink; she knows how to humour me. ‘Now, you’d better get out of here before the boss realises you’re skiving.’
‘See you,’ I say, peeling myself from the counter and making for the door. At the final moment before exiting, I stop and turn.
‘What did you say that bride’s name was?’
Kitty grabs the clipboard again and scans.
‘Luca and Isabella… Romano. Still think you recognise her?’
‘Not sure I do now… my mistake.’ I quickly close the door, as the name Luca spins round my head.
I return to my spruce netting, labelling and dragging duties in a very different frame of mind. Luca – it suits him. An Italian stallion who’s made me go all weak at the knees. Luca Romano: very Italian-sounding, complete with a dark smouldering gaze, thickset shoulders and – I stop myself – a fiancée.
*
Angie
‘Alfie, it’s Mum. I’m outside.’
I hear his sigh and can imagine his face, much as it was when I called at eight thirty this morning as he walked to school.
‘Two minutes.’ The line goes dead as I wait in the car and view the street, snowflakes gently falling upon my windscreen. I’m not entirely sure what Alfie expects of the flat, but at least I’ve finally purchased a whole load of decorations to hang on my beautiful tree.
I don’t want to sound the horn but at this rate the neighbours will have had an eyeful of me before Alfie leaves the house. What’s keeping him?
The front door opens.
Finally.
Nick appears on the step and waves.
I hold a hand up. I don’t really want to chat at this moment; I simply wish to collect Alfie and be gone.
Nick comes towards me down the driveway.
He taps on the driver’s side window. I lower it.
‘Hi, Angie… Alfie’s… not sure.’
‘What?’
‘He’s nervous… you can understand that.’
‘Nick?’
‘I know, I know… but see it from his side?’
‘Go and tell him to hurry up. This is nonsense. He agreed to a sleepover at mine, just the two of us.’
‘I’m just saying in case he decides not to.’ I can see this is difficult for Nick. ‘I can’t make him, can I?’
‘Yes, you can, actually.’
Nick leans an arm on the roof of the car and lowers his face towards mine.
I’ve got it all planned: we’ll drive by KFC and collect a huge bucket plus desserts. Then head to the flat, crash in front of the TV for a chill-out night at home. Just me and my son.
‘Could you go and fetch him, please…? This isn’t what I expected him to do.’
It hurts like hell.
Nick peels himself away from his leaning position and walks back to the house, their coach-light illuminates the driveway as he approaches the front door.
Why is everything so difficult? Everyone else just pulls up, parks and their kid comes running out, overnight bag in hand, and jumps in the car. Not mine. Mine equals drama.
I watch as the front door closes.
Alone. Again.
I busy myself staring at the neighbours’ first-floor extension.
I wonder what they’ll use it for.
My attention snaps back to Nick’s front door. Alfie appears, his holdall hoisted upon his back; Nick is ushering him out of the door.
Oh, great, he’s been made to come.
*
‘I don’t see your issue.’
We’ve only been in the flat for fifteen minutes and his holdall remains in the hallway.
‘Seriously, Mum, I’m bored of the lectures.’
‘You’re a bright lad, Alfie, you’ve a great future ahead of you and you can’t let some little girl—’
‘Holly. Her name is Holly.’
‘OK, then, Holly… ruin your plans.’
Alfie shakes his head, rolling his lips together as if preventing the words from spilling forth.
‘Look, this isn’t easy for me either, you know… so please can we just spend a pleasant evening with each other and enjoy the time we have?’
My words register as I see his eyelids flicker and avert my stare. His lips continue to roll, muting his inner thoughts.
He nods.
‘And my room?’
It’s as good an excuse to change tack as any.
‘This way.’ I swiftly lead him from the kitchen to his room along the hallway. ‘Ta-dah!’
It’s a simple room, decorated in shades of blue, with a single bed and a load of cushions and throws. I can’t decorate it as his permanent room, given that it is a rental flat, but I’ve purchased all new bedding and matching curtains especially for his stay. I’ve tried, let’s put it that way.
‘Cheers!’ is his only word as he throws the holdall down onto the bed.
‘It’s not much, but I don’t really know what you’re into nowadays so thought I’d keep it modern but mature.’
‘It’s fine – do you mind if I unpack?’
I smile. I’m crowding him; I just can’t help it. This is the longest I have been alone with my son since January and my head is spinning with so many things that I want to cram into our time.
*
‘And Dad, how’s he?’ I ask, with as much nonchalance as I can muster, while focusing on my fried chicken.
‘Fine, I think.’ Alfie pauses to finish his fries. ‘He seems happier since he’s been going out more.’
I pause, not daring to lift my gaze from my plate.
‘Which is a good thing, given his experience of the past few months,’ adds Alfie. His mood instantly annoys me. Should I tell him? Let it slip or would that create a bigger divide than is present?
I remain mute and let him talk.
‘I don’t know when he’s expecting to introduce her but…’
‘Yeah. It’s Dad. He’ll do it when he’s ready. He never does anything before he’s thought it through.’
Alfie smirks.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ My voice has an edge, as I know he’s referring to me.
‘What?’ His eyes lift to mine, and I know he can see the hurt.
‘Don’t give me, what? That is a dig at me… I’ll tell you what, Alfie, you’ve got a lot of growing up to do and dare you ever find yourself in the same position I did…’ My voice cracks, but I continue. ‘Stuck in a bloody rut, not knowing what I want in life, not knowing if what I have… had is the be-all and end-all… then you can remember that you thought my situation was bloody funny. Just you remember that!’
Alfie shrugs.
‘I won’t leave my kids…’
‘It wasn’t just about you or your dad – it was about me!’
He stretches across the table for another piece of chicken.
‘Being a grown-up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know.’
‘You try being a kid in this era, then – you’ll soon see you’re not the only one that matters.’
I sit back and stare. Alfie eats his chicken as if nothing is wrong.
I want to scream. I want all my fears, sorrows, regrets to come pouring out so he can witness what he thinks is so damned funny. But I can’t, he’s just a child. And if I don’t truly understand where our marriage went wrong, why am I expecting him to?
‘What?’ he says, staring at me.
‘Nothing.’
‘You looked like you were about to say something, that’s all.’
I sigh.
‘I know you’re fairly young, but has your stomach ever flipped, Alfie?’
‘Yeah.’ His answer surprises me.
‘Did you ignore it or act upon it?’
‘The latter… why?’
‘Me too. I also acted upon it. That one moment has determined everything I have ever done, achieved and desired for my entire adult life… from that moment onwards. Then last year, for the first time, I questioned what my life would have been had that moment never happened. So much so, I couldn’t bear it any longer, so January… I decided to find out.’
He puts his chicken piece down.
‘And?’
‘And it frightened me to think that I may have wasted my years by building my entire life on a chance meeting which made my stomach flip.’
Alfie nods.
‘And now?’
I stand up, cross the floor to the fridge, grab the open bottle of wine and pour myself a large glass.
He follows my every move, not daring to speak but awaiting my answer.
I lean against the countertop, take a long sip and face my son.
‘And now… I realise that stomach flip was possibly the greatest moment of my life from which everything I hold dear has come from… as if a basic instinct responded before my consciousness had time to. And now, I know last January had to happen for me to appreciate what I once had.’
Alfie breaks eye contact, staring down at his plate.
‘Pity we had to feel the brunt of it, then,’ he mutters.
I ignore him and continue.
‘Yes, I walked out, but I’ve learnt a lot about myself, Alfie. And I’ve learnt that that one moment doesn’t come around again as I thought it might…’
He pushes his plate away, his chicken unfinished, and stands.
I watch as his lean frame seems unsteady, beneath the weight of our troubles.
‘Thanks for your honesty, Mum, but for me – I wish you’d figured that out without having to destroy our family,’ he says, adding, ‘I’m going to go for a shower, if you don’t mind.’
I nod and sip my wine.
Alfie’s got a point.