--
I was dimly aware of Treena being woken at five a.m. and some excited thudding, then Dad yelling at Thom that it was still the middle of the ruddy night and if he didn't go back to bed he would tell Father Ruddy Christmas to come and take all the ruddy presents back again. The next time I woke, Mum was putting a mug of tea on my bedside table and telling me that if I could get dressed we were about to start opening the presents. It was a quarter past eleven.
I picked up the little clock, squinted, and shook it.
"You needed it," she said, stroked my head, then went off to see to the sprouts.
I descended twenty minutes later in the comedy reindeer jumper with the illuminated nose I had bought in Macy's because I knew Thom would enjoy it. Everyone else was already down, dressed, and breakfasted. I kissed them all and wished them a happy Christmas, turned my reindeer nose on and off, then distributed my own gifts, all the while trying not to think of the man who should have been the recipient of a cashmere sweater and a really soft checked flannel shirt, which were languishing at the bottom of my case.
I wouldn't think about him today, I told myself firmly. Time with my family was precious and I wouldn't ruin it by feeling sad.
My gifts went down a treat, apparently given an extra layer of desirability by having come from New York, even if I was pretty sure you could have got pretty much the same things from Argos. "All the way from New York!" Mum would say in awe, after every item was unwrapped, until Treena rolled her eyes and Thom started mimicking her. Of course, the gift that went down best was the cheapest: a plastic snow globe I had bought at a tourist stall in Times Square. I was pretty sure it would be leaking quietly into Thom's chest of drawers before the week was out.
In return I received:
Socks from Granddad (99 percent sure these had been chosen and bought by Mum)
Soaps from Dad (ditto)
A small silver frame with a picture of our family already fitted into it ("So you can take us with you wherever you go"--Mum. "Why the heck would she want to do that? She went to ruddy New York to get away from us all"--Dad.)
A device that removed nostril hair, from Treena. ("Don't look at me like that. You're getting to that age.")
A picture of a Christmas tree with a poem underneath it from Thom. On close questioning, it turned out he hadn't actually made it himself. "Our teacher says we don't stick the decorations on the right places so she does them and we just put our names on them."
I received a gift from Lily, dropped in the previous day before she and Mrs. Traynor went skiing--"She looks well, Lou. Though she runs Mrs. Traynor pretty ragged from what I've heard"--a vintage ring, a huge green stone in a silver setting that fitted perfectly on my little finger. I had sent her a pair of silver earrings that looked like cuffs, assured by the fearsomely trendy SoHo shop assistant that they were perfect for a teenage girl. Especially one now apparently prone to piercings in unexpected places.
I thanked everyone and watched Granddad nod off. I smiled and I think I put on a pretty good impression of someone who was enjoying the day. Mum was smarter than that.
"Is everything okay, love? You seem very flat." She ladled goose fat over the potatoes and stepped back as it sprayed out in an angry mist. "Oh, will you look at those? They're going to be lovely and crisp."
"I'm fine."
"Is it the jet lag still? Ronnie from three doors down said when he went to Florida it took him three weeks to stop walking into walls."
"That's pretty much it."
"I can't believe I have a daughter who gets jet lag. I'm the envy of everyone at the club, you know."
I looked up. "You've been there again?"
After Will had ended his life, my parents had been ostracized at the social club they'd belonged to for years, blamed vicariously for my actions in going along with his plan. It was one of the many things I had felt guilty about.
"Well, that Marjorie has moved to Cirencester. You know she was the worst for the gossip. And then Stuart from the garage told Dad he should come down and have a game of pool sometime. Just casual-like. And it was all fine." She shrugged. "And, you know, all that business was a couple of years ago now. People have other things to think about."
People have other things to think about. I don't know why that innocent statement caught me by the throat, but it did. As I was trying to swallow a sudden wave of grief, Mum shoved the tray of potatoes back into the oven. She shut the door with a satisfied clunk, then turned to me, pulling the oven gloves from her hands.
"I almost forgot--the strangest thing. Your man called this morning to say what were we going to do about your flight Boxing Day and did we mind if he picked you up himself?"
I froze. "What?"
She lifted a lid on a pan, released a burp of steam, and put it down again. "Well, I told him he must have been mistaken and you were here already, so he said he'd pop over later. Honestly, the shifts must be taking it out of him. I heard a thing on the radio where they said working nights can be awful bad for your brain. You might want to tell him."
"What--when's he coming?"
Mum glanced at the clock. "Um . . . I think he said he was finishing midafternoon and he'd head over afterward. All that way on Christmas Day! Here, have you met Treena's fellow yet? Have you noticed the way she's dressing these days?" She glanced behind her at the door and her voice was full of wonder. "It's almost like she's becoming a normal person."
--
I sat through Christmas lunch on high alert, outwardly calm but flinching every time someone passed our door. Every bite of my mother's cooking turned to powder in my mouth. Every bad cracker joke my father read out went straight over my head. I couldn't eat, couldn't hear, couldn't feel. I was locked in a bell jar of miserable anticipation. I glanced at Treena but she seemed preoccupied too, and I realized she was waiting on Eddie's arrival. How hard could it be? I thought, grimly. At least her boyfriend wasn't cheating on her. At least he wanted to be with her.
It began to rain, and the drops spat meanly on the windows, the sky darkening to fit my mood. Our little house, strung with tinsel and glitter-strewn greeting cards, shrank around us, and I felt alternately as if I couldn't breathe in it and terrified of anything that lay beyond it. Occasionally I saw Mum's eyes slide toward me, as if she was wondering what was going on, but she didn't say anything and I didn't volunteer it.
I helped clear the dishes and chatted--I thought convincingly--about the joys of grocery delivery in New York, and finally the doorbell went and my legs turned to jelly.
Mum turned to look at me. "Are you okay, Louisa? You've gone quite pale."
"I'll tell you later, Mum."
My mother stared at me hard, then her face softened. "I'll be here." She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "Whatever this is all about, I'll be here."
--
Sam stood on the front step in a soft cobalt jumper I hadn't seen before. I wondered who had given it to him. He gave me a half smile but didn't stoop to kiss me or throw his arms around me like in our previous meetings. We gazed warily at each other.
"Do you want to come in?" My voice sounded oddly formal.
"Thanks."
I walked in front of him down the narrow corridor, waited while he greeted my parents through the living room door, then led him into the kitchen, closing the door behind us. I felt acutely aware of his presence, as if we were both mildly electrified.
"Would you like some tea?"
"Sure . . . Nice jumper."
"Oh . . . Thanks."
"You've . . . left your nose on."
"Right." I reached down and turned it off, not willing to indulge anything that might soften the mood between us.
He sat down at the table, his body somehow too big for our kitchen chairs, his eyes still on me, and clasped his hands on its surface, like someone awaiting a job interview. In the living room I could hear Dad laughing at some film, and Thom's shrill voice demanding to know what was funny. I busied mys
elf making tea but I could feel his eyes burning into my back the whole time.
"So," Sam said, when I handed him a mug and sat down, "you're here."
I nearly buckled then. I looked across the table at his handsome face, at the broad shoulders and the hands wrapped gently around the mug and a thought popped into my head: I cannot bear it if he leaves me.
But then I found myself standing again on that chilly step, her slim fingers on his neck, my feet icy in my wet shoes, and I grew cold again.
"I got back two days ago," I said.
The briefest of pauses. "Okay."
"I thought I'd come and surprise you. Thursday evening." I scratched at a mark on the tablecloth. "Turns out it was me who got the surprise."
I watched realization dawn slowly across his face: his slight frown, his eyes growing distant, then their faint closure when he grasped what I might have seen. "Lou, I don't know what you saw, but--"
"But what? 'It's not what you think'?"
"Well, it is and it isn't."
It was like a punch.
"Let's not do this, Sam."
He looked up.
"I'm pretty clear about what I saw. If you try and convince me it wasn't what I think, I'll want to believe you so badly that I might actually do it. And what I've realized these last two days is that this . . . this isn't good for me. It isn't good for either of us."
Sam put his mug down. He dragged his hand over his face and looked off to the side. "I don't love her, Lou."
"I don't really care what you feel about her."
"Well, I want you to know. Yes, you were right about Katie. I may have misread the signals. She does like me."
I let out a bitter laugh. "And you like her."
"I don't know what I think about her. You're the person who's in my head. You're the person I wake up thinking about. But the thing is, you're--"
"Not here. Don't you blame this on me. Don't you dare blame this on me. You told me to go. You told me to go."
We sat in silence for a few moments. I found myself staring at his hands--the strong, battered knuckles, the way they looked so hard, so powerful, but were capable of such tenderness. I stared determinedly at the mark on the cloth.
"You know, Lou, I thought I'd be fine by myself. I've been on my own a long time, after all. But you cracked something open in me."
"Oh, so it's my fault."
"I'm not saying that!" he burst out. "I'm trying to explain. I'm saying--I'm saying I'm no longer as good at being on my own as I thought I was. After my sister died I didn't want to feel anything for anyone again, okay? I had room to care for Jake, but nobody else. I had my job and my half-built house, and my chickens, and that was fine. I was just . . . getting on with it all. And then you came along and fell off that bloody building, and literally the first time you held on to my hand I felt something give in me. And suddenly I had someone I looked forward to talking to. Someone who understood how I felt. Really, really understood. I could drive past your flat and know that at the end of a crap day I was going to be able to call up to you or pop in later and feel better. And, yes I know we had some issues, but it just felt--deep down--like there was something right in there, you know?"
His head was bowed over his tea, his jaw clenched.
"And then just as we were close--closer than I've ever felt to another living soul--you were . . . you were just gone. And I felt like--like someone had given me this gift, this key to everything, with one hand, then snatched it away with the other."
"Then why did you let me go?"
His voice exploded into the room. "Because--because I'm not that man, Lou! I'm not the man who's going to insist that you stay. I'm not the man who's going to stop you having the adventures and growing and doing all the stuff that you're doing out there. I'm not that guy!"
"No--you're the guy who hooks up with someone else as soon as I've gone! Someone in the same zip code!"
"It's a post-code! You're in England, for Christ's sake!"
"Yup, and you have no idea how much I wish I wasn't."
Sam turned away from me, clearly struggling to contain himself. Beyond the kitchen doors, although the television was still on, I was dimly aware of silence in the front room.
After a few minutes I said quietly. "I can't do this, Sam."
"You can't do what?"
"I can't be worrying about Katie Ingram and her attempts to seduce you--because whatever happened that night I could see what she wanted, even if I don't know what you wanted. It's making me crazy and it's making me sad, and worse"--I swallowed hard--"it's making me hate you. And I can't imagine how in three short months I've got to that point."
"Louisa--"
There was a discreet knock at the door. My mother's face appeared. "I'm sorry to disturb you both but would you mind very much if I quickly made some tea? Granddad's gasping."
"Sure." I kept my face turned away.
She bustled in and filled the kettle, her back to us. "They're watching some film about aliens. Not very Christmassy. I remember when Christmas Day was all Wizard of Oz or The Sound of Music or something that everyone could watch together. Now they're watching all this whiz-bam-shooting nonsense and Granddad and I can't understand a word anyone's saying."
My mother rattled on, plainly mortified at having to be there, tapping the work surface with her fingers as she waited for the kettle to boil. "You know we haven't even watched the Queen's Speech? Daddy put it on the old recording box thing. But it's not the same if you watch it afterward, is it? I like to watch it when everyone else is watching it. The poor old woman, wedged in all those video boxes until everyone's finished the aliens and the cartoons. You'd think after sixty-odd years of service--how long has she been on that throne?--the least we could do is watch her do her thing when she does it. Mind you, Daddy tells me I'm being ridiculous as she probably recorded it weeks ago. Sam, will you have some cake?"
"Not for me, thanks, Josie."
"Lou?"
"No. Thanks, Mum."
"I'll leave you to it." She smiled awkwardly, loaded a fruitcake the size of a tractor wheel onto the tray, and hurried out. Sam got up and closed the door behind her.
We sat in silence, listening to the kitchen clock ticking, the air leaden. I felt crushed under the weight of the things unsaid between us.
Sam took a long swig of his tea. I wanted him to leave. I thought I might die if he did.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "About the other night. I never wanted to . . . Well, it was badly judged."
I shook my head. I couldn't speak anymore.
"I didn't sleep with her. If you won't hear anything else, I do need you to hear that."
"You said--"
He looked up.
"You said . . . nobody would ever hurt me again. You said that. When you came to New York." My voice emerged from somewhere in my chest. "I never thought for a moment you would be the one to do it."
"Louisa--"
"I think I'd like you to go now."
He stood heavily and hesitated, both hands on the table in front of him. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't see the face I loved about to disappear from my life forever. He straightened up, let out an audible breath and turned away from me.
He pulled a package from his inside pocket and placed it on the table. "Merry Christmas," he said. And then he walked to the door.
I followed him back down the corridor, eleven long steps, and then we were on the front porch. I couldn't look at him or I would be lost. I would plead with him to stay, promise to give up my job, beg him to change his job, not to see Katie Ingram again. I would become pathetic, the kind of woman I pitied. The kind of woman he had never wanted.
I stood, my shoulders rigid, and I refused to look any farther than his stupid, oversized feet. A car pulled up. A door slammed somewhere down the street. Birds sang. And I stood, locked in my own private misery in a moment that stubbornly refused to end.
And then, abruptly, he stepped forward and his arms closed around m
e. He pulled me to him, and in that embrace I felt everything that we had meant to each other, the love and the pain and the bloody impossibility of it all. And my face, unseen by him, crumpled.
I don't know how long we stood there. Probably only seconds. But time briefly stopped, stretched, disappeared. It was just him and me and this awful dead feeling creeping from my head to my feet, as if I were turning to stone.
"Don't. Don't touch me," I said when I couldn't bear it anymore. My voice was choked and unlike itself, and I pushed him back, away from me.
"Lou--"
Except it wasn't his voice. It was my sister's.
"Lou, could you just--sorry--get out of the way, please? I need to get past."
I blinked, and turned my head. My sister, her hands raised, was trying to edge past us from the narrow doorway to the path. "Sorry," she said. "I just need to . . ."
Sam released me, quite abruptly, and walked away with long strides, his shoulders hunched and rigid, just pausing as the gate opened. He didn't look back.
"Is that our Treena's new bloke arriving?" said Mum, behind me. She was wrenching off her apron and straightening her hair in one fluid movement. "I thought he was coming at four. I haven't even put my lippy on . . . Are you all right?"
Treena turned and, through the blur of my tears, I could just make out her face as she gave a small, hopeful smile. "Mum, Dad, this is Eddie," she said.