With Love at Christmas

  Robin returns with our coats and, as I’m shrugging mine on, our cab pulls up at the entrance. My boss holds the door open for me and I totter across the glassy pavement to flop inside. As we travel the ten minutes to Chadwick Close, I let my head rest back on the seat.

  I know only too well how easy it is to start an affair. I’m feeling drunk and incredibly sexy. What if Rick and I were going through a really bad rough patch? What if I thought, What’s good for the goose is good for the gander and decided to have a fling of my own? One moment of weakness is all it takes. What would my boss think if he knew my bra was bursting with Christmas confetti? Would he find that too much of a temptation? What if he and Rosemary haven’t slept together for months, just as Rick and I haven’t? A surfeit of drink and a rising of sexual desire is a dangerous situation. If Robin leaned in now to kiss me again, would I be able to resist? Or would I let him snog me senseless in the back of a taxi? Then I realise that if I am old enough to use the word ‘snog’ then I am also old enough to know better.

  Not a moment too soon, we pull up outside number ten. ‘We’re here,’ I say pointlessly.

  ‘So we are. Then I’ll wish you goodnight.’ This time Robin’s kiss chastely finds my cheek, but his lips linger longer than they should.

  ‘Goodnight, Robin. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I step out of the cab – only slightly unsteadily.

  I stand and watch as the car turns round and whisks him away.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘Sssh,’ I say to Buster as I creep into the kitchen. He wags his tail enthusiastically, thumping it against the table leg. He’s clearly thinking that it’s time for walkies. He is about to be cruelly disappointed.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ I whisper to the dog. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  He slinks back to his basket.

  A second later, as I’m about to head for bed, I hear another key in the lock. Another second and the kitchen door bangs open.

  ‘Ssh,’ I say to Tom.

  ‘Wotcha, Mum.’ He does not ssh. ‘What are you doing up so late?’

  ‘Been to my office party. What are you doing up so late?’

  ‘Just out with mates in the city. Stick some toast in, Mum. I could eat a horse.’

  ‘Make your own toast,’ I say. ‘I’m going to bed. Dad’s got to get up to go to work in the morning.’

  ‘Aw, but you do it so much better, Mummy.’

  I sigh. ‘You treat this house like a hotel.’

  ‘Now you sound just like Dad,’ my son offers.

  I give in. Resistance is futile. Sliding two slices of bread in the toaster, I realise that I’m actually peckish too, and put in another two pieces. What is it about drinking too much that gives you the munchies?

  ‘Might as well put the kettle on,’ Tom suggests.

  Indeed, I might as well.

  When it’s ready, I sit opposite Tom at the kitchen table and we eat our hot buttered toast and drink tea together in companionable silence. I wave half a slice at Buster and he comes to sit at my feet while he wolfs it down.

  ‘I hardly ever see you now,’ I say to Tom. ‘We’re like ships that pass in the night.’

  My son shrugs. ‘You know what Dad’s like. It works better if I stay out of the way.’

  ‘He only wants what’s best for you,’ I tell him. ‘He worries that you’re not settled.’

  ‘It’s different now. Being married, having a career, a pension, it’s not seen as the be-all and end-all.’

  ‘Still being at home can’t be ideal.’

  ‘I get my toast made for me in the middle of the night. What

  more could I want?’ Tom laughs.

  My son doesn’t laugh often. He may like to think he has a free and easy lifestyle, but he doesn’t seem to have much fun that isn’t drink-induced. I look at him closely and his skin is pale and there are dark shadows round his eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Mum,’ he says in answer to my scrutiny. ‘I’m fine.’

  But will he still be telling me the same thing when he is thirty, forty, fifty? God forbid. When will he grow up, see responsibility as a good thing, enjoy the love of a good woman – or man? I don’t mind which way his sexual proclivities lie.

  ‘Look at Chloe,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes. One kid already and another on the way.’ Tom snorts.

  ‘That’s not for me.’

  ‘I just want you to be happy.’ I take his hands. I miss the days when he would readily twine his fingers in mine. ‘I hope that you find someone special to share your life with.’

  ‘Mum, I don’t even know if I want to settle down with a man or a woman. I’m not going to rush into anything.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Sometimes I wonder, is this the same quiet boy who I used to curl up on the sofa with and watch Disney films for hours on end on rainy Sundays? Where did that mildmannered, shy child go?

  ‘I’m having a good time looking,’ he says, grin widening.

  ‘If that’s any consolation.’

  ‘Tom,’ I admonish.

  He just laughs at me. Old-fashioned fuddy-duddy that I clearly am. I’m well aware that my son has what might be called an ‘adventurous’ sex life. I only wish his mother could say the same. Is it the lack of passion in our love life that’s causing Rick to stray? I’d assumed that, like me, he’d got used to the fact that sex was at the very bottom of the To Do list and had just learned to accept it. Perhaps I’m wrong. I should be up there now, tripping the light fandango for him, but I have so little time with Tom that I don’t want to tear myself away. All my flirty thoughts have been packed away again.

  I turn my attention back to Tom. ‘It would be nice if you brought someone home to meet us.’

  ‘I do,’ he protests.

  ‘I mean really meet us, not just find them naked in our bed.’ Or on our dining-room table.

  My son shrugs. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  I sigh and stroke his hair. ‘All I want is for you to be happy.’ I drink up my tea. ‘Now I really must go to bed. Your dad will be wondering where I am.’ Most likely Rick will be fast asleep and snoring.

  I plant a kiss on top of Tom’s head before he can resist. It used to smell of shampoo and sweets. Now it smells of stale cigarettes and beer, but I still relish the closeness. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, Mum.’

  Those are words that I don’t hear enough. I let my hand linger on his hair. ‘Goodnight, Tom.’

  Chapter Forty

  Eventually, I climb the stairs and tiptoe into our bedroom. My feet are really hurting now, and I carry my heels in my hand. The bedside light is off and, as predicted, I can hear Rick snoring softly.

  It’s late. Gone two o’clock now. All ideas of being a frisky, fruity femme fatale have gone out of my head. Toast, it seems, is a counter-aphrodisiac. Rick has to get up in the morning, and I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate being woken up for a quick late-night tumble. See, this is what happens to all my good intentions.

  I’ll just slide quietly in beside him and cuddle up. I look down at my husband sleeping soundly and my heart is filled with love. Perhaps we didn’t come together in the best of circumstances, but I could have done a lot worse than marry Rick. We have made a good life and have two wonderful children. Well, mostly they’re wonderful.

  Dropping my shoes on the floor, I reach up to undo the necklace from Robin and put it back in its posh box.

  ‘Juliet?’ It’s Rick’s voice coming sleepily from the bed. ‘Is that you?’

  It’s a good question because frankly, these days, it could be anyone in our bedroom.

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Sorry I woke you.’

  ‘It’s OK. Did you have a good time?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I did.’

  ‘You sound a little slurry.’

  ‘Do I?’ Perhaps I am.

  Rick switches on the bedside lamp and sits up in bed. He rubs his eyes. ‘Last year when you came home squiffy you wanted b
ouncy cuddles.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘So I did.’

  ‘How much have you had to drink?’

  ‘Enough,’ I say, and though I try to sound seductive, Rick may indeed be right when he says I’m slurring. ‘You’re not tired?’

  ‘It’s the middle of the night, Juliet. Of course I’m tired.’ He hesitates. ‘But I’m not too tired.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rick is clearly giving out buying signals. Then I remember all the festive confetti in my bra and how I was going to do a sexy striptease. ‘I’m not that tired either.’ I stifle a yawn.

  Rick laughs. ‘Come here and give me a cuddle. We can do this another time.’

  But when? I can’t even remember the last time my husband and I made love. There are always other things, other people to consider. Our needs are right down at the bottom of the pile.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I start to sway and lift my arms to pile my hair on the top of my head. I pout at Rick. His face says that five minutes of the missionary position will be quite enough, thank you very much, but I want to make this a night to remember. I want him to know that I’m still his lover as well as his wife.

  I dance a little around the floor, singing ‘Santa Baby’ in a Marilyn Monroe-style breathy voice and tripping slightly on the rug.

  Rick, I have to say, looks more bemused than aroused.

  Turning to shake my booty at him, I see Rick yawn. Better get on with this before the mood goes off. So I slip the shoulders of my dress down as I’d imagine Dita Von Teese would. I can see why burlesque is becoming popular again; it’s very empowering. A shimmy or two, then step out of the dress. Just undies. Decent ones. Ta-da!

  My husband is looking a little more impressed now.

  I climb up onto the bed. A bit of a wobble there.

  ‘Be careful, Juliet,’ Rick says. ‘You’re a bit unsteady on your feet.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I assure him.

  ‘You’ll wake the whole house,’ he says.

  ‘Ssshhh.’

  Standing on the bed, I gyrate a bit more, even though I’m now feeling very tired. Rick looks quite concerned. A sudden longing for the comfort of my bed washes over me.

  I lean forward, ready for my big finale. Undoing the hook of my bra, I plan a theatrical fling, showering Rick with the Christmas confetti. Vigorous lovemaking will ensue and we can still both be asleep by three.

  But as flinging commences, I somehow trip on the duvet and slip forwards. My bra comes off in more of a fumble than a fling, but the Christmas confetti is still jettisoned over Rick’s head. Lots of it. How did quite so much fit into my bra? Some of it goes into his mouth, which has dropped open in surprise. Rick starts to splutter and I start to fall. He lunges to catch me but misses and I scramble to get purchase on the duvet. But it’s no good; I’m slipping, sliding sideways off the bed, taking the duvet with me.

  I land with an unhealthy thump on the floor, ankle twisted beneath me. The pain is excruciating – even the alcohol is failing to block it.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ I hear my mother shout from the next room. ‘Keep the noise down. Some of us are trying to sleep.’

  ‘Ouch,’ I complain. ‘Very ouch.’

  Rick’s face appears at the edge of the bed. He has Christmas confetti in his hair and stuck to his skin. He looks down at me and smiles. There’s confetti between his teeth when he asks, ‘I suppose a shag’s out of the question now?’

  Chapter Forty-One

  ‘I am not going to A&E.’ I hold up my hand so that Rick knows I mean business. How stupid would I feel explaining to them what has happened? ‘All I need is to put my foot up with an ice pack.’

  My ankle is swelling nicely and is already turning a disturbing shade of lilac. Rick helps me into bed, props up my ankle on a pillow and trots off to find me some ice.

  When he comes back, he’s got a bag of frozen peas, a cup of tea and a packet of tablets.

  ‘I found these,’ he says, and hands over the pills.

  They’re anti-inflammatories that have been lurking in the back of the medicine cabinet. As they’re only six months out of date, I take two.

  ‘Feeling OK?’

  ‘Stupid. That’s how I’m feeling.’ Though my ankle is throbbing, if I’m truthful it’s my pride that’s hurt more than anything.

  ‘It was very funny,’ Rick says.

  ‘I’m not sure that “funny” was the emotion I was aiming for.’

  Then we laugh together.

  ‘The bedroom’s covered in that Christmas confetti,’ he notes. ‘We’ll be hoovering it up for weeks. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking it would be sexy and seductive.’ Seems I was mistaken.

  Rick lies down next to me and wraps his arms round me. ‘I find you sexy, confetti or not, Mrs Joyce.’

  I snuggle into him. ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  Again, this would be the perfect moment to tell him that I’ve seen his texts to another woman, and that I’m worried about them. How can I go through Christmas with this doubt drumming away inside of me? In my head, I start to formulate the words I need into a sentence.

  Then Rick says, ‘Are you going to go to work tomorrow?’ and the moment has gone.

  ‘Yes. I’ll have to go and face the ribbing.’

  ‘You can tell them you fell over Buster.’

  That sounds plausible enough. It’s possibly only Robin who will realise just how drunk I was. I curl into Rick’s arms. ‘This isn’t quite how I envisaged the evening ending.’

  ‘It’s the thought that counts,’ Rick says, and within seconds we’re both asleep.

  A couple of hours later and it’s time to get up again. I hop through the confetti on the floor and look out of the window. Already I can tell that there’s been a heavy snowfall overnight, as there’s that thick silence that comes with it. Outside, everything is covered by a blanket of white and looks stunning.

  Rick texts Merak to tell him not to come in until later. Then, with Rick’s assistance, I get showered and dressed. When eventually, with a judicious application of thick slap, I don’t look like I’ve been up all night, I hop downstairs. In the kitchen, unusually, the family are up in full force. Rick is well into his toast marathon. Chloe is giving Jaden his breakfast. My grandson looks bright-eyed and bushy-tailed – more than can be said for his nana.

  ‘How is he?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s very well.’ Her look says, No thanks to you.

  ‘What was all that row last night?’ Mum asks. Her red hair is standing on end and her dressing gown is buttoned up all wrong. She has put on bright pink lipstick, but again has missed her mouth completely. I’ll have to organise dressing her properly before I go to work.

  ‘What row?’ Chloe wants to know.

  ‘I fell over the dog.’ The lie trips from my tongue. Only Tom looks up and raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t dob me in. ‘I’ve sprained my ankle. Only slightly. I’m fine. Really. Fine.’

  ‘Come and sit down, love,’ Dad says. ‘Let me get you some tea.’

  ‘I’ve got it, Frank,’ Rick says. ‘Anyone for more toast?’ Tom is the sole taker.

  Merak arrives, and is instantly given tea and toast.

  ‘Come on, Mum, let me get you dressed before I go.’

  ‘I want Frank to do it,’ she says petulantly, arms folded in front of her. ‘I want Frank.’

  I glance across at Dad. ‘I’ll do it, love,’ he says with a nod. ‘You go off to work. I don’t mind.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Of course he’s sure,’ Mum snaps. ‘We’ve been married for twenty years.’

  They were married for the best part of fifty years, and separated for nearly three – something else my mother seems to have forgotten. ‘He’s seen me in my knickers before.’

  ‘I do apologise, Merak,’ I say to our guest. No one needs to know about my mother’s knickers at this time in the morning.

  ‘Let’s go to work,’ Ri
ck says. ‘Before the whole bloody day is gone.’

  I limp to get my coat, which Merak helps me into. I can’t quite put my weight on my foot, but it seems to be better than I expected. The three of us pile into the van.

  ‘This snow’s sticking,’ Rick notes.

  ‘More is forecast in the next few days.’

  He tuts. ‘Fabulous.’

  The van slithers its way into the High Street, and then Rick helps me across the pavement and into my office.

  ‘See you later,’ he says. He turns away and then, as an afterthought, turns back. ‘It was fun last night.’

  I laugh. ‘No it wasn’t.’

  ‘Well, it nearly was.’ Rick grins back at me. ‘We could have an early night tonight,’ he suggests.

  ‘In our house? What do you think the chances of that are?’

  ‘Slim,’ he agrees. ‘But it shouldn’t stop us from trying.’

  My heart surges to think that he still wants to. ‘It’s a date,’ I say.

  Then I kiss him goodbye before I head into the office to face the teasing from my colleagues.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Rick worked for the rest of the morning with Merak, laying a laminate floor for the back room and kitchen of a run-down solicitor’s office.

  The snow was getting heavier, and his thoughts turned again to Lisa and Izzy. What if they hadn’t been able to get out for a few days? What if they had no shopping in? What if their bastard landlord still hadn’t fixed the boiler?

  At lunchtime he cracked and phoned her. It was the first time he’d done that. He’d texted her a couple of times just to see if she was OK, but it was the first time he’d called to speak to her. Merak was out getting them both some hot soup and bacon rolls from the bakery just along the street. Before he came back, Rick punched in Lisa’s number. Why did he feel that he had to do it in secret? Why couldn’t he have called her in front of his assistant? And, for that matter, why had he still not mentioned her to Juliet?