‘Secrets come out eventually,’ she says. ‘Just look after you, B. You’ve got enough going on with Will without having to take that on too.’
I shrug. She may be right. But however Yasmin conducted this affair, I still feel some sympathy for her. She’s alone in all of this and I know how that feels.
‘No, Jago… not like that. Come on, we have to go.’ I suddenly hear a voice next to me in raised angry tones. I turn around to see another mum. Her light brown hair is pulled back from her face and she’s wearing well-fitting jeans with gold Converse. She’s better styled than me but I see the frustration that comes from wrangling two children alone on a shopping trip. Her baby girl cries in her buggy. I peer over to sympathise but the girl faces us and looks familiar to me. I know you. I’ve met you. Your name is Delilah. Oh… Noooo. Oh fuck-a-doodle-do. Her mum looks up at me and realises I’ve clocked who she is. I’ve stalked her on social media with Yasmin. Harry’s wife. Standing right here. Did she hear any of that? She did. I am pretty sure she did judging by the way she’s looking at me.
‘You OK, B?’ asks Grace, watching my reaction. How do I tell the sisters everything with the power of my eyes?
Harry’s wife stuffs everything into her buggy and drags her children away, out of here. I need to explain; I need to do something. I follow her sheepishly.
‘Hi… I’m sorry. This is Delilah, right?’
She looks up at me cautiously. ‘Yes. Who are you?’
‘I’m Beth. Delilah and Joe did a music video together. I’ve met Harry.’
‘So I gather,’ she responds sarcastically.
My face floods red with embarrassment, mainly because I was standing around gossiping about her family, her life.
‘I… what you just heard there…’
She comes over to me so that she’s unfeasibly close to my face, standing away from her kids. Oh my days, I’m going to have a stand-off in a low-rent Christmas grotto. ‘I pretty much knew already. Thanks for the confirmation though, Beth.’
Shit. I can see tears glass her eyes and I put a hand to her arm. ‘Are you OK?’ I ask her.
‘How far gone is Yasmin?’ she whispers.
And then, just like magic from behind a curtain, Harry appears. ‘They won’t give us a refund but I got the photo for free at least. Scammers.’
He holds a Christmas family photo in a cardboard frame and I realise they’re all matching in Fair Isle jumpers. He scans my face, trying to work out who I am; when the moment drops so does his expression.
‘You’re the Special K baby,’ he says.
‘Well, I’m not. He is.’ I point a finger down to Joe. ‘I’m Beth. I’m a friend of Yasmin’s.’
Harry glares at me. He’s aware I know about the kiss but not much else. Well, I know you didn’t go to the hospital when Yasmin was scared, that you used her for sex, and dealt a million promises which you never followed through on. The power I have here is ridiculously nerve-wracking – it’s life-changing – but I read Harry’s wife’s face. It says, Don’t say anything more. Not here, not now. My kids are here.
‘Oh yeah, Yasmin. How is she?’ he asks casually.
‘Pregnant. She’s nearly into the second trimester so I hope the pregnancy will go more smoothly for her now,’ I say calmly, looking into his wife’s eyes.
She nods. Harry pauses, his neck rippling, having to swallow that information. I assume he thought the cheque paying Yasmin off to get rid of the baby would have worked. Harry’s wife looks at me, her eyes still and pensive, trying to piece all of this together.
‘I didn’t realise you and her were friends?’ he says, looking me up and down.
‘Well, she’s single now so I’m just helping her out. She was abandoned by the baby’s father.’
Harry’s complexion gets paler.
‘Well, you know models. They get about, it’s a wonder she knows who the father is,’ he adds.
We’re in a corridor pasted with bin liners and fairy lights to represent the winter night sky and at this present moment, I want to disrupt this silent night and karate kick his head with my baby attached to my front. My physical limitations curb this desire for the moment but God, what a complete and utter shitbag. Harry’s wife appears to still be processing everything, and I try to make eye contact with her again. She deserves my respect in all of this, no one else.
‘Well, we have a table reserved for 1 p.m. We should go.’ Harry doesn’t even say goodbye as he meanders off with their son, his wife lingering with the buggy. She takes a deep breath.
‘Well, Beth and Joe. I hope you have a lovely Christmas. It was nice to meet you,’ she says.
‘Likewise.’
Her reaction is totally mellow, calm. I will not break down here, in front of a virtual stranger. She looks up and around this corridor we find ourselves in. ‘This was really quite awful, wasn’t it?’
I nod.
‘This was Harry’s job but he left it too late to book anywhere decent so here we are,’ she says. ‘Bye, Beth. If you see Yasmin, wish her a good Christmas from me too.’ Then she heads off. I stand there slightly stunned, only flinching when I feel Grace’s hand to my shoulder.
‘Where did you go?’
I’m not really sure, if I’m honest.
‘That was Harry and his wife.’
Her eyes open widely realising what must have unfolded. We, the sisters, really need to do quieter work.
‘Are you OK? Was it weird? Shit…’
‘I think she already knew?’ I tell Grace.
‘Double shit. Did she confront you?’
‘No. But that was really random. Can we go now?’ I ask. I’m suddenly exhausted, overwhelmed, and my mind running over whether to tell Yasmin and how.
‘We might have to skedaddle anyway. Emma’s complaining to the management about crap Santa and Lucy drew an icing penis on a cookie.’
The fairy lights in the corridor suddenly crackle and Grace and I bend down to take cover. Children emerge from a corridor in floods of tears, rowing over candy canes. Through a crack in a door, I see crap Santa on his break, downing a can of Red Bull and rearranging his balls. He looks at me and puts a thumb up. Really, Santa?
Track Twenty-Four
‘Home Again’ – Michael Kiwanuka (2012)
Christmas Day. I’ve been up since 2.23 a.m. I’d like to say it was because I heard Santa coming down our chimney and we had a drink and some festive chat but no, it was all Joe. He didn’t even cry. He was doing his usual thing of just lying there gabbling at me, wanting a snackette of milk. I am now sitting in the living room and in the twilight, I pull up Will’s letter on my phone. I do this a lot; I mull over its contents and then I stare at my phone, wondering whether to message him or not. I love you too, Will. I didn’t know how to do this either. I’m sorry. But I don’t message him. I just look at those words and think about what they mean.
I think about the mornings we used to have when we’d come back from a night out, collapse on each other, end up kissing, undress each other and have slow morning sex, with all the bloody time in the world. God, I miss him. I put my fingers over the elastic in my knickers. Now? Well, it is Christmas. I try to remember what it used to feel like, all of it. Claim ownership, remember what those bits were once used for. I slip a finger over myself thinking about all the things we were good at. He was good at waking me up by spooning me and whispering things into my ear and then using his hands to feel my breasts, to kiss the back of my neck. It’s still there. I have a feeling it’s still working. I think. A warm fuzzy feeling overwhelms me.
But then I hear a gurgle. Saved or denied, I can’t quite work it out. I get up off the sofa in my hoodie and pyjamas and find Joe in our bedroom, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling. Hey there, little guy. Merry Christmas. I was unsure how to celebrate the season for him. Do I put a stocking up? I bought a fake tree but because the flat was so small, I put it flush against the wall with half the branches missing. I decorated it with tacky coloured fai
ry lights that hypnotise his little baby eyes. What I really want to give him is a father. I had secretly hoped that Will would be wrapped complete with a bow under my crappy tree, delivered via some Christmas miracle by Santa himself. But nothing. Just piles of gifts I mostly wrapped myself. Pyjamas, books, garish musical toy, hat, selection pack of chocolate for me. Random gifts from Paddy next door and others who’ve posted things on.
Am I allowed to feel angry? It’s Christmas, right? He should be here despite everything. Even though the concept of days means nothing to me anymore, this one is special. This state of limbo is just heartbreaking; for me, for Joe. He sits here in my arms looking up at me in his sleepsuit with snowflakes. I’m not completely beyond getting into the spirit. But I am deeply sorry that I can’t give him more.
I sit down on the floor with him and teach him how to rip paper. You only rip this sort of paper though. Not other paper. Like I’ll come home in a few weeks with coursework, definitely don’t rip that. I get to Paddy’s present and open it to find a T-shirt that says My Mummy Is The Best. You bloody old charmer, you. There’s also a pack of custard creams and a teapot with a note saying Tea’s Up! It makes a tear run down my face. I open up an unlabelled package too and find some books, both from Kimmie. She must have got mine then. I smile to see one dedicated to one of the coolest mums she knows. She’s also given Joe a little stuffed lion toy. I log on to social media to see people from different time zones already bestowing their greetings upon the world. An old uni mate who is now living in Sydney is living the shrimp-on-the-barbie dream and another who’s in Singapore seems to be seeing in the season with an all-you-can-eat buffet. I scroll through people’s memes and musings and wonder whether to add in a selfie. Except Will won’t be in it and I’ll have to admit to the virtual world that I’ve failed and am alone this Christmas. Instead, I take a picture of Joe, illuminated by coloured lights and my mixed box of bargain baubles, and I post it on Instagram.
What A Cracker #JoesFirstChristmas
I kiss the top of his head gently. I then have a scroll checking my notifications:
@TheMrsBanstead started following you.
Banstead. That’s Harry’s wife. I click on her most recent post, which is a photo of her and her kids in front of an impressive Christmas tree, decorations all matchy-matchy to the outfits. I read the comment:
♥ 871 likes
Good news to report on no other day than Christmas Day. I’ve thrown @TheMrBanstead out. This is his Christmas present: this post and a nice new suitcase to put his belongings in. I hope wherever he is, he’s choking on his sprouts. You see, Harry got another woman pregnant. I’ve known this for a while because he used to book their hotel dates on my company credit card but I was just waiting for the perfect moment to tell the world. He’s a cheat but he’s also a stupid cheat. I won’t mention the other woman here because I am pretty sure he’s lied to you too and I feel for you deeply. I could be dignified about this all but this is also the most fun I’ll have all year so au revoir, Harry Banstead. Though that technically means ‘until we meet again’ so I guess what I really mean is ‘until I see you again in my lawyer’s office making sure you get none of my money’. P.S. Changing my username in a few hours #HarryChristmas #twat
I sit there slightly slack-jawed, watching the like count get higher and higher. She knew. I knew she knew. But she knows everything. From Yasmin to pregnancy to Harry being a complete and utter shit. I sit up in awe at her bravado to not speak in shame about anything; this was not her doing, this was Harry and she has destroyed him on her chosen platform. I go to Yasmin’s Instagram page, where she’s still doing her yoga and sharing recipes involving chicory which, I will admit, I always thought was something you added to coffee. Maybe she’s not seen it yet. It is early. I hope she’s alright. My phone suddenly rings.
‘Shiiiiit. Did you see what the wife put on Instagram?’ says Grace when I answer.
‘Merry Christmas to you too.’
‘Yeah, that too.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Hun, the moment you told us sisters and after what happened at that grotto, we’ve all been following that drama, I think mostly out of guilt. Nothing better than a real-life soap opera. What do you think Harry’s going to do?’
I put her on speaker and then go to his Instagram page. There is nothing there but squares and squares of selfies of himself, his kids and the occasional well-made salad.
‘It’s a pretty searing damnation. I’d drink, a lot. Hang my head in shame over a tin of Celebrations.’
‘She’s sassy. She will not let him win this fight.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I’ve done my research on her. I’ve been at home with the girls. I’ve been bored.’
‘How are they? Are they enjoying their first Christmas?’
‘Mum’s spoiling them rotten downstairs while I get changed. They’ve been up since five.’
She doesn’t sound tired though; she sounds like this might be the first time she gets to enjoy Christmas in the last couple of years. And I’ll be there soon and we’ll get to play Battleship and we can drink sherry on the big sofa until one of us passes out. That might be something to look forward to.
‘You’re changing the subject though. Do you think Yasmin and Harry will end up together?’ Grace says.
‘No, no… he was vile to her…’
‘Get some gossip, that can be your present to me.’
‘I got you soap.’
‘Keep the soap.’ I hear a little girl run into the room, singing.
‘I’ll see you later.’
She hangs up and I lie down on the floor. Joe rests his head on my belly which if anything makes for a good pillow. Stroking his head, I look at the lights blinking on and off and I pick up my phone.
Merry Christmas, Yasmin. Love from me and Joe. I know you’re with family today but if you need us then just give us a bell x
I press send and see Joe looking up at the underside of my phone. I put it down. How do I make this more Christmassy for you? Should I sing? There is a light knock on the door. Joe and I both stare at it.
‘What do you think, fella?’
It could be Santa. Hopefully, not budget Santa. Or it could be your dad. Maybe he’s brought coffee. But nothing will be open so it’ll have come from the petrol station machine.
I feel my heart race as I walk towards it, Joe in my arms. Maybe this is the Christmas miracle I need. I open the door.
‘Hello.’
‘Mrs Siddiqui.’
It’s the lady from the flat upstairs. The corridors of this place are always quite chilly so over her light, patterned dress is a heavy-duty winter coat.
‘I’m sorry, did I disturb you? I know it’s early,’ I say, apologetically.
‘No, I thought you might be up. I just wanted to bring you this before you headed out for the day.’
She takes a gift out of a shopping bag.
‘I saw this for your boy in the shops a long time ago and I never knew how to give it to you. I thought Christmas might be a good time.’
I stand back from her, shocked. ‘That’s so sweet, thank you.’ I take the impeccably wrapped package.
‘And I am sorry, I walk with a cane now. Up and down, up and down all night sometimes. I must make a lot of noise. I am sorry if I wake the baby?’
I smile, thinking about that banging noise we used to hear, assuming it was her voicing her complaints.
‘Oh no, not at all. We’re always worried we wake you? The baby crying and up all hours.’
‘My love, I’m deaf. I can’t hear a thing.’
We both laugh.
‘Can I offer you anything? A cup of tea?’
She shakes her head but grabs a good wedge of Joe’s cheeks.
‘Beautiful like your mama. Can I hold him? I don’t meet a lot of babies.’
I smile and nod. ‘Of course you can. Come in, it’s cold out there. This is Joe.’
By the time I
get to Mum and Dad’s, all the clan have already descended on the house and I hear a symphony of high-pitched squeals when I ring the doorbell.
‘IT’S AUNTY BETH! IT’S AUNTY BETH!’
There’s a clamour of tiny footsteps coming down the stairs and the fuzzy outlines of red, pink and purple in the frosted window as it opens and four little faces preened to velveteen perfection look up to greet me.
‘Hello, girls! Merry Christmas! Say hello, Joe.’
The Callaghan family home has been the same house in East Sheen for the last thirty-seven years. A terraced house with giant bay windows, slap bang in the middle of one of those busy narrow streets where the need to parallel park and label your bins correctly is imperative. The house grew with the family – more daughters saw my parents knock space into the roof and out into the back. I always remember bare walls that slowly filled up with photos and prints, piles of Mum’s psychology books that now exist as part of the foundations, and Dad’s shabby old piano that he only uses to belt out Billy Joel covers and Christmas songs. Since we’ve all flown the nest and created our new homes, it’s always been a place to regroup, to eat, to Christmas.
That said, Callaghan festive times have lost some meaning in recent years. Once upon a time, turkey, togetherness and tinsel (royal blue, circa 1975) was the tradition, whereas now growing families and rival in-laws mean it has become a more mixed affair, much to my mother’s consternation. Two years ago, Christmas was effectively taken over by Mother breaking Emma’s husband’s nose and last year we lost Tom and then Grace to her travels. So now is the year where we bring some element of nostalgia and celebration back into proceedings. Callaghans, assemble. Mother has spoken; never mind Will not being here or these poor new nieces that we’re going to bombard with people and mince pies. Meg and her troop have come down from the Lakes and all of Mum’s girls will be in the same house. This doesn’t happen very often; the world may well implode from excitement.
Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner Page 28
