The Starter Home

by Bryony Fraser

‘Your dad does love your mum’s trifle.’

  ‘And no one wants to ruin Christmas for him, do they?’ We were nearly laughing. ‘So.’

  ‘Yup. So I’ll probably head off last thing on Christmas Eve. You?’

  ‘Afternoon, I reckon. Mum’ll want us to do the carol singing thing, although William’s nearly old enough to take over from our caterwauling. Give him a year or so and it’ll be tear-jerking renditions of “Away in a Manger” for everyone. And we’ll be off the hook, thank god.’

  ‘I don’t know, I always thought you four enjoyed the carol singing. You all complained about it, but you sounded pretty good.’

  We did complain, but of course we loved it. The four of us, singing together in harmony, bickering happily – of course we loved it. I’d forgotten that Jack would know that.

  ‘Yeah. It’s alright.’

  ‘Well – I guess we’ll see each other before then?’ I laughed, and Jack smiled. We said goodnight and headed to bed, twelve feet away from each other, either side of our thin bedroom wall.

  At the school’s Saturday night staff Christmas party in the upstairs room of the Queen’s Head, Miks had ended up on the decks, and was scratching away at The Waitresses’ ‘Christmas Wrapping’. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, but I think I’ll miss this one this year, played over and over until Benni went up and took his headphones away from him. Maybe I will skip this one, I thought. Maybe I’ll head to Berlin early, and sit in my new apartment eating bratwurst all on my own.

  ‘You look like you’re feeling sorry for yourself,’ shouted Kat at my elbow, over the music. ‘We’ve got a lot to celebrate, remember? We got Chuck fired! You’re moving to glamorous Europe!’

  ‘I think I’m allowed to feel a little bit sorry for myself,’ I shouted back. Given my mood, I decided it was best not to dwell on the sight of several couples slow dancing to Eartha Kitt on the dancefloor and Benni smooching her wife under the mistletoe. Added to which, I had my younger sister as my plus one. Liz had her work party tonight with Adam and I felt too pathetic to rope in anyone else. Besides, Kat was usually great fun at these events. But tonight, surrounded by romance and Christmas and songs about couples by the fireplace, and couples in the snow, and couples returning from war to be with one another, I just couldn’t hack it. I wanted to be at home with a fleece-lined blanket and a cup of hot chocolate that was ten per cent marshmallows, ninety per cent Kahlúa.

  ‘I know that face,’ Kat shouted. ‘It’s your blanket-time face.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I shouted back.

  ‘It’s when you’re having emotional feelings about your blanket and your sofa and your TV. I know you. I might be younger than you but I have sharper eyes.’

  I rolled my eyes at her. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Don’t you whatever me, old lady. I’m here to give you a good time, and a good time is what we’re going to have. Your year has sucked, sis, but let’s not have Christmas go the same way, yeah? Don’t forget: I’m the boss now.’

  I tried to smile at her. ‘I appreciate what you’re saying,’ I yelled over the music, ‘but you don’t have to face the jolly, goodwill prospect of’ – the music stopped, leaving dead silence in the air just in time for me to continue bellowing – ‘dying alone.’ The whole room turned to look at me in horror. I looked at Kat. ‘Oh good, Father Christmas did get my letter after all.’

  Kat turned to a frozen waiter beside us and picked up two more drinks from his tray. ‘Look. Christmas party. Like this?’ she said, and knocked one of them back in a single gulp.

  Who was I to refuse?

  I was still home before midnight – at which time I was worried that I’d fully transform into a mince pie – and was surprised to find Jack still up, on the sofa, still in his coat and shoes.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hello. How come you’re up?’

  He leant back against the sofa. ‘It was Henderson’s Christmas party tonight.’

  ‘Snap. Ours ran out of canapés, though, so I thought I might as well come home.’

  ‘Our Christmas tree caught fire.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No. But I sort of wish it had.’ He kicked off his shoes. ‘It was pretty rubbish. Half the team are pissed off that I get to go to New York, the other half are angling for my job and trying to butter up the investors.’ He looked almost pleased when he added, ‘And Jessica doesn’t talk to me anymore, which makes working together difficult to say the least.’

  I tried not to feel happy about the last part. ‘I’m sorry it was so bad.’

  Jack rubbed his beard. ‘It wasn’t a disaster. I just realised I’d rather be here than there. And everyone was already so drunk they didn’t notice me sneaking out. It was strangely liberating.’

  I took off my coat and shoes and dumped my keys on the table. ‘I know what you mean. It’s nice to be home. At the end of a night out, I mean.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Jack agreed, his eyes closing. I sat down beside him on the sofa. He opened his eyes and took my hand. ‘It is nice to be home.’

  I stopped breathing – holding his hand felt just like coming home. Just as I was about to relax into it, Jack said, ‘Nope, no, not helping,’ stood up, walked into our bedroom and shut the door. ‘Good night,’ he called through the wall.

  He’s right, I thought, that wasn’t helping at all.

  ‘Right then.’

  ‘Right. Happy Christmas for tomorrow. Say hi to your family from me.’

  ‘Yeah. You too. Happy Christmas.’

  I had my bags packed – a small bag for my stuff, and eight other bags full of gifts for my parents, sisters, and various children and tagalongs. Jack would pack later, then head up to his dad’s place.

  Jack bobbed his head at me as I made my way out the door, bags tugging me back and catching on everything. Eventually I got out, made it to the bus stop and crammed my way onto a bus. I thought I’d feel better about Christmas with my family – the food, the fun, the games, the company – but I felt flat. I felt sad for Jack, spending it with his distant dad and his pernickety stepmum, and I felt sad for our flat, so beautifully decorated and with no one to enjoy it on that day of all days. I tried to shrug it off, and by the time I got to the stop nearest my parents’ house, at least it felt like my guts were no longer in my throat. This would be lovely. It was quality family time that I needed. Time to decompress, time to think about what was really important to me.

  Some good old-fashioned family time.

  THIRTY-SIX

  By 4 p.m. on Christmas Day I was ready to fire myself into the white-hot heart of the sun. Mum was crying that no one would like her cooking – the same Christmas meal she cooked every year, which we invariably wolfed with swelling bellies for Christmas Day and the days after – Dad was tipsy in front of the Christmas tree, shouting out instructions to the board game Kat, Esther, Ethan and William were scrapping over. He may only have been little, but William already seemed to know that cunning and physical strength were what won a board game in the Lewis household. Ava was trying to calm everything, bouncing gently between kitchen and living room to try and rescue everyone. And everything felt like it had a Jack-shaped hole in.

  I needed to escape, the unforgivable Christmas Day sin. But I figured, if ever there was a single year in my life where I might get away with doing that, it was probably this one. I couldn’t face telling them, though, and the endless discussion and comforting and boxing up of food that would entail. Instead, I grabbed a Christmas card, bent it backwards, and wrote on the blank side, Just going back to the flat for a bit, see you later xxx. I tucked the card against the front door handle and pulled my coat, scarf, and hat from the pegs; then I was out the door and away.

  The walk took less than an hour; the streets were almost deserted. It was turning dark, too late for families to be taking a Christmas stroll, so I walked in silence. I’d never seen London like this before. It felt like it was just for me. Even walking up our road made me feel better, and by the time
I had the key in the lock, I realised that this was where I really wanted to be. At home, with peace and quiet: safe, warm, comfortable.

  Opening the main door I could smell turkey – ah, lucky Upstairs Jan. But when I opened our front door, the smell was even stronger. Stepping in, I saw a single tray rotating in the microwave, and a single cardboard wrapper on the counter top. ‘Luxury Individual Turkey Dinner’. I heard the toilet flush in our bathroom, saw Jack’s slippers kicked beneath the coffee table, and realised who the dinner was for.

  Without even thinking, I leapt behind the armchair in the corner of the room and crouched down. I’d wait here until he left the room again, or the flat, or went to bed. I didn’t want him to know that I knew he was here, on his own. I heard him walk closer, hesitate, then continue on into the kitchen. The microwave pinged, he popped the door, then I heard him open the cutlery drawer, fish about, and bring it all back to the sofa.

  ‘I’ve got two forks, if you want some.’

  I jumped. Then slowly stood up from my back-breaking crouch, as casually as I could.

  ‘Oh! Hi, Jack! Hey. Just …’

  ‘Come and sit down.’

  I did. He passed me a fork, and I took a mouthful of turkey, dark with gravy. ‘How did you know I was there?’ He reached up with his fork and tapped my antlers. ‘Dammit.’ Jack got up and brought back a bag of bread, and we made dripping sandwiches and ate in silence for a while. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’

  ‘I just … You know I love my family, but I just … wanted to be here, I suppose. This is my home. Was my home.’

  ‘It’s still your home, Zo.’

  ‘Not for long, though.’ We ate in silence for a while. ‘So what’s your story?’

  He shrugged. ‘I never planned to go. I just didn’t want you feeling sorry for me. I’ve always been curious to know what it’s like to spend Christmas alone—’

  ‘Oh, so you are Tiny Tim. Well, I’ve ruined that for you now.’

  ‘Nah, it’s actually been pretty shit.’

  ‘Yeah. I can imagine.’

  ‘Still. Christmas Day’s not over yet. Baileys?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  He filled two glasses with ice then sloshed in the Baileys. We found a deck of cards in the drawer of the coffee table, and started up a game of Cheat. When the Baileys ran out, we switched to the sloe gin Kat had given me, that I’d known better than to leave unsupervised in a house with my family.

  At some point, I got a text from Ava. You ok? We calmed Mum down and she just wants to check you’re not in a ditch somewhere. Love you sis xxxxxx

  I wrote back, surprised at how long it took me to type, suddenly, and how sneakily those letters were leaping about. All fine, at the flat, Jack here too, safe and sound, see you soon, love you tooo xxxxx

  She sent me seventeen smiley faces in reply. I’d deal with that another time.

  Right now, Jack was suggesting Monopoly. I laughed and said, ‘How about Charades instead?’ That led to us trying to make eggnog – five different versions, at least – then we were making tinsel headdresses, then we were telling cracker jokes. And then we were kissing.

  It felt so different from the kiss in the summer. There was no holding back. There was no confusion. We kissed in the lounge, then in the doorway to our bedroom, then we gave up and kissed on the floor of the doorway, unbuttoning and unzipping and laughing and kissing again. It felt like every Christmas present I’d ever received, rolled into one and topped with a giant shiny bow. As I flung my bra away over one shoulder, Jack looked up at me and said, ‘What would Father Christmas think?’ before I stopped his mouth with a kiss and we didn’t do much talking after that.

  Seven a.m., and my mouth was dry. We were in bed; it was so warm, Jack’s hand safe on my back, my feet pressed against his. My head was throbbing, but I didn’t regret last night. It was good. Better than good. A final Christmas present to each other. That was the best way to think of it, wasn’t it? But I didn’t know if I could look Jack in the eye and tell him that. I didn’t know how to say any of what I was feeling right now. I slid out of bed, trying not to wake Jack.

  He looked so right, lying there. In my bed. In our bed. But the situation was what it was. Our paperwork was written up, my new job contract was signed, my plane ticket was waiting for me. I’d made my choices, and all I could do now was stick to them. We’d spent this year trying not to completely destroy one another and, for both of our sakes, I couldn’t stay in this marriage, however I felt about him. I’d hurt him so much. Even if I’d finally had my relationship demons exorcised by my magical sister, it was time to set Jack free so he could start something good, something new, with someone else. Me leaving, with no fuss, no tears, just this good memory between us, felt like the best gift I could give him.

  In the living room, I pulled my clothes on, then my hat, scarf and coat, and slipped out of the door.

  The walk back to my parents’ was miserable. Dawn-rising children were everywhere, playing with their new toys, while my pounding head was thumping harder and harder with each step. Terrible. I also knew I’d have to deal with Mum and Dad, which was even worse.

  Kat, wrapped in Mum’s fluffy purple dressing gown, let me in, gleefully hissing, ‘You are in so much trouble.’ I took the long walk to Mum’s kitchen, where she was standing with a cup of tea in her hand, and a deep frown on her face.

  But when she saw me, her face lit up. ‘Ah, Zoe, you are back! My dear daughter, how was your Christmas Day with your husband? Your first one!’

  I looked at Ava, who mouthed Sorry over Mum’s shoulder.

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘Your father and I are just sorry we didn’t think about this already – of course you would want to spend it with Jack, just the two of you. But you should have said! Of course we would not have minded that, after this year you have had, you would want to be together. Your father and I were the same, of course, when we first got married, we could not stop—’

  ‘MUM!’ Kat yelled. I winced and clutched my head.

  ‘Mum, he’s not my husband.’

  ‘Silly girl, of course he is.’

  ‘No, I mean, yes, he’s my husband, but that wasn’t why I went.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I didn’t know he was going to be at the flat when I went there.’

  ‘So you are not calling off all this ridiculous divorce nonsense?’

  ‘Mum! I thought you supported the divorce!’ I noticed too late Ava’s wide eyes and Esther’s frantic neck-slashing stop-now-and-save-yourself actions behind Mum. ‘No. I don’t know, Mum. I don’t know what we’re doing. I’ve got my new job, I’m leaving the country, and … and …’ I burst into tears. I’d thought all my crying was done, but the combination of my hangover, Mum’s misunderstanding that we were back together again – and how happy that misconception had made her – and my own confused feelings dissolved me into a teenager again, Mum on one side, Dad, coming down from upstairs, on the other. They stood with me like that for a long time, until my crying slowed and Dad said he’d best put the kettle on for another pot for us all.

  Eventually, I was tucked up on the sofa under one of Mum’s heavy blue blankets, and brought tea, Christmas pudding and a turkey sandwich like I was a sickly child. Ava came down and put on The Sound of Music. It was lovely. This was a hangover cure that should somehow be patented: copious weeping, hugs from my parents, the von Trapps and all the Christmas food you could imagine (and then a bit more, in case Mum suspected you weren’t enjoying her cooking). But by the evening I knew that, soon, I had to face up to what I had to do.

  Nothing had changed. Our Christmas Day had been great – maybe it was even my favourite Christmas Day, if you were still allowed to rank them at the age of thirty – but that couldn’t wipe away the year we’d had. It couldn’t undo our decision. We had to keep going forwards. Marriage hadn’t worked for us, and although
that fact might keep on breaking my heart until I died in my sleep in my nineties, it couldn’t change the truth of it.

  And my heart was still breaking, even under all the layers of turkey and cold roast potatoes and ginger jam roll and cheese and mince pies. It was breaking into pieces, until I was amazed the shards of it weren’t poking through my skin.

  Two days later, Dad sat next to me and, as gently as he could, reminded me that our flat would have tenants in a few days, and unless I wanted to lose everything in there, I’d probably need to do a bit of packing. ‘It won’t hurt you to get sorted, ready for Germany, too, love. You can give me a call when you’re ready, and I’ll come and give you a lift back here with everything.’ I wasn’t ready to face Jack, I didn’t imagine I’d ever be, but he was due to fly out in only a few days and I knew I had to see him before he went, that both of us would need to sort through our things, divide them up, make claims on all that furniture and kitchenware and the books and films we thought we’d share for the rest of our lives.

  So I finally left the comfort of my parents’ house and headed back to the flat. The buses were running again, and in front of me was the same girl from the bus to Ava’s, months before. She was with someone new, who was apparently trying to get his whole arm down her top. That’s what happens, I thought. You move on, and keep moving on until you find someone compatible. Maybe this was her compatible one. Maybe this was the guy she’d stay with forever. I rang the bus bell and stepped to the door, and found myself smiling at the girl. She popped her bubble gum and smiled back, before smirking at her boyfriend’s attempts at accessing her bra. By the time I was outside the bus, under the bus shelter, I could see that they were arguing. Not this one either then.

  No turkey smells greeted me at the flat this time. It was cold and dark. I called out, but Jack didn’t reply. He wasn’t on the sofa, in the kitchen, in bed, or in the bathroom. Going back into the kitchen, I noticed the worktop: a full breakfast for two, laid out, stone cold and decaying. Croissants and coffee, bacon and eggs, juice that now had a few clumps of mould floating in it, clearly left over from my Boxing Day escape. To one side lay a parcel, bearing a huge luggage label with my name on. I didn’t know what else to do but open it. The gnawing pit in my stomach became a terrible, guilty abyss.