The Perfect Present

by Karen Swan

  ‘Babe,’ Jack said, hugging her around the shoulders and kissing the top of her head, ‘I appreciate the gesture, but any money you make is yours to spend as you see fit. It’s treat money, and it wouldn’t make a tangible difference to the sums we’re talking about anyway. It would just get swallowed up and you’d have lost out on something special for no real gain.’ He kissed her again. ‘But I do appreciate the offer. Really I do.’

  Part of Laura wanted to tell him that she’d just made in one month what he made in eight. But she didn’t. Being the principal breadwinner mattered to him above all else. It was his proof that he was providing for her, taking care of her.

  They wandered through the pedestrianized square, where the giant Christmas tree – an annual gift from Charrington’s twin town, Farsund, in Norway – was being erected in its usual spot next to the war memorial opposite WH Smith. Jack squeezed her hand that little bit tighter as they passed Costa Coffee, where a group of six or seven men – twice Jack’s size and dressed as pantomime dames – were setting up a pitch, carol singing to raise money for the local rugby club. They eyed up Laura appreciatively, instantly falling into a rendition of ‘Uptown Girl’ that made her blush and Jack increase their pace.

  They wandered through the thickening crowds without aim or deadlines, Arthur lifting his paws like a Lipizzaner horse to prevent anyone treading on them. Carphone Warehouse was heaving with teenagers pointing out to their weary, baffled parents the mobiles and packages with unlimited free texts that they wanted for Christmas. It wasn’t the relaxing leisure opportunity Jack had been hoping for, and he found the car charger and paid for it quickly whilst Laura waited outside with Arthur.

  He returned the favour a few minutes later when they passed the shoe shop. Laura ducked in on the pretext of finding some snow boots, but really she wanted to check whether they’d got any new stock in – and whether any of that stock came in red.

  They struck gold in Accessorize, buying Inuit-style slippers for Jack’s eleven-year-old niece, a Fair Isle beret and scarf for his sister, and a fake-fur hat and muffler for his mum. It was half their Christmas shopping list done at a stroke, but they stumbled on the male counterparts: Jack was sure his nephew – fourteen and carrying a licence to sulk – would want the newest PSP FIFA game, but couldn’t be sure he hadn’t already bought it, and even Jack conceded that he couldn’t buy his father another grey cashmere-blend V-neck. Three years running was quite enough.

  Laura saw several things to consider for Fee – some sheepskin-lined boots (she had to find a way of keeping her warm somehow), a shaggy black ‘rock princess’ coat in Dorothy Perkins, a pink pleather handbag – but she wouldn’t commit this soon before Christmas. She had to be absolutely sure there wasn’t something better for her that she just hadn’t seen yet. Apart from Jack’s, it was the only other present on her list, so it had to be right.

  Finally, driven by waning inspiration and budget, to Arthur’s intense delight they made the right turn he’d been waiting for and headed for the beach. The sea breeze lifted their hair up as they walked hand in hand away from the chattering crowds and towards the thickening band of gold ahead.

  As they passed the beach huts, Jack stopped. ‘Look, that’s the one they were selling,’ he said, looking up at Urchin.

  ‘It’s a wreck,’ Laura replied, doing her best appalled face and watching him closely.

  ‘Yeah, but it could be amazing,’ he said, carefully climbing the steps. ‘It wouldn’t take that much to get it back.’

  ‘I hate peach.’ She stuck her tongue out to prove the point, beginning to enjoy the charade.

  ‘Imagine how good it’d look in a really dark grey, though, with a pale accent on the trims,’ he said, cupping his hands around his face and peering in through the window. He inspected the joists and collapsing door frame, wobbling the veranda for good measure. ‘Oh well. Maybe in the next life,’ he sighed, jumping over the steps back to her.

  Laura squeezed his hand as they turned away and walked down to the water, feeling giddy with joy. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait for Christmas.

  ‘Cooeee! It’s just me!’ Fee trilled, closing the back door on the cold night behind her and rubbing Arthur’s broad head as he bounded up to say hello and investigate the glorious smells emanating from the paper bags she was carrying. ‘Where is everybody, hey?’ she asked him in a deep, silly voice as she massaged his ears. ‘Where are they? Come on. Let’s go find them. Where are they?’

  Arthur led the way and Fee followed him through the pale blue Shaker kitchen, her eyes taking in the bottle opener and unopened bottle of Marlborough on the worktop as she passed. The table was already set for three, with the chicken-printed oilcloth spread protectively over the fancy Farrow & Ball-painted tabletop. Fee knew it was for her benefit only – she had never yet eaten a curry without ruining one of the items of clothing she was wearing at the time, so Jack took no chances with the furniture. In fact, it was a small blessing that he didn’t spread newspaper over their seats too and make them all wear bibs for their Saturday-night ritual.

  ‘You’d better not be bonking!’ she hollered up the stairs as she walked past them towards the living room. ‘I’ll put X Factor on pause!’

  She burst into the sitting room, and for a second was surprised to find the TV already on, muted.

  ‘Oh no,’ she whispered, and looked behind the door. Laura was lying on the big grey sofa, Jack sitting next to her, his arms outstretched so that each hand rested upon her shoulders. Slowly, rhythmically, he was squeezing each one, first left, then right.

  Arthur gave a small whine as he saw the stiffness in his mistress’s muscles and pushed his wet nose against the hand that lay inert on her stomach, but she didn’t flinch or respond in any way. Her eyes were like marbles, her breath rapid, and a mist of sweat glossed her skin.

  Fee sank to the floor in dismay as Jack looked up at her, despair in his eyes. She watched in silence as on and on he squeezed, neither speeding up nor slowing down, just a constant pulsing beat that echoed through Laura’s rigid body, until the repetitions, slowly balancing her horror-frozen brain into an REM-like trance, began to drive into her muscles and they started to droop like warmed wax, heating up and losing tone. He let his fingers keep the slow beat for another two minutes, then laid his hands like hot towels across her shoulders. Her breathing had calmed, she was coming back – and yet her eyes were still glazed, as though part of her remained locked inside.

  Jack and Fee watched as Laura began to come to, growing more alert as she tuned into the music that was playing and the scent of the candle that was burning. She seemed puzzled momentarily to find Jack kneeling beside her. And then her face crumpled and she hid her face with her hands. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Babes, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for,’ Fee cried, flinging herself forward to the edge of the sofa and taking her friend’s hands in her own. ‘We’re the ones who are sorry. How are you feeling now? Better?’

  Laura nodded. She looked pale and her eyes still weren’t focused. She turned towards Jack. ‘Thank you.’

  Jack smiled, thinly and wearily.

  ‘What was the trigger?’ she asked, trying to remember.

  ‘The headlines came on. I couldn’t turn over the channel in time.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said, trying to soothe him.

  ‘I should have known. It’s the anniversary. They were bound to show it. I should never have turned the telly on.’

  ‘Jack, you were watching the match. You couldn’t have known they’d show it then.’

  But Jack shook her absolution away. ‘I should have thought. They always read the headlines during the ads. How bad was it, on a scale of one to ten?’

  ‘. . . Eight.’

  Jack’s mouth twitched very subtly. ‘It’s gone up again. You haven’t been there for months.’

  Laura shook her head. ‘No.’

  After a moment, he gave a small shrug. ‘Well, it’s the four-year anniver
sary. It’s a more powerful trigger. I’m sure it’ll drop back next time.’

  ‘If there is a next time,’ Fee said fiercely. ‘That might’ve been the last one, for all we know. Have a little faith. You’re getting stronger every day, aren’t you, Laur?’

  Laura nodded obediently. She and Jack both knew she had tonight to get through. She swung her legs round so that her feet touched the carpet.

  ‘Please let’s not dwell on it. I really just want to forget about it.’

  ‘Well, are you hungry?’ Fee asked quickly.

  ‘Starving,’ Laura lied.

  ‘Great! I got extra naan.’ Fee smiled. ‘Let’s eat while it’s still hot and get back to our Saturday night. Louis’ act’s going out tonight, I just know it!’ Fee looked over at Jack as they filed through the door. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’ll let us eat it on our laps?’

  His strangled expression in response made even Laura laugh, and she felt the regression lift off her entirely: Fee’s light spirit was every bit as remedial as Jack’s carefully learned medical approach.

  ‘Well, it was worth a shot!’ Fee guffawed as they trooped into the kitchen and began peeling back the foil-covered tubs, the three of them doing a fine job of pretending it was just another normal Saturday night.

  The next morning, as Old Grey sailed past the window, his wings beating with slow stateliness, his neck retracted, Laura looked towards the door. She could already hear the footsteps on the stairs, and the absence of slapping flip-flops or single-stab stilettos told her it wasn’t Fee.

  Jack knocked with his customary rat-a-tat-tat and peered round the door. Laura was wearing leggings and one of his T-shirts, sitting at her bench, goggles pushed back on her head. A sheet of gold and her jewellery torch lay in front of her.

  ‘So this is where you’re hiding out.’ He smiled, walking into the room. It was blazing with light although it was freezing outside. Arthur was lying in the middle of the floor, pools of white sunshine beaming down on him like a heat lamp. He raised a quizzical head and cocked a curious ear at Jack’s presence here. Like Laura, he hadn’t been expecting him.

  Jack leant down and kissed Laura’s pursed, closed mouth. She wondered if she still tasted of peanut-butter toast and coffee. ‘Back on crunchy?’ he asked.

  She rolled her eyes, knowing he hated the taste of both. ‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have had honey and tea.’

  ‘Not on my account, please. I’ll kiss you regardless,’ he said, sliding a hand over her breast and squeezing lightly. She wasn’t wearing a bra and he knew she’d got dressed in the dark.

  Laura smiled faintly, looking back down at the miniature silver pram she was working on – one of the charms for a christening bracelet that was due in a few weeks’ time.

  ‘How come you’re in so early?’ Jack asked, perching on the arm of the sofa. She was aware of his eyes watching for the occasional press of her nipple against the flimsy fabric.

  ‘Tides.’

  ‘I missed you.’

  ‘I just have to keep up with these orders,’ she replied, lowering her eyes again. ‘If I fall behind, I’ll never catch up again, and I can’t let the clients down. Everyone needs their pieces for Christmas.’

  She felt him watch her as she heated the gold again with a green flame, hammering it lightly at just the right moment, her brow furrowed, her mouth set in a line of concentration. Her body language was closed and remote still. It always was after an attack. She’d slept on the far side of the bed the night before, her hair – wet from her inevitable protracted shower – soaking the pillow, a sea of unarticulated despair between them both. Would it ever be over?

  Jack walked towards the far window and scanned the tide line. High water was only an hour or two away. He looked back at her.

  ‘Are you going to be working here all day, then?’

  ‘Yes. Why? Have you got to work today as well?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s Sunday, Laur. I believe in having a day of rest.’

  She kept her eyes down. ‘These wheels are a nightmare. I want them to spin.’

  ‘Is there any particular reason why they have to?’

  She shook her head. ‘I just want it to be authentic, that’s all.’

  ‘And yet again, Laura Cunningham makes life easy for herself,’ he teased.

  Laura grunted her reply.

  He heaved a sigh of defeat. ‘Well, in that case, I’d better go and get us some supplies. We’ll be stranded within the hour and that’s a prospect I could quite enjoy, as long as it involves the Sunday papers, plenty of food and you joining me at some point on the sofa. Is the milk fresh, or do you need some more?’

  ‘More, please.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll be back in twenty, then. I’ll stretch out on the sofas and you won’t even know I’m there.’

  But you always are, she thought to herself as the door clicked behind him and his footsteps faded beneath her. You always are.

  Chapter Six

  Laura sat on the train frantically texting Fee – she couldn’t get enough signal for a call – to contact Robert Blake’s office and explain about the signal failure. Her train was running forty minutes behind schedule and there was still a short walk from there. It was going to be an hour, best-case scenario, and it was already 2.20 p.m.

  She rested her cheek against the window and closed her eyes again, trying to nap – she was generally better at napping than sleeping and had learnt to rest more deeply in ten minutes than most people could in three hours – but the teenage girl opposite insisted on sharing her iPod playlist, and had turned it up so loudly that her earphones were effectively redundant.

  After several minutes, Laura gave up and stared out of the window. A cold white light was slanting across London, bleaching the pavements and forcing pedestrians and drivers to squint against it. Soon she would be out there too, her shoulders hunched, her thighs chilling quickly in the wind, away from this uncomfortable heat that was blowing hard from under the seat against her calves and forcing her to occasionally throw her legs forwards and kick the iPod girl.

  She sighed frustratedly, prompting discreet stares from her neighbours. This was the last thing she needed – another bad start on top of the first bad start. And she’d tried so hard, too, putting on the black trouser suit she always wore to funerals, trying to match him in his uniform and show a little respect.

  Eventually the train pulled in to Liverpool Street and she allowed herself to be carried along by the sea of travellers swarming towards the gates. It took three attempts to get her ticket through before she realized it was back to front, and she inhaled nervously as the double-height halls opened up before her. She still wasn’t good with crowds.

  Tucking her chin down, she looked for the exit sign and moved nimbly towards it. Just breathe.

  ‘Laura?’

  She looked up in surprise. Robert Blake was coming towards her, his overcoat splaying out behind him, like Heathcliff roaming the moors. He was more gorgeous than she’d remembered. How on earth had she ended up slamming a door on him?

  ‘H-hi!’ she stammered. ‘I thought we were meeting at the Guildhall.’

  He nodded. ‘I got your message. I’ve got a meeting in an hour. It just seemed easier to see you here. It’s just as quick from here back to my office.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about—’

  ‘It’s fine. Hardly surprising that the trains fall apart at the first dip in temperature.’ He stared down at her, his hands on his hips. ‘I barely recognized you, actually. You look so different to last time.’

  ‘Oh yes. Well I thought I’d better try to blend in.’

  ‘It was the red shoes that gave you away. Not many of those around here.’

  Laura looked down at her red pumps, feeling conspicuous. They stood awkwardly in silence for a second, busy commuters rushing past them with irritated expressions and pursed lips.

  ‘Well, why don’t we get a drink over here?’ he said, motioning t
owards a small café.

  ‘Sure,’ Laura replied, noticing a striking redhead do a double-take as she passed by. Not that he seemed to notice. He seemed genuinely oblivious to his looks and the effect they had on people.

  They walked into a tiny coffee house with four round tables, chocolate-brown walls and plumes of steam decorating the air. Behind the counter, a stocky barista was practically tap-dancing the beans underfoot to grind them as he flamboyantly put together exotic coffee combinations that had precious little to do with cocoa beans, hot water and milk.

  Robert ordered for them – espresso for him, cappuccino for her – and they found seats towards the back.

  Laura cleared her throat as Robert took off his coat and laid it on the spare chair. ‘Look, Mr Blake, before we go any further, I want to apologize again for the way I behaved the other d—’

  ‘No,’ Robert replied firmly, his gold-flecked eyes holding hers. ‘You were absolutely right. I was out of line. I should never have gone behind your back like that. I don’t blame you at all for how you reacted.’ He gave a tiny smile. ‘In fact, I rather respected it. And please call me Rob.’

  Laura’s face showed her surprise and she looked down at her hands on the table. The waiter set down their coffees. They each had a tiny chocolate on the saucer, and Rob held his out towards her questioningly. ‘If I have any understanding of women at all . . . ?’ He raised a speculative eyebrow. ‘We could call it a peace offering.’

  Laura cracked a smile. ‘Fine. Thank you.’

  He heaved a sigh of relief as the tension between them slackened, and Laura took a sip of her coffee without breaking up the chocolate-dusted heart sitting on the foam.

  ‘So,’ she said quietly, checking with her finger that there wasn’t any residue on her top lip. ‘Seven charms from seven people. Who are they all?’

  ‘Me, Cat’s sister Olive, her best friend Kitty, her ex-boyfriend Alex, her friend from university Sam, her business partner-stroke-personal trainer Orlando and her boss Min – Cat works three afternoons a week at an art gallery in Holland Park.’