‘Ellen, it’s me. Meet me up the café. Be there in ten.’
Vivienne reread the nine lines once more, before grabbing her shopping bag and purse.
‘Shan’t be long, Bob. I’ll take you out again when I get back. Be good.’
Her sturdy walking boots barely touched the pavement as she sped up Mendip Road and rounded the corner into Cotswold Road, where Shaun Lewis was tinkering under the bonnet of his Fiesta.
‘All right, Mrs Lane? Bit chilly, innit?’ He clapped his hands together, summoning warmth and exhaling vapour with every word.
‘’Tis, love.’
‘I thought you were looking a bit thin, tell you the truth, Mrs Lane.’ He sniffed.
‘Really?’ She ran her hand over her flat tum and wished, as ever, that she could put on a few pounds.
‘Yeah, but then I realised it’s cos you haven’t got Mrs Nye with you. You two are usually joined at the hip and together you make a right hefty unit!’
‘Shaun!’ She tutted and laughed. He’d always been witty, that boy, even in primary school, when he and Emma had first become friends. ‘I’m off to meet her now, in fact. I won’t tell her that mind. How’s your mum?’ she added as she rushed past him, in too much of a hurry to stop and chat.
‘She’s all right, driving me mad, though. S’always the same, she gets in a right tizz over Christmas. I keep telling her, it’s only one day, just a roast. A few extra spuds, an extended EastEnders and a bit of tinsel. How hard can it be?’ He sighed, wiping the oil from the end of his fingers with an already dirty rag.
‘I’ll tell her you said that.’ Vivienne chuckled. ‘Give her my love!’ she shouted over her shoulder, waving in the air behind her head.
She had a sudden picture of a whimpering Emma coming home one afternoon with her shoes and socks wet and covered in mud; she could only have been about seven. Shaun had dared her to walk on the frozen Malago and of course she’d gone straight through the ice. Vivienne smiled at the memory. He was a cheeky boy, that Shaun Lewis. He was also a kind boy and one with a heart of gold, who on more than one occasion, had been there for Emma to lean on, guiding her, as she stumbled home in her teenage years with a broken heart and a face wet with tears, as her current, temporary heartbreak sent her spiralling into sadness. She would then retreat to the furthest recess of her bedroom, only to surface when her mood had lifted, which usually took about three days.
‘Thanks Shaun for bringing her home,’ Vivienne would coo, as the boy who lived down the road consoled Emma with a hug and a promise that it would all turn out right in the end.
Stamping her feet on the mat as was her habit, mindful of the muddy residue that might be clinging to her boots, Vivienne pushed on the door of Pedro’s, their favourite café, and slid into her seat. The smell of bacon crisping and the lingering scent of cooking oil mixed with freshly brewed coffee was most comforting. This was where she and Ellen met to chat when she wasn’t working her shifts in Asda and Ellen wasn’t at home doing the books for Trev’s painting and decorating business.
A couple of lads wearing paint-spattered white overalls over jeans and aged, holey sweatshirts were tucking into gargantuan fried breakfasts. Shiny fried eggs, fat sausages and mountains of beans fought for space among slices of black pudding, hash browns and strips of bacon. Their plates were so crowded, the requisite toast had to sit separately on side plates, next to their mugs of tea. The men ate with their heads down, staring doggedly at the plates and gripping their cutlery with silent determination, as if getting through the feast was a job in itself.
Vivienne sat with her back to them, in her usual spot, keeping her eyes on the large picture window. A peeling vinyl transfer dominated the far corner of the glass, depicting pizza, spaghetti and milkshakes spiked with stripy, colour-coordinated straws. She thought about the envelope nestling in her bag that had winged its way from the other side of the world. Her girl had drifted from job to job, acquiring friends and hobbies as she went: dog groomer, reiki healer, aromatherapist, life coach… The list was long. Although how she hoped to coach someone else when her own life was littered with unfinished jobs and so lacking in direction was quite beyond Vivienne. As usual, though, she’d chosen not to say anything.
Emma’s unique way of looking at the world, her bouncy enthusiasm and disregard for convention, had thrilled Vivienne when she was younger and she’d convinced herself that this fearless free-spiritedness would lead to great things. But with every passing year she found herself hoping that her daughter might find a little stability, a routine, a way of life that Vivienne could relate to: a job, a permanent home, even children. She smiled at the idea but then quickly reminded herself that Emma was now thirty-one and unlikely to change her ways any time soon.
Aaron’s wife of eight years had made her views on motherhood quite clear. With a small measure of sadness, Vivienne had long ago consigned the kids’ stuffed toys, family heirlooms of a sort, to a box in the loft, not wanting to jinx her dreams of becoming a granny.
‘How long are you going to be away for?’ This was the question she had asked four years ago with false brightness to her voice. She often pictured that chilly November morning as Emma spoke of her plans to go and see the world. Vivienne could recall the detail: Emma, perched cross-legged on the chair like a yogi, wiggling her ringed toes while daintily eating yoghurt from the pot and licking the foil lid. To Vivienne, the idea of leaving the streets that contained everything and everyone she had ever known was quite alien. She felt a mixture of envy and fear at the prospect.
‘Don’t know,’ had come the truthful if unnerving reply, followed by a shrug of Emma’s tanned, tattooed shoulders.
Vivienne looked again at the rain-spattered window of the café and sighed; she finally knew the answer, confirmed via nine lines printed on a piece of fancy card. Forever. That was how long Emma was going to be away for. She was never coming home.
Vivienne swallowed the emotion that gathered in her throat and scanned the shoppers, who even at this early hour were weighed down with grocery bags in the grey gloom of the dark, winter morning. Their stooped forms cast grainy shadows up the graffitied walls, concrete lampposts and shabby shopfronts. She watched the procession of young women, without make-up, hair a little mussed and with scarves slung over worn coats, and thought back to herself at their age.
It was a lovely time in her life. On mornings like this, she used to drop Emma and Aaron at Parson Street Primary and then pop to the shops on the way home, stocking up on milk, bread for sandwiches and something for supper. That something was usually coated in breadcrumbs and accompanied by peas. Her repertoire might have been small, but she was unfailingly diligent; the kids never went without a cooked meal, come rain or shine. Just as her mum had done for her.
She would then meet up with Ellen and they’d while away the afternoon chatting over the laundry, tackling the tangle of weeds in their gardens or planting flowers and mowing grass. There were various hobbies, too, that consumed them for a bit – scrapbooking, crochet, Sudoku, aerobics – discovered, obsessed over and then discarded, the chief pleasure being in doing them together. It always made her chuckle when she stumbled across a box full of bits and bobs that had been her passion before being consigned to the attic where all her hobbies and fads went to die. It was the shadow of these shared memories, lurking on street corners and along every road she trod that made the place so special.
‘What’ll it be, Viv? Or are you waiting for her ladyship?’ Pedro, the cook, waiter and proprietor interrupted her thoughts and wiped the already immaculate tabletop with a soft cloth before sliding it back into the pocket of his striped half-pinny.
‘I’d better wait, love.’ She smiled. It felt nice to share this little connection, this admission of Ellen’s sometimes pushy nature, with the wonderfully scented Pedro. He always gave off a floral whiff. ‘A gentleman should be well groomed. Expensive cologne, my one extravagance,’ he’d trilled way back in the summer. She knew, however, that this
was a lie. He had lots of extravagances.
‘How’s my friend Bob today?’ He stepped back, hands on hips.
‘Getting older, like me. But he’s good company.’
‘Also like you.’ Pedro gave a quick bow of his head. He was a flatterer, for sure.
‘Don’t know about that.’ She felt her cheeks flush, as unaccustomed to and suspicious of compliments now as she had always been.
‘They are the best friends though. I still miss my Sheba.’
‘How long is it now?’ She kept her voice low, knowing that losing a pet was as hard as losing a family member; the fact that they had four legs instead of two didn’t make it any less painful.
‘Nearly two years.’ He blinked.
Vivienne shook her head and gave a sympathetic smile. She couldn’t bear to think about losing Bob.
‘Talking of best friends…’ He nodded towards the door and headed back to the counter as Ellen tumbled in like a rowdy mob, banging the door against its frame and filling the room with her loud sigh.
‘This better be important. I was bleaching my moustache and I only had it on half the time – means I’ll have to do it again in a fortnight.’
‘I don’t think it works like that,’ she pointed out.
Pedro waved from behind the faux-wood laminate counter where the till sat. Alongside him was a three-tiered glass display cabinet that held a plump array of delicious-looking fare. There was always a wide variety of cakes to choose from, as long as what you desired was vanilla in colour, stuffed with sultanas or raisins and sprinkled with sugar.
‘What’ll it be with your coffees, ladies? Scones, teacakes, Chelsea buns?’
‘I think teacake today?’ Vivienne looked at her friend.
Ellen shrugged her arms from her padded anorak and nodded. ‘Yep, we’ll split one. And one from the front, mind! None of the rubbish you keep at the back.’ She pointed to the shelf, aware that yesterday’s cakes were hidden from view; the fresh ones were always propped up at the front, the better to tempt less savvy customers.
Vivienne’s shoulders tensed with a familiar mix of embarrassment and envy. She frequently cringed at her friend’s outspoken demands but at the same time wished she had the confidence to speak up herself. Her life might have been very different if she had. Ellen had always been the mouthpiece for them both. Even all those years ago at school she would call out any injustice, whether the perpetrator was a pupil or a member of staff. She was fearless.
Pedro smiled. ‘Would I dream of giving you anything but the best, Lady Ellen?’
Ellen ignored him and took her seat at the narrow table opposite her friend.
‘Trev all right?’ Vivienne was fond of Ellen’s quiet husband.
‘He’s fine, but we haven’t got time for small talk. Come on, let’s have it…’ Ellen laid her hands flat on the table, as if about to start a séance, and stared at her friend.
Vivienne took a deep breath. ‘I got a letter from Emma.’
‘Up the duff?’ Ellen fired back.
‘No!’
‘Lesbian?’ She tried again.
‘What? No!’ Vivienne shook her head.
‘Well that’s me down a fiver,’ Ellen huffed. ‘I made a bet with Trev.’
Vivienne ignored her friend’s crass admission. ‘She’s getting married.’ It felt strange to say it out loud.
‘Your Emma, getting married?’ Ellen shrieked.
‘Course “my Emma”! What other Emma would I be talking to you about?’
‘Good point.’ Ellen considered this. ‘So this is the “big news”? Did she phone?’
‘No, I got a letter. An invite, to be more exact.’
‘Well I never, that’s a bit out of the blue.’ Ellen looked skywards.
‘Tell me about it. I feel quite shocked, a bit upset,’ Vivienne admitted.
‘I’ll bet. I thought she was travelling or whatever, seeing the world with nothing more than a knapsack, a flower for her hair and a change of pants?’
Vivienne shook her head at her friend’s all-too-accurate assessment.
Ellen wasn’t done. ‘I thought she wanted to be a free spirit, go about eating toffee…’
‘It’s tofu,’ Vivienne corrected her.
Ellen carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Roaming mountains and swimming oceans, becoming one with Mother Nature. That was about the nub of it, right?’
Vivienne wished she didn’t remember it quite so clearly. ‘That’s right.’
‘Well, getting married doesn’t exactly fit the bill. I mean, she could have stayed here and married whats’isface.’
‘Fergus.’
‘Yes, him. We liked him, didn’t we?’
Vivienne nodded. They had indeed liked the arty, bespectacled Fergus, a strict vegan with a passion for hillwalking and tattoos. He ran a website, something to do with graffiti art.
‘She said she turned him down because she was keen to see the world and escape the shackles of domesticity, escape the ordinary!’ Ellen scoffed.
Vivienne thought about this. ‘Yes, but maybe the shackles are a little easier to bear and the world a little less ordinary when you’ve got glorious sunshine for half the year and good New Zealand air to breathe.’
A delivery lorry tooted its horn, applied its wheezy brakes and fired thick black smoke out of its exhaust pipe, as if to emphasise her point.
‘Ah, so it wasn’t domesticity she was raging against, just domesticity here in Bedminster.’
‘Apparently so.’
Both women looked out at the grey day. Drizzle slid down the window and pooled against the soft, blackened wood of the frame.
‘Who’s she marrying then?’ Ellen slapped the table impatiently.
Vivienne pulled the envelope from her bag, slid the stiff card out of its hiding place, then slowly pushed it across the tabletop. She watched as her friend took it into her fingers and held it at arm’s length, mouthing the words as she read them in her head.
‘Well I never. It’s a fancy invite.’ She flexed the card against her palm, speaking at a volume a little louder than Vivienne was comfortable with. ‘Quality.’
She nodded. It was.
‘So who is this man?’ Ellen scanned the ornate lettering again.
‘As it says…’ Vivienne pointed at the invite. ‘Mr Michael McKinley, apparently.’
‘Here we are, ladies.’ Pedro interrupted them, placing two tall glass mugs on little saucers in front of them. Then he hurried back to the counter to retrieve two side plates with half a toasted teacake and a little rectangular foil-packed pat of butter on each, and a couple of knives rolled inside white paper napkins.
‘Thank you, Pedro.’
‘Thanks.’
They waited for him to retreat, sipping their drinks before their fingers fiddled with the foil flaps of the butter pats and they took the knives in their palms.
‘She’s never mentioned him?’ Ellen asked.
‘No. Not a word. Last I heard she was with the Vietnamese chap she’d met in Auckland.’
‘Hai.’
‘Yep, that was it. Hai. And she was with him only nine months ago, so this latest development all feels very sudden.’
‘I should cocoa,’ Ellen agreed, tucking her chin against her chest to reveal a sag to her jaw.
Vivienne cut the butter into little blobs, which she then placed at uniform intervals across the surface of the teacake, as if each blob had an area to mark. She waited for them to melt a little before spreading the butter thinly all over.
‘So who is this Michael McKinley?’ Ellen asked before taking a huge bite.
‘I don’t know! You can keep asking, but you know as much as I do. I opened the envelope and called you, that’s it.’ Vivienne stirred her coffee. The two had always bickered in this way.
‘Must admit, I’m a little worried, Viv. You know what she’s like!’
‘Oh God, don’t.’
They laughed, both recalling Fergus’s replacement and the
way Emma had gushed about him one morning as they were drinking coffee in her kitchen.
‘I’ve met a man! He’s lovely,’ Emma had enthused, wriggling excitedly in her chair.
‘So tell us all about him. Where did you meet, what does he do?’ Vivienne had asked, ignoring Ellen’s sly smile.
‘Well, we met online, he lives in Croatia, he’s a writer, not published or anything, but he has this great idea for a book, he’s been researching it for years, it’s going to be massive!’
Again, Vivienne had studiously avoided catching her friend’s eye.
‘He’s a bit older than me – fifty – but age is just a number, right?’
Vivienne sighed, remembering her relief when the Croatian bestseller had stopped calling.
Ellen picked up the invite once again. ‘December twelfth. Bit close to Christmas, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but it’s different over there, isn’t it? They’re all topsy-turvy with the seasons, so they can’t have proper Christmas, can they? It’ll be hot, more like summer holidays than Christmas. I can’t imagine having a bit of turkey and my roasties while in a bikini.’
‘Oh please, Viv, I don’t think any of us wants to imagine that!’ Ellen pulled a face.
‘Charming.’ Vivienne smiled at her friend, who had always been of a bigger build. Her own body hadn’t really changed over the years; she was still slender and straight, and even if her skin now sat more loosely on her muscles and those muscles were a little slack in places, she was still in good shape.
She continued, ‘I think you need snow and dark nights, a real fire and fat Santas for it to feel like Christmas. And all our little traditions, like queuing up in Marks and Sparks for your special teatime bits, digging out the grotty tinsel from the loft and keeping the tin of Quality Street on your lap while you watch the Queen’s speech.’ She looked into the middle distance, as if picturing just that. ‘That’s Christmas for me, always has been.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, but maybe we need a change. Are we going to go then, or what?’ Ellen took another bite of her teacake.
I Won't Be Home For Christmas Page 2
