One Day in December: The Christmas read you won't want to put down

by Shari Low

  Bernadette had always thought the chance of that had passed her by. Sarah’s joy convinced her otherwise.

  Not that she wanted another relationship. No way. Not for a long, long time. Maybe ever. She’d be happy just going to sleep at night, content and relaxed, not on tenterhooks or seething with unspoken disgust for the man lying next to her.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Sarah asked her gently.

  ‘Like I want to forget the whole thing,’ Bernadette answered truthfully, ‘but don’t worry, I won’t.’

  Listening, Sarah reached over for a spoon from the draining board, and took a chunk of the cake, saying nothing because it had all been said. Bernadette had shared everything with her friend over the years. Sarah had never judged her for staying, but always made it clear that she would do anything she could to help her leave. Sarah could sense that she was delighted that day had finally come.

  ‘Want some?’ Sarah asked, pointing to the sponge.

  Bernadette would normally be first in the queue to join her, but not today. Didn’t have the stomach for it.

  ‘So what do we do first?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘That’s the problem, I don’t know. Any of the things could tip him off, so I don’t know where to start. I need to tell the kids, but either of them could tell him. I need to take my share of our savings – I’ve set up my own account that he knows nothing about – but if he looks at the online banking he’ll notice. And I need to move everything I love out of the house, but what if he comes home at lunchtime and there I am, trying to manoeuvre my mother’s standard lamp into the back of your van?’

  ‘Your mother’s standard lamp will stick out the back window, but we’ll get it in somehow,’ Sarah retorted, trying to diffuse Bernadette’s rising panic with humour. It wasn’t working. ‘Okay, breathe. Just breathe. Let’s think about this rationally. Let’s pack up the stuff from your wardrobes, and anything else that isn’t in plain sight, and take it to my house first.’

  Sarah had convinced her to go stay with her and Piers at first. Bernadette was fairly sure it was so that she wouldn’t crumble and return to Kenneth, but her friend’s fears were unfounded. Once she got out of there, nothing would ever bring her back. This was the house that she’d brought the kids up in, that she’d lived in for thirty years, but she wouldn’t miss it for a second. It was tainted. Every shade of paint, every carpet, every painting on a wall chosen by Kenneth, whether she wanted it or not. He’d controlled everything and she would be happy if she never saw any of it again. In fact, she was counting on today being the last day she had to look at it.

  Sarah was still planning. ‘Then we can come back later, once he’s in afternoon surgery, and get anything he might notice.’

  Bernadette nodded her agreement. Made sense. Jesus, she was a charge nurse, a woman who organised and ran a busy ward like clockwork, who commanded the respect of her peers and managed healthcare plans, traumas, tragedy, and – worse – patients’ relatives – but this whole situation had completely paralysed her coping skills and initiative. He wasn’t even here right now and still he was having an effect on her. Come on, Bernie, time to get moving, she told herself.

  ‘And I think we should go speak to Nina first,’ Sarah added. Just the very thought of it made Bernadette want to vomit. Kenneth had always presented the best of himself to the kids, so they only ever knew the public Kenneth, the funny, charming, successful, perfect dad they’d grown up with. How could she tell her daughter that she was walking out on her father after thirty years of marriage? Nina was a mother, with kids of her own, but still… no one wanted to deal with that kind of news.

  Sarah didn’t give her time to ponder the devastation she was about to wreak. ‘Right, come on then, let’s get started, before I eat any more of this cake and my hips explode.’

  She forced her legs to move and follow Sarah. Upstairs, Bernadette pulled every one of their suitcases out of the hall cupboard, and within an hour each one was full. Over the last few weeks, on the pretence of having a clear-out, she’d already sorted out everything she was taking with her. The jewellery her mum left her? Taking. The keepsake box from every one of the kids’ milestones? Taking. Her uniforms and everyday clothes? Taking. The outfits she’d bought for yet another one of Kenneth’s interminable work functions? Leaving. Her wedding dress? Leaving. Preferably on a pyre in the back garden before nightfall.

  They humped the cases downstairs, Bernadette rejecting Sarah’s offer to have Piers come over and help them. Her closest friend she could handle, but – much as she’d grown hugely fond of Piers in the short time she’d known him – she didn’t want any other witnesses to the most traumatising, nerve-wracking episode of her life.

  It was only when they were loaded and leaving that Bernadette’s heart began to slightly decrease from a speed that would set off a monitor in her husband’s ward. That was all she needed – to leave her husband and then end up on his operating table. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. If she made it through this day it would be a miracle.

  The traffic was light all the way to Sarah’s home, only a couple of streets away in the West End of the city. Sarah backed the van into the garage, and they unloaded in five minutes of pulling, pushing and exertion.

  ‘Am I the only one wishing I’d taken up some of that boxercise nonsense?’ Sarah asked, panting, leaning against the side of her van, hands on knees. ‘Bernie, I love you,’ she spluttered between breaths. ‘but we’re too old for this.’

  Bernadette grinned, then realised that her emotional barometer had swung the other way, and felt tears falling down her face. She had no idea why. Bugger. ‘Sorry, honey,’ she immediately apologised. ‘This is supposed to be a Thelma and Louise moment and I’m turning it into Sleeping with the Fecking Enemy.’

  ‘Don’t you dare apologise,’ Sarah chided, summoning all her strength to push herself up and fold her arms around her friend.

  Bernadette rested her cheek on Sarah’s shoulder. ‘I just feel… feel… like I’ve been totally spineless. And I still am. I’m bloody terrified. How pathetic is that? I keep thinking what if he’s right. What if I’m hopeless, if I can’t manage on my own, if I’ll fall apart without him? I know I won’t – but I can’t stop the conversation in my head, that niggling bloody voice of his, the one that’s always doubting me, telling me I can’t do anything right.’

  ‘Honey, you’ve listened to that for thirty years – it’s not going to turn off overnight. But you’re here, you’re doing this, and it’s going to be okay. It really is. I promise you.’

  Bernadette lifted her head so they were face to face. ‘And what am I going to say when he turns up here, or at my work?’ Another two fat tears exploded from her eyes. That was it. That was the crux of it, the biggest bloody terror of all. What was he going to do when he found out? He’d never laid a finger on her, but somehow that didn’t matter. How many times had she told patients that emotional abuse could be as damaging as physical abuse? When she was on general wards, before she moved to A&E, how many times had she watched a woman flinch at visiting time when her husband walked in the door, all flowers and proclamations of care. Bernadette had learned to spot them a mile off. The men who acted like the Billy Big Bollocks, the charmers who could win anyone over with the right words and a bit of charisma, while the pupils of the women’s eyes darted from face to face, shadowed with the fear of knowing that it could change in a heartbeat, or that they’d pay for it later.

  Sometimes she felt being married to Kenneth had made her a far better nurse. She understood. Saw the truth that others might overlook. If her thoughts were welcome, she’d gently caution those women to build a support network, to make plans, to find ways of building their confidence in the hope that they’d find it in themselves to make the break.

  Now it was time to take her own advice.

  ‘I can do this,’ she said, to herself more than to Sarah.

  Sarah’s hug was warm and it was crushing to the chest area. ‘You can, my love. Let’s keep
going. That’s what we need to do today. One thing off the list, now on to the next. But I need to go to the loo first because I’m at that age.’

  She nipped in through the side door from the garage to the toilet off the utility room, then reappeared a few moments later.

  Bernadette was already waiting in the car, anxiety over telling her daughter rising with every second.

  After the shortest fifteen minutes of her life, they pulled into the driveway of Nina’s home in a new estate on the outskirts of Bearsden.

  ‘I’m going to wait here.’ Sarah told her, producing a Kindle from her handbag. ‘Just shout if you need me.’

  ‘Thanks. I mean it, Sarah. Thanks so much for this.’

  Hands shaking, Bernadette pulled the handle on the door and climbed out. This was it. Everything that had been done already this morning could be undone. She could take her stuff back, unpack it again, put it where it had been and he would be none the wiser. But once the words she was about to say next were out, there was never going to be a way to take them back. After a lifetime of thinking about it, of planning how she’d break the news, of rumination over the sentences and coming up with arguments to counter the objections, the time had come. And her mind was totally blank.

  She rang the doorbell.

  Don’t be in. Don’t be in. Please don’t be in.

  The thudding of little Casey’s footsteps down the wooden floor of the hall told her otherwise.

  It took a few seconds for Nina to catch up, and another few for her to unlock the multitude of contraptions, designed to stop an inquisitive toddler, with a flair for the Houdini, from escaping.

  Eventually, the door swung open, and there was her daughter, her three-year-old grandson Casey at her knee, eighteen-month-old Milo on her hip.

  For a moment, Nina’s likeness to Kenneth jarred her. The same tall, athletic frame. His blue eyes. The dark hair that he’d raged against when it began to turn grey. There was no denying that physically, she came from her father’s side of the gene pool. Thankfully, emotionally, she had more of Bernadette’s DNA.

  ‘Mum! What are you doing here? Come on in! You should have phoned and I’d have made something for lunch and…’ She stopped. Her gaze went to the van in the driveway, to her Auntie Sarah, as she’d always called her, sitting in the driver’s seat. And then back to her mum, standing on the doorstep, her face grey, her eyes bloodshot with tears. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘What is it? Has something happened to Dad?’

  Chapter 8

  Lila

  At the traffic lights, Lila fixed her lipstick, pouted, took a selfie, and posted it to her Instagram. No hashtags required. She’d have a hundred likes within minutes. That’s what happened when you made a bit of an effort with your appearance. It was all marketing, wasn’t it? Everything was just fodder for Facebook, for Twitter, for Instagram. Of course, she posted simultaneously on all of them. A gorgeous meal? It went on there. A great night out? A gym session where she was looking seriously cute? All of it snapped and posted.

  Her boss at work had once questioned her level of social activity and she’d pointed out that she worked far longer hours than her job spec required, so she was more than entitled to a few minutes of online action throughout the day. He’d never mentioned it since and it was just as well, because she had no intention of stopping.

  It didn’t matter how she was feeling, whether she was up, down, pissed off or frustrated, the image that she put out there would convince anyone who looked at her pages that she had the most glamorous, perfect life.

  And most of the time – okay, some of the time – she did. Her mother had taught her that. If they had a family crest, it would say ‘hair done, lipstick on, face the world.’

  According to her social media, every day was a good day. She didn’t have stresses because she was ‘too blessed to be stressed’. She didn’t have casual friends, she had ‘brilliant times with people who loved her’. Some might call it fake, but she preferred to think of it as spreading positivity.

  Obviously, there couldn’t be any photos of Ken on her pages, but that would change soon, when their relationship was out in the open and they were together. Telling Cammy would be a drag, because she was pretty sure he wouldn’t see it coming and he’d no doubt be devastated at losing her, but it was just one of those things. He’d get over it. It wasn’t as if they were married or had kids. They’d had a good time, and yes, when she’d split with Ken, she might have led Cammy to believe she wanted more, might have been a bit vulnerable and emotional, but she was over it. Normal service resumed. Thank God. Now to take it to the next level. And she would. Just as soon as she felt one hundred per cent ready to make her move.

  Before she could do anything, her phone rang. The office number flashed up, so she flicked it to answering machine. The last thing she needed was someone on her case today. Probably some paperwork query. Why did they get so hung up on that kind of stuff? Especially on the Friday before Christmas? She smashed her target every week – surely that should be enough for them to get someone else to take care of the menial grunt work?

  She’d been working this territory since she started with the company straight out of university almost eight years ago, so she knew the best contacts and how to make them work for her. A bottle of whisky here. A spa voucher there. She had one doctor who insisted on an overnight stay at Gleneagles every time he placed an order – completely unethical and very expensive, but it was a small price to pay for the amount of business he put her way.

  But enough about work. Time to get more important things sorted out.

  She checked her watch. 10.45 a.m. She’d made it just in time. She hopped out of the car, and into the clubhouse. In the summer, it was packed with golfers sporting trousers that were crimes against fashion. In the winter, the die-hards still gathered to socialise, hit a few balls on the under-cover driving range or use the high-tech simulators to improve their game before the start of the next season. Mum had said that she was teeing off on that stupid machine with Dad, but if Lila made her a better offer, there was no way she would resist.

  Coffee and a gossip versus four hours of hitting a ball against a screen? No contest.

  There were a few raised eyebrows of appreciation as she crossed the bar area, making a beeline for her parents, who were sitting at a table by the window.

  Her mum spotted her first. ‘Darling, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Coming to save you from wrecking a perfectly good morning by spending it hitting a ball with a stick,’ she said, punctuating her words with two cheek kisses for each parent.

  Her dad didn’t look thrilled to see her and that irked her. It always had. Even as a little girl, she could remember desperately wanting his approval, yet never quite feeling like she had it. In some ways, he and Ken had similar personalities. Both strong alpha males, leaders, not followers. Single-minded, driven, successful men who knew exactly what they wanted in life and made no apology for claiming it. Lila admired that kind of focus – unless it was, like this morning, hampering her social life.

  ‘We’re just about to get started. You’re welcome to join us if you have shoes that are a bit easier on the feet. Or I could pick you up a pair in the golf shop,’ he offered.

  ‘Thanks Dad, I’d take you up on that… but I’d rather poke my eyes out with a fork.’

  Her mum’s laughter made several of the old guys at the bar smile their way. Of course they did. Her mum – hair done and lipstick on as always.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re going over to the dark side, Mum. Can’t one of those guys do this with you, Dad, and then my mother and I can sit here and drink coffee like civilised people do?’ she quipped.

  ‘But, darling, I want to do it. Your dad is going to help me with my swing.’

  ‘Mum, you hate golf!’

  ‘Well, sometimes it just takes you a while to appreciate something and now I’m learning to appreciate golf.’

  If there was some loaded meaning in there, Li
la didn’t want to think about it. Nor did she want to think about the fact that her parents were holding hands and her mother was looking at her dad like they were fifteen and he’d just felt her up at the youth club disco.

  Urgh, this was nauseating.

  ‘And anyway, you know this is good for your dad’s health. The doctor said so.’

  Dad nodded, almost smugly. There it was. Dad’s health. She had absolutely no recollection of it, but apparently Dad had had a heart attack when he was in his early thirties, and then a few scares since then, the last one just before he’d moved home full time. After the heart attack, his doctors had assured him that he’d live a long, normal life as long as he took care of himself and Jack had taken them at their word. He ate well, exercised religiously, and, as soon as he’d paid off their mortgage, stored up a considerable pension, and banked enough for a long, carefree retirement. It had been a well worn mantra over the years. ‘Your poor dad, having to live with a heart condition.’ To be honest, Lila sometimes wondered if it was just an excuse to give him an easy life and have everything revolve around him. Then, a few years ago, he’d ended up in hospital with another scare. Thankfully, it hadn’t been anything major, but it was enough for him to decide to take an early pension deal at work and come home full-time.

  Lila had hoped that it would bring them closer together, but so far he hadn’t shown a great amount of interest in her life. Not that she’d ever admit it or say it out loud, but deep down she knew that she wasn’t a priority in Jack Anderson’s world. She reckoned the pecking order was golf, Mum, holidays, and she perhaps scraped fourth place. Maybe that would change now. Or not.