What Happens at Christmas

by Evonne Wareham

  There was a stuffed giraffe for the baby and a pair of mouse ears and an ‘I’m the big sister’ T-shirt for Jamie somewhere in his baggage, that he needed to find and take round to the Devlin household. He’d sent a good wishes telegram when Lily Olivia had been born, but now he was home he needed to visit.

  But first the bouquet.

  This time he was taking advice from Elvis.

  He was delivering it himself.

  He made good time to the barn. Parking the car in a lay-by further up the road, he walked back to the building. There was an unfamiliar Peugeot parked on the forecourt. Had Lori changed her car? Was it a visitor, a boyfriend? His chest tightened. At least it suggested that someone was at home.

  Ignoring the sudden heavy thump of his heart, Drew edged past the car to the door, and rang the bell. There was an immediate sound of scuffling footsteps and the door was flung open.

  The woman was petite, dark-haired and a complete stranger.

  ‘Oh, how lovely. Mum,’ she yelled over her shoulder. ‘Flowers for you. They must be from Eldon.’ She already had a hand on the bouquet, riffling through for the card.

  ‘No!’ Drew didn’t quite snatch it away, but it was close. ‘You’ve made a mistake.’ She was looking up at him now doubtfully, delight faltering as she began to register that he wasn’t a delivery man from a florist. He tried a placatory smile. Maybe this was Lori’s sister? Misty’s mum? ‘They’re not for your mother. They’re for Lori.’ Now the woman looked totally confused. An older woman, a carbon copy but with greying hair, appeared behind her. ‘Lori?’

  ‘She lives here?’

  ‘Oh.’ The younger woman’s face sagged into disappointment. ‘Sorry Mum. They’re not for us.’ She shook her head. ‘You must have come to the wrong place.’

  ‘No. It’s the right place.’ Something cold was clawing around Drew’s chest. ‘Lori lives here. Or she did … in December.’ Just in time he remembered not to mention Christmas.

  The woman was shaking her head again. ‘I don’t know about December, but no one lives here now. It’s a holiday let.’ She brightened a bit. ‘We’ve rented it for a week to celebrate Mum’s sixtieth birthday. Room for a party, you know.’

  ‘Holiday let.’ Drew could hear the hollowness in his voice. ‘Rented by the week.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The girl was staring at him narrowly. ‘Hey, aren’t you that writer – the one that was just in the news?’

  ‘No, not me.’ The denial was automatic. No way could he start explaining that.

  ‘You look like him.’

  ‘Yeah. I get that a lot.’ He forced a laugh. It sounded like gravel shaking in a tin.

  She was looking at the flowers. ‘Sorry and all that, about your friend. The one you were going to give them to. Lauren?’ she prompted. He must have been looking blank. ‘Perhaps you can find out from the letting people?’ She pulled the door open wide. Her mother had disappeared back inside. ‘You want to come in, while I look for their card?’

  Drew stepped into the barn. Memory hit him like a punch to the gut. It was the same and not the same. The furniture was still there, though the chairs were arranged at a different angle and the rug looked unfamiliar and there were net curtains at the French windows that he didn’t remember. It looked less … personal. Would taking down the Christmas decorations be enough to make that change? He didn’t think so. Maybe it was the cushions and the blankets – throws, Lori had called them throws – most of them were gone. And there was a large-screen TV sitting in one corner.

  His eyes fixed on the stairs. On that stair …

  ‘Here you are.’ The woman was back, holding out a card. ‘I hope they’ll be able to help.’ Her voice sounded hearty and over-bright. He realised he must be looking around, bewildered, and she was wondering about the wisdom of letting a stranger in.

  ‘Thank you.’ He dredged up another smile. ‘Look.’ He held out the bouquet. ‘I think you’d better have these, after all. Tell your mother, happy birthday. And enjoy your party.’

  Back in the car, he looked at the card. The name meant nothing, and he had a pretty shrewd idea that a holiday rental company wouldn’t be giving up the details of clients to random enquirers, even if he used his own name as a lever. Which you will certainly not be doing.

  He tapped the cardboard square on the steering wheel. What now? He needed someone … He needed a private investigator. He sighed. Looked like he would be phoning Devlin for another favour. And he still had the bruises on his butt from the last one. Chris in L.A – who’d turned out to be Christina – a diminutive blonde, who’d been able to throw him across the room with embarrassing ease.

  The knowledge that he had a passable ability to defend himself against attack helped him sleep a bit better at night. Memories of Lori – not so much.

  At least he knew now why there had been no response to his postcards. They had probably already been dumped in the recycling. Or they were lying in a dusty heap of junk mail in an office somewhere. That thought sent a shiver down his spine.

  Connections.

  He looked back at the barn. The woman had recognised him. He could see now how stupid it had been to come in person.

  But the urge to reach out … to find Lori again …

  He looked again at the card. Could she have been renting the barn for the holiday? It hadn’t felt like a rental. It had felt like a home. Or was that rose-coloured thinking, the state you were in? No – he answered himself immediately, the place he had just seen had been different, things added and things taken away.

  Abruptly he recalled the lack of power, landline phone, television, at Christmas. Had Lori been squatting in an empty property? No, she had keys. She knew the security system. He frowned, trying to remember. Could it belong to that friend? Owner of the paint-stained cargoes?

  He exhaled deeply. He wasn’t going to solve it sitting here. He’d get that private eye.

  And in the meantime …

  He found his phone. ‘Clint? I’m on, for Paris.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  17 May

  Drew stared down at the street from the window of his flat. After a late start, spring was coming in at last. There were flowers in window boxes and in the street the trees were green. He was trying to avoid the depressing pile of letters and documents scattered across the desk behind him. Some of them related to the trial, which was provisionally set for September. He’d engaged a legal advisor, and was given to understand that everything was proceeding as would be expected. The police were apparently still assembling evidence.

  Unease fed the depression. As far as the police were concerned, Drew had managed to get free and had contacted Devlin to bring him back to London. Christmas at the barn with Lori had not been mentioned. In a corner of his mind, Drew was almost beginning to wonder if he’d hallucinated the whole thing.

  And if you’d told the police the whole truth, maybe they’d have been able to find her.

  The investigator’s report, which was one of those depressing papers, had arrived three days ago. Arranged by Devlin through a third party for ‘Mr Williams’. It was sitting now on top of the pile, contributing to the feeling of a lead weight lying in his stomach.

  Spiral-bound, with a tasteful matt cover and plenty of fancy platitudes, the report came down to two words. No trace. They couldn’t find Lori. The barn had belonged to a woman – but she was in her seventies and was now living in a home in Hereford that cared for people with dementia. The property had been sold to the holiday company before Christmas, and had been unoccupied until they moved in to prepare the place for letting in the New Year, confirmed by the previous owner’s daughter. So Lori had been a squatter? Discreet enquiries had been made in the vicinity of the property, and while some local traders recalled a young woman and a child, matching the descriptions given, nothing useful had been forthcoming. The usual social media and background checks had not turned up any relevant information. To paraphrase – a big fat zero.

  Enqui
ries had been halted at this point, pending fresh instructions. There were further avenues which might be explored. Did Mr Williams wish to pursue the matter?

  Drew wasn’t sure what the other avenues might be, but he didn’t think he would go down them. He’d already been treading too far on dangerous ground.

  He’d lost Lori. Just like he’d lost Kimberly. The pain of the similarity and the difference was something else for the cold weight in his stomach.

  He had to face it, if she’d wanted to get in touch with him, there were ways. The seventy-two hours they’d spent together had meant more to him than it did to Lori. To her it had clearly been an … interlude

  He’d tried to rationalise, to tell himself his weakened and needy state had made him vulnerable. Susceptible. You know that’s not true, you berk. In those few days you came perilously close to falling in love with Lori France.

  He’d wondered, in the first few hectic weeks of the American tour, when she hadn’t been in touch, whether he’d read everything wrong. Whether a ‘tell all’ story was going to suddenly appear. Lori had never made any attempt to include him in pictures she took of her niece, but there’d been times when his attention had been diverted, or when he’d virtually passed out in a chair, from exhaustion. As the weeks passed the tiny imp of doubt had faded.

  Could still happen, mate.

  And won’t that drop you in it, up to your neck, with the police?

  Trying to protect a lady when she’s just been waiting for her moment to take you to the cleaners?

  And dragging Devlin in alongside you?

  Shit!

  But was Lori really that woman? He couldn’t believe it.

  Or don’t want to?

  Somehow he didn’t think it would happen. If she’d been using the place illegally, they both had something to hide. The thought left an acrid taste in his mouth.

  He wasn’t sure he knew what to think, any more.

  His heart wasn’t broken, but it wasn’t in the shape it had been before they met. And now it really was as if that meeting had never taken place. Like something from the Fae, Lori had vanished into the mists on the Black Mountains.

  He gathered up all the papers and tossed them into a drawer.

  Since agreeing to sign up for that stupid kidnapping stunt, too many parts of his life were disintegrating. The trial, the nausea when he thought of the police investigation, the woman he couldn’t find, the haunting doubts.

  Aveline’s venom was working like slow poison through the future he’d built, warping and tarnishing as it touched, then slowly spread.

  He needed to work. Two weeks of throwing himself off buildings in Paris had convinced him that he was still alive, but hadn’t given him a book. He’d put a pallid and scrappy outline in to his editor – some stuff set in the French Revolution and a partial subplot about Celtic circles in the Welsh hills. He’d taken out a disturbing reference to a scene of the hero in chains in a dungeon that had drifted up from somewhere and was definitely not making it into a script any time soon.

  He’d told himself that it was the thought of the upcoming trial that was sapping his energy, which could be true. He needed to get away. Shut himself up somewhere, with only his laptop for company. Maybe then the ideas would come.

  Sitting down at the desk, he googled the name of the letting company that had handled the barn. He wasn’t going there, but maybe …

  He frowned. He shouldn’t really be looking at these people, but he didn’t have the energy to start trawling for holiday lets. If the barn was an example of the properties they offered …

  If he found something, the virtual assistant would make the arrangements.

  The properties were attractive and well presented in the pictures on the screen. Typing in a few details brought up a selection – he scrolled down – too big, too remote, not remote enough.

  He stopped scrolling at a slightly sinister looking vicarage on the Norfolk coast, with amazing views of the sea. It was available for longer lets.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  25 May

  Misty had shown off her new school uniform and was now demonstrating Polly’s ball chasing skills in the garden of what seemed to Lori to be a small mansion, on the outskirts of Gerard’s Cross. Nevada, her baby bump in evidence even under a loose-fitting dress, came to stand beside Lori on the terrace.

  ‘She’s happy.’ Impulsively Lori reached out to hug her ex-brother-in-law’s second wife. Families!

  ‘I know.’ Nevada shaded her eyes to look down the garden. ‘And thrilled to bits about Horace here.’ She patted her stomach. ‘And no, that’s not what he’s really going to be called. Dan and I are still negotiating.’ She grinned. ‘Misty may end up having the casting vote.’

  ‘That will please her.’ Lori let out a relieved sigh. Something from Christmas had turned out well. The ongoing ache when she thought about Drew showed no signs of abating and somehow he always seemed to be in the news – teasers for the new book, speculation about the trial.

  And it’s not like you deliberately go looking – like reading the arts pages right down to the small print or anything – is it?

  And now, she didn’t quite know what to do. Things around her were moving. She’d come to see Misty, but the attraction of a base near London for a few days couldn’t be ignored. She’d wondered, just wondered, about going to one of the literary festivals that Drew was scheduled to appear at – just an oh-so-casual meeting – but when she’d almost got her nerve up to do it, his advertised appearances seemed to have dried up.

  She couldn’t help a feeling of relief, mixed with disappointment.

  Would he really want to be reminded about those days at Christmas? Not exactly the Andrew Vitruvius of the action man fantasies?

  She’d read a few of those fantasies now.

  Liar. You’ve read them all. You even tracked down the volume that had a short story in it, and that’s been out of print for years.

  They still weren’t her thing, but they were Drew. She’d heard his voice on every page. She’d enjoyed the first one he wrote the most. It had a wild, uncertain edge that appealed to her.

  ‘Would you like to talk about it?’ Nevada’s question was soft, breaking into Lori’s thoughts. ‘It’s the man who stayed with you at Christmas isn’t it?’ She looked slightly apologetic. ‘Misty chatters. Not all of it makes sense, but I did understand that you and this man – Drew? You got on very well.’

  Lori sighed again. ‘We did. But I can’t talk about it, for various reasons.’ A sudden shot of alarm made her turn urgently towards Nevada. ‘We didn’t – nothing happened. Not with Misty in the house—’

  ‘I didn’t imagine that it did. Knowing you.’ Nevada’s smile was wry. ‘I think that you may have more willpower than I would have. Is that the problem – that nothing did happen?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lori admitted. ‘I don’t know. We’re not in touch.’ She shrugged. ‘So nothing is going to happen now.’ She looked down the garden at Misty, cavorting with the puppy. ‘Is all the legal stuff finished?’

  ‘Not yet, but Lark didn’t make any objection to relinquishing custody. There are details to work out.’ Nevada screwed her mouth up in a very un-screen goddess like way. ‘You know how it is when lawyers are involved. Crossing every I and dotting every T.’ Nevada crossed her eyes, to go with the gurning mouth.

  Lori burst out laughing. ‘Don’t let the wind catch you.’

  Nevada relaxed, laughing too.

  Lori sobered first. ‘It probably helped that Bruno saw in the New Year with a diamond the size of a quail’s egg and the villa in the Seychelles where they were staying as an engagement present. Nothing like planning a Hollywood style wedding to put your four-year-old daughter even further out of your mind.’ Lori hunched her shoulders. ‘That sounds bitchy.’ She looked sideways at Nevada with a guilty expression.

  ‘Well – only a bit. Lark is what she is.’

  Lori sighed. ‘By the time they had her, Mum and Dad were
starting on their alternative lifestyle. She and Merlin ran wild most of the time. I was lucky to be born first. Granny Pugh was still alive then too. She didn’t stand for what she called “nonsense”.’

  Nevada shook her head. ‘I suspect that your different personalities had something to do with it. Lark is spoiled and self-absorbed. You’re not. But as long as Misty is safe and happy, that’s all that matters.’ Nevada put out a hand to draw Lori towards a table where a pitcher of lemonade and glasses were set out. ‘I must admit, I hoped you were visiting London because of this guy. I’m sorry that it didn’t work out.’

  ‘Stuff happens.’ Lori pulled out a chair for her not quite sister-in-law. ‘But there is a reason I’m in London. There’s something I need to tell you …’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  28 May

  Drew stood at the window, staring at the sea. A small hurricane was raging outside. Waves hurled themselves at the beach. The ominous sound of falling objects was loud, even over the noise of the waves and the wind, which was howling eerily around the house, like a choir of banshees.

  If a pack of wolves had loped along the narrow road between the house and the beach, Drew would not have been surprised.

  Inside the room he’d chosen for his study everything was quiet. Nothing was happening at all. No writing, no thoughts, no book. He’d been here a week. He’d hiked for miles on the beach, he’d listened to music, he’d played word games with himself, he’d gone to the pub and played darts with the locals and got mildly drunk.

  There wasn’t any book, but the pain of losing Lori was getting worse. Filling the void where work should have been. And slowly and uneasily he was re-visiting his opinion about a broken heart. He’d tried to analyse why it was happening now and decided that before, he’d assumed that he’d find her.