Love Nest

by Julia Llewellyn

  ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said Lucinda, draining her glass. He wasn’t actually that attractive. Whatever had she been thinking of? ‘But, you know, I really have to get going. Got a Christmas party to attend. Sorry, I completely forgot about it when we arranged to meet.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ As ever, Gareth was giving her that look. He knew what had crossed her mind and he was thinking, ‘Sorry, too late!’ He always had had the measure of her. He shrugged. ‘Some other time, maybe?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Lucinda said over-enthusiastically. She stood up, pulling on her coat, and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Have a great Christmas.’

  ‘You too. What are you doing? Don’t tell me. Skiing at the family chalet in St Moritz. Sorry, Luce. But it was all in the papers. We wondered why you hadn’t invited us. Hey, are you OK? I was just teasing.’

  ‘I’m fine. Just feel like there’s something in my eye.’

  ‘Mia’s over there.’ He raised a hand. Lucinda darted into the crowd.

  ‘Got to go,’ she shouted over his head. ‘I’m already late.’

  She hurried out of the door. On the pavement, her breath immediately fogged up in front of her face and she felt her cheeks turn scarlet from the cold. Tears stung her eyes. The prospect of going back to her little flat was suddenly more than she could bear. How was she going to survive the next few days?

  Her phone was ringing in her bag. Still snivelling, she pulled it out. It would be Anton; he liked to have her on call round the clock. A relief actually. She’d have an excuse to go back to the office and work through the night, something she never minded.

  But the number was a Swiss one. Probably Benjie calling, yet again, to tell her how much he hated working for Daddy.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Lucinda, darling. It’s Mummy.’

  ‘Mummy!’ Lucinda literally couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her mother’s voice at the end of the line. It was always Daddy, barking out orders. ‘Is everything OK? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, darling. I wanted to know how you are.’

  ‘Really well.’ But her voice was wobbling. ‘Work’s going fine and…’

  ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Mummy said. Lucinda realized she was nervous too. ‘It’s about what you’re doing at Christmas.’

  ‘I’ll be with friends,’ Lucinda lied. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mummy.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worrying, I know you will always be OK. But I will miss you. And so will the others. So, even though Daddy won’t allow you home on the actual day, I was wondering if you could join us on Boxing Day. Ginevra, Benjie and me, that is. We’re going to the house in St Moritz but Daddy won’t be joining us. He’s off to Australia for some meetings.’

  Or more probably he’ll be with one of his mistresses, Lucinda thought. But the cynicism was overlaid by a feeling of deep, genuine gratitude. She’d see her family after all at Christmas. Well, part of her family. The part that drove her nuts. They’d all sit around comparing their designer moon boots, and discussing whether they should give the new manicurist a go and who was doing the best après-ski cocktails. Lucinda, in her corner, with the Christmas edition of The Economist, would feel annoyed. A bit bored.

  But – she realized now – families were meant to be annoying. Boring. It didn’t matter. She still wanted to be with them.

  ‘Mummy, of course I’ll be there,’ she said.

  ‘Do you have a good ski suit? Stella McCartney is doing them, I seem to recall. Your sister has some beautiful ones. Maybe you should ask her for some tips on where to find one?’

  ‘Mummy!’ Lucinda exclaimed.

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you so much.’

  ‘Me too.’ Lucinda meant it sincerely.

  Grace was standing on a stepladder in the great hall, putting the finishing touches to decorating the Christmas tree that Lou’s son had delivered. The wooden angel with red wings that Mum had brought back from a parents-only holiday in Austria. A faded gold bauble that had belonged to her grandmother. A pink plastic clown that had come out of a cracker a few years ago.

  The temperature had dropped dramatically. Grace was wearing thermal tights, two vests, two T-shirts, two jumpers and a fleece over it all and she was still frozen solid. At night, she slept with her coat on, snuggled up to a hot water bottle. But she’d never have to endure this cold again. This time next year she’d be in the lodge. The lodge which Beleek Developments was fully modernizing for her. This time next year she’d decorate the tree wearing a skimpy silk dress to celebrate the double glazing and under-floor heating. This time next year her plans for the garden would be fully under way.

  No time for thinking about it now. Grace had to get changed. Into the size fourteen dress she’d bought from a little boutique in Totnes. Because Anton Beleek was taking her out to dinner tonight at the hotel he was staying in, in Dartmouth. Grace didn’t know for sure but she had a feeling this time she might be staying the night.

  Gemma’s heart was in her mouth as Bridget made her way up in the lift. What would she want? Would she be angry with her? Would she announce she’d launched a custody case? Slowly, she manoeuvred herself off the sofa and waddled towards the mezzanine rail.

  There was a banging on the door to the flat.

  ‘Go on,’ she said to Alex, who was looking uncharacteristically nervous. He went to open up. Trying to bend over the rail, Gemma couldn’t see anything, just hear voices at the threshold.

  ‘Hey! How are you?’ Alex sounded about as genuine as a bottle of perfume on an East End market stall.

  ‘Sooo good. Great to see you. I’m taking it Gems is here?’

  ‘Of course, come in, come in.’

  And there was her sister, standing in the living area below. Hair its usual bird’s nest. Face pink from the cold. Wrapped in a cardigan that, even by Bridget standards, was horrid, with a design of what looked like a polar bear’s droppings. And she’d put on weight again. Gemma couldn’t believe how delighted she was to see her.

  ‘Gems!’

  ‘Bridge! Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Oh, you know me. All over the shop. But now it’s time to come home to roost. God, it’s hot in here.’ She started pulling at her cardigan ties. ‘Or is it just me?’

  As the cardigan fell to the floor, Gemma saw a bump under her sister’s top. This wasn’t a bump from too many mango lassis.

  ‘You’re… Oh my God, Bridget!’

  Bridget grinned, that old, familiar irrepressible grin that Gemma had missed so much.

  ‘I am. But only one foetus, I’m happy to say. Not like you, you greedy cow.’

  ‘When’s it due?’

  ‘February the second.’

  ‘No, but I’m…’

  ‘February the fourth. I did look at your link. But if you’re having twins they’ll almost certainly come out earlier.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Gemma tried to compute what was actually blindingly obvious. ‘So they must have been conceived…’

  ‘More or less on the same day, yeah. The last time I shagged that twazzock.’

  ‘So three babies are going to be born.’

  ‘All with the same mother,’ Bridget said – then, seeing Gemma’s face, added, ‘I mean, I know you’ll be the twins’ birth mother but I’ll be their biological mum. We talked to the counsellor about all this. I’ll be a mum of three.’

  ‘Fascinating social experiment,’ said Alex. ‘How our two turn out, compared to yours.’

  ‘But where are you going to live?’ Gemma interrupted. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m on the council house list. Going to jump straight to the top now I’m a single mum.’ She held up a hand. ‘I know, Alex. I’m sorry. But the system’s there, so why not abuse it? Or I might go to Spain. Stay with Mum and Dad for a bit. The Spanish love children, don’t they? Bambinos.’

  ‘Niños.’ Alex couldn’t help himself.

  ‘And will Massy play any part in this?’
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br />   ‘Who?’ Bridget hooted. ‘I shouldn’t think so for one tiny second. I mean, he doesn’t even know I’m pregnant for a start. And I’ve no plans to tell him.’ Laboriously she began climbing the spiral stairs to her sister. ‘Come on, give me a hug. Oh, bloody hell. For the first and last time, you’re fatter than me. Alex, get the camera out to record this historical moment.’

  They hugged. Bellies bumped.

  ‘So what are you doing this Christmas?’ Gemma said into her sister’s hair. The familiar smell of patchouli made her want to gag and cry with delight at the same time. Over her shoulder she saw Alex roll his eyes and make a wild gesture towards the living area below.

  ‘Didn’t you see my suitcase? I mean, you can tell me to piss off if you want to, even though you are my sister. But given you owe me one, I thought I might stay until the baby’s born. Sort of keep you company. But then me and the baba will find somewhere. What kind of birth are you planning, anyway? I’m so into self-hypnosis.’

  *

  Nick and Martine Crex were sitting in front of his enormous plasma screen. They’d just watched a DVD of the latest James Bond and in a moment they’d order a takeaway. Chinese or Indian. That was the question.

  ‘That Daniel Craig is well fit,’ said Martine, approvingly. ‘I’d give him one.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Get me another can of Special Brew from the fridge, love? Shit, my fags are running low. Will that newsagent’s on the corner be open now?’

  ‘Probably. Do you want me to go out for you?’

  It was freezing outside. But Nick wasn’t sure he could stand another second in this fetid, smoky room.

  ‘Would ya?’ She made an unconvincing gesture towards her purse.

  ‘Mum, don’t worry. It’s on me.’

  ‘Ta, love,’ she said, picking up the remote and flicking to QVC.

  Outside, Nick took a deep breath of frosty air. He prayed no one would ever find out about this Christmas. Having Mum to stay with him in London seemed utterly shameful. The other two boys from the band were in Barbados. Jack, of course, was back in the Priory. He should have gone away too, but he hadn’t organized himself in time. He wondered where Lucinda was. Probably back in Tobago. Or skiing. Yes. She’d be skiing.

  And what about Kylie? He’d written to her several times. Nothing. Contacted her via Bebo. Sent her flowers. Texts.

  She didn’t want to know.

  Mum had said she was with Robbie Gwyther now. She’d found a job back at the old salon. She was doing fine. Nick wondered what she’d be doing right at this minute. She’d driven him nuts last Christmas, putting fairy lights up all round the flat and playing her naff compilation CD with Slade and Wham! on it. Insisting on a plastic tree with a fairy on top.

  He wished she was there irritating him now.

  The US tour had been a failure. The critics dismissed them as over-praised and over-hyped British imports. The venues had been only half full, and the fans that had come had been scathing in their web reviews. The new album was due out in the spring and the label were still claiming to be very excited, but Nick wasn’t sure. Maybe he should have stayed in Burnley. Never got involved in any of this.

  He couldn’t resist any longer. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled. Miles north, it rang. He waited for it to go to the O2 voicemail service, like it always did.

  ‘Nicky?’ That soft voice. It was like an arrow through his heart.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked gruffly.

  A tiny pause and then she said, ‘I’m fine. And you?’

  ‘Did you get my letters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kylie, I’m sorry, I really am.’ He paused. ‘I miss you. I was an idiot. I’d do anything to make it up to you.’

  A group of drunk office workers wearing Santa hats and tinsel staggered past him, arms around each other’s necks. ‘God rest you merry gentlemen.’

  ‘Can I come and visit?’ he asked.

  A long pause.

  ‘Good tidings of comfort and joy,’ the workers sang.

  ‘I’d like it if you did,’ she said.

  ‘Comfort and joy.’

  Fireworks exploded in Nick’s chest.

  ‘I’ll see you on Christmas morning,’ he said eagerly.

  ‘Good tidings of comfort and joy.’