Christmas Every Day

by Beth Moran

  ‘What?’ Hillary snapped.

  ‘Who’s Julie?’ Kiko asked. ‘I’m not leaving my baby with a stranger.’

  ‘I think that would be me,’ I said. ‘Julie, Jenny… same difference.’

  ‘These people don’t want to buy the house.’ Mack sighed.

  ‘Shut up, Mack.’ Hillary spoke through gritted teeth. ‘They haven’t looked at it yet.’

  ‘They’re Jenny’s friends.’

  ‘Who’s Jenny?’

  ‘Julie.’

  ‘For the record, I’m more of an acquaintance,’ Lucille chipped in.

  ‘Is this true?’ Hillary whirled on me. ‘Is this another one of your attempts to sabotage my house sale? You’ve got a bloody nerve.’

  ‘How would this sabotage the house sale?’ I asked, hackles rising.

  ‘Because once this genuine buyer saw all these feral children rampaging about—’ a fair enough description, as illustrated by the triplets now charging past brandishing sticks, while Toronto waddled after them lugging a boulder ‘—they’d obviously not want to move here.’

  ‘The truth is, we’re a book club,’ Ashley said, sufficiently recovered to form a sentence. ‘And we all absolutely love your novels. I personally have read every one over twelve times. You are such an inspiration, and we are honoured to have you living locally, even if only for a short while. I’ve written to your agent so many times inviting you to the book club. It would mean everything, if you could come. Just pop in for a few minutes. We meet in The Common Café, so you can walk it if the weather’s good…’

  ‘You like my books?’ Hillary asked, in disbelief. ‘You like my books?’

  ‘I love them,’ Ashley squeaked. ‘We all do.’

  ‘Ahem.’ Lucille coughed. ‘No offence, but some of us prefer deeper literary themes. Preferably something that isn’t anti-feminist.’

  ‘What?’ Hillary looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy, her round head swinging from Ashley to Lucille and back. ‘Deeper literary themes? Anti-feminist? Are you joking? I’ve won the Camberley Literary Award for Feminist Literature. One of the judges was French! Right. I’ve had enough. Which one of you is…’ she leaned in and read the estate agent’s folder ‘… Naomi Brook? You can view the house. You book-club people can leave. Now. And take these children with you.’

  Ashley was gobsmacked for the second time in fifteen minutes. ‘Naomi Brook,’ she echoed, slowly and clearly.

  ‘Yes. That’s what I said. Where is she?’

  ‘She doesn’t know,’ Ashley said. ‘She doesn’t recognise the name. It’s not her.’

  Having reached the same conclusion, the others now turned to me. It was a useful distraction, seeing as Lucille looked set to gouge Hillary’s eyes out.

  I screwed up my face, bit the side of my cheek so hard I left a bruise. Eventually managed to come up with something. ‘I guess there’s more than one Hillary West living in Sherwood Forest?’

  It was then I saw Mack, eyes wide open, an expression of utter horror on his face.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I blabbered. ‘Just a case of mistaken identity. I sent a form off to the DVLA to see who owned the car, back when you were being all cryptic and mysterious. And when I saw it was Hillary West, I put two and two together and made… ninety-two.’

  ‘But this Hillary West is an author too,’ Sarah said. ‘She’s won an award. There can’t be two authors called Hillary West from round here, surely?’

  ‘Number one,’ Hillary ground out, ‘I’m not from “round here”. I hate it here, which is why I’m trying to sell this chuffing house, so I can finally move on with my life. And, two.’ She sucked in a deep breath. ‘I am not Hillary West. I’m Sienna Stracken. Author of the prize-winning literary classic The Wheel of Woman. I do not write romance-by-numbers drivel.’

  ‘Oh, my life,’ Lucille shouted. ‘Can I just say, I’m your biggest fan!’

  Ashley burst into tears, letting out a sound an elephant might make if someone trod on its trunk.

  ‘So, was it an actual wheel or not?’ Sarah asked, before Ellen gave her a shove. ‘Yeah, now’s probably not the time. Forget I asked.’

  ‘But if you’re not Hillary West, who is?’ Kiko asked. ‘I thought the only other person living here was Mack.’

  We all looked at Mack. If Charlotte Meadows had hoarded a sculpture entitled ‘Angriest Man in the World’, it now stood here on the scrubby grass.

  ‘You are flippin’ kidding me,’ Sarah murmured. Ashley wiped her nose on her blue spotty mac and peered closer.

  Ellen appeared to be the only one of us capable of rational speech, given that Lucille was now off to one side gushing over Sienna Stracken. ‘You’re her? Hillary West?’ she asked, in the same gentle voice she used to coax Billy down from the roof of the greenhouse.

  Mack furrowed his eyebrows until they almost became a moustache. Crossed his arms then stuck them on his hips. ‘No. And yes.’

  Hah! Ellen’s gentle voice was irresistible.

  ‘Hillary West is a pen-name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you are her?’

  ‘This could be bigger news than we thought,’ Sarah said, glancing at me.

  ‘I’m him,’ Mack replied, emphatically.

  ‘But how can you be him, when she’s a she, and how can you be Hillary West, when you’re Mack?’ Ashley wailed.

  Good question. Twin ribbons of hurt and foolishness tangled themselves round my internal organs.

  ‘My name is Hillary Mackenzie West. When your name makes people automatically assume you’re the opposite gender, it’s not unusual to go by your middle name. However, my publisher decided that if readers happened to assume I was a woman, that would sell more books.’

  I uttered a noise, something like a strangled snort. Mack’s eyes flickered over in my direction. His gaze caught mine, and we froze there. I couldn’t tell if he felt mad at me for blabbing to Ashley, forcing him to reveal himself, or regretful for covering up something so momentous when I’d shared my worst secrets.

  He shook his head, narrowing one eye slightly.

  Okay, then. Mad it was.

  The estate agent cleared her throat and summoned up a cracked smile. ‘Um, is there anyone who actually wants to view the house today? Naomi? No? Right, I’ll leave you to make your own way back. Mr and Mrs West, I’ll see you at your four o’clock viewing.’ She started marching over to her car, taking a sudden swerve in Mack’s direction, and prattling, ‘I love your books! The Way It Was got me through my darkest days, after I lost Horatio. I mean, I know losing a terrapin isn’t quite the same as losing your husband, but the way Helena managed to keep going, well!’ She sucked in a breath. ‘Anyway. I’ll see you at four.’

  ‘Ms Johnson?’ Mack said in a tone that sent every bird in the forest flapping for cover.

  ‘Um. Yes?’ She paused, key fob pointed at the car.

  ‘Can you please vet the rest of the day’s appointments to ensure they are serious buyers? And make sure they know we’re prepared to negotiate on price if it means a quick sale. Failing that, give Fisher a call. Tell him I’ve changed my mind.’

  Mack stalked off out of sight. I stood there, limbs like concrete, listening to the pounding of blood in my ears.

  ‘Jenny, look, I did brought you this,’ Jonno said, hands extended. ‘To make you feel happy.’

  ‘Thanks, Jonno. You’re awesome.’ I attempted a wobbly smile.

  ‘Do you love it?’ he asked. ‘Here, you can keep it.’

  ‘Yes. I love it because you gave it to me,’ I said, picking it up. ‘And, ooh!’ I pantomimed surprise. ‘It did make me feel happier, you’re right!’

  I wasn’t lying, either. Amazing what an eight-inch dead slug could do for a girl’s mood.

  Ellen dragged me back to her house, where we kept going over and over things, until the only possible distraction was a mass game of Hunt and Destroy.

  ‘This game is a cruel parody of real-life events,’ I whispered to Ellen, both of u
s pressed underneath her car on the driveway. ‘The Hillary hunt has destroyed things with my best friend.’

  Ellen rolled her eyes over to me, while managing to keep her head completely still. ‘He just needs time. He knows you didn’t mean to out him.’

  We waited while two pairs of trainers, one wellington boot and a flipper flapped past, accompanied by loud shushing and giggles.

  ‘He’s realised I tried to out his wife.’ I shuddered. ‘He probably thinks she’s right, and I am trying to sabotage the house move.’

  ‘Were you?’ Ellen asked, in that gentle, tell-me-everything voice again.

  ‘No!’ I retorted, as loud as was possible in the middle of Hunt and Destroy.

  ‘But perhaps you were trying to sabotage something else?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘It would be understandable if your feelings had slipped over from friendship into attraction, Jenny. Especially with him being separated when you met. If you developed feelings for a man you thought was single, it’s hard to wind those back in again.’

  ‘My feelings have not slipped over! I don’t find Mack attractive!’

  ‘Oh, come off it. Everyone finds Mack attractive. The difference is whether you act on those feelings. If they’ve grown into more than “well, yes, he’s yummy but looks aren’t everything and, more to the point, he’s legally married, end of, move on”, into “I can’t stop thinking about him. I do stupid things that end up hurting people because my head is so full of him there’s no room left for rational thought” then you need to do something about it.’

  ‘Like what?’ I asked, terrified she was right, and I’d called Ashley in a subconscious attempt to force who I’d thought was Hillary into behaving in a way that made Mack not want to be with her any more and stay with me instead.

  ‘Move? Or let him move. Seriously, you can’t mess with someone’s marriage. If they’re really making another go of it, you must respect that and keep the hell away.’

  ‘I do respect that. I hate myself for having these feelings. And you don’t have to worry. Mack isn’t interested in me anyway.’

  ‘Jenny, he went to a stranger’s nightmare wedding just to make you feel better.’

  ‘He didn’t do anything to indicate he has feelings.’

  ‘Apart from drive you several hundred miles and back, spend the whole time looking out for you, dance with you all night and pay for the whole thing.’

  ‘He was being a friend.’

  ‘Really? Does a friend need to shave off his beard in order to—?’

  ‘POW POW POW POW POW!’

  To my huge relief, we were destroyed.

  And honestly, if Ellen was even partway right, and my stupid, evil emotions had snuck up and taken control of my rational, moral brain, I might find a way to destroy myself with more than a potato gun.

  39

  I woke before dawn the next day, wretched and exhausted, unable to eat or go back to sleep. And this, despite the joy of showing Dawson the Hickleton Press email, everyone decamping to a celebratory meal at Scarlett’s, and umpteen texts from Sarah and Kiko reassuring me it wasn’t that big a deal. I was sick and tired of myself.

  The black was hovering, just out of sight at the corner of my vision. It gleefully gobbled up my self-hatred, my doubt, my guilt. And it grew.

  I dragged myself through the next couple of weeks, on the one hand glad the Mini had gone, and Mack with it, preventing me from messing things up any more. I hoped he’d gone because the black kept reminding me I deserved to feel terrible. To have lost him. And it was getting louder. Harder to ignore.

  But on the other hand, I now lived alone in the forest with the criminals who were trying to force me out still prowling around. I didn’t want to think about what their next step would be. I was seriously rattled, flinching at every creak and bang, back to cycling the long way home, locking the door and praying Jamie would soon be free for his very own game of Hunt and Destroy.

  I drifted through the motions with the kids. School had finished for the summer, so Will only needed me when prepping timetables or otherwise getting ready for the next school year. I used every last drop of energy on taking care of them, listening, playing, helping, encouraging. Dawson showed me his new Squash Harris character, a woman who lived in the woods and had special powers to take damaged things and make them beautiful and useful again. ‘She’s the Bester. Because she sees the best deep down and knows how to bring it out. She does it for houses, look.’ He flipped the page over. ‘And for people, too. She always has brilliant advice to turn bad situations into good ones.’

  ‘She sounds incredible. I love her hair, and her amazing blue eyes. I could do with a bit of advice from the Bester right now.’

  ‘Duh, Jenny!’ Dawson goggled at me. ‘You’d better look in a mirror, then!’

  I buried my head in his hair instead, managing an eight-second hug before he prised himself away.

  ‘Jenny?’ he said, as I made to go home that Thursday, looking forward to some peace so keenly I could taste it.

  ‘Yes?’ I slipped into my trainers while he hovered on the stairs.

  ‘I’m glad Mum picked you as our childminder. I’m going to miss you when we go on holiday.’

  The chunk of my heart not yet submerged in black squeezed. ‘Me too.’ I winked at him, for want of anything better to say. ‘Now go and sort that messy room out before Dad comes home.’

  ‘On second thoughts…’

  The day of Lucille’s Tough Muck, I strolled to Frances’ farmhouse across golden fields ripe for harvest, the beaming August sun chasing back the shadows.

  ‘I’ll have some of that, please,’ I mumbled, as I pushed through the wheat sheaves, not really sure who I was asking. I stopped, briefly, at the farm gate and closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of the glow penetrate my eyelids. Sucked in a deep, deep breath of gentle air and a soft breath of peace kissed my frazzled brow, my knotted jaw. Hope.

  ‘Jenny?’

  I opened my eyes to find Frances, leaning heavily on her stick, a few metres away. ‘Are you all right?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes.’ And for a brief moment, I truly meant it.

  ‘You look worse,’ Frances announced, as we started off towards the Tough Muck location, high in the hills of the Peak District.

  ‘I could say the same to you,’ I retorted, with a smile.

  ‘My body, maybe. But look at my eyes. Not while you’re driving, please. My soul is strong. Yours is sinking.’

  I pretended to concentrate on a tight junction, wary of scraping the sides of the truck.

  ‘Why is your soul flailing, Jenny?’

  Could I ignore this until she fell asleep? I guessed not. And there wasn’t much point arguing with her, either.

  ‘Probably several reasons.’ I sighed. ‘Where do you want to start?’

  ‘At the beginning? I always find things less confusing that way.’

  ‘We’ve only got an hour and a half.’

  ‘Talk quickly, then. Cut straight to the chase.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping very well, since the burglary. And feeling jumpy. I can’t decide whether to sell the house, which feels a bit like running away. But isn’t running away the most sensible option sometimes? So, instead of starting to redecorate, getting an electrician in and all the other million jobs that need doing whether I’m staying or going, I’m hovering in this limbo of inactivity and indecision.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Frances looked dubious.

  ‘I really don’t like myself right now.’

  ‘Ah, that’s more like it.’ Frances perked up at this, which I felt was a rather inappropriate response. But, hey, she could get away with it.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m making bad choices about how I spend my time, getting nothing done, avoiding making a decision.’

  ‘No. That’s not it.’

  I spent a mile deciding whether to be annoyed or not.

  ‘Try again,’ Frances said.

  I
thought about it. Not why. I knew why. I thought about whether to tell Frances. ‘I’m angry at myself for doing a stupid, selfish thing and hurting a friend. They’ve moved away, so I don’t even know if they forgive me, I can’t do anything to make it up to them, and I miss them so much it makes me ill. Which means I feel even worse, because I have no right to miss them like this. I’m a horrible person. And fighting this guilt, trying to ignore the hurt, I feel like I’m going mad.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That terrifies me, because I’ve only just begun feeling like a person I can live with. I can physically feel it, a black shadow wrapping itself around my heart, my brain, my lungs. Everywhere. Like something off Doctor Who. And I’m trying to fight it off, but it’s exhausting. I’m so tired. And even now I have amazing friends for the first time ever, I’m still so lonely because the shadow is cutting me off from everything. So, yeah, I hate myself right now.’

  Frances handed me a lace handkerchief.

  ‘You need to forgive yourself,’ she said quietly. ‘Whether Mack forgives you or not is meaningless if you can’t forgive yourself. That will help you vanquish the shadows.’

  Ur, I didn’t remember mentioning Mack…

  ‘But I don’t deserve forgiveness,’ I said, my voice breaking. ‘I did an awful thing, and am still feeling wrong things about Mack. Which makes me think wrong things. How do I stop that? I’m the worst type of person. I hate people like this. I don’t want to forgive a person like that.’

  ‘If Sarah told you she’d discovered her HeartBaker friend was married, and she was therefore trying to erase her feelings for him, which she felt dreadful about, but was struggling to do so, would you hate her for it?’

  I sighed. ‘No.’

  ‘What would you say to her?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’d probably give her a big hug and tell her that as long as she stayed away from him from now on, she’d be okay.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘But if I forgive myself, isn’t that saying it’s all right, what I did?’

  Frances laughed. ‘No, it is not. It is saying you choose grace, anyway. If what you did is all right, there’s no need for forgiveness.’