by Poppy Dolan
‘Oh. Yes.’ She pauses. ‘What is Lyme’s Disease?’
‘I don’t really know. But I thought you were going to put me into quarantine if I said I was thinking of going the same way.’
There’s a moment of quiet. As our conversation had started a few decibels louder, the rest of the business folk have shuffled away politely.
Bravely, Lyds steams through her next words: ‘I wouldn’t. I’d support you. I’d listen to all your weird body stuff and pains and itches, and then I’d visit you when you were housebound. I’d even love the baby.’
I smile. ‘I’d just like to remind you, pregnancy really isn’t a disease. But thanks, love. That’s good to hear.’
‘And at least now I can tell Pete why you’ve been so weird. He’s been worried about you, doll.’
‘He talked to you about it?’
‘A while ago. He said it was too hard to discuss stuff with you, you’d always make a joke about something and mention the stomach-ripping part of Alien.’
‘Well, we’ve cleared the air a lot and I’m working on my Alien nightmares. You know how much I love him, I just have to be ready to say goodbye to my old life, in some ways.’ As I say it, I realise just how exactly true it is.
‘But not me?’
‘But never you, Lyds.’
‘Good. Now bloody well give me my present!’
I had almost forgotten. ‘Well, your stocking present is at your flat. And your main present isn’t, technically, ready yet. Because I need you to finish it.’
She lowers a fashionably thick eyebrow at me. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I’ve negotiated some ad space for you with some old magazine contacts of mine. They’re not strictly fashion mags, but lifestyle, interiors and even a craft one. Now you just have to design your ad and work out when to use them.’
Her mouth falls open. ‘Seriously? For realsies?’
I bite my lip and nod.
‘That is the dogs’!’ She squeals and leaps on to me for a big body hug. ‘Thank you thank you thank you. I won’t forget this, Smelly Poo. God, let’s get out of here. I know it’s weird but could you go for a milkshake right now?’
I tsk and shake my head. ‘We’ve been apart just a few weeks and already you’ve forgotten me.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Christmas is the best. And Christmas is the worst. See which of the following you can’t put in both categories, like the world’s most rubbish Venn diagram, two circles sitting dead on top of each other: all your family together; a ridiculous amount of food and booze; giving gifts to the one you love; nothing to distract you from carols round the fire, mince pies and good, long catch-ups.
I am trapped in my best-worst Christmas.
Pete and I arrived last night, quite late and much to my mum’s annoyance. She’d really wanted me here three days ago to help put the tree up and stew the turkey in maple syrup but this year I dared resist till the last minute. Christmas had come around in a sudden shock, like the postman catching you with a pore-minimiser strip on your nose and in your worst purple pants. I had managed in an utter panic to get Pete’s present before we started to drive. Thank the fluffy clouds above for the Internet. It is the late present-buyer’s saviour. In an envelope I’ve decorated with a little holly-leaf stamp, there is a printed ticket for us to take the Eurostar to Bruges in February. Valentine’s Day. My babymaking decision deadline and a time to give your husband a little something-something if ever there was one. It will be a beer-and-chips-filled fest of coupley bonding and all-round lurve. I hope he likes it. I must admit that in my deep shame in not sorting out his gift weeks and weeks ago, I did sort of splurge my entire December payslip on it, so Pete and I might need to have a conversation about moving a little bit more out of our savings to cover it. But that’s a conversation for later. Like, March later.
And now it’s Christmas morning. It’s 7.13 a.m. and in my old childhood bedroom, which is now a very mellow shade of light moss green (apparently my mum had fake-liked my freehand-drawn flowers on the walls when I was sixteen and didn’t feel like keeping up the pretence when I hit thirty), I’m watching my husband sleeping. Pete is a ‘dead’ sleeper. I could probably pull out a few chest hairs – maybe even a few teeth – and he wouldn’t stir.
‘Merry Christmas, Petey,’ I whisper. ‘I love you and all your bits. I’m sorry that I splurged so much on your present that we probably can’t get a third bedroom now, but it’ll be fun, you’ll see. And by then we’ll have our sprog plan. I know we will.’
‘Eleanoooooor!’ My mum sing-songs gently up the stairs. The sound is so familiar and nostalgic that for a split second I panic and think I’m going to have to hide this boy in my wardrobe or my mum is totally going to ground me right through the holidays. But then I remember that this is the boy I’m supposed to have in my bed and my shoulders drop down from just by my ears.
‘They’re on the telly!’ my mum calls again. I grab my Little Miss Sunshine dressing gown and quickly nip out of my bedroom and down the stairs.
Mike’s big and slightly pixelly face looms large in the screen of my mum and dad’s PC in the living room. Mum’s put tinsel round the screen unit just for the occasion.
‘We wish you a merry Christmas!’ Dad sings in a clear baritone. He is always chirpiest first thing in the morning, and I wonder if that’s just a dad thing. I suppose now his children are all grown up, a 6.30 a.m. wake-up call on Christmas Day is a veritable luxurious lie-in compared to the days when he had to tiptoe into our rooms at 4 a.m. to drop off our stockings. Then he had to force down the mince pies and whisky, nibble a few carrots in a reindeer-style, all while he just wanted a bowl of Special K along with the paper, I imagine.
The twin’s pale and placid faces peer into the screen, now Mike has moved back to the sofa in the background of the Skype call. Alfred has a red and white striped pullover on, and Agnes is wearing a racing green and white striped cardigan over a green velvet dress. They are like gorgeous little mannequins coming to life. I suppress a tiny shudder at the same time a burst of love pops in my heart. God, children really do confuse me. ‘Bonjour babies!’ I say, beaming. ‘Joyeux Noël. Have you opened your presents yet?’ Mum stands next to me, her arm round my waist.
‘Hello my darlings!’ she trills. ‘What did Père Noël bring you?’ We haven’t even seen Estelle on the screen yet, but her super-cool French powers are at work already.
‘We’re saving them,’ says Agnes clearly. ‘Until after dinner.’
Seriously? What is up with these robots?
‘Well, aren’t you just so well behaved?’ Mum is so bristly with pride she’d make an excellent dog brush. ‘Mike, love, Merry Christmas!’
My brother nods from his slouched seat on the sofa. ‘Festive greetings from across the Channel, guys! Cracked open the Buck’s Fizz yet, Dad?’
My dad lets out a little hoot of laughter and nods guiltily. ‘As we peeled the spuds this morning, oh yes.’
I can’t even fathom what time they got up if it’s not even 7.30 a.m. yet. When my future baby comes out will they pop an alarm clock back up there so I never miss an early morning call again? I do a quick kegels squeeze.
‘Show us your tree then,’ Mum flaps her hands at Mike. I’m not sure she’s one hundred per cent understood that the camera captures movements AND speech.
Mike lunges artlessly towards the camera, unclips it from his laptop and takes us on a little tour of his dark wood-panelled living room. The tree is full but not too tall; impressive but not gaudy. In its subtle but coordinated red bows, silver bells and thin strings of golden beads, it has Estelle written all over it in elegant script. And then Mike focuses the camera on Alfred carefully pushing his wooden train around on its smooth wooden tracks, as Agnes builds a tunnel for it to travel through from some green Lego. ‘Here are my little world builders,’ he says. And next to me, my mum exhales deeply.
‘Where’s Estelle, then?’ Dad says, then blows on his tea. In a Robi
n mug. I aspire to owning a Christmas ‘thing’ of every kind – mugs, tea towels, doorstop, shoe inner soles …
With the camera back on Mike, he puts a finger to his lips, ‘Sssshhhhhhh. She’s having a bit of a nap, not been very well recently. In fact—’
‘Noooooo!’ comes a low rumble of a groan from somewhere off-camera. ‘Do not tell them without me!’
Mike pats the sofa and a woman shuffles into frame and plops down next to him. If she wasn’t so grey in the face and greasy in the barnet, I’d say it was Estelle but surely … no way! My super glamorous, Benetton-ad sister-in-law looks like she’s been eaten by a French zombie in a dressing gown.
‘It is the breakfast sickness.’
‘Did you have a bad egg?’ Dad asks. Mum can’t poke him in the ribs for being an idiot, because her hands are now pressing into her red cheeks, leaving white fingermarks.
‘Another baby?’ she jovially screeches. ‘What a Christmas present! Oh my goodness, oh my goodness. Jonathan, get the good champagne out of the garage.’
‘Yes, Gail. Grandad to the rescue!’ he chortles and nips off.
Mum is now wringing her hands. I wish I’d got her the Crabtree & Evelyn Hand Rescue Cream for Christmas now. They are taking quite a battering in all the excitement. ‘Oh, but I wish I could hug you all! You clever, clever lot. Another baby! Oh, Estelle, I am so happy for you. When can we come and see you? And how are you feeling?’
Estelle moves her outstretched hand from side to side like a see-saw, in a textbook French move that I just love. ‘Sometimes good, sometimes bad, Gail, merci. It is strange, but I feel more of the sleep than I did with Alfred and Agnes. It is not what I expected.’ She sighs and rests her head on Mike’s shoulder. He strokes her hair, without touching the oily roots that keep catching the light, and as he does, the colour comes back into Estelle’s face and the grey tone starts to slip away. She closes her eyes, perfectly at ease.
Agnes sprints through the foreground, towards where I think the kitchen must be. ‘Pain au chocolat, Maman! Please!’ I know the whole dual language thing will help them become brain surgeons or Google executives when they’re older but right now it continues to confuse me. It’s like I’m watching Amelie but someone keeps putting their hands over my eyes so I can’t see the subtitles.
‘Chocolat! Chocolat!’ Alfred chimes in with his own polite chirrup. OK, so maybe they aren’t completely perfect children. This is a mighty relief.
Like someone had just poured the purest turtle soup on Estelle’s unwashed bonce, a wave of green washes down her lovely face. She flinches, then in another moment she’s gone off screen. Her rapid footsteps retreat before finally a door is slammed.
Mike winces. ‘The breakfast sickness strikes again. I’d better go and supply a clean washcloth. If we’ve got any left. And feed the midget army. Sorry guys, but Merry Christmas. Love to you all.’ He waves.
‘Love you, son.’ Mum holds her hands to her heart. ‘Hope Estelle feels better soo—’
But only the blank screen faces us now.
Dad scoots in, three full champagne glasses delicately held together with both hands. ‘Ta dah! Oh.’ He clocks the computer’s empty monitor. ‘What did I miss?’
‘Just a bit of puking, stage left,’ I say gently.
Mum regards her Christmas tree with misty eyes. She’s smiling fondly, but in that way mature people manage where it could mean joy or stoic sadness. I have no such subtleties: I’m grinning or I’m grimacing, like those creepy drama masks.
‘Ever thought of going for a minimalist look on the tree, Mum? Just maybe one or two colours, some new ornaments. I loved those beads Estelle has. Classic.’ I’m aiming for distraction via seasonal interiors chatter. Anything to fluff up this damp feeling in the room.
But none of the mist shifts as Mum takes in the sparkly pink baubles, the grubby angel, the straggly blue tinsel and stapled-together cardboard shapes that are supposed to be stars but only have three sides. ‘No,’ she says, and her voice is suddenly sharp. ‘These are our family things, I keep them together so we can all see them.’ She touches a candyfloss-pink ball with one careful finger, and some of its glitter falls onto the carpet.
‘Of course,’ I mumble.
She brightens, like someone’s just switched on fairy lights inside her. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a private jet right about now. Huh! Anyway, back to real life. The turkey’s going in …’ she checks her watch, ‘in T-minus twenty-three minutes. Time for some quick presents, love? Oh!’ her face falls for just a beat again, ‘I didn’t get to see the twins open their presents. Maybe we’ll call back again after lunch.’
Just as I’m thinking of another tact that might distract her from grandchild-detachment disorder, she rallies on,
‘You know, Ellie, I’ve just thought: twins on our side, twins on Pete’s: you’re in with a good chance! Well, one day, I suppose.’
And I’ve just opened my first gift-wrapped Christmas lump of guilt. I’d rather have had socks, thanks Mum.
‘Why didn’t you wake me, Smells?’
Pete is particularly hot when he’s sleep crumpled and not yet showered. Unless he’s been at the gym, he naturally has that nice blokey smell that makes the cavewoman in me want to sharpen up a dinosaur bone and go hunting.
‘You were so cute and, more importantly, deader than a dodo. So I thought I’d get on with the brekkie.’
He shuffles up in bed to a sitting position and I put the tray into his lap.
‘Merry Christmas, baby. There’s a crazy amount of cream in those eggs. Mum even tutted and lectured me on arteries.’ I lean in for a smooch. It’s festively good.
‘Mmm, thank you. Now, what on Earth are you going to do while I eat these heart-attack scrambled eggs? If only I had something prepared to keep your busy little hands occupied. Hmm.’ He taps his chin in mock-thought. ‘Something that involved refined motor skills and a reward at the end, as motivation. Oh well, never mind.’
My eyebrows do the talking for me.
‘It’s in the car boot. My keys are in my bag, under my Christmas shirt.’
I commando roll across the bed, hop down to the floor and tip the contents of his bag out.
‘Hey!’ Pete laughs.
I chuck his Christmas shirt at him. It’s an ivy-green affair with repeating holly around the collar and cuffs and Santa in his sleigh shooting across the front, all the reindeer present and correct. Pete is oddly attached to it. He says that compared to the outfits Marie made for him when he was a kid – a whole lot of tie-dye and a whole lack of dignity – that a novelty shirt is the least of his worries and since my brother gave it to him the first Christmas he spent with us, he thinks he should bring it out each and every year. Only Mike and I know it was a litmus test to see what kind of bloke Pete was. The result: a thoroughly decent guy. A good egg. He’ll wear a fat Santa over his left nipple out of loyalty and care.
I’m back with chilly bare feet and a large shoebox-sized present within about three minutes. Yay.
Pete’s still stuffing down his brekkie in big smiling mouthfuls as I carefully start tearing the paper at the corners.
‘You tease!’ he says between chews. ‘Just get on with it!’
I feel that heart-quickening mix of excitement and danger that comes when you get a present from your top person. It could be amazing. It could be amazingly bad, and you’ll have to pretend it’s amazing. Either way, it’s going to be big.
I get past the thick purple paper and reveal a white box with just a lone sentence written in Pete’s neat and short handwriting: ‘Mary Berry’s got nothing on my wife.’ And when I lift the lid, I see a collection of brilliant things that makes my heart race even more in the best kind of way. Mary’s latest cookbook, three jars of colourful sugary decorations – stars and roses and dark chocolate drops – a set of gorgeous ceramic measuring spoons with a swirly turquoise pattern (I have a happy feeling they’re from Anthropologie, one of my favourite places to splurge on crazy nice
homeware) and a tiny little silver box. When I flip it open, I see the cutest golden charm that’s probably ever been made, one that maybe no one else but me would ever go gaga for, but of course Pete has found it. On a delicate gold chain are two golden oven gloves, complete with tiny little ridges and diamond shapes to make them look quilted, like an actual pair of oven mitts for a tiny pixie.
‘Because of the baking, you know, but also because …’ Pete waits till I tear my eyes away and look at him instead, ‘because we’re handling things, aren’t we? We can deal with the tricky things together, we can handle them.’
For an accountant, he can be so brilliantly sensitive.
God, I wish my mum and dad weren’t downstairs and one half a foot of wood and brick away.
Swallowing the lump in my throat and the tingle in my pant area, I say, ‘Now time for you and yours, Petey.’ I grab the envelope from my bedside table and hand it over with a flourish.
‘Ooh, yup, card first. Sorry I forgot your Christmas card, love.’ He tears it open.
‘Actually, it’s your present.’
‘Oh, yeah. Wow. A trip away. That’s amazing. Wow. Yeah. Bruges, like the film.’
‘But without dead midgets, hopefully!’ I try for bright and breezy but my nerves jangle about in a hollow laugh. Pete is smiling politely at the computer-printed tickets but he’s not exactly in a Cheshire Cat place.
‘Was this … quite a lot of money?’ he winces.
‘Um, no. No, no. I’ve been squirreling away for it.’ Lie. ‘It’s all part of a master plan!’ Lie; I have barely thought through the expense and now might have to pawn all my shoes to pay for it. ‘Because you love beer and chocolate, and because we need a break from work stresses and, you know, family stuff.’ Lie: we need a break from my hormonal tidal waves and desert droughts.
‘Well. It’s going to be great. I can’t wait.’ He nods decidedly. And now I see the gift through Pete’s eyes, I see that I’ve given him something he can’t use for two and a half months, something that will eat into our precious house fund even more, something that involves going to a place that he never expressed an interest in going.
