Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper

by Debbie Johnson

  “Yes,” answered Maggie, looking on as Marco crumpled up into a foetal ball on the car bonnet, over-run with yelling kids and getting completely trashed with snowballs. “Until now.”

  Chapter 25

  Maggie let out an audible sigh of relief as she parked the car outside her house. The drive had been pure hell, especially when she was blinded by grief as she chugged along the motorway, leaning forward in her seat and blinking away tears as the spray from Polish lorries swooshed across the windshield.

  She still didn’t know if she’d done the right thing, and the inflatable Santa across the road wasn’t sharing any words of wisdom.

  Still, she thought, climbing out and stretching tired legs, she was home. After hours of overnight driving, she was finally home. Alone, but in one piece – at least physically.

  She opened the front door, and kicked a few scattered envelopes out of the way as she carried her bag back in. It was almost noon. On Christmas Day. The hallway felt cold and frigid, and smelled of old pizza. She walked into the empty living room, and was confronted with Marco’s bed. The sheets were still rumpled, and she knew they’d smell of him. For one confused moment, she wanted to do nothing more than climb in, and wrap herself up in the fragrance of the man she loved.

  That way, she decided, lay madness. Instead, she grabbed up the sheets, pulling them off the bed viciously and rolling them into a bundle in her arms. She walked through to the kitchen, and shoved the whole lot in the washing machine. Time to wash that man right out of my hair, she thought, going into the hallway and flicking the heating back on.

  They’d left the house in a hurry, and the remnants of Marco were still all around her. Two bottles of beer left on the coffee table. X Box controllers from him thrashing her at Call of Duty by their side. The slippers he never, ever used, claiming they were for old men and sick people, still lying on the floor. An empty blister pack of painkillers. And the Marco-shaped Action Man that Ellen had made, what felt like a lifetime ago – it had taken a swan dive from the tree, and had landed on top of the wrapped presents, toilet-papered leg sticking out at a right angle.

  She picked it up, and found herself giving the plastic face a little kiss before she placed him back on the now-wilting branches.

  Yes, she thought, I’m home. But everything that made it a home was missing – Ellen, Paddy, Marco. Now, it just felt like a cold, messy house, with ghosts of Christmas past lurking in all the corners.

  She made herself a cup of coffee, and went upstairs. He, at least, had never been upstairs. It felt safer, calmer. Less likely to threaten the sanity she was holding on to with her fingertips. The door to Ellen’s room was open, and as she walked past she saw piles of clothes, heaped on the floor, and the chewing-gummed hair straighteners abandoned on top, electric cord coiled like a snake. She quietly pulled the door to, not wanting another reminder of her missing daughter, and instead made her way to her own bedroom. To the few hours of rest and self-indulgence she’d promised herself on the way home.

  She’d brought an old photo album up with her, from years back. From the days before digital photography, and the Cloud, and storing your pictures on your phone. From the days when her dad had called into the hospital shop and bought one of those disposable cameras, bringing it to maternity ward, snapping the traditional pics of exhausted mum and newborn babe.

  Maggie kicked off her boots and climbed under the duvet, tugging it around her shoulders, and opened the red-bound book of memories. Flipped through the pages and flipped through the years, transported right back to that time in her life. Seeing Ellen, her tiny red face screwed up in fury, fluffy orange hair covering her head like neon duck down. Seeing herself, lying in the bed, drip attached to the stand at her side. Trying to smile, hair plastered with grease, skin drawn and pale and grey in the bright hospital lighting.

  She didn’t remember that picture being taken. She didn’t really remember any of it. The labour had been long, and hard, and lasted for over two days. She was too young. She wasn’t ready. She was terrified, and struggled with everything that was demanded of her. Her dad had tried his best, but he was still lost – still living his life in the pub, desperately lonely after the loss of his wife. All she recalled was the fact that she wanted her mum, that she even called out for her at the height of her desperation. It had dragged on so long, there were three different sets of midwives and doctors; night turned into day and day turned into night, and the staff shifts kept on changing.

  When, eventually, Ellen had finally arrived, the sense of relief Maggie felt lasted only minutes. Her whole body was numb, her brain even more so, but she knew from the look on her dad’s bleary-eyed face that something bad was happening. As she’d cradled her baby in her arms, wondering when the maternal joy she’d seen on TV shows would kick in, she’d become aware of a lot of activity in the room. Of a frown on the nurse’s face. Of hastily called-for doctors rushing in and standing by her bed. And finally, when she looked down, of a gush of bright liquid red flowing over the sheets liked spilled wine.

  They’d taken the baby from her, and pandemonium had broken out. Postpartum haemorrhage, she now knew it was called. Bleeding that just wouldn’t stop. They’d tried some kind of painful massage. They’d upped the fluid in her drip. The doctor had pumped new drugs into her – all in an attempt to stop the lifeblood literally draining from her battered body.

  She recalled hurried conversations, her father repeatedly asking what was happening, and the sensation of reality completely slipping away from her. She heard the baby cry, felt her dad grasping her hand, saw the doctor’s lips move but didn’t understand a word as he tried to explain something to her. Still staring at him with glassy eyes, she passed out.

  When she woke up hours later, sore and confused, she woke up to a different life. A different future. One that involved an emergency hysterectomy and a blood transfusion. It hadn’t seemed real at the time. Or even that important. The present brought plenty of challenges of its own, without worrying about the years to come. At 16, one baby was more than enough – it never occurred to her then that one day she would grieve for the babies she’d never have. That one fateful day could set her on the path she would walk for the rest of her existence – a path she would walk alone.

  Maggie sipped her coffee, spilling it on the sheets and not really caring, as she flipped the album pages forward, looking at yet more photos of Ellen. As a baby, in the cot set up in her bedroom, which still had posters of the Spice Girls on the walls. She recalled how she used to play their album as she tried to get a fretful Ellen to sleep; her dad out at the pub, her boyfriend long gone. Softly singing their song, Mama, and wishing she still had her own.

  Instead, she was playing at being one, and the next few years passed in a blur of fatigue and stress and the hectic brand of boredom that motherhood often entails. It wasn’t until she was much older – well into her 20s – that the shock of the hysterectomy truly hit home.

  On school runs, feeling like a naughty child herself, she was too shy to talk to the other mums at the gate. They always thought she was Ellen’s big sister to start with, and the ensuing embarrassed silences when she explained the truth were too much to bear.

  As the years passed, she saw those mums have other babies. Saw them wheeling prams down the road, saw them hoisting car seats in and out, saw their families grow and expand and their lives fill with the demands of parenting.

  In that sense, Maggie’s life got easier. Her dad emerged, blinking like a blind mole, from the depths of his own despair. He helped her out with childcare while she trained to be a dress maker. Lent her the money for the deposit on the house. Kept her company as much as he could. And Ellen – she just kept growing, oblivious to the chaos her arrival had caused.

  From that orange-haired, red-faced baby she grew into a chubby, scowling toddler, then a gap-toothed schoolgirl. She got her own friends, her own life. Started going to town and to school discos. Changed from a child who would never sleep to a teena
ger who never got out of bed.

  As Maggie watched all that life going on around her, she ached for more. But she ached silently, and tearily, and alone, telling herself that she was lucky to have even Ellen. Lots of women went through life without any children at all – and at least the one she had was totally perfect.

  By the time she first saw Marco – the Hot Papa from the Park – Maggie was so settled in her half-life. Accepting of her losses, grateful for her gains, and with no idea what would happen to her once Ellen finally moved out, moved on, moved away.

  And now, she was here. Alone, in an empty house, on Christmas Day. Looking at pictures from a lifetime ago, and wondering if she would ever stop feeling broken. If Marco was the kind of man that could ever be forgotten. If she would ever feel content again.

  If, by running away in the middle of the night, fleeing into a snow-bound Scottish wilderness without so much as a goodbye, she’d done the right thing. If setting him free meant she would forever be a prisoner, trapped in her own memories.

  She closed the album. Wiped the tears and the snot from her face. And went to sleep.

  Chapter 26

  Maggie slept restlessly, physically and emotionally drained, enduring a fractured and tormented dreamscape populated by people she hadn’t seen for years – including her own mother, and Ellen’s dad, who had long lived in New Zealand. Luca was there too, padding around after her in woollen booties, asking for Christmas pixies and trying to bite her fingers every time she reached out to stroke his dark curls.

  When she was finally woken by the trill of her phone, she felt a sense of relief, rubbing at sore, red eyes and sitting upright as her mind was dragged back to consciousness.

  The phone. The phone was ringing. She glanced at the moonlight curling around the edge of the curtains, and realised she’d been asleep for hours. That the call was probably from Ellen, or her dad. That the text messages she’d ignored from Marco needed to be deleted, that she needed to wake up. Get up. Man up. Eat, drink, and attempt to be merry – or at least not wallow in self-pity. It was Christmas, for God’s sake.

  She grabbed the phone, which was jittering across her bedside cabinet, and looked at the number. It was an Oxford line, and one she didn’t recognise. She ignored it – if it was Sian phoning from the pub to wish her a happy Christmas, she just couldn’t deal with it.

  She waited until the message tone beeped, then dialled up to listen. There were five waiting for her. One started with the achingly familiar American accent she couldn’t bear to hear, so she wiped it after a second. The next was from her dad, shouting his greetings, Jim joining in in the background. Sounded like the cruise was going well, she thought, with a smile.

  The next was from Isabel, telling her that Michael was ‘hanging in there’, that they were having Christmas dinner in the hospital, and were finishing off the left-over champagne with their turkey. Maggie felt a stab of guilt as she listened to the message. She’d been so engrossed in her own pathetic misery that she hadn’t even given them a second thought – to the fact that this could be their first and last Christmas together. She vowed to herself that she would call in and see them on Boxing Day, and listened to the next voicemail.

  That was from Ellen, wishing her an appallingly pronounced joyeaux noel, and already sounding like she’d downed a bottle of vin rouge or two. The sound of her daughter’s voice made her grin, and Maggie knew that no matter how this had all turned out, she’d done the right thing by encouraging her to go away. That this would be a Christmas to remember for her, something she’d look back on in later years, something that would forever be special. Her first Christmas away from home – and spending it with her new friends in one of the most beautiful cities on earth. That, at least, was a job well done.

  Maggie pressed save on that one, so she could listen to it again later – maybe when she’d downed a bit of vin rouge herself, and had opened the gifts that were waiting for her under the tree.

  There was one more message to get through, the one that had just landed. The one with the Oxford number.

  “Hello,” said the unfamiliar voice, “this is accident and emergency unit at Oxford General, with a message for Miss Maggie O’Donnell.”

  As soon as she heard the words, Maggie froze, her insides liquidating in fear until reality kicked in and calmed her back down. It was every mother’s nightmare, getting a message that started like that – but it couldn’t be Ellen. She was safe in Paris. And Paddy was safe in the Canaries. And Isabel had already called. She frowned in confusion as the female voice continued.

  “We have a Mr Marco Cavelli here with us, and he’s given your name and number as his emergency contact. We’ll shortly be moving him to the medical assessment ward, and wanted to let you know that visiting hours are between 6 and 8…”

  Chapter 27

  Maggie couldn’t believe she was here again. Pulling up in the same carpark, trudging through the same snow, getting into the same lift, listening to the same canned Christmas carols wafting from tinny speakers. Smelling the same mix of antiseptic and handwash and lingering illness. She might as well start bringing a sleeping bag with her, the way things were going.

  First the trip here with her bruised coccyx, and Marco’s broken leg. Then for Isabel and Michael’s wedding. Now, for the third time in a month, Maggie was working her way through labyrinthine corridors painted varying shades of green, clutching her bag and trying to remember the yoga breathing she’d learned long ago at those distant classes with Sian.

  She turned the corner into the ward and glanced around – this looked like a home for the walking wounded. Whatever had happened to him couldn’t be that bad, or he’d be in intensive care. He could just have a bruised coccyx, after all. She was relieved at that, but still confused, still wary. Why was he here – in Oxford? Right now, he should be in Scotland, cursing her name and preparing to leave for Chicago. This wasn’t going to plan, not at all.

  She approached the nurse’s station, waited quietly for someone to offer to help. Waited longer than she normally would, because suddenly, she wasn’t in that much of a hurry. Was told that Mr Cavelli was in bay 4A. She nodded her thanks, and turned away.

  For a fleeting moment, panic grabbed hold of her, and she stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, an Easter Island stone head blocking the path of nurses, doctors, patients and visitors. She could just leave, she thought, as the crowds milled past her. Just turn around, get back into that lift, go back down to that carpark. She could call Leah and Rob and pass on the message that their accident-prone relative was back here in hospital, and wash her hands of the whole affair.

  She could run, away from this place and away from this man and away from the emotions that were threatening to bring on a full-blown anxiety attack.

  “Are you all right love?” asked an elderly man as he walked by, leaning on a stick, wearing a ratty grey dressing gown over a very surprising Take That T-shirt.

  “Um…yes, yes I’m fine. Thank you,” she replied, hesitantly. At least part of her hesitation was due to the shock of seeing Gary Barlow’s smiling face on the chest of a disabled octogenarian. The rest was due to the fact that no, she wasn’t all right at all.

  “Well cheer up then. It might never happen. And happy Christmas to you.”

  With that, he shuffled away, leaving Maggie bewildered, bothered, and a tiny bit ashamed of herself. She took a deep breath, realised she was too hot now she was inside and under the merciless strip lighting, and slipped off her coat. She needed to get a grip, and make her feet move. One step at a time, she decided, as she followed the signs to Bay 4A.

  As she reached the doorway, she looked around her. Four beds, all occupied by men. Four visitors’ chairs. Four bedside cabinets. Four jugs of water and plastic glasses. Only one Marco Cavelli. Her eyes found him straight away, in the far corner near the window, his bed set to sitting position and his body covered by a puke-green blanket, the broken leg making a larger hump beneath it. He was leaning back
against the pillow, face turned to the window, phone lying on his lap. Still. Silent. Asleep.

  He looked completely normal – apart from the fact that his right arm was in a blindingly white cast, and draped at an angle across his torso. Jesus. A broken arm to go with the rest. Maggie felt her eyes widen when she realised what she was looking at, and she almost ran towards him.

  “Oh no! Not your arm as well!” she said, rousing him from his doze and taking hold of his good hand. “What happened?”

  His eyes, blurry with pain, blinked open and met her gaze. She felt his fingers wrap into hers, and saw a small smile play around his lips. Her heart spun like a Catherine Wheel and she wondered how she’d even thought it possible to forget this man – to root him out of her mind with emotional weed killer, to go back to life the way it was before they’d ever met. Maybe it would have been easier if he’d stayed away – if they had thousands of miles between them. If she couldn’t reach out and touch him; smell his scent; see the way his dark hair curled around his neck. But he hadn’t stayed away – he was here. Lying, yet again, in a hospital bed. With another broken bone. And somehow, still pleased to see her.

  “Hey Maggie,” he said quietly, stroking the palm of her hand with his thumb. “You came. I didn’t know if you would. I left messages, but…well. You didn’t even say goodbye. I woke up, and you were gone, and all I could do was sniff your perfume on the pillow. And then…well, all hell broke loose.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, fighting off the guilt at the image of Marco, abandoned and alone. She’d done it for the right reasons, she told herself, even if it didn’t feel like it to him.

  “What I mean is, Leah went into labour. Three weeks early. There was complete chaos while we waited for the ambulance. Luca was going apeshit until my mom corralled him with a pack of Oreos, which is probably the last thing he needed. Leah was screaming for her epidural, and Rob…well, Rob was the calm in the face of the storm, I guess. I was still looking for you, wandering around the hotel in my PJs, when it all kicked off.”