by Kitty Wilson
I walk around the corner of the road, the old church looking picture perfect for Christmas with its stone walls and ancient trees, and the mosque right next door, golden and ornate. As I walk past Thali, Rory pops into my head a second time and I pull my phone out of my bag, texting with my mittens on. Not easy.
How’s your mum doing today?
I figure that’s all right, just a friendly thing to do. Plus, I want to hear what the surgeon found. I don’t bother putting my phone away as the minute I send the text I see the dots that indicate he’s writing. Of course he is. I can’t think of a single time that Rory has kept me waiting, not once.
He’s shown me that decent, caring and honourable men do exist. Even though I can’t have Rory – and I know I can’t – he’s helped me make this monumental step on a path to a healthy adult future.
Luisa will be made up when I tell her that bit.
Which I won’t do until Rory has left the country again. I love my friend but I don’t trust her not to meddle. She won’t be able to help herself. And for Rory’s sake I need to let him concentrate on his mum right now. Not deal with the embarrassment of having Luisa try to fix him up with her loony friend who is so far from his type that it’s laughable. Jess and I are incomparable. It would be like putting Cousin Itt in a room next to Gigi Hadid and asking someone to choose who to date.
Bing.
Mum is doing well, thanks. The surgery was a complete success. It’s such a relief although tbh I’ve not processed it properly yet, and I’m not sure she has. It’s almost as if she’s waiting for someone to say, we’re really sorry Mrs Walters but there’s been a mix-up. The consultant did say that it seems that there has been no spread to the lymph nodes, which I was really worried about, and she has booked Mum in for a full mastectomy in January along with reconstructive surgery. Mum’s so positive usually but the thought of a mastectomy has knocked her and she’s finding it hard to process. But no chemo, no radiotherapy needed and a final operation will mean there is no way it can reoccur in this breast. So fingers crossed, a brilliant outcome.
I can only imagine how hard that must be to process, the mastectomy thing. That on a rational level you know it’s the right thing to do, sensible, but on an emotional level it must be hard. Must be. Maybe I can visit over Christmas and see if she wants to chat.
Bing.
Oh, and she’s still talking about you and how on earth you got into that building and got her chocolates delivered. She’s got a friend coming over this evening with her bag so she’s overjoyed that her secret is safe another year.
I answer immediately.
I can’t tell you that. I’d love to, trust. I think you’d giggle. But I just can’t.
* * *
That’s what I was afraid of.
As I read his words I can hear his laugh, see the crinkle of his eyes. Jesus Christ. I have it bad.
The phone rings and I hit the green button quickly, images of Rory still flashing through my mind and I assume it’s him.
It isn’t. A split second after I hit answer I realise it says Dad on the screen.
‘Nice of you to check in and see how I’m doing, Belle.’
‘Oh, hi, Dad. Good to hear from you. You sound well. How’s things going?’
My heart is racing as I try to keep my voice jovial, as I prepare for the inevitable imminent attack. I feel a sudden need for a cigarette. How does his voice trigger such a physical reaction? Still? Thirty bloody one!
‘Well, I’m home. Getting ready for a booze-free Christmas. Waiting to be wrapped in the warmth of my loving family.’ Sobriety hasn’t dimmed his sarcasm.
‘Ah, okay. It will be lovely to see you.’ The lie falls from my lips. For someone who struggles to lie most of the time – it makes no sense to me – it seems that as a defence mechanism when speaking to my father then I have no qualms about mendacity. That or my willingness to please, to gain his approval, trumps my desire for complete honesty.
‘You could have seen me at any time. I was in Bristol for the past week.’ It has started.
‘And I would have loved to, Dad, but I’ve been working. Really hard. Otherwise I would have done. Did Mum and Rose come over?’
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why do I veer from protecting myself to baiting him? I know that Rose won’t have visited.
‘Of course your mother did, and Rose is very busy, you know. She can hardly leave Jack and come racing down, the work they do does make a significant impact on society.’ Society, eh? Maybe he has learnt something from all the therapy.
‘I’ve spent the last week working full-time in schools across the city as well as running two part-time jobs, Dad.’ Surely he can see how hard I am trying to make things work? That I’ve been properly professional. That I’m right to be proud of what I’ve achieved this month, that after years and years of prep I’ve managed to make some money from my Shakespeare work.
‘Pffft!’ Okay, maybe not. Suddenly, even though I’m now bang outside of SweetMart, my desire to buy him a delicious range of unusual spices and herbs has dipped somewhat.
‘Tis a night of revels, the gallants desire it!
* * *
December Twenty-third.
Rory.
‘No one throws a party like Luisa, prepare yourself!’ Belle laughs as we pull up outside Luisa’s front door. The sage green door clad in a wreath feels welcoming to me now and I have a secret weapon at my side. I turn and smile back at it. Her.
‘I don’t doubt it. I’m expecting roller-skating elves serving me that delicious mulled cider.’
‘See, it’s so good isn’t it? It sounds, Mr Walters, as if you may have changed your tune a little. My Stockholm syndrome approach to making you love Christmas seems to be working.’
‘It might be. Although I’m disappointed that you’re not wearing that oh-so-colourful flashing hat.’ This is the first Christmas party I’ve attended since that night five years ago. I’ve avoided them ever since, fearful that the combination of jollity, Christmas music and people drifting about wearing their sparkling seasonal best will be one trigger too many. That I’ll lose hold of my carefully constructed current reality and go spinning back to unendurable grief, to self-reproach and incessant blame.
I close my eyes for a second as I get out of the car. The memory is back now. Staccato snapshots: Jessica and I screaming at each other in the dining room whilst our friends and family party in the next room, the loss of control, that feeling of bewilderment of not understanding what she was saying to me, what she meant, of being powerless as she stormed out of the house, car keys in hand. Me screeching that she wasn’t safe to drive. Her composure so shaken that she had turned around, still for a moment in the pounding rain and shouted, ‘Fuck you, Rory, fuck you!’ with all the passion that could be in one body. Me racing out of the house to stop her and not being quick enough. Her driving off into the insane rain. The car around the tree; the coroner ruling accidental death.
I take a deep breath and another one.
‘You know how I feel about that hat. I’m not brave enough to actually wear it in public. Hey, hey. Are you okay?’ I can feel the gentle tug as Belle pats my arm, catching on my coat as she checks in on me.
‘Yeah, of course,’ I reassure her, her face reminding me this is a different time, a different period of my life. Belle has a tricky couple of days to get through; she has supported me through the last three weeks and now I need to be grounded, I need to return the favour for her. Her dad is out of rehab – way too early – and I know how Christmas Day is already playing on her mind. My Christmas is going to be lovely this year, as long as I can continue banishing my demons back into their boxes – the first one spent with Mum and Dave in person rather than on Skype in years and celebrating her clean bill of health, the fact that she is seemingly cancer-free. I’ll cherish this Christmas now, and I have no doubt I’ll be returning home far more regularly at Christmas now I know I can cope with it, and, thanks to Belle, have some stan
d-out moments of enjoyment too.
‘You sure? We don’t have to go in.’ We’re standing on the doorstep now, the throb of the music reaching us outside, interspersed with the laughter. She’s such a trouper; the people she loves most are behind that door celebrating her favourite time of the year and I sincerely believe that if I ask her to, she will walk away and support me. The girl doesn’t stop giving.
‘We’re going to have the best night.’ I link my arm in hers. ‘Ready?’ She nods and we rap rap rap on the door in unison.
I glance at the clock in the corner, a great big old grandfather clock, and am surprised to see that three hours have already flown by. I hadn’t expected to spend more than one here, two at the absolute max if I was enjoying myself.
I have drunk far more cider than I should have done and am remarkably unbothered by that fact. It will be a Lyft home for me tonight. I watch Belle, who has been dancing nearly all night. She started off being pulled in circles by Marsha and then after all three of us danced, a lot, she had grabbed her sleepy goddaughter and with a nod to Luisa we’d carried Marsha up the stairs to bed, given her the snow globe, which she delicately placed next to her on the pillow. She had fallen asleep before we had even got to the end of Mog’s Christmas.
And now Belle is back downstairs and completely lost in the music. It’s moved on from Christmas songs in the background and decks have been set up in the front room where Luisa’s husband, Remi, is proving a master. Belle’s hands are above her head and she is in perfect rhythm with the bass. I’d forgotten how good a dancer she is. She definitely spent more time dancing than studying from what I remember in college. It makes me happy that she hasn’t lost her love as she has grown older.
‘Hey, now that’s a big ol’ grin.’ Luisa slides into the space next to me. ‘Not a dancer?’
‘Not so much.’
‘You used to when we were younger.’
It’s true, when I first got to uni and before I started to get serious with Jessica I would dance with wild abandon and love it. Why had I given that up?
‘We were younger,’ I answer.
‘We’re hardly over the hill.’
‘I know.’ She’s right. I suddenly feel as if I have been living old for a while. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I danced, actually danced. Threw my arms up into the air, lost myself, let the music take me for a bit. That used to feel so good.
‘I hear you’ve been spending a fair amount of time with our Belle.’ Luisa leans against the wall as she speaks. She looks as if she’s had a little too much Christmas Cheer as well.
‘I have. She’s remarkable.’
‘She is. It was a shame your contact didn’t come through.’
‘It is. Still don’t know why but you know, she didn’t need him. She dusted herself off and went and banged down doors until she got her foot firmly in one, which then naturally led to more work.’
‘Yes, she would. For someone who has very little faith in herself, I find her pretty inspirational.’
‘Yes.’ I let out a short laugh. That is the perfect word, the way she goes through life, constantly up against it and refusing to give up, battling forward to make her dreams come true whilst supporting those around her, those she cares for, making their lives sweeter. The way she is with Marsha, the way her presence has revolutionised this visit, the way she had put a smile so wide on Mum’s face on the morning of her surgery. Remarkable. ‘She really is inspirational.’
‘She is.’
Belle dances her way over. ‘Hey what are you two whispering about so conspiratorially? Oh, let me grab some water.’ She leans over me and grabs a nearby glass and whacks it under the tap.
‘You,’ I answer.
‘Nothing in particular,’ Luisa jumps in. ‘I was just telling Rory about our new BBQ hut in the garden, it’s the most perfect little Nordic lodge, complete with a fire pit.’
‘That’s sounds really nice,’ I say. I do love a fire.
‘Oh, I’m so glad you got it, you’ve wanted one for ages. Is it all kitted out?’
‘We have and it is. You must go and check it out,’ Luisa says enthusiastically.
‘Okay, we will,’ I respond – it seems the least I can do given her hospitality – as Remi starts playing a remixed version of ‘Last Christmas’.
Belle and I look at each other.
‘Noooo!’
‘It’s our song.’ Her face is the picture of every mischievous elf ever existing all rolled into one being.
‘You have a song?’ If Luisa’s ears could physically prick up like a dog when he thinks he’s heard a cat, or an intruder, then they would have.
‘We don’t have a song,’ Belle bites out quickly, realising her mistake.
‘The rave version of “Last Christmas”. We knew it had to happen.’ I laugh.
‘We did.’ She holds out her arm, holds it halfway. Not grabbing me, not forcing me. Then she waggles her eyebrows. ‘You know you want to.’
I guess I do.
GPs should probably prescribe dancing. I had forgotten how much fun it is. How releasing it can be to lose yourself in the music, to just let go. My hair, those damn curls, are sticking to my forehead and I feel as if I’m dripping with sweat but my face is aching from smiling and I just don’t care. Luisa’s living room has taken on a magical quality. The huge mirror behind the decks doubles it in size so it feels as if we’re dancing with twice the number of people in twice the amount of space. I’d found myself double-looking as I caught sight of Belle next to me in the mirror. We have danced and danced and danced. We have danced beside each other, both lost in our own worlds, and we have danced together, losing ourselves in the other’s. It’s been bloody magical and even though my breath is coming hard and fast, I’m exhilarated and so, so happy.
Happy!
‘Wanna grab some water?’ Belle smiles up at me as she pushes her own damp hair from the front of her face. She looks beautiful.
‘For sure.’ She grabs my hand and pulls me through the throng back to the sink where we both take great big glugs of liquid and great big gulps of air.
‘Shall we head out and check Luisa and Remi’s Nordic heaven?’ She nods out of the kitchen window to a little hexagonal log cabin at the end of the garden, all lit up and sparkling with white fairy lights.
‘Good plan.’ I lead this time, my hand seeking hers, my fingers curling around hers as we both clasp each other tight. Our grips speaking of all the affection we hold for each other far better than any words ever could. Or at least I think so, but I’m riding kinda high. We weave through the people in the kitchen, through the open door and out into the bracing cold of the night air in the garden.
We exchange smiles as we reach the door and I’m grateful that whilst I can hear party noises coming from the house, there is no sound at all from the cabin. I fervently want it to be empty. I use my shoulder to push open the door, still holding onto Belle’s hand, and the door opens to the most perfect space. In the centre of the cabin is a fire pit, almost burnt out but with some softly glowing embers lighting up the hut. The rest of the cabin is lit only by a string of muted white fairy lights around the top of the building, which is interspersed with mistletoe. A lot of mistletoe. With the building shaped with its six walls, each point, each bench, has a great big clump of ancient greenery hanging above it. Belle follows my gaze, looks up and laughs.
‘Ha, I’ve known Luisa for years but never thought she’d be planning an orgy in her back garden.’
‘It does look a bit like that, doesn’t it? Like this hut is made for kissing couples.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Belle heads towards the seating opposite the door and takes me with her. Is she going to kiss me? My heart speeds up, galloping even faster than it had on the dance floor. If she leant over now… The thought of holding Belle in my arms, kissing her, feeling the warmth of her against me… I can imagine my hands tangled in her hair, my hands caressing down the length of her body, pulling her close and … I quick
ly try to gain control of myself. The last thing I need right now is my body showing signs of what I’m thinking and it’s not far off. What is going on in my head? I haven’t thought this, felt this for so long it is shocking to me, but also a comfort, a feeling that an old friend has returned. I know this, I know how attraction works. I had just forgotten how lush it is. I smile as I realise I even use her language now.
‘As much as I hate to thwart Luisa’s orgiastic plans, I’m no longer that girl.’
Of course she isn’t. Belle has always been clear about how she is not doing men at the moment – her words. It brings another smile to my lips and reminds me in a timely fashion of what is likely to be happening in this hut tonight and between us. And that is nothing other than a whole load of alcohol, an overflowing bucketful of mutual friendship, gratitude for all she has bought into my life and a quick reality check for my mounting … um … desire.
Belle.
‘…I’m no longer that girl.’ The words fall out of my mouth as I seek to make Rory feel safe, make him realise that even though we’ve fallen into some dastardly trap set by my best friend – I don’t dare look out the door of the hut, she’ll be at the kitchen windows, looking smug and doing a thumbs-up – that I’m not going to start ripping his clothes off his body just because he’s drunk, vulnerable and … so fucking hot! The way he dances! Someone save me.
I have always believed that the way a man dances tells you a great deal about him sexually and although I remember Rory at one or two freshers’ events – yes, I had clocked him fairly early on – and he had danced well, it wasn’t long before he settled into dull domesticity and wasn’t out throwing shapes with the rest of us. Or if he was there, he would be at the sidelines with Jessica talking about, I don’t know, Hansard or the situation in the Middle East. But tonight, tonight has been a revelation, the boy can move and he does so with a fluidity, grace and confidence that makes me think of nothing but him moving over me, under me, beside me, in every single way imaginable.
