by Kitty Wilson
I lean over and chuck a log on the fire and then make a great show of huffing on it and trying to get it going full pelt again, although making this shed even warmer than it is isn’t such a good idea. The last thing this poor boy needs right now is the sight of me stripping off to cool down. The last thing I need is thinking about stripping off in front of him. But building a fire is better than giving him even an inkling of what is going through my mind, how much I want to feel his hands between my thighs.
I cannot look at him, not for a minute. Compose yourself, you dirty bitch, I tell myself shrilly.
‘So, I want to talk to you about Christmas,’ he says. I blow on the fire one last time, give myself one last little tongue-lashing and decide I’m better off at this point just trying to have a conversation like a normal person.
‘Uh-huh.’ I pull myself up on the bench and attempt to look him in the eye whilst giving myself a lecture on consent and inappropriate behaviour. I’ve just got Rory to manage to enjoy a little bit of Christmas; best not tarnish that and scar his memories of the season further than they already are by hurling myself across the wooden benches at him like some kind of festive marauding sex-pest.
‘Mum says if you want to, you’re very welcome to come spend Christmas Day with us, although she imagines you wouldn’t want to. She thinks Christmas Day with your dad must be awesome.’
‘Yep, all festive bunting, and perfectly stuffed goose.’ I smile to show I’m teasing rather than bitter.
‘Right. I didn’t want to blow her preconceptions or your confidences by telling her the truth of it…’
‘Dad being pissed from the minute he wakes up and then verbally berating us for the entire day, whilst my mother tries to compensate with saccharine sweetness and I sit watching the clock hands move so slowly, wanting to shout at her, shake her into seeing that we all should leave. That truth?’
‘Yep, that one. No one would blame you if you wanted to escape that for one year, and you would be very welcome to come to ours.’
‘Your mum is lovely and Dave is cute, you’re all so normal.’
‘You’re just biased.’
‘A little bit, yes,’ I admit.
‘And I’m a bit scared of what the two of you might cook up.’
‘A life of crime I’m thinking, proper Thelma and Louise shit but, you know, minus the dying.’
‘Yeah, she’s already beaten death once this week.’
‘Shit, Rory, I didn’t mean—’
‘I know. You worry way too much about what you say and how people will react. And I’m in reputation management so if I’m saying this then that means something. You know, you’re tonnes wiser than me but maybe you should work on a “fuck them” principle.’
‘My dad has accused me of working that way my whole life.’
‘Yeah, and in his case, you most definitely should. But look, if people know you they love you, it’s impossible not to…’
I don’t know where to look now. I know I’m drunk but waves of gratitude are rolling over me. I feel tears at the rim of my eyes. This is what Rory thinks of me? That I’m impossible not to love?
Rory carries on speaking. ‘And they know your intentions are never anything but good, pure…’ Oh, I definitely am not finding the courage to look back at him now. Pure? Trust me, boy, the last thing on my mind this evening is purity! ‘So if they don’t value you and think the worst of whatever it is that comes out of your mouth then fuck ’em, well and truly fuck ’em.’ His arms are waving with the emotion of it on each ‘fuck’.
I start to giggle. He really is quite wasted. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. He starts to giggle too and before I have time to think he has swept me up into his arms, both of them wrapped tight around me, my face buried on his chest by his shoulder. He holds me there and squeezes once then twice and doesn’t let go. I feel so good. Safe. Loved. Like nothing can touch me. Like nothing on this earth I have ever felt before.
Fuuuuucccccccckkkkkkk!
He’s going home in a week, Belle Wilde, he is going home in a week.
I should feel liberated knowing that it’s only a week I have to hold it together, keep my feelings in check, and that after seven days I can let all the emotion out, knowing that Rory won’t be around to see me. That my emotions won’t make him feel guilty for being the object of my affections, or repulsed – I’m still not sure what his dominant emotion would be. Instead I am filled with overwhelming sadness that I have found the perfect man and I fall so far short of him that I can’t just cling to him in this perfect moment and make all my romantic dreams come true.
And then I decide to turn my mind off and enjoy what is happening in this moment. He is just holding me. In no way has he made it sexual. I sure as hell am not going to. I’m going to enjoy the friendship offered. We turn a little and sit in silence watching the flames flit and spit and crackle and lick.
‘Hey, Wilde…’ He speaks into my hair, his chin resting on the top of my head. ‘I get you not coming for Christmas but I’ve got a shit-hot present for you, or I think I have. Will you give me the whole of Boxing Day instead?’
Who could refrain
That had a heart to love, and in that heart
Courage to make’s love known?
* * *
December Twenty-fourth.
Belle.
It is clear this morning as I walk to work, though still bloody chilly, but then what do you expect at 5.30 on a December morning? And not just any December morning but Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve! I’m so excited. It’s also possible I’m still a little drunk after the party last night. But what a party! I can’t remember the last time I had such a good night. There had been something special about last night. So special I hadn’t been able to stop grinning from the minute I woke up. I’m like a twelve-year-old with a crush so enormous that I may well faint if the object of my affection ever addresses me.
But I’m not twelve, I’m thirty-one, and me and the object of my affections danced until the wee hours and then curled up last night in that hut with an intimacy I don’t think I have ever experienced with a man. Ridiculous to think that a cuddle, a chat and a bit of hair stroke can feel more intimate than sex but it did and my body is trying not to explode with sparkles and glitter and excitement. My mind is far more sensible and trying to shut all that down. It’s not doing very well and there is a spring in my step. I can’t remember the last time I indulged my heart over my head. My vagina, yes, but not my heart.
I cannot wait until Boxing Day and in the meantime, I’m going to daydream all day. I shall revel in the daydreams, respect his desire to honour Jess and keep everything wrapped up tight in my head. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the odd wallow.
This afternoon I have one final shift in the Christmas decoration shop and then work drinks in Bath. I was toying with giving Rory a shout afterwards but seeing as my thoughts tend to go to dirty places whenever my brain says his name, or pictures his face, then calling him may not be helpful right now. If I want to draw a protective bubble around him to make his last few days here safe and enjoyable, then keeping my distance until Boxing Day is sensible. He doesn’t need my lust-filled stares piercing him after the pub. Daydreams may be abounding but as intimate as yesterday was, he couldn’t have been clearer the other night about how he is still very much in love with Jessica.
‘Hey,’ Dorothy greets me as I get through the door at Hope House. ‘Happy Christmas.’
I rifle in my bag and dig out a bag of the rum truffles. Alison insisted I take several bags to give as gifts myself. ‘I know I’ll probably see you in the morning but here, this is for you. Happy Christmas.’
‘Thank you, that’s kind. I wanted to talk to you today.’
Oh shit, that’s the phrase that has led to every sacking I have ever had. I rack my brain desperately to think of what I could have done to screw this one up. She’d okayed me talking to Alan and I really couldn’t think of anything else. Unles
s it’s the time I’d walked in on Angel last week with a female client – that had been an eye-opener, the fact that women used Hope House too. I like that.
‘Everything okay?’ I say, wishing I could close my eyes and not see the face she makes as she builds up to the inevitable.
‘Yes, of course. I just want to say thank you…’ Wow! ‘And to tell you to take a few days off. Do not come in tomorrow morning, in fact I don’t want to see your face until Monday. Do you hear me? Enjoy Christmas.’ She uses her firmest voice. I’m not going to argue.
‘Are you sure?’ Why can I not just say yes and thank you like a normal person and leave before she changes her mind?
‘Yes.’ She gives me a wrapped bottle. ‘You’re the best cleaner we’ve ever had.’
‘I am?’
‘You turn up every morning with a smile and get the job done. The girls really like you, and you have never brought drama to my door. You don’t know how rare that is. So, take some time over Christmas, relax and thank you for these. Now, what are you standing here for, there’s work to be done. Chop chop.’
‘On my way, ma’am.’ I head down the hall to see Fat Alan coming up from the basement.
‘Hey, you! Tell me who the secret Christmas chocolate giver is,’ he says as he reaches me. ‘We’ve been trying to work that out for years. Go on, whisper in my ear and I promise not to rat you out.’
‘Ha! No way, Alan. I am a great keeper of secrets and I ain’t telling you shit.’
‘Thank fuck for that,’ says Innocence, coming out of one of the adjoining rooms. I put my finger to my lips to promise secrecy and then nod towards the door. I’m going to pretend I haven’t seen him because I cannot begin to imagine what his mother will have to say about this. But I’m fairly sure this is not the early morning service I had heard her referring to yesterday.
Rory.
My head is still pounding as I drag myself onto the sofa but yesterday was so worth every bang. I had the best night. But the oddest thing is that my attraction to Belle, which I thought last night may be a thing of a moment, is revealing itself to be more than that. It seems as if someone has imprinted her shape, her mannerisms, the flick of her hair, the way she pulls her sleeves over her fingers as she speaks – all of it on my eyelids, in my brain. She is what I was thinking about last night as I fell asleep and again when I awoke. Awoke sober with nothing to blame my thought processes on. And those processes are very definitely no longer merely platonic.
I accepted last night that I am very, very attracted to her and my mind went into freefall. I had been happy to have her as my friend, she is the most remarkable woman, and although I have felt odd flutters of attraction in the last five years – of course I have, I’m human – they had, to my embarrassment, been for women not involved in my actual life. You know, like Emma Watson. Women that are safe.
This is not safe.
This is Belle Wilde. She is firmly in my life. I can’t imagine a world in which I don’t check in with her most days, even when I’m back in Australia – when, if, I go back. I’ve decided to stay and see how the mastectomy goes with Mum in January; it seems foolish to leave before everything is finished. I’m also – tentatively – toying with the idea of relocating back here permanently. Loads of my clients are UK- and States-based so I’m up half the night when I’m in Oz to stay in tune with the time differences and truth is, I don’t have a huge life over there. It’s largely work-based. Australia was a means of escape and I love the lifestyle but I don’t really take advantage of it. I’m almost as much of a hermit now as I was when I first moved there, looking for escape. And Mum is not getting any younger.
I reach out to gulp the water I had brought in from the kitchen and my mind switches back to Belle – as it frequently does. I admire her. The way she sets a goal and goes for it, the way she got knocked down and got straight back up again, and the way she manages to support people without trying to take control – something my far-too-honest mother is fond of telling me I need to learn how to do. I had never really understood her point until I watched Belle do it and do it without thinking. She is remarkable.
However, I cannot mess this friendship up. She has had more than her fair share of shitty relationships and from what I can see, new celibate Belle is a whole heap more together than uni Belle ever was. And I can’t help but think some of this is because of the choices she has made, particularly the ones about valuing herself. The last thing she needs is this broken, messed-up bloke suggesting that our friendship might not be the stable platonic relationship she thinks. I worry if she thinks I am attracted to her she will decide that all of our friendship has been a ploy, that I was never interested in her Shakespeare project for its own merits, that this was nothing more than me playing the long game to satisfy a long-held teenage crush. That I am no better a man than her father and our friendship has been built on deceit. None of which is true.
Nevertheless, I’m excited about Boxing Day, I can’t wait to see her face when I deliver her gift and I want it to be given and received in the spirit of friendship. Images of last night have been flashing through my head all day and I can see us as we sat around the fire, remember how it felt as I cuddled her in to me. That feeling was something I hadn’t expected to feel again, like I was keeping her safe, providing for someone. I’ve missed that. I think it’s an instinct deep in all of us. I’d been fighting the desire to tip her face up and place my lips on hers, lose myself in her. This morning part of me wishes I had been bold, but the other half is relieved that I hadn’t. The alcohol may have relaxed me, made me realise that I am capable of being attracted to someone again, but thankfully it didn’t make me lose all my inhibitions and put our friendship on the line.
I need to take some time and work out what exactly is going on in my head. Has there been some battle between my conscious and subconscious mind, my desperate constant reiteration of the love I have for Jess that’s making me block the feelings I may be developing for Belle?
Just sitting here, all of this swirling around in my head and combining with my hangover is a little overwhelming. I can feel myself getting in a fluster. My heart is beating faster than it should, and when I bring my hand to my face I feel that I am clammy.
Today may not be the day to overthink this. Stick to the basics – hydrate, get food – then consider the thoughts in my head. Even if Belle and I do remain friends, which I cannot help but think is the very best option, then I maybe need to re-examine where I slot in with Jessica right now. Do I have to take advantage of being in the UK to make my peace with her? Maybe that’s what’s needed before I can move on properly.
That thought comes as a bit of a jolt. The phrase in my head is a fact rather than a question and now recognised, I know that it is true. I want to move on. I do. I hadn’t thought this day would come so soon and certainly not whilst I was here, not now. But today it’s clear in my head – about the only thing that is – making my peace with Jess and finding a way forward feels like the right thing to do both for the past and future.
I don’t know if I want to move on with Belle specifically – okay, I would really, really like that – but I recognise that getting to this point has been made possible only by her help. Her presence has opened my eyes to the life I could still have. With Belle or without her, this is a huge step. I know that at some point in the coming weeks, before I leave, I’m going to make a trip to our old house, and spend some time saying goodbye to Jessica.
Bing.
Hey! Back in Briz for Xmas. Hit me up.
Damn straight. I smile as I hear another Belle phrase now embedded in my own vocabulary as I pick up my phone and hit Jamal’s number.
I’m going to make the most of this Christmas with her.
Belle.
I am in a pub in Bath. It’s loud, raucous and proper Christmassy. As well as my colleagues from the shop and half of Bath, I am surrounded by bags full of gifts, all lovingly wrapped with brown paper and green ribbon, teamed with some tee
ny-weeny pinecones I found in the cemetery, ready for my family tomorrow. I also have Rory’s present, which is considerably less wieldy and proving a monumental pain in the arse, as well as the battered little fox I found on the wall.
A god-awful hangover kicked in mid-afternoon so I am knocking back a gin but largely because it’s socially expected. I’m not a massive drinker and as soon as I’ve finished this I’m going to high-tail it out of here, head to a taxi rank and get me and all this stuff over to my parents’ house.
I pull out my phone to check the time; I don’t want to get there too early and have to converse with Mum and Dad. Mean, I know, but I know myself and would like to tiptoe in once they’re in bed, rather than peak too early with trying hard to be the perfect daughter tonight and not have enough patience left for tomorrow.
I see a missed text from Rory.
I’ve had a word with Santa and he’s promised to make this your best Christmas ever. What you up to tonight?
Cute, probably not true, but cute. Really not helping my crush though.
I’m in The Hat and Feather but just about to grab a taxi back to my parents’ place. And thank Santa for me. I need all the help I can get.
* * *
Don’t get a taxi, that’s madness. I’ll give you a lift.
* * *
Thank you but don’t be daft. Really is no need.
* * *
Practically in the car already. See you in ten.
