Calling Mrs Christmas Page 36

  ‘No.’

  Her expression says that she’s not surprised. When she goes through to the kitchen, I fold up the duvet and stow it with my pillows behind the sofa. I’m obviously planning on staying here again tonight. I follow Gaby into the kitchen where she’s clanking about, making breakfast.

  ‘Can I log onto your laptop to check what I’m supposed to be doing today?’

  ‘Sure. I know that I’ve got three dozen Christmas cupcakes and the same quantity of mince pies to bake later and you’re delivering them somewhere.’

  I wander over to the worktop where the computer is kept. Jim had the sensible idea of storing everything on Dropbox so that Gaby could access it too and check what she was supposed to be doing. I log in and, not that I doubted it, Gaby’s bakery order pops up. Most of what I have to do today is based in the flat and I check my iPhone to see what Jim’s shifts are. According to the calendar, he’s on an afternoon shift, which means that he should be in work for eleven o’clock. If I get to the flat after that, it’s safe to assume that our paths won’t cross. While I’m doing my ‘thinking’, I suspect it’s best if we don’t meet.

  The doorbell rings and Gaby, busy doling out Weetabix, says over her shoulder, ‘Can you get that, love? I’m waiting for some last-minute Christmas prezzies from Amazon.’

  I pad towards the front door. This is last minute for my sister who normally has all her presents bought by July. When I open the door, a man is standing there with an enormous bouquet of red roses all wrapped with festive red ribbon.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right house?’

  ‘For Mrs Cassie Christmas?’

  I laugh. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ he says. Then he hands over the flowers and hotfoots it back to his van, eager to get out of the cold.

  Overnight a sprinkling of snow has fallen. It’s pretty, but it’s hardly Lapland. I shut the front door and lean against it while I pull the card out of the bouquet.

  ‘I love you. Carter XX,’ is all it says.

  I take the flowers into the kitchen.

  ‘Was it my prezzies?’ Gaby asks.

  ‘Roses,’ I say, stunned. ‘For me.’

  Gaby spins round. ‘My goodness. That’s huge. There must be two dozen there.’

  ‘Easily,’ I agree.

  ‘I take it they’re from one of the men in your life?’

  ‘Don’t make it sound like that,’ I say. Then I sigh. ‘But yes. They’re from Carter.’

  ‘Are you going to ring him?’

  ‘No. I said that I’d try to stay away from both of them while I sort my head out. I should stick to that.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Gaby says. ‘Carter seems to be one determined man.’

  I look at the roses. They’re absolutely beautiful. I think my sister might well be right.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  When I get to the flat, there’s no sign of Jim, which is exactly what I wanted. The boys are in the living room and are already busy at work, boxing up presents.

  ‘Hi,’ I say as I throw down my bag. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ Andrew mutters. He and Kieran exchange a glance. I feel my lips purse. They both look as shifty as hell.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Another glance. ‘Everything’s cool.’

  ‘Okey-dokey.’ If that’s the way they want to play it.

  ‘Jim’s given us the list of what needs doing,’ Andrew says, clearly happy to be on safer ground. ‘We thought we’d crack on.’

  That’s so typical of Jim to still think about the business and keeping the lads busy. ‘Is Jim all right?’

  They both shuffle uncomfortably and look at their feet. Eventually, Andrew says, ‘Yeah. He’s cool.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘Is it really over between you and Jim?’ Kieran asks tentatively. There are tears in his eyes and, if I’m not careful, he’ll start me off again too. And I’ve already cried a river.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say honestly. ‘We’re just having some time apart.’

  ‘He’s dead miserable without you.’

  ‘I’m miserable without him.’

  ‘Then come back,’ Kieran says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

  ‘It’s not that easy.’

  Andrew shoots him a look and they both fall silent.

  In truth, in such a short time, this doesn’t feel like my home any more. I feel the way I do when I’m at Carter’s, that I’m an intruder, an interloper.

  ‘You look as if you’re doing a good job,’ I say more brightly than I feel. ‘Can I leave you both to it?’

  I’ve got some bookings to check up on, paperware and balloons to order for a party, a couple of last-minute chefs to book and invoices to send. Which means I can hide myself away on the computer for what’s left of this morning. This afternoon I’ve got deliveries to make and some presents to collect for wrapping. Where once I was all bouncy and sparkly, looking forward to Christmas, now I haul myself wearily, step by painful step towards it. All I’d like to do is lie down on our bed, pull the duvet over my head and never get up again.

  Instead, I leave the boys to their tasks and go through to the spare room. I close the door and immerse myself in work, bashing through my to-do list like a woman possessed. The more I work, the less I can think about other things. My phone pings all morning with texts from Carter.

  ‘I hope you like the roses.’

  ‘Call me, I want to hear your voice.’

  ‘What are you doing for lunch?’

  I ignore them all. From Jim, there’s nothing.

  At four o’clock, I pack up my stuff and make sure that the lads have got plenty to do for tomorrow. They help me load up the car with all that I need for the next few jobs. Back in the flat, I collect my bag and coat, ready to leave, but before I go I say, ‘You can call me if you’ve any problems, you know that. Don’t hesitate.’

  They both stand there looking like lost souls and all I want to do is take them in my arms and cuddle them.

  ‘What are you having for dinner tonight? Did Jim leave instructions?’

  Again that glance that tells me something is amiss, but they’re not willing to share.

  ‘No,’ Andrew says. ‘I don’t know what we’re supposed to do.’

  I check in the kitchen and they both trail behind me. ‘There’s a bag of pasta here.’ In the fridge, there’s bacon, which I put on the work surface. ‘If you fry some onions and the bacon together, then stir in a tin of tomatoes and let it simmer, that will be quick. Grate some cheese and sprinkle it on top. There are some dried herbs in the cupboard too.’

  ‘Right.’

  Neither of them moves.

  ‘This isn’t about you,’ I assure them. ‘Really it isn’t. It isn’t even about Jim.’

  ‘It’s about this other bloke,’ Andrew supplies.

  So Jim has told them what’s been going on between us. I suppose they have a right to know.

  ‘Yes.’ That seems to sum it up in one uncomfortable nutshell. ‘I suppose it is.’

  Now none of us knows what to say. They’re not my kids, not my responsibility at all. Yet I feel as if I’m letting them both down. Kieran looks like a kicked puppy. The timing of all this is so terribly, terribly wrong and unfair. I want to be here for them as a mentor, a friend, as Jim is, but I seem to be making a total hash of it all.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’

  They both fidget and stare at their feet.

  ‘I’d better go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Then I let myself out of the flat and my heart hurts just that little bit more.

  I do the deliveries of presents, collect some more and then head back to Gaby’s house where, hopefully, she will have baked all the required cupcakes and mince pies for tonight’s event.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  When I pull up outside my sister’s house, there’s a big, red Merc
edes parked on the drive. It looks brand new. I feel like wolf-whistling it as I squeeze past, trying not to touch the gleaming paintwork. It’s the exact same colour as my roses.

  I open the door to her house, expecting her to have a visitor, but she’s alone and is just finishing a twirl of buttercream on a cupcake.

  ‘Top car,’ I say. ‘Whose is it?’

  Gaby licks buttercream from her fingers then grabs a bunch of keys from the counter and tosses them to me.

  I catch them on the fly. ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘I took delivery of it an hour ago for you.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I ask. ‘I can’t keep it.’

  ‘Then I suggest you ring Carter and tell him that.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘How does he know where you are?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Obviously Carter has ways of finding out.

  ‘He’s going all out for you,’ Gaby says. ‘I’ll give him that.’

  ‘This is not what I wanted.’

  ‘Can I have it then?’ My sister grins at me.

  ‘No.’ I smile back. ‘Take this seriously.’

  George comes into the kitchen. ‘That’s a nice car.’

  ‘It’s Auntie Cassie’s.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ I glare at my sister.

  ‘Someone bought it for her.’

  ‘Not Uncle Jim?’

  I glare at Gaby again as if to say, ‘Now look what you’ve started.’

  ‘Is it the same person who bought the flowers?’ George wrinkles his nose at that.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could you ask him if he’ll buy you a puppy too and I’ll look after it?’

  ‘Nice try,’ Gaby says to her son. To me, ‘No puppy.’

  ‘I have to ring Carter,’ I say. Molly is watching cartoons in the living room and, as I have no space of my own, I clutch the keys and march out to the car.

  The inside of the Mercedes smells of newness and there’s a satisfying clunk when I close the door. It’s all black leather and pristine chrome, seductive. Just as Carter intended, I imagine.

  I punch his number on speed dial.

  ‘Hi,’ he says after a couple of rings. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m… weird,’ I manage. I wanted to be mad with him, trying to buy me with roses and a car, but now that he’s here on the end of the line, I can’t be cross.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m sitting in the very shiny car that’s just been delivered.’

  I can hear the smile in his voice when he asks, ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Of course I like it. Who wouldn’t? It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Good. I’m pleased.’

  ‘But I can’t keep it, Carter.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t run something like this. I couldn’t even afford to fill it with petrol. And I don’t want to think that you can buy me.’

  ‘I’m not trying to “buy” you, Cassie. I wouldn’t be that crass. It’s just that I would like you to have a car that’s new and reliable. Something smart and sexy, just like you.’

  ‘It’s worth a fortune.’

  ‘That’s relative.’

  ‘I’d feel like an idiot swanning around in this.’

  ‘Then I’ll get you something else. What would you like?’

  ‘I can’t accept it.’ I sound firm even though I don’t feel it. ‘You must take it back.’

  ‘Keep it for a few days. Try it,’ he cajoles. ‘Then see how you feel.’

  I feel as if I can’t think straight. This car gives Carter an unfair advantage over Jim, which pulls me up short. This is exactly what it’s all about when it comes down to it. The proof of Carter’s advantage is sitting here in my sister’s drive, all shiny and new. I don’t have to drive a knackered old Clio with a clunky gearbox any more. This is my future. It’s here right now. The roses. The car. My head spins.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’ll keep it?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘I love you,’ he says.

  I hang up. But I don’t go into the house. I sit in the car, the scent of expensive, new leather filling my senses, and I stare out at the falling snow.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  I go through the rest of the week in a daze. Somehow I manage to work my way through all of my commissions, but I couldn’t have done it without the help of Kieran, Andrew and Jim.

  Yes, Jim.

  I haven’t seen or spoken to him, but he’s been quietly toiling behind the scenes to keep Calling Mrs Christmas! moving along. I can’t thank him enough for that and I certainly couldn’t have managed without him. I would have had to cancel some of the things I’ve taken on and I’d have hated to let people down.

  Still, it’s all nearly at an end. Christmas is looming large and nothing can stop it now. One more week to go and then my work here is done. All the jobs lined up in the diary tail off on 25 December. After a few Boxing Day parties, a scattering of events for New Year’s Eve and some taking down of lights and trees, everything ends. January lies ahead like a vast, empty wilderness. The thought makes me go cold.

  I haven’t spoken to Carter either, though he has constantly called and texted, asking me to contact him urgently. Nor have I driven the shiny Mercedes. The snow is quite thick on the ground now and, strangely, I feel much safer slithering about in my old Clio, clunks and all, than I would in that.

  On Saturday, I turn up at the flat, which still looks like a packing warehouse. I can barely see the boys, buried amid piles of paper and ribbons and boxes. They have some Christmas lights to put up on a house this afternoon – the first of several over the next few days – and I’m going to drive them over there and supervise.

  When they see me, they both look up, worried.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Jim,’ Andrew says and my heart tightens with fear. ‘He’s Santa today down at the cricket club and he’s forgotten the presents.’

  Their eyes stray to six large sacks of presents that are waiting patiently in the corner. I relax. I thought it was going to be something much worse. Presents I can deal with. What I couldn’t cope with is if anything had happened to Jim.

  ‘Damn,’ I say, relieved and anxious at the same time. ‘Has he realised yet?’

  ‘He’s just phoned. Can you run them down there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Text him back. Tell him we’re on our way. I’ll drop you at the house to fix up the lights on the way back, if that’s OK. Let’s go.’

  So they both abandon what they’re doing, jump up, grab the forgotten sacks of presents and we rush down to my car. The Christmas lights and toolbox go in the boot. The boys sit in the back with sacks of presents on their knees. There’s another sack of presents on the front seat and one more in the footwell. We speed down to the cricket club in Boxmoor as fast as my little car can go.

  Ten minutes later I’m pulling into the car park. We all pile out of the car, load up with the sacks and rush them inside. When I open the door, we’re knocked backwards by the noise. It sounds as if a thousand parrots are being strangled. The Christmas party is already in full flow, with dozens of hyperactive children racing around the bar area that looks out over the cricket pitch. The sound level is quite startling and the look on the boys’ faces says that they are only happy that they’re not required to be elves today.

  In the corner, I see a flash of red and look over to see Jim. Amid the hubbub, he’s sitting on a large wooden chair in the far corner. I nod to the boys to indicate where he is and we make our way towards him. Thankfully, the children are too busy working themselves into a frenzy to notice the arrival of their gifts.

  ‘Hi,’ I say as we reach him. It feels unreal to be meeting up in these circumstances when we haven’t spoken for days.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jim says. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. It was only when I sat down that I realised I’d forgotten them.’

  ‘It’s not a problem.’

&
nbsp; ‘I know you’ve got a lot on,’ Jim says. ‘I didn’t want to put you out.’

  ‘Oh Jim,’ I say. Everything in my heart tells me to throw my arms round him and hold him, but my body refuses to comply. I can tell how distressed he is, but he’s trying to put a brave face on it. I feel wretched.