The Love Shack: that’s what Cole had named our four-bedroom new build out by Manchester Airport, back when I thought he was so glamorous and exciting and charming, and I’d laughed at all his funny ways; back when I’d imagined us populating the spare bedrooms with adorable little Jordans, and when I’d given a damn about mollifying my near-miss monster-in-law.
The mince pie’s somehow been demolished and it’s obvious I’m sinking into the break-up abyss again, the place where I spend hours just going over and over it all. Nari’s calling to me from the edge of the void.
‘No. No! Don’t drift off. We’ve got work to do here. Focus, Sylvie.’
She’s tipped the brochures onto the table and is fanning them out in front of me, swirling her hands above them like a demented game show beauty luring me into gambling away the holiday I already have in the bag.
‘Pick one, then. If we’re transferring to another trip I’ll contactmyguy and get you a full refund. Stephen owes me a favour actually.’
Nari’s wearing a leery grin so I can only assume she’s talking aboutthatStephen. The one that owns a few airlines and travel companies, no big deal. He’s a flashy, brash Los Angelino now – only a handful of people know of his lowly birth in Grimsby, long since forgotten now that he’s bestowed with a transatlantic accent, numerous tax haven homes and an English Bentley that never leaves its Saudi garage. He’s Nari’s favourite thing to do on a Singapore stopover. I’ve listened to way too many gratuitously graphic descriptions of his impressive love-making in his even more impressive skyscraper penthouses over the years. I try to block the more lurid details from my mind by setting to work on my red velvet cake and flipping through the brochures.
‘Nari, I don’t really fancy spending Christmas in a chilly off-season Mediterranean resort full of pasty ex-pats, do you? And a frosty city break won’t be up to much when all the museums and galleries will be shut for the holidays and everyone’s preparing for New Year street parties and snogging at midnight. And Idefinitelydon’t want another trip to a paradise island populated by shagged-out newlyweds. I’ve already got one of those and the thought of going makes me nauseous. So, what do we do?’
‘You missed this one.’ Nari presents me with a very smart, shiny booklet. It says ‘Santa’s Enchanted Lapland’ in glittery red letters and there’s the most Christmassy Father Christmas of all time smiling out of the cover at me through half-moon spectacles perched on rosy cheeks.
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ I say, returning it to the bottom of the pile, but Nari’s switched on the death stare again and I wilt a bit under her unrelenting gaze.
‘Hold on a sec, Lapland’s supposed to be gorgeous. And I’ve never been that far north in Scandinavia before,’ she protests.
I flip through the pages again, holding them open to show Nari. There’s nothing but mischievous-looking (read ‘annoying’) costumed elves with pointy ears, or cosy families, all blond hair and blue eyes, toasting marshmallows by snowy wilderness campfires.
‘I’m sure it’sadorableif you’re six and seriously into reindeer.’
Nari’s having none of this. ‘Actually, Lapland is very chic. This stuff is just for the family market, ignore all that. Picture it, Sylvie… You and me sipping Christmas spirits in a fancy igloo ice bar under the aurora borealis. And there’s all the skiing and fondue. Oh, and Jacuzzis and saunas… and hot Nordic men… although you’d already know a little aboutthat, wouldn’t you, Sylve?’ This is said with a wink and a smutty laugh that makes us the centre of coffee shop attention all over again.
I know perfectly well what she’s referring to and I’m not biting.
‘Well… that does sound quite nice,’ I say, looking with fresh eyes at the brochure.
‘It’s only a short-haul flight but we’d still be getting away from it all. We’d be miles inside the Arctic Circle.’
I must admit I take a deep breath at this idea. A bit of peace and total isolation.
‘Keep talking. You’re winning me round,’ I say with a smile. ‘Won’t it be a bit chilly though?’
‘Freezing! And dark. Totally dark. The sun barely touches the horizon in December.’
Hmm, I’m not convinced this is a good thing. I don’t like the cold and dark. ‘The total opposite of Mauritius, then?Oh no, Nari! I’ve just realised. What about your Mauritius feature for the website?’
‘Oh no!’ Nari mimics soundlessly, holding her hands to her cheeksHome Alonestyle. ‘I’ll just ring my boss, shall I?’ Facetiously, she mimes dialling a phone. ‘Hi Nari, is it OK if I switch our January feature from “A Girls’ Indian Ocean Getaway” to “Two Go in Search of the Northern Lights”? Uh-huh? Uh-huh?’ She dramatically hangs up on herself and says with a grinning wink, ‘Boss says it’s A-OK,’ before shovelling a huge wodge of cake into her mouth. Christ, she’s annoying. Brilliant and annoying.
As we pack up to leave (I’ve still got that gin and a Christmas tree to buy on my way home, and Nari’s promised to ring Stephen the Sex God to sort out our travel plans), I pull up my collar and peer out the door into the street. It’s gone five o’clock and the little boutiques all around the town square are staffed by harried workers bracing themselves for another round of late-night opening for the Christmas shoppers. My mum would say it’s too cold for snow, though I’ve never really understood what that means.
Some of my school kids are milling around by the war memorial waiting to get into the first showing of the Christmas film at Castlewych’s one screen cinema. Some of them spot me as I walk outside and shout, ‘Merry Christmas, Ms. M!’ and I wave back at them.
As I’m hugging Nari goodbye I notice over her shoulder that two of the sixth-formers have paired off alone under the town’s light display (the council has gone for an odd mix of strings of trumpeting herald angels and dancing Santas this year), and I can tell the teenagers are totally oblivious to everything going on around them.
They’re leaning their foreheads together and he’s lovingly holding her face with his fingertips. They’re utterly frozen in each other’s gaze, intense and intimate, just the two of them alone together in a crowd of people, holding off, enjoying the moment before their lips will, at last, meet.
As Nari blows a kiss towards me and walks off across town, I can’t help looking back at the kids, but I lose sight of them in the bustle of Christmas shoppers.
I plod homeward, dragging the last petrol station forecourt Christmas tree behind me and clinking a carrier bag of discounted booze, and I think about how, a long time ago, a boy kissed me like that. And then a name that I haven’t spoken aloud in years crosses my chilled lips in a cloud of warm vapour.
‘Stellan.’
Chapter Two
‘Decorations… decorations… Where the hell are you?’
