Harry walks into the bathroom about ten minutes later. “Stinks in here!” he shouts before bursting into laughter. He spots my dirty Calvins on the floor and picks them up by the elastic waistband.
He picks them up! Doesn’t even think twice about touching them.
“Do you want me to wash these or sling ’em?”
“Yeah, you can chuck them. Thank you,” I say, suddenly fighting a lump in my throat. Why, though?
“What about your trousers?”
“I think they’re unscathed, but I’ll have to check them in a while.”
Harry disappears with my soiled pants and comes back a moment later with a clean pair of his. As if my lanky ass will fit in something that stretches over his cakes. They’re also sky blue, but beggars can’t be choosers. He’s brought me a fresh towel too.
“In case you want to shower.” He puts the items on the edge of the sink and inspects the seat of my jeans. “I think you’re good.”
“I’m sorry I made you miss your Christmas dinner,” I say.
Harry walks over to me, tilts my head up, and kisses my forehead. “Wow, you’re sweaty.”
I laugh.
“Don’t be sorry, okay? It’s not your fault. And I’d rather be here with you anyway.”
I don’t quite know what to say to that, so I keep quiet.
“I’ll be in the living room when you’re ready. Take your time. Have a shower if you need to, or give me a shout if you need something else.”
He leaves, and moments later I hear Gonzo’s voice echo through the slightly ajar door.
And now I’m sitting on the toilet in someone else’s flat, crying because . . . well, I’m not even sure I know why I’m crying.
Why am I this affected?
“Did you know about Toby?” I ask as we cuddle up on the sofa and watch the end of the movie. Scrooge is buying a fuck-off turkey and forcing a tiny rabbit with ill-equipped arm muscles to carry it through the town.
“Nope.” Harry unwraps another Quality Street and pops it in his mouth. He’s already smashed all the red and purple ones, now he’s making his way through the toffee fingers.
“How do you feel about it?”
Harry shrugs. Sucks at his teeth. “Dunno.” He doesn’t seem that cut up about it, and I don’t know if that’s something I should worry about. “Do you want your present?”
“Sure,” I say. I guess we’re done talking about Lionel.
I’m not sure why I want to drag that up again, but I do.
Harry has a tiny real tree in his flat. Seriously, the thing is only about three feet tall. He said it was because he couldn’t be fucked to lug anything bigger up the steps, and I don’t blame him. There’s a twelve-foot Christmas tree in the entrance hall of Hooke Manor, but what’s the point when no one’s ever around to appreciate it?
He leans forward and plucks a gift from the base of the tree. The shape is instantly recognisable as a book. It turns out to be a recipe book:100 ways to Cook Asparagus.
I open another one from him. Vegan chocolates. They look delicious, but my bowels are on high alert, so I’ll wait until my hunger becomes too loud to ignore before delving in.
“I left your present in your car,” I tell him.
“No you didn’t. I brought it up.” Harry holds up a gift bag. “Can I open it now?”
Going by the loose bow on the top and his overeager face, I reckon he’s already peeked inside a few times. “Sure.”
“Oh my god, tickets to watch the live orchestralMuppet Christmas Carol!” He pulls out the second gift. A tiny Gonzo Charles Dickens plush. “I love it, thank you.”
