He slides a finger under the flap and peels it open. Inside is a folded card with tasteful gold edging. The invitation it’s so elegant and courteous.
We, Mr and Mrs Brandon Hazelwood, have been invited to a small family Christmas with Lord Du Montfort and family along with a few friends: Adam & Laura, Hal & Elodie and Pierre & Gabriel. That’s how the names are written, three pairs of names, making it clear they are couples.
I’m instantly torn. Obviously, I really wanted to see George. Where else would I be able to talk to the island’s Seigneur in a relaxed informal setting? But I don’t want – with a passion I don’t want – to go and play happy families and pretend to exchange gifts with my pretend husband in front of a lot of other happy couples.
Brandon is still staring at the card. He has the oddest expression. I wish I knew what he was thinking, but when he looks up at me his face is carefully neutral. “We can go,” he says then after a moment adds. “If you’d like to.”
Does he want to go, but is giving me the option to decline, or is he offering to go only to please me?
“Doyouwant to go?” I ask him.
“If you want to.” He sounds so non-committal, it’s impossible to tell what he feels.
We could be here all day. One of us has to stop being polite.
“I don’t, but I’ll go if you want. It’s bound to be a good group of people and you might like…”
He shakes his head, dislodging his hair, making it fall over his brow. “On any other day, yes, but not Christmas.”
“Okay, then let’s send a polite refusal.”
It would have been good to have George introduce me to the charity, but not essential. Millie mentioned they have a fund-raising bazaar in the village on New Year’s Eve. I can meet the head of the women’s refuge there and introduce myself as a potential consultant or freelance researcher.
Of course, I’m not rocking up to the sale with nothing to show for myself. There’s plenty of time to prepare, read up on them. Their annual reports and accounts should be available on the Charities Commission website.
I turn to go upstairs when Brandon’s words sink in, and I turn back. “Why not Christmas, particularly?”
That expression crosses his face again. This time, he lets out a long and shaky breath. “I would very much like to forget it’s Christmas at all, pretend it’s any other day.”
How could I have forgotten? “Your brother?”
“Something like that.” He drops the invitation on the coffee table.
This is not a man used to explaining himself. Getting him to say how he feels is a bit like easing teeth out of a firmly closed mouth, and this looks like private and clearly painful territory. But I do understand, sort of. Because I feel the same, sort of. Spending Christmas away from everyone I love will be hard. Waking up to carols on the radio and my sister’s children excited to drag us all out of bed. Going down, still in our pyjamas to open presents while my dad presides over breakfast. Then joining Mum in the kitchen to prep the vegetables and sneaking mince pies while no one is looking.
I close my eyes on the memories. “Okay let’s make a deal, we’ll both pretend it’s not Christmas at all. We’ll just go about the day like it’s any other day.”
“Should be easy with no visible decorations outside,” he says.
Thanks to this island’s rules on no outside lights, there are no Christmas fairy lights and twinkling Santas on every house roof and front garden.
That’s when an idea hits me. I go to the kitchen and take down the wall calendar. Today is the 11thof December. I cross out one of the digits, “It’s now the 1stof December. In two weeks, it’ll be the 15th, just an ordinary winter day. What would you be doing on the fifteenth?”
His eyes flick from me to the calendar on the wall and back to me. “I’d probably be doing the ensuite bathroom.”
Instantly, I’m intrigued. His ensuite is halfway between ugly and depressing. Not only a chocolate brown suite but ginghams wallpaper and gingham roman blinds and a wall of Formica cabinets. It was probably used as bathroom-cum-dressing room back in the days when hot water was fetched from downstairs in a jug. “Are you redesigning?”
Brandon’s face twists in a grimace. “I’ll have to take out the old fittings first. I can’t see the space for brown and yellow stripes. What about you?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll have lots to do.” Anything to prevent me from remembering last year’s magnificent feast of roast turkey draped in bacon slices, surrounded by sausages and a million trimmings. Plum pudding and every kind of cream, brandy butter and caramel sauce.
“In fact, can we please make sure we have nothing special to eat?”
“Cheese on toast would suit me fine.” There’s no mistaking the relief in his voice.
“I’ll even up the ante,” I say, oddly excited. “You have been planning to paint the kitchen table and chairs.” Brandon had spent a week stripping off the old peeling veneer back to bare natural wood. “How about on our new and improved 15thof December, I paint all of them? I warn you; it means we won’t have anywhere to lay dinner and will have to eat standing up.”
This time an actual smile breaks on his face. “I see your kitchen painting and I’ll raise you a sitting room floor sanding. Our neighbour is lending me his electric sander.”
