Callie laughs. “Poor guy. Imagine his torment.”
“I’m trying not to. Screaming kids. Christmas music on loop. The overwhelming urge to hurl... Now you come to mention it, sounds a bit like Christmas with my family.”
Finally we reach the car and lean the tree against the bumper. I put my hands at the small of my back, reel in fresh air. Steve would be horrified if he could see the full extent of my poor upper-body strength. I’m not sure I’d last five minutes doing Callie’s job (unlike me, she’s barely broken a sweat).
“Anyway.” She hooks a foot over the rear tire, ready for our first attempt at launching the thing onto the car roof. “The best thing about a real tree is that it will make your flat smell gorgeous.”
“Hang on, when did we say it was going in my flat?”
She smiles. “Um, how do I put this?”
“You’re thinking I’ll never make it up the stairs, aren’t you?”
•••
She was right, actually. So we stand the tree in my living room’s bay window. Adorn the branches with tinsel and trinkets, fairy lights, tiny chocolates. It makes me feel slightly wistful for times past.
My dad pretty much abandoned the idea of Christmas after Mum died. There were never any decorations, no special food in the fridge. The extent of the effort he went to was buying us all gift cards for the shopping center in town.
I think everyone was quietly relieved when Amber was born and Tamsin offered to host. She’d inherited Mum’s appetite for fun, after all. I knew things were looking up when she confessed, tipsy one night at mine, that she planned on “tearing Christmas a new one this year.” The sentiment, at least, was bang-on.
We’re finally out of shiny stuff. I step up behind Callie, cocoon her with my arms. She leans back on my chest, and I rest my face against thefragrant flourish of her hair. We stay like that for a couple of moments, trading heartbeats.You must feel mine going crazy, I want to say.I’m falling for you, Callie.
“You know,” she whispers, “I’m starting to think... that this year, Christmas might actually be enjoyable.”
The sentiment’s achingly familiar. “Guess your last one was pretty rough.”
She turns to face me. Her eyes are nightlight-soft. “It must be a hard time of year for you too.”
“Easier since the kids came along. We just make it about them now.”
She smiles. “I bet they love it.”
“It’s all down to my brother and sister, really. I just show up with the gifts. Let the children clamber all over me. Try not to drink too much.”
“Ah. The mantra of doting uncles everywhere.”
“Oh, and I referee as well. My lot almost came to blows last year. Charades.”
“What else?”
“The clue was ‘Good Vibrations’ by the Beach Boys. My brother was drunk. Thought he’d try and make it dirty.”
She starts laughing. “Oh, no.”
“Yeah, it was pretty funny. Me and Tamsin had our hands across the kids’ eyes. Dad was stone-cold sober and appalled. They took it out to the garden in the end. I had to intervene.”
Callie smiles, like I’ve just told her a really heartwarming story. “I’d love to meet your family.”
“It’s a bit hard... spending time with them right now.” I try to swallow the sadness away, caught out by a tripwire of nostalgia that might soon mean something else to me entirely. Though I’ve not yet uncovered any evidence about my father, I still can’t shake the potency of my dream. “Knowing what I know about my dad—or think I know—I’m not sure how I feel.”
She gives my hand a supportive squeeze.
“But it’s Christmas,” I concede. “So I’ll definitely see them at some point, and you should come.”
“I’d like that.”
We sit down on the sofa together. Across the room, the log fire roars molten lava. “How about you? You going to your parents’?”
