‘But you took off in a hurry during dessert.’
‘I’m fine. It’s just been a long day,’ I reply bluntly. But Bailey isn’t easily dissuaded.
‘It’s just ...’
‘What?’
‘That stuff you said about being fostered.’
My emotional guard dogs are immediately on high alert. ‘What about it?’
‘It can’t have been easy for you.’
I shift position under the bedclothes. ‘I guess. I don’t know anything else, though, do I?’
‘Is Christmas that bad with your ... foster family?’
‘Let’s just say it’s not like here. The last time I had Christmas with them was two years ago. I vowed I’d never do it again.’ It actually took me a month to recover mentally from the experience.
‘What happened?’ Bailey’s voice softens imperceptibly.
‘A lot of arguing mostly. It’s usually about money, not having enough. Violet, my foster sister, is a “glass half-empty” person. There’s typically some drama about things that aren’t going well in her life. She gets it from her mother. The two of them together are ... trying.’
‘And your foster father?’
‘A hypochondriac—he’s always talking about how he’s got some incurable illness. Believe me, after two days of listening to them all, I’m ready to come home.’
Bailey gives a sympathetic grunt. ‘Is there a tree, decorations, or presents at least?’
‘No to all three. They think Christmas is nothing but commercialist shite. They invite me out of obligation. We usually go out to a restaurant.’
‘So you’ve never really had a proper Christmas?’
‘Not really, not like in the movies at least.’
‘What age were you when you went to live with them?’
‘When I was 8. I was supposed to be company for Violet. I managed to get on OK with her then, but now she’s so moody it’s like trying to converse with the Grim Reaper.’
There’s a long silence from Bailey’s side of the bed. He doesn’t ask any more questions, probably sensing he’s getting into painful territory. Then the cushions move aside next to my arm, and something warm touches my hand. I let out a yelp.
‘It’s just me,’ he says, grabbing hold of my fingers.
My breath catches in my throat, and my stomach flips. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like?’
His palm is warm, dry, and smooth against mine. It actually feels really nice, but alarm bells are ringing in my brain as I try to comprehend what it means. A friendly gesture? A come-on? We are in the same bed. But I don’t find Bailey attractive in the slightest. He’s the most annoying guy I’ve ever met.
‘I’m just ... I’m here if you ever want to talk about anything.’ He squeezes my hand gently, and self-piteous tears prick my eyeballs.Ah, OK, he’s feeling sorry for the foster kid because she missed out on Christmas.
I disentangle my fingers from his because it’s suddenly unbearable to have him touching me. I wish I’d never said anything about my family situation.
‘Sorry, I know you’re trying to be nice to me, but I can’t,’ I mumble.
Bailey doesn’t seem put out. ‘It’s good that you made contact with your grandmother at least,’ he says, stifling a yawn. ‘Is that a recent thing?’
‘Er, yes. When I moved to Edinburgh, I looked into my family history.’ That part isn’t really true. The English grandmother is alive and kicking, the old boot. But the Scottish grandmother is mythical. However, I’d like to think that if she did exist, she would’ve been overjoyed to have me visit for Christmas.
