And now I feel like the luckiest man on earth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
ESTHER
Esther didn’t write in her gratitude journal last night. After Tabitha’s tits, being hassled by those boys and her mum implying that she was making a drama of it, it didn’t feel as if Christmas Eve had thrown up much to be grateful for. To make matters worse, in the middle of the night she’d woken with nausea rising in her like a gigantic wave. She’d bolted to the loo and only just made it in time. After puking everything up – the meal that had probably cost £80 a head – Esther had crawled back into bed and lay there feeling cold and empty, and not just because of the food poisoning or whatever it was.
Miles still wasn’t home. Esther knew he’d been meeting friends but she hadn’t expected him to be this late. She was shivery, with a sour taste in her mouth. Whatwasher boyfriend doing at 3.30 a.m. on what was now Christmas Day? Helping Santa on his journey around the rooftops of London? Esther wanted him home, taking care of her, keeping her warm. She could deal with the Tabitha stuff another time, when she was feeling better.
Unable to sleep, Esther pulled on her dressing gown, dug out her journal and wrote:
I have a family who love me.
I wasn’t dragged into an alleyway by those boys.
Threw up but at least I made it to the loo in time!
So there were things to be grateful for after all. And now, just as she’sreallystarting to panic, Esther hears the front door crash open. Here’s Miles – or rather, a huge silver helium balloon, as that’s what bounced into the bedroom first. ‘Surprise, baby!’ he cries out. As it floats up to the ceiling he totters over and folds her in his arms, all boozy breath and kisses on her face and in her hair. ‘I love you, darling,’ he breathes. ‘And I brought a balloon home for you!’
‘Thanks,’ she says curtly.
‘Are you happy?’
After copious vomiting and worrying herself senseless over him? She’s delirious with joy. ‘Not massively,’ she admits. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Oh, the night just went on a bit,’ he says, implying that his friends made him stay out this late, perhaps by tying him to a chair and forcing alcohol down his throat. He pulls a cartoonish sad face. ‘Sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to worry you. But you were out with Mumsie and Dadsie, weren’t you? How was it?’
‘Fine,’ Esther snaps. She doesn’t have the energy to tell him about those horrible boys and her grim night at the restaurant. Instead, she lets him burble on about the club he’s been to, who was there and how he’d reallyreallyjust wanted to come home to her.
Gradually, she starts to relax and decides she’ll forgivehim. Tabitha’s tits was probably just some silly fantasy, she decides now. Or a mindless doodle. Yes, that was probably it. It was a doodle, but in words instead of a picture. Whatever it was, shewon’tlet it spoil Christmas. It’s comforting, just lying there with him on top of the bed, listening rather than having to be ‘on form’ as her mum always demands whenever they’re out together. Like she must always be her shiniest best. She’s never allowed to be a bit dull or tarnished.
‘We’re going to have such a special day tomorrow,’ Miles announces, pulling her closer to his chest. ‘Just you and me. Our first Christmas together!’
He’s right because last year, Esther had buckled under pressure and gone to her mum and Luc’s, leaving Miles here all alone – because despite all the money they’ve thrown at him over the years, he doesn’t get on with his family. The thing is, Esther has realised, you can grow up in an enormous house with a west wing, a lake and an actual butler, and it doesn’t mean anything at all.
*
On Christmas morning Miles wakes Esther with coffee in bed and the instruction to lie in while he takes care of everything. She blinks at him, wondering if there’s a catch. But then, hehasbeen trying lately. She decides to just enjoy their Christmas, which he says he’s completely taken care of.
To kick off, there’s something called a ‘breakfast salad’. While Esther’s family has their lovely buttery scrambled egg and that special festive smoked salmon her mum orders from a farm in Scotland, she and Miles crunch through their joyless shredded vegetables and seeds. She’s poised for presents, even though they’ve agreed not tobother as, apparently, they don’t need a special day to show their love for each other. But Esther didn’t think they meant it. She has bought Miles a present, but decides not to mention it for now.
Next comes champagne, which whooshes straight to her head because she’s not a day drinker. It’s funny that Miles is so careful about avoiding E numbers and saturated fats when he doesn’t have much problem ingesting copious chemicals and booze. ‘I haven’t eaten anything with a crumb coating since 1993,’ he once told her, proudly, when they walked past a fried chicken shop.
‘Not even after a big night?’ Esther asked. But no; his method of dealing with a hangover is to hurl vitamins at it.
The day passes in a blur of them snacking (healthily), drinking champagne and repeatedly going back to bed, with Miles insisting, ‘Isn’t this great, not having to be answerable to anyone? No board games, no massive roast, no paper crowns or shit cracker jokes?’
They watch a movie he’s chosen, which bores her rigid. Esther tries not to miss the board games and shit cracker jokes.
By now she is desperate to give Miles his present, so she hands him the tissue-wrapped parcel and watches him unwrap the slim gold bracelet she had engraved for him –realgold, from a tiny boutique.
‘I love it, babe,’ he enthuses. Then, with a grimace: ‘We said no presents, didn’t we? Weren’t we just going to have a nice day?’
‘I just saw it and thought you’d like it,’ she says, fibbing, ‘It wasn’t much.’
‘It’s lovely. Thanks.’ He examines it some more and tosses it onto the coffee table as if it had tumbled out of a cracker.
Dinner comes next. While Esther’s family tucks into their vast Christmas roast and all the trimmings, she and Miles have special festive boxed meals from a new subscription plan, which he reckons iswaybetter than their previous one, to eat from the sofa. Her mum would never allow anyone to eat from their lap in front of the TV on Christmas Day – or any day for that matter. ‘I’d rather be dead,’ Esther has heard her say. Today she’ll have the huge oval table decorated with silver ribbons, flickering church candles, foraged fir cones and greenery. Esther and Miles are eating from those awful trays with padded undersides that he’d bought, saying they’d be ‘handy’, perhaps forgetting that they’re not ninety-seven years old.
