Myself, Luke and the puppies drive home, Luke chattering excitedly about the Christmas play where he is playing a Christmas pirate, which makes no sense but then, Christmas plays aren’t supposed to, I think, being a veteran of so many of them. He was a rainbow fairy angel once and I made his costume out of an old sheet, glitter and lots ofstick-on rainbows. We still have it.
Our house is almost the most Christmassy house imaginable – with the possible exception of NumberTwenty-six on our road, where they have practically wiped out the national grid system with twinkling lights, a giant Santa and a complete herd of reindeers perilously perched on the roof. My Christmas extravaganza is confined to inside and our indoor lights are so pretty. I’ve always wanted the holidays to be incredible for Luke. When I was a child, I loved Christmas. And just because his dad isn’t here, it doesn’t mean he’s going to miss out.
‘They definitely know,’ Shazz says to me the day before the Christmas play.
‘You think?’ I say miserably.
‘Oh come on, kids know about Santa younger and younger; we’re kidding ourselves.’
‘But Luke hasn’t said anything, I so want him to believe, it’s part of the magic. And if the magic is gone, I feel he’s growing up and moving away from me, and everything is changing and I can’t cope with change. I don’t know, when did I get so weak and frail and frightened?’
‘I don’t care,’ says Shazz, ‘if Raffie doesn’t believe – well, that’s fair enough. I mean, we don’t want them getting on for eleven and having kids in class slag them because they don’t know. And there is always some little gutter snipe whose mother or father or big brother told them. Don’t know why that isn’t on the mothers’ WhatsApp,’ she says, grimly. ‘But I’m going to say to Raffie, if you don’t believe, you don’t receive. So he knows but we still have the fun. It’s awin-win situation.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ I say. ‘If you don’t believe, you don’t receive.’ I think of the presents, even presents for the dogs. They’ve got specialdog-food stockings and a fluffy teddy for each of them. Even though I know said fluffy teddies will be disembowelled really quickly. Sausage knows how tode-squeak a teddy faster than you would think possible.
Luke and I have just got inside when Luke, instead of racing into the kitchen with the puppies, who head for their bowls expectantly every time they get home, stops and gives me his serious look.
‘Mum,’ he says, slowly. ‘The thing is –’ He pauses. He’s such a fast thinker, and normally, he talks quickly and excitedly but now he’s slow, thoughtful. ‘After Christmas we’re doing this thing and it’s, um –’ Another pause.
I smile but I feel my heart sink.
‘Yes, lovie,’ I say cheerfully, implying in my best motherly way that whatever happens, we will manage it gloriously.
‘We’ve got to do a Family Tree project. We’ve got to put pictures of people in it, like our families and –’
‘That’ll be great fun,’ I lie, managing to look as if I mean it. I put an arm around him. ‘We’re so lucky to have such lovely family and friends. Can we put the puppies in too, do you think?’
He smiles and I know he’s relieved, that he was hating having to tell me this. ‘Yes! Christie has ink in her printer and we can print them there. I want colour ones so everyone can see how adorable they are.’
‘I bet nobody has puppies like them,’ I say, continuing to squeeze him as we walk into the kitchen.
The girls are looking up at me expectantly, then back down at their bowls. They think food should be a 24/7 sort of experience.
‘I love you,’ says Luke, launching himself onto the ground and grabbing them both.
They squeal delightedly and I think that Luke’s birthday dogs were simply the best present he’s ever had. What a pity dads can’t be put on Christmas lists.
22
Sid
‘Going to apre-Christmas dinner with his best friends sounds more than “just friends” to me,’ says Vilma slyly as we meander through the food market in the city and try free samples of juicy olives andjust-baked bread with a new type of goat’s cheese smeared on top.
‘We are just friends,’ I mutter with my mouth full.
Vilma pokes me gleefully in the ribs.
‘Don’t believe you!’ she says. ‘You like him! It’s about time. Are you going to buy him a present? Or is he getting you one? Because if you get him one and he hasn’t got you one, then that’s awkward. Maybe he’s in the Brown Thomas lingerie department as we speak, standing in front of a sales lady, cupping his hands and saying “she’s about this size”!’
Vilma goes off into peals of laughter at this notion and I feel myself turn pink.
‘Course he’s not,’ I say, although I wish he was.
Finn is haunting my dreams now and my favourite fantasy is of us together in bed, curled up, looking into each other’s eyes as he gently touches my body, running his fingers over my skin as if I’m a precious gift.
‘You bought bloody Marc that cashmere sweater for Christmas and then he dumped you. OK, it was TK Maxx and only costforty-five quid, but still. Cashmere!’ Vilma has moved on at speed. Marc still rankles with her. I wish I could tell her that poor Marc had to leave me, really. I was too broken. We’d tried intimacy and, eventually, it had petered out. He deserved a woman who’d make love to him.
And as for Finn ...hemakes me think of making love. I stop by the Christmas gift area and see a body butter in a jolly jar, something chocolatey designed to be spread on a lover’s body and licked slowly off. I have never lickedanything offanyone’sbody but I have the fiercest desire to buy this for Finn and to tell him what I want to do with it.
