‘Sinterklaas! Tonight we put out the shoe.’
‘Somuch clearer.’
‘I have to spend the night with Marsha. We get the house ready for decorating tomorrow, that’s why we’re getting the tree now. Then the shoe goes out and the best bit is waking up and seeing her face in the morning. It’s the only time of year I’m allowed to go crazy with the sweets so it’s pretty epic.’
‘Ah, okay, I really hoped to see you today.’ Was that too needy? Only I know that if I don’t get to see her today, the opportunity I have for her may have to be shelved until goodness knows when.
‘Well, come over, I’m sure Luisa won’t mind. She’s not seen you in yonks. Come and join us. It’ll be proper Chr— It’ll be fun.’
At six o’clock I am standing on the doorstep of what I presume to be Luisa’s house. This is surreal. Within two days of being back in the UK I am completely in Belle Wilde’s life. Years have gone by with no thought of her and now here I am.
The house itself paints a picture, a pretty accurate one of the Luisa I knew back in uni and how I pictured her to be now. Sage painted door, beautifully managed front garden, aesthetically pleasing ceramic pots full of tasteful plants, olive tree, bay, that sort of thing. I had googled her before coming over and she is a successful businesswoman, running an ethical, healthy and sugar-free cupcake business – very Bristol – with her husband.
Luisa opens the door and Christmas music floats out to greet me. Ugh. I hadn’t really thought the ramifications of Sankt Nikolaus through.
I can do this. Admittedly, listening to Christmas music in Australia is easier with the sun beating down but I am not going to allow myself to spiral because of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’.
Luisa is immaculate. As if she expects cameras to roll any minute. The perfectly groomed woman in her thirties. There is, no doubt, a slot on daytime TV opening up for her any minute now.
‘Come on in, come in. I haven’t seen you in ages. How are you doing?’ There is no sympathy imbued in her welcome, no head tilt and brief furrow of concern. Just an old acquaintance from uni saying hello to someone she once knew. Thank God. It has been a hurdle I’ve been dreading from the moment Belle invited me. People’s micro-expressions, their sympathy, that is partly why I had escaped.
‘Yeah, good, thanks.’
We all move through to the kitchen, the most beautiful scent filling the room as Luisa does busy things at the stove. My eyes, though, are on Belle, sat next to me, colouring in reindeer with Marsha, asking the child her advice on the best colours to use for each part. I have seen a different side to this woman every day so far. I can’t help but wonder what else there is to Belle Wilde.
‘Would you like some mulled cider?’ Luisa brings us over a pile of mince pies and clotted cream decanted into a china pot that would have looked perfectly in place in my grandma’s dresser.
‘Ah, thanks but no, I don’t really…’
Determined eyes, almost black in colour and certainly black in their intensity, stare at me from the end of the table. ‘My mummy makes the best mulled cider. The best. It’s magical.’ Marsha holds her glare as she finishes her sentence, and whilst I have never thought of myself as a weak man, I quail.
‘Right then, that would be lovely. But just a little please, I’m driving.’ I see Belle and Luisa exchange a smirk but what can I do? I’m not upsetting a small child on blooming St Nikolaus Eve or whatever it is. Plus, I was a child who had been fiercely proud of my mum and all she did so I can relate to Marsha.
With a flash I remember where I’ve seen that mutinous stare before. Of course – she’s the child I had seen in the airport and the dark-haired woman must have been Belle.
Wow. The world is a funny place.
Marsha’s eyes are still upon me, I take a sip the second Luisa fills my glass and brace myself.
I didn’t think I would ever enjoy the taste of anything mulled, but the flavours of cinnamon, cloves, orange and nutmeg marry together beautifully, floating on my tongue.
Marsha catches my eye and nods with satisfaction. ‘Told ya. My mum…’ It was cute the way she said that, possessiveness clear in her tone. ‘My mum makes me mulled apple juice which is the same but won’t give me a headache and it’s my favourite drink in the world and I only have it when it’s near Chrissmas and when you’ve finished that and we’ve all had a mince pie, my favourite food in the whole world, then we’re going to bring in the Chrissmas tree ready for tomorrow, aren’t we, Mummy, Belle?’ She looks to them for confirmation.
‘We are,’ Luisa says and Belle nods, her mouth too stuffed with mince pie to speak. This is nice, sitting here at this table and it occurs to me this is probably the most relaxed I’ve ever seen Belle. Last night in her flat she had been fired up, passionate about her work, but here, here she is at clearly at ease and her whole body tells it. Her limbs are no longer taut as if waiting for the next attack, there’s a softness to her.
‘Rory, are you Belle’s boyfriend?’ Marsha asks. The question comes from nowhere and I feel my chest constrict. I should just say a simple no, it’s not a tough question but the words are stuck in my throat. My heart is galloping, the very thought makes me panic.
‘No, Marsha, they are just friends like you and Kye at playgroup,’ Luisa jumps in, breaking the tension and causing me to be able to look across at Belle who is bright red and seems almost as flustered as me.
‘Kye was my boyfriend last week, but he doesn’t likePaw Patrol, so he can’t be my friend anymore. Do you not likePaw Patrol?’ Marsha asks me.
‘Um … I just … um…’ So much for being an articulate man.
‘Marsha.’ I can hear warning in Luísa’s voice. Marsha ignores it.
‘Is it because of your wall, Belle, the wall Mummy was telling you off about?’
‘Enough!’ Luisa stands up ‘Sorry, she obviously wants to go to bed early.’ Marsha shakes her head ferociously. ‘Well, in that case stop haranguing our guests and we’ll go get the tree in.’
