‘Yaaaayyyyyyy!’ I open an eye as Marsha’s shriek pierces the air. I’m sleeping top-to-toe in her bed, a tradition that started when she was two with her first ever Sinterklaas night and one that I assume will end in a few years. Surely she won’t want me sleeping in the same bed as her once she’s in secondary school? I’m going to make the most of the joy now. But also, itis5 a.m.
‘Look at this, Belle!’ she says, waving a huge bar of Milka around so excitedly it whacks me on the head.
Ow.
‘That’s huge, Marshy-moo!’
‘I know. Huge-est ever. It didn’t even fit in the shoe, it’s like, one, two, three, four, six shoes long. It’s going to last for ever.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Mmmmm … here, shhhh.’ She breaks me off a chunk and puts her finger to her lip. Almost five years old and already skilled at getting me to collude so I can’t rat on her. I know Luisa will make her make the chocolate last until Christmas Day itself, so I don’t blame her for eating as much as she can before her mum wakes up.
‘I’ve got Percy Pigs, and these…’ She holds up gel pens. ‘This…’ A Beatrix Potter colouring book – the girl is obsessed, and who in their right mind does not love Mrs Tiggy-Winkle? ‘And look! A skipping rope…’ I duck. ‘And a huge bag of reindeer poo!’ The chocolate raisins are a fairly large bag. We cuddle under the covers and both take a page of Tiggy-Winkle colouring, munching chocolate while we can.
I’m getting ready to go home when I get a text from Rory with an address and a time slot. It would seem this meeting is going ahead. It will be quick, he’s a busy man, I am told, but not so busy he’s prepared to give away 75K without a brief face-to-face. He can fit me in after church.
The address is in St Pauls, barely a fifteen-minute walk away from mine, through the underpass and then a couple of roads down. In fact, I think it’s not far from an underground club I used to go to when I was younger, big steel metal door, sliding hatch, password, that sort of thing. Proper sketchy. The sort of place I don’t think I could find sober and in daylight. And definitely not now I’m in my thirties.
‘Don’t fret,’ Rory had said last night, ‘the two of you have a lot in common. I’ve known him since primary school. He’ll take one look at you and decide in an instant whether his investment is safe or whether you’re a shyster. He always does business this way. I think you’re going to like him.’
‘I don’t need to like him.’ I had said at the time. ‘I just need him to like me.’ But inside I’m terrified. Should I prepare a pitch? I had asked, aware that twelve hours was not a long time to get ready. No need, I had been reassured, bring you as you are and answer any questions he has honestly and that will be enough.
Great, I’m going to meet some kind of psychic business savant, and bar being me, there is little else I can do to win him over. No pressure!
Before I allow my mind to go down into a poor self-esteem whirl I decide to reframe the way I’m thinking. Stop concentrating on my flaws and how this man will react to me. If he hates me I’m no worse off than I was twenty-four hours ago.
I also need to find a way to thank Rory for this. He had said last night it was his job but to me it’s so much more than that. What can I do for Rory? He’s financially secure, has no worries that I know of in his life and is only here for a short amount of time. I’m not sure why he has come back. I should ask him but I wonder if it has anything to do with Jessica. She died in December. I know this because it was the day before Marsha wailed her way onto this planet, red-faced and determined.
He had admitted to hating December whereas for me it is the most magical month. It is also the toughest. It’s tough because I am required to see my parents twice, but other than that the sparkle, the magic, the thinking of gifts for those I love, the joy in Marsha’s face, peaking not just once at Christmas but again on New Year’s Day when she celebrates her birthday, all of that is joyous. The excitement in the air, the jollity everywhere you go, the anticipation. Maybe I can pass some of that magic on to him.
That is what I will do. I will teach him to love Christmas. I’m not going to be able to wipe away his pain, suddenly cleanse December of the tragedy he has experienced, but whilst he’s here I can be his friend and show him the magic of winter. I can be his very own Christmas elf.
It’s noon and I am standing on the doorstep of a fairly average-looking terraced house in St Pauls. Not some schmancy-pants hotel or Clifton address. There’s music blaring out from a house down the street and despite wearing the smartest outfit I can, borrowed from Luisa with the intention of reassuring Mystery Man his money is safe with me, my feet are itching to dance.
I love this area of Bristol, I’m a die-hard attendee of Carnival when it’s on in summer and have actually clambered over Luisa once to get my hands on a cold Red Stripe and a bowl of goat curry. She hadn’t minded. The houses here are all jammed together and as well as the music, I can hear people as they walk down the street, a stream of chatter bringing life to the place. All senses are awakened here.
Still, my love for the city doesn’t stop me being nervous right now, in this moment. My hopes of getting my Shakespeare project out are pretty all-consuming and I’ve gone from zero to two hundred in less than a day. My dreams of wandering around schools sharing my bardolatry with keen minds have been over-inflating all the way here and I’ve worked out a pitch as I’ve walked. Shakespeare me is not going to let an opportunity like this slip through my fingers through lack of preparation. If it all goes wrong I need to know I’ve given it my best shot.
Deep breath. I ring the doorbell.
Breath in, breath out.
A lithe young woman with the most beautiful face opens the door. She’s wearing some kind of gold mesh and has an afro that must be a good ten inches wide – that takes maintenance. She might have just walked straight off the cover ofVogue. She certainly looks like she belongs where 75K is pocket change. I’m intimidated and trying not to stare.
‘Hi, come on in. Belle for Jamal? He’s expecting you.’ Her voice is pure Bristolian and I could kiss her; the intimidation has waned.
She leads me through a hallway into a kitchen.
Sitting at the Formica-topped kitchen table is a woman, probably about my mum’s age, but where my mum exudes brittle sophistication twinned with cold desperation this woman is warm and dressed in her Sunday best. This kitchen feels like a hub of the home and there is a delicious smell pervading the house.
My gaze swings from my guide to a tall man stirring a pot. His shoulders are so broad that he looks as if he could be a warrior king. Even through his hoody I can see how beautifully built he is and I feel a pang of lust flood through me. Woah, that’s not appropriate right now.
‘Hello, hello, hello.’ The woman waves me in. ‘You are just in time for Jamal’s brown stew chicken. It is the best, I tell you, the best there has ever been.’
I smile.
‘Hello, that’s quite some recommendation.’
