Istand at the fridge door, double-checking. I’m fairly sure I have everything I can possibly need for tomorrow. Okay, I’m beyond fairly sure, I’m certain that unless I actually have some real-life turkeys wandering the flat and Father Christmas and Mrs Claus sat on the sofa drinking Gluhwein and gently reprimanding wayward elves, I cannot make this place any more Christmassy.
And truth is I have quite enjoyed myself. I mean I’m not going to turn the lights on now and sit with the tree all lit up whilst I’m by myself but it has been nice, going out and picking out things that I think Belle will like, that I think may put the smile on her face that makes everything in her shine.
The smile I’m picturing in my head is a different smile to the polite one she flashes at people, to the polite one she usually flashes at me. The one where she’s truly happy and comfortable is one I’ve seen far more rarely, really only around Luisa and Marsha, or the night she saw how genuinely interested I am in her Shakespeare project.
When that smile is on her face she radiates, the happiness shines out of her, capable of melting the frostiest day. There’s something transformative about it; not only does it transform her face and the way she holds her body but it transforms those whom it is bestowed upon, the warmth of it lasting long after its first flash. It could easily become addictive.
It’s becoming more frequent as she relaxes into being around me. She had it on when she caught my eye the other day whilst we ate salt-dough. And it had been glowing from her, bright as a beacon, as we had raced down that hill on those rickety old trays, as she and Marsha had clung to each other and shrieked with laughter as they hurtled down, her face occasionally turning back to mine to see if I was enjoying myself as much as they were. And I was. I really was. It had been liberating, that adrenaline rush of letting the this-is-stupid-maybe-we-shouldn’t feeling be overwhelmed by the we’re-doing-this-and-it-feels-amazing rush, a feeling I haven’t had, haven’t allowed myself to have, in a long time.
I have a feeling Belle Wilde is teaching me lessons that could be very good for me. And I feel safe with her – well, obviously not physically, as the sledging testified to, but emotionally, which is far more important to me at the moment. The safety comes through knowing that she is deliberately avoiding romance to concentrate on her work, that there is no risk of mixed messages or misread symbols. She is safe and happy with friendship andnothingelse. I could, if I was of the mind to – which I Very Definitely Am Not – wave red roses or engagement rings or even my boxer shorts at her and be met with nothing other than a tut and firm request to sod the hell off. She will never have any idea of how grateful I am to her for that. The pressure is off, I don’t have to worry about what she may be thinking and she doesn’t have to worry about me hitting on her. And in her company I feel more relaxed than I have for years.
I need to repay that somehow. I figure after the hecticness of this week that her shininess might be waning. If I can help her feel a glimmer of pleasure through the exhaustion, then that I will do.
I’m aware, now, that socialising isn’t always an easy thing for Belle. She’s been honest enough to say as much, that the outgoing social persona she had at university was fuelled by stimulants rather than by her being naturally comfortable around people. Her ability to interact or enjoy herself fully without social anxiety is limited; she worries about every little thing she’s said or done. What’s been left unsaid is that it comes from a place of not feeling good enough, thatsheisn’t good enough.
I can remember that feeling. I had it when I first started university, surrounded by all the rich kids. The kids, like Belle, that I had assumed had everything gifted to them on a silver platter. The students whose mums hadn’t had to clean four different houses a day to put food on the table, who hadn’t skipped meals when the rent was due. The students who could tell from a glance that I was poor, that I didn’t have the right clothes, that my laptop had been bought refurbished from eBay rather than brand new from the Apple store.
I had grown out of it quickly though, as it hadn’t taken long to realise that with my mother – and then later with Dave and my mum – I had grown up richer than most of those children with their Antibes holidays and designer clothing. I had been loved and nurtured and encouraged. And, as yesterday had proved, still am.
When I think about Belle and how she scared me then, intimidated me and yet compelled me, and when I think about her now and that lunch I witnessed at the Wilde house, her adolescent behaviour is no surprise, textbook in fact. A child constantly ignored or put down by parents grows up not feeling good enough, turns to substances to mask feelings of inadequacy. Not that she has ever blamed her parents for that in my hearing; she takes full responsibility for all of her decisions. That evening with Luisa, she didn’t hesitate to admit it was her who cocked up all the time, none of the blame-shifting she could easily have done.
I can’t help but admire her for that. In fact, the more time I spend with her the more I realise there is a complexity to her I may have guessed at before, but never fully understood. When I was younger, categorising people and putting them in boxes made me feel better, more in control, superior even. I realise now that it wasn’t just unkind but unfair, misrepresentative. It did both them and me a disservice.
I realise I’m just standing staring mindlessly in the fridge as I have damascene moment after damascene moment, but I can’t help where my thoughts are taking me. That’s a lie; I can. I’m good at control. That I’m A-star in, medal-winning. I don’t want to control where my thoughts are, not right now.
I’m enjoying thinking of Belle, I’ve been enjoying thinking about Belle. I enjoy doing things for her, repaying the kindnesses she has shown me since I turned up at her parents’ house.
I pull a bottle of beer and the leftovers of last night’s takeaway with it out of the fridge and shut the door. If I were in Oz now I wouldn’t be drinking mid-week but I’m having some difficulty sleeping over here, with replays of that last argument with Jess going over again and again and again in my head. Mum’s words about it not being my fault were too simplistic. I can’t help but think how I should have behaved differently, how I should have recognised that I was an irritant and changed myself accordingly, how I should have kept my cool. As the thoughts throttle through my mind I hear that bloody Christmas album on repeat, providing the background noise to the scene as it played out. The Christmas tree lights flickering in the corner of my eye as my speech, Jessica’s speech, became more and more disjointed, emotional, fractured.
I take a deep breath, place the food and the drink on the work-surface and pull open the drawer to grab the bottle opener. With a swift jerk, I have the cap off the bottle and the glass to my lips. I drink deeply.
I’m thankful, I guess, that it’s only at night that my demons resurface, that in the daytime I’m normally able to carry on as usual. It had been my fear that I would be triggered the minute I landed back in Bristol, especially in winter with all the seasonal celebrations blaring out of every building, through the high streets and the villages. That I would be paralysed, unable to support Mum and Dave, contribute in any way.
I had been scared that every blonde woman I saw wrapped up in a camel wool coat would jolt me, shake me and trigger flashbacks to that night. Of me shouting, raging even. The only time in my life I have ever lost my temper like that. Flashbacks of the drive to the hospital, Dave’s face set and grim, Mum sat next to me in the back as if I were a child again, stroking my arm as I stared forward, dreading what was coming. I didn’t need telling, I knew. I could feel it.
Another glug of beer.
But it hasn’t been too bad, coming home at Christmas time. It isn’t that the demons haven’t come haring back, tracking me down. They have, especially that first day or two; as I landed, as Mum and Dave tried to make everything normal, as I escaped back here to my Bath-based cocoon every night so I wouldn’t hear the sounds ofthecity, just a city.
But the month has progressed and it’s no longer every night that I lie awake, staring up at the ceiling, beating myself up as the memories come flashing back. If I’m entirely honest, the days I spend with Belle are the ones when I get into my bed and fall asleep almost immediately, and I know I’m guilty of seeking out her company because of it. I am using her as a kind of therapy, a survival method to get me through. And her well-intentioned plan to get me to love Christmas may not make me love this season, but it is helping in a way. As I look around my flat and see all I have done to try and make Belle smile tomorrow evening, I know I am creating new Christmas memories, frequently daft ones that make me feel something very close to happy.
Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
December Seventeenth.
Rory.
The rain is hitting hard and fast, and the city’s lights – of which there are bloody hundreds – are all blurry and jagging as it hurtles down in the dark evening sky. Little stingy spikes of rain jabbing at you, targeting every part, making everyone hurry as fast as they can to their next destination. Back in Australia, people will be firing up barbecues right now, with hand-held fans and suntan lotion crammed into their overstuffed beach bags.
I watch Belle come out of the shop, laughing with her colleagues as they pull their coats and their scarfs tighter, their hats down on their heads, and all saying goodnight as the manager turns the key in the lock before they turn and speed walk to safety.
‘Hey,’ I call, and her head bobs up. When she spots me her mouth turns upwards. The smile polite but genuine all the same.
‘Hello. I was just about to walk to yours.’
‘Here, get under the umbrella.’ I wave it towards her, opening my own head up to the sharp, cold drops. ‘You can’t walk in this, and besides, you know what a warren this city is. It made way more sense to pick you up.’
She looks tired, and I’m not surprised. I remember back to the start of this month – hard to believe it was only a couple of weeks ago – when I thought that Belle had grown up to be an underachieving stoner. Now I know she is one of the hardest workers I have ever known. She has dark circles under her eyes and even the brightness of her smile is not enough to fool me now I know her. Running three jobs this week would be enough to kill anyone; it’s a miracle she’s still standing.
