‘I don’t doubt it. I’m expecting roller-skating elves serving me that delicious mulled cider.’
‘See, it’s so good isn’t it? It sounds, Mr Walters, as if you may have changed your tune a little. My Stockholm syndrome approach to making you love Christmas seems to be working.’
‘It might be. Although I’m disappointed that you’re not wearing that oh-so-colourful flashing hat.’ This is the first Christmas party I’ve attended since that night five years ago. I’ve avoided them ever since, fearful that the combination of jollity, Christmas music and people drifting about wearing their sparkling seasonal best will be one trigger too many. That I’ll lose hold of my carefully constructed current reality and go spinning back to unendurable grief, to self-reproach and incessant blame.
I close my eyes for a second as I get out of the car. The memory is back now. Staccato snapshots: Jessica and I screaming at each other in the dining room whilst our friends and family party in the next room, the loss of control, that feeling of bewilderment of not understanding what she was saying to me, what she meant, of being powerless as she stormed out of the house, car keys in hand. Me screeching that she wasn’t safe to drive. Her composure so shaken that she had turned around, still for a moment in the pounding rain and shouted, ‘Fuck you, Rory, fuck you!’ with all the passion that could be in one body. Me racing out of the house to stop her and not being quick enough. Her driving off into the insane rain. The car around the tree; the coroner ruling accidental death.
I take a deep breath and another one.
‘You know how I feel about that hat. I’m not brave enough to actually wear it in public. Hey, hey. Are you okay?’ I can feel the gentle tug as Belle pats my arm, catching on my coat as she checks in on me.
‘Yeah, of course,’ I reassure her, her face reminding me this is a different time, a different period of my life. Belle has a tricky couple of days to get through; she has supported me through the last three weeks and now I need to be grounded, I need to return the favour for her. Her dad is out of rehab – way too early – and I know how Christmas Day is already playing on her mind. My Christmas is going to be lovely this year, as long as I can continue banishing my demons back into their boxes – the first one spent with Mum and Dave in person rather than on Skype in years and celebrating her clean bill of health, the fact that she is seemingly cancer-free. I’ll cherish this Christmas now, and I have no doubt I’ll be returning home far more regularly at Christmas now I know I can cope with it, and, thanks to Belle, have some stand-out moments of enjoyment too.
‘You sure? We don’t have to go in.’ We’re standing on the doorstep now, the throb of the music reaching us outside, interspersed with the laughter. She’s such a trouper; the people she loves most are behind that door celebrating her favourite time of the year and I sincerely believe that if I ask her to, she will walk away and support me. The girl doesn’t stop giving.
‘We’re going to have the best night.’ I link my arm in hers. ‘Ready?’ She nods and we rap rap rap on the door in unison.
I glance at the clock in the corner, a great big old grandfather clock, and am surprised to see that three hours have already flown by. I hadn’t expected to spend more than one here, two at the absolute max if I was enjoying myself.
I have drunk far more cider than I should have done and am remarkably unbothered by that fact. It will be a Lyft home for me tonight. I watch Belle, who has been dancing nearly all night. She started off being pulled in circles by Marsha and then after all three of us danced, a lot, she had grabbed her sleepy goddaughter and with a nod to Luisa we’d carried Marsha up the stairs to bed, given her the snow globe, which she delicately placed next to her on the pillow. She had fallen asleep before we had even got to the end ofMog’s Christmas.
And now Belle is back downstairs and completely lost in the music. It’s moved on from Christmas songs in the background and decks have been set up in the front room where Luisa’s husband, Remi, is proving a master. Belle’s hands are above her head and she is in perfect rhythm with the bass. I’d forgotten how good a dancer she is. She definitely spent more time dancing than studying from what I remember in college. It makes me happy that she hasn’t lost her love as she has grown older.
‘Hey, now that’s a big ol’ grin.’ Luisa slides into the space next to me. ‘Not a dancer?’
‘Not so much.’
‘You used to when we were younger.’
It’s true, when I first got to uni and before I started to get serious with Jessica I would dance with wild abandon and love it. Why had I given that up?
‘We were younger,’ I answer.
‘We’re hardly over the hill.’
‘I know.’ She’s right. I suddenly feel as if Ihavebeen living old for a while. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I danced, actually danced. Threw my arms up into the air, lost myself, let the music take me for a bit. That used to feelsogood.
‘I hear you’ve been spending a fair amount of time with our Belle.’ Luisa leans against the wall as she speaks. She looks as if she’s had a little too much Christmas Cheer as well.
‘I have. She’s remarkable.’
‘She is. It was a shame your contact didn’t come through.’
‘It is. Still don’t know why but you know, she didn’t need him. She dusted herself off and went and banged down doors until she got her foot firmly in one, which then naturally led to more work.’
‘Yes, she would. For someone who has very little faith in herself, I find her pretty inspirational.’
‘Yes.’ I let out a short laugh. That is the perfect word, the way she goes through life, constantly up against it and refusing to give up, battling forward to make her dreams come true whilst supporting those around her, those she cares for, making their lives sweeter. The way she is with Marsha, the way her presence has revolutionised this visit, the way she had put a smile so wide on Mum’s face on the morning of her surgery. Remarkable. ‘She really is inspirational.’
‘She is.’
Belle dances her way over. ‘Hey what are you two whispering about so conspiratorially? Oh, let me grab some water.’ She leans over me and grabs a nearby glass and whacks it under the tap.
‘You,’ I answer.
‘Nothing in particular,’ Luisa jumps in. ‘I was just telling Rory about our new BBQ hut in the garden, it’s the most perfect little Nordic lodge, complete with a fire pit.’
‘That’s sounds really nice,’ I say. I do love a fire.
