‘But you can have this now.’ I slide the fox out of my pocket and hand it to him.
‘You’ve bought me a Belle-fox,’ he exclaims and looks way more joyful than I imagined.
‘It’s a Rory-fox!’ I say.
‘No, it’s definitely a Belle-fox. Thank you. I love it,’ he says and I know I am bright red so try to concentrate instead on the bells of the Abbey, ringing out for the late-night carol service. A siren call for all lovers of Christmas.
‘You know, for all our Christmas activities we haven’t set foot in a church,’ Rory says, changing the subject to spare my blushes. I’m desperate to ask if that’s a proposal but it’s a little too close to the bone to be funny.
‘We did visit the chapel at Tyntesfield and there were carols around the piano. But you’re right, it’s a shame. I love carols. Love, love, love them. I think it’s because we all learn them when we’re so little and they make me feel warm, secure. Like all is right with the world.’
‘Yes, I’ll admit I do like carols.’
I look at him assessingly and say, ‘I would love to go. I haven’t had the chance this year, it’s all been so busy. What do you think? Are you in a hurry?’
‘What, go to the late-night carol service in the Abbey?’ he asks. I nod, trying not to get too excited. This is not how I expected my evening to pan out.
‘My choices are drop you at your parents’ or go to the carol service with you and then drop you back?’
I nod, unsure which way he’s going to land. He locks his car, pops Foxy in his pocket and holds out his hand.
Rory.
Even I have to admit the Abbey looks beautiful all lit up. The huge stone building towers over Bath lending it both gravitas and beauty. It may be late at night and the market is all closed up but people are packed into the Abbey and we are singing our hearts out. Belle is curled under my arm, sharing my carol sheet although she knows all the words. Her head leans against my chest as we stand and sing and I can’t think of a time – for a long, long while – that I have been so content.
After working our way through ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’, ‘We Three Kings’ and ‘Come All Ye Faithful’ we stumble back outside into the square and both of us stand staring up at the Christmas tree, imposing by itself but lending its festive twinkle to the majesty of the scene. We are holding hands and Belle is leaning into me and I am aware that since we left the car we have been touching in one way or another the entire time. I like it, I don’t want it to stop. What I really want to do is make sure this night never ends. I want to turn her around and bend my head down and kiss her, feel her mouth open under mine, feel her hands snake up around my neck and pull me down to her, I want to keep her as close to me as humanly possible and then take her back to my flat where we will undress each other, in the brief gaps our mouths can leave each other alone. And then I want her to spend the night, spend all the nights, and wake up with me, turn to me in the morning and wish me a Happy Christmas.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,
Or else my heart concealing it will break.
December Twenty-fifth.
Belle.
Isnuggle into my pillow, then flip over and try to snuggle again. A yawn comes and I try to ride it, remind my body that I’m super tired, that it’s Christmas Day and I can have a lie-in, a little morning nap due.
My body is disobedient. I spend a good ten minutes snuffling and snuggling and trying every sleeping position known to man, but my body clock has well and truly changed into that of a grown-up who wakes with the lark.
Not that there are many larks to sing a greeting to me in late December. I lie in bed listening to the silence. It isn’t often this house is silent, and lying here now as it is, staring up at my pictures of icons of a bygone age, I feel at peace. It feels the way this house used to be many moons ago when it was Nana’s, my mum’s mum.
There is no way I’m going back to sleep now; my parents won’t expect to see me until at least noon but this is going to be the year that I break the pattern of truculent child the minute I’m in their house. This year I’m going to be fully adult, I’m going to try really hard to bond with them, make them see what I’m achieving, what I hope to achieve, that I love them.
But first, tea. I can’t begin such extraordinary tasks without tea, and then a good couple of hours here to lie in bed and catch up on some journals I’ve been looking forward to but which this crazy month has afforded me no time for. There’s one on Patriarchy andThe Winter’s Tale– always relevant in this house and at this time of year and of particular interest because it’s my favourite. I think it’s one of the most overlooked plays. I wanted to be Paulina when I was growing up; the woman has no fear. My dad issoLeontes with his bullshit and need for control. Leontes ultimately repents and I’m hoping this stint in rehab is the twenty-first century’s equivalent. I’m very keen on the thought of my dad’s repentance and then remind myself that this is the year I’m letting go of baggage and accepting him as he is, flaws and all. I will only ever have one dad and I should be mature enough to try and make the most of it.
Tea, I need tea.
I go downstairs and patter across the empty kitchen, catching a glimpse of Charlie Brown on my pyjamas. I’m in the same pyjamas I was wearing when I met Rory again, at the start of the month. And what a month it has been. At that moment in time I was in debt to Chardonnay, had just lost my job and was wondering how on earth I would get as far as Christmas. Yet here I am, gainfully employed and with a budding reputation as a Shakespeare educator for local schools with bookings already in my diary for next year. It has flown by and I can’t believe all I have achieved in the space of a mere three weeks.
And even more than that, I have a new friendship, a friendship that has opened my eyes a little bit to my value, I think. Although of course the minute I think it, I doubt it again. I don’t want to be big-headed, but I’m definitely beginning to feel that Idohave stuff to give. Rory’s brought an awful lot of positives into my life, and I’m pretty chuffed with myself for not trying to get him into bed, despite being in the midst of a searing crush.
Mind you, after the carol service last night, we had held hands and stumbled out of the Abbey and stood in front of the huge, twinkly tree and for a moment, just a moment, I was convinced he was going to kiss me. I swear I saw a flash of desire in his eyes so strong it nearly knocked me over. I know how much I want that but it came to nothing. We walked back to the car, hand in hand – so cute – but that was it. Friendship. It is apparent that is all he wants. I can live with it; I don’t want to but I can.
I tiptoe up the stairs, huge mug in hand. Right! Back to bed for a good couple of hours and a browse on JSTOR as a special Christmas Day treat.
By ten o’clock, I’ve thoroughly submerged myself in academia for hours, updated a bit ofThe Winter’s Taleon my project, showered and am now ready to tiptoe down the stairs to surprise my parents.
I haven’t bought their salt-dough snowmen and snowflakes, as I know they don’t really want them, and my school money meant I could buy another Jo Malone goody for Mum, a silk scarf for Rose, a tie for my brother-in-law, and a book on addiction for Dad, alongside his bag of spices. I want to show that I am here for him, that I support him on his journey and that I’m proud of him for this.
