‘Only that they were meant for a different team entirely. But I’ll order more.’ And hope they arrive faster than the decorations. Which I’ll move on to next.
His eyes are bright. ‘They totally worked, everyone’s been so much jollier since they put them on. Who knew festive sweatshirts would make such a difference, maybe there’s something in your “maxing out the Christmas shit” theory after all.’
If the next bit wasn’t so urgent, I’d spend longer basking in the ‘I told you so’ glory. But it’s already two, so I’m moving this on. ‘And is there any news on the decorations, have they arrived?’ I was at the beach for ages, so surely they must have done.
I watch his throat bulge as he swallows. ‘Well yes …’
My chest drops in sheer relief. In my head I’m punching the air, I’m so happy I almost hug him, but then I notice his expression. ‘Yes …what?’
It takes a while for his grating reply to arrive. ‘Yes … and … er … no.’
My heart’s suddenly banging in my chest and I’m shouting. ‘What the hell kind of answer is that? It can’t be both.’ Except from the deepening hollows in his cheeks, maybe it can.
He clears his throat. ‘Well, yes, they have arrived. But not here.’
‘Okay, where the eff are they? We can send out a search party … let’s courier them over.’ Whatever it takes, I need those babies, and I need them now.
He blinks, and blows out a long breath. ‘They were accidentally sent to my old London address.’
‘Great, that’s easy then.’ Mix ups like that happen all the time, at least we know where they are and I’m sure he said that’s where Gemma is. If we go for super-fast delivery, we should get them in seven hours. I can work with that.
Under his stubble his skin is more grey than white. ‘I’m sorry, there was a gargantuan mix up, and now they’ve disappeared from the system completely.’
I’m clinging onto the kitchen island so hard, my knuckles are white. As my heart leaves my chest and slides down to somewhere around my knees, I stagger backwards and sink onto the sofa. In my head an entire castle of empty trees are flashing past my eyes. It’s sinking in that as far as Libby goes, an empty tree is way worse than no tree at all. So when I finally speak, it’s a whisper. ‘What do we do now?’
He flops down on the sofa next to me, pulls up a knee and rubs his chin on the back of his hand. ‘It’s what my dad would call a FISH moment – frig it, shit happens. Excuse the cliché avalanche but we’re going to have to go with the flow, roll with the punches … and come up with another plan.’
‘Right.’ I’m almost keeping up with him. ‘What kind ofother plan?’
He pulls a face. ‘I haven’t got that far yet.’ He reaches across to the coffee table and picks up a bun. As he bites into it, it’s nice to see that his teeth aren’t quite as even as they could be.
As if you could think of eating at times like this. I’m actually thinking how it would feel to run my tongue over those teeth, which is totally unhelpful, and obviously my own completely off-the-wall inappropriate reaction to the trauma of the situation.
He’s staring at me expectantly. ‘You’re the specialist here, what do you suggest?’
I’m racking my brain as I look at the clock. ‘We have six hours, maybe even eight. We just need to keep calm …’
‘Keep calm … and eat cranberry swirls.’ He holds up another bun. ‘Pom Pom, we’ve got this.’
In the distance Miranda’s peals of laughter are echoing down the hall. And I could be wrong, but I think Bill might have apologised back there. Which isn’t like him at all. But there are more voices too. Excited shouts, a shriek or two. Except these ones are coming from beyond the French windows. Bill’s holding up his hand in the air, and I’m weighing up if high fiving him is going too far when I hear the wail of a baby, and a louder voice over the rest.
However fast my heart was beating before, I swear it stops dead now. ‘Fuck, that’s Harriet … and Libby …THEYRE HERE!!!!’
Bill’s up before me, tearing across the kitchen. Then he’s back twice as fast, thrusting something soft into my hands. ‘Quick, put this on. I saved the pink one for you.’
As I run blindly for the door, and push my arms into the sleeves, I’m letting out a low wail. ‘How’s a sweatshirt going to help any? We’re washed up … Christmas crackered … toast.’
And then Libby’s at the door, and I know we’re totally screwed.
