Page 3 of The Christmas Star

‘I didn’t say a word.’

She looked at me direct. ‘You didn’t have to.’

Guilty as charged, I didn’t see the point in delaying our much-needed conversation until January. I was evidently the bad guy in Mum’s eyes, whether I spoke out or not. ‘Seeing as we’re on the subject…’ I reached into my bag and pulled out a brochure.

‘What’s that?’ Mum asked.

I slid it across the table. ‘An information booklet about Maple Manor.’

She put her cup down. ‘That old folks home?’

I nodded.

‘And you’re giving it to me because…?’

I braced myself in readiness for her response. ‘I thought we could discuss your options.’

Mum glowered. ‘Are you suggesting I’m physically incapable of looking after myself? Or mentally? Perhaps both?’

I made sure to keep my tone light. ‘If you don’t want to read it for yourself, then read it for me.’

‘There’s no point.’

‘And maybe consider us taking a tour of the place. You never know, you might like what you see.’

Mum crossed her arms tight across her chest and leaned back in her seat. Her mouth turned downward, she fast shook her head. ‘Je ne pense pas!’

My patience dipped. Because speaking French at every opportunity is perfectly normal, I thought but knew better than to say.

I blamed the old pen pal letters she’d been reading of late. If she hadn’t come across them, she wouldn’t be flouncing around like Catherine Deneuve, let alone building a streak on Duolingo. I pictured Mum as she sorted through old paperwork. For her, finding those letters had been like finding long lost treasure.

‘Gisèle and I wrote to each other all the time,’ she’d said when she showed me the stack of neatly scribed envelopes. She clutched them to her chest. ‘Before life took over.’

But there lay the problem. The life that had kept Mum too busy to write for fifty-odd years no longer existed and instead of looking to the past for solace, Mum needed to look to the future. I nodded to the brochure. ‘Come on, Mum. At least meet me halfway and think about it.’

CHAPTER 2

22 DECEMBER

Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas’ blasted through my car speakers and singing along, I pictured Henry Cavill sat under my tree in a suit made of wrapping paper.

As I drove onto the office car park, I stopped mid-lyric and let out a laugh. Not that I was surprised to see Callum’s vehicle already parked up. D-Day on the office restructure front, of course the man was going to give his cause one last push.

From his clichéd sucking up to Rory on the golf course to that day’s early start, ever since our boss first mentioned head office was planning some changes, Callum had gone all-out to bag any potential promotion. But he was wasting his time. No matter how many brownie points Callum tried to earn, deep down he had to know his gimmicks didn’t change anything.

I smiled, looking forward to the day ahead. If anyone was getting a new title and a pay rise it was me. My credentials and sales record spoke for themselves. I wasn’t just Rory’s longest serving employee, I was the best estate agent he had and no one, including Callum, could deny that.

I pulled up alongside Callum’s souped-up Honda Civic. With its polished chrome exhaust, two-tone purple paint job, oversized spoiler and humongous road-gripping tyres, Callum’s vehicle was the Frankenstein’s monster of the car world. The man was clearly over-compensating and hazarding a guess as to why, I grimaced, refusing to imagine my colleague naked.

My mobile rang and reaching for it I saw Mum’s name on the screen. Wondering what she could want at 8.45 in the morning, I closed my eyes for a second debating whether to ignore her or not. Thanks to a scheduled meeting with Rory, I needed a clear head to absorb the finer details of his restructure. It was my last shift at work before Christmas and come the new year I wanted to hit the ground running. Incessant calls, texts and unnecessary voice notes from Mum weren’t exactly conducive.

I cursed her young neighbour Jackson. If he hadn’t introduced Mum to the joys of a smartphone, I wouldn’t have a Franglais speaking, online shopaholic contacting me every hour of the day. I sighed as the ringtone continued. Whoever was to blame, I’d no choice but to answer.

‘Bonjour, Erin,’ she said. ‘Ça va?’

‘Hello, Mum.’ Putting her on loudspeaker, I set my mobile down. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve thought about what you said, and my answer’s still no.’