I knew now why Anna was so keen to spend Christmas in Romford, at our little row house, which Dad decorated with reindeer lights and a giant blow-up Santa in the front yard.
I had been nervous the first time I had taken Anna back home for Christmas. Since Mom died, Dad didn’t really want to celebrate. One year we ordered Chinese; another we ate our Christmas lunch in the pub.
But with Anna coming, Dad said he would do the full works, just how Mom used to do it. He got Little Steve’s wife to show him how to do the turkey and roast potatoes. He got the artificial tree down from the attic and bought some crackers from Tesco. And for the first time in his life, he bought a brown sliced loaf of bread instead of his usual white.
From the first moment he met her, Dad said Anna was family. I always thought he might joke—got yourself a high-class lady, son—but he never did. That first Christmas, they spent most of their time chatting in the living room. He loved hearing about Anna’s time in Africa and her stories from boarding school. And she loved his tales of the taxi stand and watching football at West Ham.
When the drinks were flowing later in the afternoon, Dad got out the photo albums and we all scrunched up on the saggy, worn-out couch.
“And that’s your mom, Rob?” Anna said, pointing to a photo of her in a sun hat on Brighton beach.
“Yep. When was that, Dad?” I said.
“Oh, I don’t know, son. That’s when you were about seven or eight I reckon...” Dad said, his voice cracking a little.
“She’s beautiful,” Anna said suddenly, and we all stared at the photo of her again.
“Yeah, she is...” Dad’s choice of tense was deliberate because he had never accepted that she was gone. “Look,” he said, turning the pages. “There’s a nice one here. That’s us at Christmas. Your mom just had her hair done.”
“She looks absolutely lovely,” Anna said. “Goodness and look at you,” she said, pointing to awkward pubescent me. “You’re so skinny.”
“He always was. Don’t know where he gets it from. Certainly not from me,” Dad said, laughing loudly.
That afternoon, I didn’t think I had ever seen Anna look more relaxed, more at home, her feet up on the coffee table, a can of Carlsberg in her hand. After that, we went to Romford for every Christmas, our family traditions rejuvenated by Anna’s presence. She loved those traditions, the things she said she had never had. The midmorning sparkling wine and ceremonial opening of the giant tin of chocolates. The pub for a pint while the turkey was cooking. The bingo. The party hats that Dad made us wear from dawn until dusk.
In the afternoon, Dad would get overemotional on the bubbly and would tell me and Anna how much he loved us, how she was like the daughter he never had. And then, at almost exactly the same time every year, he would fall asleep on the sofa, just after the traditional sing-along of “Hey Jude” on the PlayStation karaoke.
“We could all spend it together, my dad and your parents,” I said, putting my hand on Anna’s arm. “Although I can’t imagine your mother doing the karaoke.”
“Ha,” Anna said and suddenly she leaned over and kissed me, full on the lips, and I felt a wave of lust, a pent-up desire like that urge to fuck after funerals.
“Wow. Be careful, Anna. Definitely a public display of affection there.”
She sat back on her stool. “It’s the gin, I think. I’m being serious, though. I don’t want to come here for Christmas again. I know they’re my parents, but I don’t want that.” Anna lowered her head, almost as if she was embarrassed by what she had said. “I missed you last night,” she said.
“In your teenage bedroom?”
“Yes. It made me feel quite randy actually.”
“Really? Well, I could always come to yours.”
“No,” Anna said quickly and then looked around her conspiratorially. “But, I will come to you.”
I started laughing. “Are you drunk?”
She giggled. “A little actually. It’s the Christmas cheer. But seriously, Rob, I forbid you to come out of your room. It’s much easier for me. I know the times they fall asleep, you see. I know which floorboards squeak on the landing. I know how to close the door without making the latch click.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I’m not quite as square as you think, darling.”
“But what if we make a noise?” I said, half joking, happily buzzed from the beer.
“We won’t. Or at least I won’t.”
I looked at her quizzically.
“I went to boarding school, Rob. I learned how not to make a noise.” She smiled at me mischievously and finally got the bartender’s attention.
“Could I possibly have another gin?”
The bartender nodded.
“A double, please.”
We were a little drunk walking home. For safety, Anna made us walk, single file, facing the oncoming traffic. When cars approached, she pulled me into the shoulder to let them pass.
On the final stretch, there was a sidewalk and we strolled along arm in arm.
“Are you still coming to my room?” I said.
“Yes, of course. We have an agreement,” she said, almost solemnly. She then stopped, I thought for another car, but the road was empty.
“Maybe we should try...” she said.
“Try what?”
“To have children.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Tipsy,” she said.
“Really?” I said. We had never really spoken much about children. We were happy with our childless London lives: Anna’s career; Star Wars marathons and pop-up food festivals on the weekends. Boating in the park, museums on rainy days, lazy afternoons in pubs. It was the London life we had always imagined. A world with children was still in the distant future, a future that was no more real, or no more ours, than a future that would
