I say nothing, waiting for him to go upstairs before I switch my attention back to the parcel. I turn it over in my hands, a chilly hand stroking my spine. Whatever it is, whoever it’s from, I don’t want it. I should have asked Mags if she saw who had left it and I wish for a brief second that I hadn’t opened the door at all. Another part of me wishes, just for a moment, that I had invited her in for a cup of tea, before I remember how suffocating she can be, how clingy, and how much easier life is without her in it. I turn on my heel and head into the kitchen, where I stuff the parcel behind the bin, and pour myself a fresh glass of wine, trying to shake the image of Mags on the doorstep from my mind.
Chapter Eighteen
Christmas Eve. As a kid, Christmas Eve was my favourite day of the whole year, even more so than Christmas Day. The anticipation of what would be at the foot of the bed when I woke up, the smell of ginger and cinnamon on the air as my mum stirred, and mixed, and baked in the kitchen. We didn’t have a lot of money, but it hadn’t seemed to matter; right up until I was about twelve anyway, when my mum remarried for the first time and everything became about him. Turns out my first stepfather wasn’t as keen on children as he’d made out. The first time she left me behind at Christmas – leaving me with an aunt who I don’t actually think was really my aunt, fighting for attention with kids who weren’t even related to me – she and my stepfather spent it on the beach in Lanzarote, and I cried for days. By the time I left home I didn’t celebrate Christmas anymore. Today though, some of that old magic has been recaptured and I shiver in the passenger seat of Rupert’s car, not sure if it’s the chill in the air, or excitement.
‘Cold?’ Rupert turns up the heater, and I snuggle into my scarf. ‘You’re not too nervous, are you?’
We are on our way to Rupert’s family home by the coast in Norfolk, where we will spend three nights with his whole family. I am a little nervous, a ripple of butterfly wings fluttering in my belly when I picture it, but I’m excited more than anything. Excited to get away from the house, the dead air on the end of the telephone line, the feeling of dread that sits on my shoulders every time I turn into the driveway.
‘A little. Excited, though, to spend time with your family.’ I smile at him, refusing to think about the house anymore. ‘Do you always spend Christmas together?’
‘Ahhh… we didn’t really used to,’ Rupert says, not taking his eyes off the road, ‘Caro and I just used to go for the day usually. My mother is looking forward to spending time getting to know you.’
He smoothly changes the subject and I don’t press him for further information. Caro’s parents had invited him to a church service this evening, a tradition they had held when Caro was alive apparently, and I had let out a sigh of relief when he had firmly but gently turned them down. I don’t want to spend the holidays thinking about Caro – Rupert has been working ridiculous hours, and I feel as though Christmas is the perfect time for us to get things back on track.
Rupert’s mother is waiting on the doorstep when we arrive, wrapped up in a thick grey jumper against the cold. A battered old Land Rover sits on the drive, next to a gleaming Jag, which I assume belongs to Will and Amanda. A brisk, icy wind, laden with the scent of the sea cuts across me as I step out of the car, and I am relieved to see smoke pouring from the chimney. Rupert’s mum – ‘Diana, darling, call me Diana, you’re family now’ – bustles us into the house, calling to his father, and to Will and Amanda. The afternoon is spent catching up, drinking pot after pot of tea, as Diana stirs, and bakes, and chops in preparation for tomorrow’s big lunch, before we move onto wine, a deep, spicy red that complements the beef stew Diana has prepared beautifully.
‘Having a good time?’ Amanda appears beside me at the sink as I wash the dinner pots. We have packed Diana, Eamonn – Rupert’s father – and the husbands off into the living room, while we clean up. I had offered after Diana had done all the cooking, and to my surprise Amanda joined me.
‘Yes, brilliant, thank you.’ I scour at the burnt-on gravy in the casserole dish. ‘It’s been a long time since I had anything like this to look forward to on Christmas Eve.’
‘Oh?’ Amanda looks at me questioningly as I scrub. ‘It feels a bit different this year for us too, if you must know.’
I lift the heavy pan from the soapy water and set it on the draining board, not sure what Amanda is getting at. Different good, or different bad? ‘Why’s that?’
‘Just… everyone here, together. It’s what Diana loves, and we didn’t really do it when Caro was alive.’
‘I suppose she had to spend time with her family too.’
‘Hmmm.’ Amanda doesn’t look at me, as she starts to stack plates in the ancient dishwasher. ‘She liked to go away at Christmas, most times anyway. She and Rupert would go to the Caribbean, or Malta, or Africa, somewhere where it was hot. It would just be me and Will and the parents most years.’
‘Oh.’ Spraying cleaning solution, I start to wipe over the battered, pockmarked oak table, with its stains of paint and slashes of biro, where Eamonn sits to do the crossword every morning, and where, once, Rupert and Will sat to do their
