There’s a point at the end of Elf that always makes me cry – when Jovie starts singing “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” and the crowd in Central Park join in – and when I risk a glance across the room at him, trying to hide my tears so he won’t laugh at my sappiness when it comes to Christmas movies, he’s fallen asleep. I squeeze my reindeer cushion tighter and watch the last five minutes of the film, and then turn it off as quietly as possible.
I get up and take the plates out to the kitchen and slip them into the sink a millimetre at a time. The last thing I want to do is clatter around and wake him up. I tiptoe back into the living room and gently lift the biscuit selection tin from his lap. His broken arm is still across his chest and his good arm is propped up on a snowman cushion, while the pile of cushions stacked around him is keeping him upright. His head is leaning back against the sofa and his breathing is shallow and even, his hair has flopped over his forehead again, thick and straight, and I wish I could risk tucking it back into the rest of his mussed soft hair.
There’s a red fleece throw with a pattern of white holly leaves and mistletoe berries over the back of the sofa and I tug it down and unfold it, and carefully pull it across until it’s covering him. I inch it up gently to his neck so at least his broken arm and ribs will be warm. He looks like he’s gone for the night, and maybe it’s weird to have a stranger sleeping in your house, but he seemed so tired today that there is no part of me that would even consider waking him.
I creep up to bed, painstakingly avoiding every creaky stair, and wonder if I should be concerned that it doesn’t feel weird at all. James falling asleep on my sofa seems like exactly the way this night was supposed to end.
Chapter 5
My alarm goes off as usual at seven-thirty and I hit the snooze button and roll over, stretching out with a groan and pulling the duvet tighter around myself, feeling the pleasant ache of having had a really good night’s sleep. Even though it was late by the time the film finished, I’d usually have gone out to the bright lights of the garden shed and worked for a couple of hours, but I couldn’t risk waking—
‘James!’ I say loudly as I sit bolt upright and the events of last night come flooding back.
I scramble out of bed, shove my arms into my blue penguin-patterned dressing gown and fight with the door handle, stiff after not being used for so long. There’s no need to close a bedroom door when you live alone, but I didn’t want to risk James waking up and looking for the bathroom only to accidentally come across me snoring and drooling into my pillow. He’s traumatised enough from the accident.
I fly down the stairs. ‘James, are you—’
Gone. The living room is empty. The blanket is folded neatly in the space where he was, and my keys are on the doormat where he’s let himself out, locked up, and put them back through the letterbox. He’s found my stack of Post-it Notes by the landline phone because there’s a neon-yellow square stuck to the coffee table, with “Thank you. ~ J” written on it in scrawled handwriting. When I go in the kitchen, the washing up is done and stacked neatly on the draining board, and I can’t help smiling as I pull my dressing gown tighter and huddle into it. Even Prince Charming never did the washing up.
I can’t help the spike of disappointment that bursts through me too. I was looking forward to seeing him this morning. I imagined coming downstairs to find him still sleeping, going to the kitchen to make breakfast and putting the coffee machine on, waking him up with the smell of fresh-ground coffee and waffles from the ill-advised waffle maker my mum got me for Christmas last year, despite the fact I’ve never eaten a waffle in my life, and never managed to successfully make one in it since. In my fantasy of this morning, it produced soft and fluffy buttery waffles, and not the crumbled pieces of charcoal it actually produces.
Maybe it’s a good thing. The sight of me first thing in the morning is enough to terrify anyone, and James has suffered enough lately. But having him here was nice. Not being alone was nice. Having someone to chat to, and eat with, and watch a film with was nice.
I can smell his cinnamony cologne on the throw when I put it back where it came from and it definitely doesn’t make my knees go weak. I wonder when he woke up, when he left, if he went to the lane or back home. It must’ve been a few hours ago. I’m pretty sure the biscuit tin has moved from where I left it last night and I kind of love the idea of him helping himself to biscuits for breakfast.
I suddenly can’t wait to get to work this morning to see him. I go back upstairs for a shower, and then return to shovel cereal down my throat and put away the plates from last night. I’m usually as slow as a turtle in the mornings, but today I’m dressed and ready faster than ever before, and I have to make myself pace inside the door for ten minutes before I walk out to meet Stacey on the corner.
I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet by the time I spot her trudging up the frosty hill towards me.
‘You’re early.’ She checks for cars and then crosses my street to the
