The kitchen was freezing, so I turned the heating on and set to scrambling some eggs for Art, brewing his favourite coffee on the side. Just as I was jostling our breakfast onto one vast tray Art appeared by the doorway, smiling that old warm smile, taking me back to the early days of party hats, of purple socks, of his old flat where he had seemed so exquisite.
“I love you, Norah.”
Something inside me cracked. I didn’t want to cry and I didn’t even know what I was crying for, but those few words had opened up some vault inside of me. We held each other in silence like we were the only two people in the world. And we may well have been – there’d be no one knocking at our door that day – but I felt like I didn’t care even if they did. Art. I had Art. I had him for life, and he had me, and he was fine with that. We would look after each other, and we’d have Nut. A little family of three. Nut was likely to be the only child I’d ever have, that we’d ever have. We could be happy, all three of us in love. This was what life was for, this was what it was all about. The three of us connected by more than ideas or ambition. This was biology.
I raised my head from Art’s shoulder and looked deep into those wide blues. The lenses of his glasses distorted perspective, making them look further away than they actually were. He smiled.
“Do you love me too?”
I couldn’t speak, and lowered my head with a gentle nod. He kissed me on the lips and like the snow it felt clean, cold, and pure. Stifling a sob, I gestured to the living room so we could eat in there, perhaps cuddling together on the sofa like the night before. Art carried the tray for me and I followed with only a brief glance behind me at Nut, who was sitting on one of the dining room chairs, tugging absent-mindedly at her ear lobe.
Art was quiet as we ate, and I couldn’t figure out whether he was just relaxed or whether he’d drifted back to his own Christmas ghostlands. I spooned my mouth full with egg. Premium eggs meant celebrations.
“You chew with your mouth open, you know.”
I laughed at that, and a gob of egg flew from my lips. He smirked and rubbed his ear. I bobbed my head to the rhythm of my chewing, and swallowed. “So do you.”
“I know.”
I ate the last few mouthfuls as delicately as I could manage and took the plates away. We hadn’t planned anything, apart from that we wouldn’t have plans. We huddled together under a blanket for most of the morning, only rising to bring more hot drinks, those little veggie sausages you get in a bucket, and other greasy nibbles from the overloaded fridge. I made sure Art kept eating, he needed it, but I avoided the unhealthiest snacks. I owed it to Nut to look after myself. Art nibbled on whatever I handed him and dozed, drifting away from me and back again, mumbling all the time under his breath.
I couldn’t help him deal with this; he’d just have to see it through, like I had to. But despite how obviously wretched he felt, I relished the closeness of him, the way he’d fall asleep with his head on my shoulder like he’d known me for a hundred years. I held his hand and my insides bubbled. The air was warm and drowsy, a snug. I tucked his head in my neck, and jolted at any creak of a gate, or the shuffle of boots outside.
We waited until the evening for our gift-giving. Never really having done this before, we both promised to keep how much we spent to a limit. At first we’d not wanted to show each other up, but the truth is that presents just didn’t seem so important anymore. Just having Art and Nut by my side made me feel stronger.
I sat on the floor by the Christmas tree with three small gifts tucked between my knees. One was a box of abstract design socks that I knew he’d love, one for every day of the week. I’d also booked us a weekend away by the sea, staying in a little B&B in Cornwall. It was more extravagant than the gifts we’d promised to each other but it was a present for both of us. And other couples did these weekends all the time. Maybe we could even bring Nut, though we’d have to hide her while on the road, burying her beneath blankets or a tarp.
Art came into the living room carrying two mugs of mulled wine, the steam curling behind him in question marks. He offered me the more colourful of the two. It was new, and painted with crude figures capped with corkscrew brown curls, all of them holding hands and dancing around the outer surface in a perpetual “Ring a Ring o’ Roses”. Each little figure was in the middle of a different activity. One was standing on what I supposed was grass, her ankles deep in weeds, one looking up at the sun overhead, and another was clad in black and white, which I think was meant to be a business suit.
“I broke the birthday rule,” Art chuckled. Then he spluttered, the mulled wine catching his throat. All the little Norahs watched me with judging black eyes.
“Thanks. It’s… weird.”
“Think of it as an early birthday present. You can take it to your new job.”
I mimed a “cheers” and raised my cup to him, smiling with all my gums.
Next he handed me
