Out Late with Friends and Regrets (51 page)

“My mother is… she doesn’t recognise me any more. Alzheimers.”

The terrible thing about liars was that you couldn’t allow yourself to believe anything.

“Really.
 
And what about your father?”

Cecilia seemed to have genuine difficulty in answering.

“I- can’t live with him,” she quavered, “He -
 
he was always...
 
It wasn’t so bad when my mum was there, but... He pays for my bedsit, but... I only see him when we visit her.”

“And you’ve no other relatives, I suppose.”

“Yes.
 
But they don’t like me.”

“And no girl-friend.”

“No.
 
I wish Ba would come back.
 
But she won’t, ever.
 
She’s got someone else now. Someone... nice.”

Cecilia lowered her eyes, and held her drink to her.
 
Fin looked down into her own drink, wondering what the hell to do next.
 
Then the telephone rang.

“Fin! Me – rry Christmas!
 
Where the fuck are you? If you’re not in bed doing something disgusting with Wossname why don’t you get your gorgeous arses over here and get some mulled wine down your necks?” said Ellie, evidently already rendered quite merry.
 
Fin took the phone into the dark kitchen, but stood where she could still see her guest on the sofa.

“Merry Christmas yourself, Ellie,” she said, keeping her voice low, “I can hear the party’s in full swing.”

“When’re you coming over?”

“Well, actually-”

“Oh, you rotten spoilsport! Don’t say you’re not coming! I was so looking forward to meeting your girlfriend, too! Why?”

Explanations were for later.

“Can’t say now, Ellie, I’ll see you in a day or two, OK? Wish everyone a happy Christmas for me, will you?”
 
She tried to keep the wobble out of her voice.

“Oh, I’m really sorry you can’t make it. Hope she’s worth it! Hey, everyone, say Merry Christmas to Fin!”

The clamour of greetings which burst from the earpiece was such that Fin hastily removed it from her ear, and covered it with her hand.

“Thanks. Have a good time, Ellie.”

“You bet. You’d bloody well better be available at New Year, you stinker!”

“Of course! Anyway-”

“Sure.
 
You get back to your festive frolics, darling, and give her one for me!”

“Goodbye, Ellie.
 
See you.”

“Nighty-night.
 
Hope Santa is really,
really
good to you,” said Ellie, finishing with a slurping, Dyno-Rod kissing sound.

Fin put the receiver on mute, and returned it to the stand in the sitting room.
 
Her guest was huddled into herself, eyes closed.
 
Her feet were turned in, one on top of the other, and Fin saw she had no socks on.
 
She poured herself another drink, but not too much.
 
She would need to get the girl to go home peacefully, and wanted to have her wits reasonably about her; Cecilia was unhappy and unstable, and the last thing Fin needed was another drama on her hands at this time of night.
 
She smiled ruefully.
 
She had experienced some offbeat Christmases, but this had to take the biscuit.

“Cecilia.”

Cecilia opened her eyes, saw Fin standing over her, and seemed to crumple even further.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, looking up with frightened eyes.
 
Fin saw with relief that the bleeding from the graze had stopped.

“Nothing, tonight.
 
But it’s time you went home.”

“All right.
 
Can I use your toilet, please?”

“I suppose so,” replied Fin. “Top of the stairs on your right.”

The stairs made their usual muffled sequence of creaks as Cecilia went up.
 
Fin sipped her drink.
 
After a couple of minutes the cistern hadn’t flushed.
 
Oh, God, what if Cecilia had slit her wrists, or something awful like that?
 
Fin went halfway up the staircase, and listened.
 
Then the rest of the way, and stood outside the bathroom door.
 
Not something she would normally do, but-

“Cecilia, are you all right?”

There was the sound of weeping, immediately followed by the flush.
 
Then the gush and gurgle of the tap, hands being washed.
 
The door opened, and Cecilia said, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t seem to stop.
 
I’m all right now.”
 
She looked anything but, in the dim light on the landing.

“Where do you live?”

“Near the station.”

“That’s a hell of a way.
 
How did you get here?”

“Walked.”

Oh, no.
 
Christmas Eve, late.
 
No buses, taxis like gold dust.
 
Police alert for drink drivers.
 
Fin didn’t think she would pass a breathalyser test.
 
Besides, she was unbelievably tired.
 
The very last thing she felt like doing was giving a lift home to her own stalker.
 
She looked at the meek figure before her.

No, Fin, don’t do it.
  
Don’t.

“You’d better stay here tonight.”
 

Damn, too late.
 
But Fin couldn’t let her walk over three miles across some of the less pleasant districts of the city at this time of night.

“Oh. It’s OK, you don’t want me here, especially at Christmas.”

“You’re right.
 
I don’t.”
 
Cecilia’s face twitched.
 
“But it’s not safe.
 
You can sleep in my daughter’s room and leave in the morning.
 
And we’d better wash that blood off and put some Savlon on it so it doesn’t go septic.”
 
Like a fucking mother with a naughty kid.

Shit, the guest bed would need unfolding and making up.
 
She turned the dimmer switch up, and got bedding out of the airing cupboard.

“Come on, you can help me.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.”

“And you will be
staying
in here, until you get up, is that clear?”

“Yes.”

They prepared the bed, quickly and efficiently, driven by Fin’s silent irritation.
 
As they completed the task, Cecilia said, “I’ll never do it again.
 
Honestly.”

Fin heaved a long sigh.

“Do you want some toast?”

“Oh, yes
please
.”

Even without the drying blood on her cheekbone, Cecilia cut a pathetic figure.
 
Hair in neglected strings, her face pasty and gaunt, her posture one of utter defeat.

Undernourished, unloved.

Tea and toast made everything seem a little better, reflected Fin, watching Cecilia devour her toast, and then look up to see whether a second helping might be offered.

“More?”

“Yes please.
 
I wasn’t hungry, but-”

“What have you got for tomorrow?”

“Er... Think I might still have some pizza.
 
Or something.”

“I didn’t get anything in either.
 
But I’ve got a couple of steaks in the freezer.
 
And some frozen veg.
 
And some oven chips.
 
You’d better stay and have some lunch.”

“Oh, Fin-”

“Just
don’t
.
 
There won’t be any crackers to pull.”

As Cecilia prepared for bed overhead, getting into a pair of borrowed pyjamas, Fin went her usual rounds, to ensure everything was locked and secured.
 
Which was strange, when one reflected that the enemy was now actually indoors.
 
As she double-bolted the front door and put the chain on, she picked up the last of the stalker’s notes, and turned it over.

“Happy Christmas” it said.

Hamish’s New Year party was pretty good, Fin had to admit.
 
The nagging ache of missing Marie was ever present, but now that Christmas was over and New Year almost, she could concentrate on looking forward to her return.
 
At night, she would imagine to herself the feel of Marie’s skin, the silky touch of her hair, that funny, gurgling laugh, the taste of her soft mouth.
 
There had been no messages.
 
Probably difficult, if her parents were unaware of the relationship.
 
That was the downside to being gay: secrets and hard choices tended to clutter up your happiness.
 
Fin had sent texts, wishing her a Happy Christmas and New Year, and saying how much she was missed, which received no reply.
 
But it would be just like Marie to leave her charger behind at the flat.
 
She probably hadn’t received them.

The room was enormous.
 
Heavy drapes in navy and gold headed with complex swags dropped twelve feet to the floor, across the four huge arched windows.
 
There was a cabinet of what she assumed to be fine porcelain, and antique furniture; but the main emphasis was on comfort, with oversized sofas and armchairs so deep and downy that their complement of soft cushions seemed superfluous.

Fin guessed there must be at least fifty people in the flat, milling between the extravagant buffet in the plum-coloured dining room and the lounge – no, make that the drawing-room – where she sat watching.
 
There were three towering Christmas trees, each sumptuously and differently decorated in colours to suit the room in which it stood, the huge baubles and great gauze bows and swooping chains of lights all screaming Taste; just rather a lot of it.

In one corner, Doc sat at a grand piano, singing songs from the shows in his bright tenor, and currently rendering ‘Anything Goes,’ with happy gusto.
 
How very appropriate, thought Fin, admiring the cavalcade of Harford’s weird and wonderful set grouping and regrouping, doing the party thing.
 
Ellie, looking sensational in red, was holding forth to a knot of acquaintances, earrings shaking and quails’ eggs skidding across her plate as she laughed.
 
She had nodded in silence as Fin explained Marie’s absence, then introduced her to more people than she would ever remember. But now Fin was enjoying a little time on the sidelines, sipping Champagne and nibbling something unidentifiable but impossibly delicious.

“Come on, woman,” encouraged Ellie, slipping out of her clique and making for Fin’s chair, “Stop snarfing up the canapés and get mingling – have you met Gordon Morris? He’s just had a novel published, political thriller, I believe...”
 
Socialising could be quite hard work, Fin reflected.
 
She moved about the room dutifully for an hour, glad to meet up with the few whose faces she knew, and especially Rachel and Dave.
 
They were conspicuous by their lack of sartorial display: Rachel wore a floral summer dress with the concession to the occasion of a sparkly brooch, and Dave sported his usual corduroy and tweed.
 
But wherever they were in the room a crowd formed around them, conversation becoming animated and interspersed with loud laughter.