The Great Christmas Breakup (8 page)

‘Halloween sheep? That could work?’ Ideas were already racing about in my head.

‘Absolutely.
And I am definitely paying you to do
that
.
Now, I’
d better get my face on, that reporter will
be here soon.’

So as Lolly went to freshen up, Lucinda and I pulled the curtains off the windows and turned on the twinkling lights
that
Lolly had leftover from last Christmas.

People outside stopped and began pointing. On seeing them, other passersby did the same.

I only hoped tha
t the magazine people thought the window was as wonderful as Lolly did
.

It wouldn’t do if I ruined Lolly’s business, on top of everything else.

*

Lolly completed her own transformation
, slipping into a red silk dress and shrugging on a woolly white jumper
just as the report
er
from
NYC Shopping Weekly
shoved
against
the
glass
and brass
monogrammed
door and stomped into LollyB
liss, complaining about the weather.

Lucinda and I had run about tidying the store, but the window seemed to be enticing people in to browse, even though it was early evening and rain was pelting the sidewalks outside. 

‘Horrible weather,’ Lolly said, hand outstretched.

‘Never mind that
,’ said the
haughty
girl,
who was almost a deadringer for Lucinda. She was
dressed head to toe in
camel colored
Ralph Lauren
and had straight light brown hair that came to her shoulders
. ‘B
y the look of that window display, this is going to make a great feature.
’ She spun around.
‘
Huffie? Huffie?’

The accompanying photographer, an el
derly man seemingly
entering his tenth decade, was struggling with
his equipment and
the door
that
the reporter had
shut in his face. Lolly ran to help him.

‘Huffie, there you are.’ The reporter walked over and indicated the street
. ‘Get back outside
and photograph this marvelously kitch window. I think we’ve got our Christmas cover.’

I don’t know who was more astonished:
Lolly, me or posh Lucinda, who’d thought the sheep were barmy and me a mutant from somewhere
designer brands didn’t dare
to
venture. 

CHAPTER
FOUR

Saturday, November 25

If you let small problems fester, they soon expand to the point

where going back is impossible.

Jocelyn Priestly.

MY HEAD FELT AS
if a lorry had reversed over it in the night. Lolly had offered to take me out for a celebratory dinner, and after texting the kids with instructions of how they could
heat up leftovers for dinner, I’d
agreed.

She’d splashed out on Gramercy Park Tavern, and I had savored every mouthful, only feeling slightly guilty
that Jessie and J were
eating casse
role from two days ago when the most spectacular chocolate dessert was served.

When I got home, Carson was asleep on the sofa, but at least the front
door was back on its hinges.

I knew he
was awake, because the rumbling snores he usually emitted were absent,
but not a word was spoken.

Good.

Let him stew.

Looking at th
e calendar for that day, I
silently told Jocelyn Priestly that letting small problems
fester
wasn’t always a matter of choice.

No one would cho
o
se that kind of
life, would they?

‘Mum,’ Jessie called, as I sidled past the mountainous basket of dirty washing outside her bedroom.

‘Hi darling, what is it?’ Looking at her sweet face, minus the glasses and the hint of mascara
that she’d taken to wearing in the belief that
I didn’t know she was doing it, Jessie reminded me of the toddler she once was.

‘Where did you go?’

‘Aunty Lolly’s.’

‘Was it fun?’

‘Busy. I helped with a window display. I suppose you’d call it fun.’

‘Mr Phillit from your work called. He didn’t sound happy.’

My stomach fell.
‘He never sounds happy, baby. I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘But if you lose your job, I won’t be able to go on the excursion to Boston with school, will I? That’s what Dad says.’

Now the contents of my stomach began churning. I’d forgotten all about that class trip.
And my job at Flindes. How could I have missed my shift?

‘Sweetie, trust me, you a
re going
.’

Jessie considered this for a moment, wrapping one of her
dark ringlets around her finger in contemplation.

‘Dad didn’t have dinner,
’
she said.

‘What? Why not?’

Being an
gry with his wife
was one thing, but
taking it out on his
kids was quite another.

‘Because he wasn’t home.’

My blood boiled. ‘So who was here while the door was being fixed?’

‘Don’t know. Not me or J. It was all done by the time we got home.’

Now I was fuming.
Anyone could have been l
ying in wait inside the flat.
‘What time did he get home?’

‘About fifteen minutes ago.’

‘What!
’

In the room next door, Carson stirred.

Eavesdropper!

I wanted to call out for him to get up and defend himself, but that would involve
upsetting
Jessie
even more
.

Small problems! Jocelyn Priestly didn’t know the half of it. What
the hell had got into Carson?

S
in
ce when did he abandon his kids?

Then I remembered I’d turned my phone off, and booting it up again, I saw the ten or so messages from him, imploring me to go and watch the kids.

Plea
se Scar – this work
is really important. I know you’re angry but I promise you things will get better.
Soon.

It was a strange thing to say in a text, and totally uncharacte
ristic of
Carson. He was a meat, three veg and no emotions kind of guy.

After kissing Jessie and J goodnight,
I dropped down onto the bed that hadn’t been made that morning, and pulled the sheets up around me.

Carson was up to something.

I only hoped it wasn’t what I thought it was.

Couldn’t be.

Could it?

Forcing myself to focus on the more pleasant aspects of the day, I wondered if the woman from
NYC Shopper Weekly
was really
going to put
LollyBliss
’s window on the cover.

Lolly said they’d give me a credit, for my portfolio.

If so, it would be the first piece of legitimate commercial work I had ever done.

-
Cue yet another pathetic melancholy memory
:

Lolly McGuire was exactly like my best friend Lil, back in Bath, so it wasn’t unusual that I gravitated towards her. The first day at the coll
ege in lower Manhattan, I was sn
uffling about, looking for a lecture theatre and feeling, despite my scholarship, like a complete dunce.
Everyone
at the school
seemed so
worldly
; in fact they seemed to come from another world. Edgy – that’s the world
Lil would use.
They were from Planet Edgy.

Every second person
had a cigarette hangin
g casually from a hand; each boy seemed to have
tight stovepipe trousers or cute summer dresses that revealed legs tanned
naturally
by the sun
in the Hamptons
,
instead of
under a sunbed in
some dingy North London salon.

Thinking it might be better to pack it in then and there,
I
suddenly
heard an infectious
Tinkerbell-type
laugh that seemed to resonate
– just like Lil’s.

Edging into a crowd that had formed around a trio of girls, I saw the three were doing some sort of dance. Well, two were dancing, the middle one – a crazily dressed
blonde with the longest legs I’d ever seen – was sort of lurching about.

Then she fell forward, right on top of me.

‘S
hit, sorry. I really shouldn’t do this.
’

‘
Yeah, i
t should be
totally
illegal for you to dance, Lolly,’ yelled the short one of the trio.

‘Thanks Grace, I appreciate the support.’

A buzzer blared from the speakers installed in the courtyard an
d the crowd dispersed, eager to get to class.

Lolly
caught her breath, observing
me carefully.

‘I like that cardigan, did you make it?’

My
tight navy woolen
jumper
had b
een made by Mum, circa 1989
. How I
still
managed to squeeze into it was a miracle, but it made a cute
combination with my kilt
skirt and long white tee.

‘My mum did, when I was about ten.’

‘And it still fits?’

‘I don’t think I’ve grown since then.’

S
he groaned, indicating her legs and her waist-length hair.
‘I can’t se
em to stop.
’

Then I did something completely un-English. I asked Lolly if she wanted to get a drink after college that night.

And Lolly, tittering happily, put an arm aro
und me and said, ‘
You know, I’d really like
that.
’
 
 

The next
morning, the
phone rang
early
.

Mum.

‘Hello lo
ve, it’s Mum.
’

‘Mum, I’ve been meaning to call.’

‘I know, dear.’

She didn’t mean to imply
that it should be me returning her many calls
, but
the
guilt weighed heavily on
me anyway.

What with Cecily 2 about
to arrive; my job at the supermarket
under threat because of the time I’d taken off for Thanksgiving; Carson t
aking every opportunity to live the life of a bachelor
;
and Hammertro popping in every two minutes to discover when ‘our part of the deal’ would materialize,
I was finding it difficult to remember to shower, let alone call home.

I needed to
be of sound mind
in order to talk to Mum, because I needed to keep up the pretence.

You see,
Mum thought that Carson was a lawyer.

And s
he thought
we lived somewhere wonderful, with views
of Central Park
and
a spare bedroom.

And t
hat I worked as a fashion designer with Lolly.

I know, I know. Why lie to my own mother? Simple. Having lost a daughter to America, the last thing my parents needed to hear was
that I was struggling and
on the breadline, and related, by
marriage, to a bunch of crazies living in a trailer park
.

‘How’s Dad?’ I was eager to def
lect
from my personal situation; to
move the conversation to safe g
r
o
und, because my hangover needed tending to as soon as I could respectfully end the call.

Mum’s voice caugh
t. ‘That’s why I’m calling. Your father is
in the hospital.’