The Christmas Surprise
Page 68
‘Oh. Hello, Pamela,’ she said. ‘Um, what’s up?’
‘What’s UP? The love of my life fucks off and you ask me what’s up?’
‘Seriously?’ said Rosie. ‘Was he really the love of your life?’
She wanted to bite her tongue; that had come out harsher than she’d intended.
‘He’s such an asshole,’ said Pamela.
‘I’m really, really sorry,’ said Rosie. ‘I really am. But you’re right, he is an arsehole. I think you’re probably well out of it.’
‘They’re all assholes,’ said Pamela. ‘Well, I don’t need to tell you.’
Rosie just looked at the phone and didn’t answer.
‘Anyway, what are you guys doing? I’m bored up here. Are you making Sunday lunch? Are you doing those local carrot things?’
Rosie didn’t want to say they were eating bacon sandwiches and crisps on the sofa.
‘Um …’ she said.
‘I could bring down some margarita mix, we could have Sunday-night margaritas?’
Rosie could not think of anything worse.
Stephen came back into the room.
‘It’s your sister,’ said Rosie, as brightly as she could. ‘She’s coming over.’
Stephen took the phone off her.
‘Don’t come over. We’re busy,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you have a dinner party in one of your ninety-two rooms?’
He hung up.
‘Woah,’ said Rosie.
‘You’re far too nice to her,’ said Stephen. ‘You’re far too nice to everyone.’
‘Including you,’ Rosie pointed out.
‘Yes, including me,’ said Stephen. ‘But that’s different.’
As the snow had stopped, they took an unimpressed Mr Dog out for a walk in the fading light, everyone in wellingtons. Rosie had bought Mr Dog snow shoes but he point-blank refused to wear them, which she understood.
Up at the scout hut, she was astonished to see an immaculate bare room. It was like the massive overdecoration had been a dream, had vanished like fairy food, leaving only the bones of the stage set that had been there before.
‘Wow,’ said Rosie. ‘What happened here? Did we dream yesterday?’
‘It would be very useful if we did,’ said Stephen, who was already worrying about going back to school in the morning and facing the music.
But instead, there was Roy Blaine, Laura by his side, standing by with a shovel. He hailed Rosie when he saw her.
‘How did you manage all this?’ she asked.
‘Got the Boys’ Brigade to do it,’ said Roy. ‘Good for them; bit of energy and discipline. Sort ’em out.’
Laura beamed proudly.
‘That was a brilliant idea,’ said Rosie. She looked at Laura. ‘Is he a changed man?’ she asked.
‘He’s giving it a shot,’ said Laura.
‘I’ll believe it when you invite us round for a swim,’ said Rosie teasingly, as he grimaced.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, meaning it. ‘Merry Christmas to you both.’
‘I suppose we should start packing up too,’ said Stephen, as they made their way back down the icy street. Lipton looked like a Christmas card, snowy fog softening the street lights and casting a gentle golden glow on the little town.
Rosie nodded.
‘I spoke to the estate agent,’ she said. ‘He said it’ll sell in two minutes. Lipton’s much sought after, apparently.’
‘That’s because nobody ever leaves,’ said Stephen sadly.
‘We’ll come back,’ Rosie said. ‘We’ll be up to see Lilian … and Moray.’
‘Moray won’t stay. He’ll go to Carningford with Moshe, mark my words.’
‘You think?’
‘They’ll get married before we do.’
Rosie looked around.
‘So it’s all ending,’ she said.
‘Don’t, be daft,’ said Stephen. ‘It never really ends, not old places like this. The heart of the country. Pamela will chloroform some hapless sperm donor and carry on up there. Mother will always be here, of course. Tina and Jake will have about nine sets of twins, you’ll see. It’ll all go on.’
‘I know. I just didn’t think it would go on without us.’
Rosie woke early the next morning, her heart sinking in her chest. It took a moment for her to realise why. Joy. God. Oh God. Going back to make her report … drunk in the street … shouting at the social worker, who was only trying to help, only doing her best … oh God.
She was up even before Apostil. She went to the door of Lilian’s bedroom and stared at him, taking in every inch of him: his long, long eyelashes casting shadows on his round brown cheeks; his right hand tucked away carefully, skinny and flat and grey, unlike his left, which was always on the move, chubby little fingers that waved and grabbed and clung and tugged hair and pulled telephone wires. His soft curled hair, tight on his scalp, and the curve of his solid back underneath his bedclothes. She gazed at him, leaning her head on the door frame of the little room, the sills heavy with snow. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t take her baby away.
At nine, after they had dressed and breakfasted in near silence, quite different from the usual busy hubbub that started their days, both of them nervous and keyed up, Stephen had kissed her, gently but firmly, saying more with that kiss than any conversation could have done. Then he’d sighed and pulled open the door, and, stick in front of him, set off towards the school for a meeting, and the explanations, and the recriminations, and the awful finality of knowing that this was really it; it was really happening.
Rosie decided to open up late, not quite feeling up to the many, many questions that would undoubtedly come through the shop door from the second she turned over the old-fashioned ‘Closed’ sign. Instead she cleaned the little house, looked at the presents piled up under the tree; even ignored a phone call from Angie, who wanted every single last detail of the wedding and the party she would have enjoyed so much. Apostil, sensing something was wrong, was fussy and wanted to be picked up. She hoisted him into her arms – he was getting heavy – and nuzzled him quickly before, with her heart beating so hard she felt she could hear it, she finally picked up the heavy rotary-dial phone.
‘What’s UP? The love of my life fucks off and you ask me what’s up?’
‘Seriously?’ said Rosie. ‘Was he really the love of your life?’
She wanted to bite her tongue; that had come out harsher than she’d intended.
‘He’s such an asshole,’ said Pamela.
‘I’m really, really sorry,’ said Rosie. ‘I really am. But you’re right, he is an arsehole. I think you’re probably well out of it.’
‘They’re all assholes,’ said Pamela. ‘Well, I don’t need to tell you.’
Rosie just looked at the phone and didn’t answer.
‘Anyway, what are you guys doing? I’m bored up here. Are you making Sunday lunch? Are you doing those local carrot things?’
Rosie didn’t want to say they were eating bacon sandwiches and crisps on the sofa.
‘Um …’ she said.
‘I could bring down some margarita mix, we could have Sunday-night margaritas?’
Rosie could not think of anything worse.
Stephen came back into the room.
‘It’s your sister,’ said Rosie, as brightly as she could. ‘She’s coming over.’
Stephen took the phone off her.
‘Don’t come over. We’re busy,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you have a dinner party in one of your ninety-two rooms?’
He hung up.
‘Woah,’ said Rosie.
‘You’re far too nice to her,’ said Stephen. ‘You’re far too nice to everyone.’
‘Including you,’ Rosie pointed out.
‘Yes, including me,’ said Stephen. ‘But that’s different.’
As the snow had stopped, they took an unimpressed Mr Dog out for a walk in the fading light, everyone in wellingtons. Rosie had bought Mr Dog snow shoes but he point-blank refused to wear them, which she understood.
Up at the scout hut, she was astonished to see an immaculate bare room. It was like the massive overdecoration had been a dream, had vanished like fairy food, leaving only the bones of the stage set that had been there before.
‘Wow,’ said Rosie. ‘What happened here? Did we dream yesterday?’
‘It would be very useful if we did,’ said Stephen, who was already worrying about going back to school in the morning and facing the music.
But instead, there was Roy Blaine, Laura by his side, standing by with a shovel. He hailed Rosie when he saw her.
‘How did you manage all this?’ she asked.
‘Got the Boys’ Brigade to do it,’ said Roy. ‘Good for them; bit of energy and discipline. Sort ’em out.’
Laura beamed proudly.
‘That was a brilliant idea,’ said Rosie. She looked at Laura. ‘Is he a changed man?’ she asked.
‘He’s giving it a shot,’ said Laura.
‘I’ll believe it when you invite us round for a swim,’ said Rosie teasingly, as he grimaced.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, meaning it. ‘Merry Christmas to you both.’
‘I suppose we should start packing up too,’ said Stephen, as they made their way back down the icy street. Lipton looked like a Christmas card, snowy fog softening the street lights and casting a gentle golden glow on the little town.
Rosie nodded.
‘I spoke to the estate agent,’ she said. ‘He said it’ll sell in two minutes. Lipton’s much sought after, apparently.’
‘That’s because nobody ever leaves,’ said Stephen sadly.
‘We’ll come back,’ Rosie said. ‘We’ll be up to see Lilian … and Moray.’
‘Moray won’t stay. He’ll go to Carningford with Moshe, mark my words.’
‘You think?’
‘They’ll get married before we do.’
Rosie looked around.
‘So it’s all ending,’ she said.
‘Don’t, be daft,’ said Stephen. ‘It never really ends, not old places like this. The heart of the country. Pamela will chloroform some hapless sperm donor and carry on up there. Mother will always be here, of course. Tina and Jake will have about nine sets of twins, you’ll see. It’ll all go on.’
‘I know. I just didn’t think it would go on without us.’
Rosie woke early the next morning, her heart sinking in her chest. It took a moment for her to realise why. Joy. God. Oh God. Going back to make her report … drunk in the street … shouting at the social worker, who was only trying to help, only doing her best … oh God.
She was up even before Apostil. She went to the door of Lilian’s bedroom and stared at him, taking in every inch of him: his long, long eyelashes casting shadows on his round brown cheeks; his right hand tucked away carefully, skinny and flat and grey, unlike his left, which was always on the move, chubby little fingers that waved and grabbed and clung and tugged hair and pulled telephone wires. His soft curled hair, tight on his scalp, and the curve of his solid back underneath his bedclothes. She gazed at him, leaning her head on the door frame of the little room, the sills heavy with snow. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t take her baby away.
At nine, after they had dressed and breakfasted in near silence, quite different from the usual busy hubbub that started their days, both of them nervous and keyed up, Stephen had kissed her, gently but firmly, saying more with that kiss than any conversation could have done. Then he’d sighed and pulled open the door, and, stick in front of him, set off towards the school for a meeting, and the explanations, and the recriminations, and the awful finality of knowing that this was really it; it was really happening.
Rosie decided to open up late, not quite feeling up to the many, many questions that would undoubtedly come through the shop door from the second she turned over the old-fashioned ‘Closed’ sign. Instead she cleaned the little house, looked at the presents piled up under the tree; even ignored a phone call from Angie, who wanted every single last detail of the wedding and the party she would have enjoyed so much. Apostil, sensing something was wrong, was fussy and wanted to be picked up. She hoisted him into her arms – he was getting heavy – and nuzzled him quickly before, with her heart beating so hard she felt she could hear it, she finally picked up the heavy rotary-dial phone.
