Laurel rises late on Christmas Eve. She has two text messages from Floyd, one asking what to bring for Paul and Bonny, the other asking what to wear. She types in a reply: Bring them cheese. The smellier the better. And wear a nice jumper and a festive persona. I’m wearing green.
 |
He replies immediately: So, green cheese and a smelly jumper. I’m on it .
Silly bugger, she replies. And then she has a shower.
When she gets out of the shower there is another message from him. Could you come here first do you think? I have a gift for you, but it’s too big to bring to the party.
She feels a blade of dread pass through her. She’s unsettled by his excitement about his gift to her. She’s never been a fan of grand gestures. But more than that, she feels strange about this last-minute change of plans. Blue’s words come back to her again: “A man who can’t love but desperately needs to be loved is a dangerous thing indeed.” She remembers Floyd’s lies about Noelle Donnelly’s house, about her family. She thinks of Noelle’s flat stomach at eight months pregnant and she thinks of the lip balm in Noelle Donnelly’s basement. And then she thinks of the press cuttings in Floyd’s study and the candlesticks in Poppy’s bedroom and she knows, she knows without a doubt that Floyd is bringing her to his house for some ulterior purpose.
She texts Paul and she texts Hanna.
I’m going to Floyd’s on my way to Bonny’s but I won’t be late. If I am late please call me immediately. If I don’t answer my phone please send someone to come for me. I’ll be at 18 Latymer Road N4. I’ll explain everything later.
Then she flicks back to Floyd’s text.
OK, she types back. No problem. I’ll come over when I’m ready. Fantastic, he replies. See you soon!
She loads her car with wrapped gifts and champagne and leaves for Floyd’s house at 11 a.m.
A text arrives from Hanna.
Mum?
She doesn’t reply.
The roads are busy and slow. People pour out of the cinema at High Barnet, the high street is packed with shoppers, and there is a long-suffering reindeer in Highgate being petted by a crowd of children while a glowering Father Christmas tries to control them.
As she approaches Stroud Green Laurel feels a lump form in the back of her throat. Every street corner, shop front, and side road here holds a memory of Christmases past. The annual pilgrimage for pizzas on Christmas Eve, where they prebooked the same table every year. The last-minute run down to the pound shop on the high street for extra wrapping paper. The little park at the bottom of the road where they used to take the children after lunch to let off steam. The neighbors’ doors that Laurel and the children would post cards through on Christmas morning.
All of those messy Christmases, each a perfect gem, all gone, all turned to ash. She pulls into Floyd’s road and turns off her ignition.
And then she stops for a moment, sits in her car, feeling the air chill as the heater dies down, watching the wind whip the bare branches of the trees overhead, waiting to feel ready to face Floyd.
Five minutes later she takes a deep breath, and heads toward his front door.
