“Don’t care. Come on!” She grabs my arm, tottering on her heels. “Shit. I should not have had those mojitos….” She drags me across the room, and before I can blink, or think, or escape, we’re standing in front of Alex Astalis.
My face floods with color and I glance at Demeter, who has briefly turned away to talk to Adrian.
“Hi, Katie-Cat,” says Alex easily, and my face gets even hotter. But thankfully Flora doesn’t seem to have noticed. She really is very drunk.
“I’m your Secret Santa!” she says in blurred tones. “Did you like it?”
“The Paul Smith hat.” He looks a bit taken aback. “That was you?”
“Cool, huh?” Flora sways a little, and I grab her.
“Very cool.” He shakes his head with mock disapproval. “But was it under a tenner?”
“A tenner? Are you kidding?” Flora lurches again, and this time Alex grabs her.
“I’m sorry,” I say apologetically. “I think she’s a bit…”
“I’m not drunk!” says Flora emphatically. “I’m not—” She topples and clutches Alex’s sleeve. As she does so, it rides up, and his tattoo becomes visible. “Hey!” she says in surprise. “You’ve got a tat-tat—” She’s so drunk she can’t say the word. “A tat-tat—”
“I am not losing control!” Demeter’s voice suddenly fires up in fury, and I start with shock. Is Demeter having a row with Adrian? At the Christmas party? Alex’s eyes are tense, and I can tell he’s listening to that conversation, not paying attention to us.
“Demeter, that’s not what I’m saying.” Adrian’s voice is calm and soothing. “But you must admit…quite concerned…” I can’t exactly hear what he’s saying over the hubbub.
“You’ve got a tat-too!” Finally Flora manages to articulate the word.
“Yes.” Alex nods, looking amused. “I’ve got a tattoo. Well done.”
“But…” Her eyes swivel to me. I can see her alcohol-addled mind working. “Hang on.” She looks back at Alex. “Dark hair, tattoo…and you were asking about him.”
My heart starts to thud along with the beat of the music. “Flora, let’s go,” I say quickly, and pull at her arm, but she doesn’t move.
“It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Stop!” I feel a white-hot horror. “Let’s go.” But Flora can’t be shifted.
“This is your man, isn’t it?” She looks delighted. “I knew it was someone at work. She’s in love with you,” she tells Alex, poking me drunkenly for emphasis. “You know. Secretly.” She puts a finger to her lips.
My insides have collapsed. This can’t be happening. Can’t I just teleport out of this situation, out of this party, out of my life?
Alex meets my eyes and I can see it all in his expression. Shock…pity…more pity. And then even more pity.
“I’m not in love with you!” Somehow I muster a shrill laugh. “Honestly! I’m so sorry about my friend. I hardly even know you, so how could I be in love with you?”
“Isn’t it him?” Flora claps a hand over her mouth. “Oops. Sorry. It must be another guy with dark hair and a tat-tat—” She stumbles over the word again. “Tattoo,” she manages at last.
Both Alex and I glance at his wrist. He looks up and meets my eyes, and I can see he knows: It’s him.
I want to die.
“So, I’d better go,” I say in a miserable, flustered rush. “I need to pack, and…um…thanks for the party….”
“No problem,” says Alex, a curious tone to his voice. “Do you have to go now?”
“Yes!” I say desperately, as Demeter turns to join us again. Her face is pink and she looks rattled, for Demeter.
“So, Cath.” She makes a visible effort to put on a pleasant expression. “Are you off tomorrow?”
She’s clearly forgotten the fact I’m called Cat. But I can’t be bothered to correct her again. “That’s right! Absolutely.”
“And have you chosen yet? Turkey or goose?”
“Oh, turkey. But with a rather lovely porcini stuffing,” I hear myself adding a bit wildly. I shoot an overbright smile around this group of sophisticated Londoners. Everyone so hip and cool, treating Christmas like an ironic event that’s all about the styling.
“Porcini.” Demeter looks interested.
“Oh yes, from a little place in Tuscany,” I hear myself saying. “And…truffles from Sardinia…and vintage champagne, of course. So…Happy Christmas, everyone! See you after the break.”
I can see Alex opening his mouth, but I don’t wait to hear what he says. My face is burning as I head toward the exit, tripping a little in my hurry. I need to get out. Away. Home to my gourmet luxury Christmas. The porcini. The vintage champagne. Oh, and of course the truffles. I can’t wait.
“Come and sample my latest.” My dad turns from the kitchen counter and holds out a drink. It’s not a glass of vintage champagne or a sophisticated cocktail. It’s not even some artisan local organic cider. It’s Dad’s patented Christmas punch of whatever cut-price bottles of spirits he could get at the market, all mixed together with long-life orange juice, pineapple juice, and lime cordial. “Cheers, m’dear.”
It’s midday on Christmas Eve, and I’m at home in the country, and London seems a lifetime away. Everything’s different here. The air, the sounds, the expanse. We live on a farm in a part of Somerset which is so remote, no one’s ever heard of it. The papers keep talking about fashionable Somerset and celebrity Somerset….Well, believe me, we’re arse-end-of-nowhere Somerset.
Our house is in a valley, and all you can see from the kitchen window are fields, some sheep dotted around, the rise of the slope to Hexall Hill, and the odd hang glider in the distance. Some cows too, although Dad doesn’t go in for cows quite as much as he used to. Not enough money in them, he says. There are better games to be in. Although he doesn’t seem to have found any of those games yet.
Dad lifts his glass and gives me his crinkly, twinkly beam. No one can resist Dad’s smile, including me. All my life, I’ve seen him win people round with his charm, his bottomless optimism. Like that time I was ten and forgot about my holiday project. Dad just turned up at school, twinkled at the teacher, told her several times how certain he was that it wouldn’t be a problem…and sure enough, it wasn’t. Everything was magically OK.
I mean, I’m not stupid. There was a sympathy element there too. I was the girl with no mum….
Anyway, let’s not dwell on that. It’s Christmas Eve. I step outside the kitchen door, making my way through a cluster of chickens to breathe in the fresh West Country air. I must admit, the air is amazing here. In fact, the whole place is amazing. Dad thinks I’ve completely rejected Somerset, but I haven’t. I’ve just made a choice about how to live my life—
I close my eyes briefly. Stop it. How many imaginary conversations have I had with Dad about this? And now I’m having them when he’s standing three yards away?
I take a sip of punch and try to focus on the distant landscape rather than the farmyard, because the closer you get to the actual house, the less picturesque it becomes. Dad’s tried a lot of moneymaking wheezes over the years, none of which have worked—and all around the farmyard are the remains and detritus of them, which he’s never bothered clearing up. There’s the cider press, sitting in its barn, barely used. There’s the massage table, from when we were going to have a spa. (He couldn’t find a massage therapist cheap enough.) There’s the matching turquoise swirly eighties headboard and bedside tables that he bought off a mate, intending to set up a B&B. They’re still wrapped up in their plastic, leaning against a gate. They look terrible.