That December, a huge snowstorm they were calling the Arctic Sinkhole socked in the entire Midwest. I turned down kind invitations to spend the holiday with Cilla’s and Gaz’s respective families because I kept hoping for a last-minute break in the weather, but it became clear that even if I somehow got to Iowa for Christmas, I was fifty-fifty at best to return in time for Klosters. Nick called from the annual Lyons gathering up at Sandringham to tell me everyone would understand, but Lacey and Mom were adamant that I shouldn’t risk it, Mom even threatening to disown me if I tried. So I spent the holiday alone in my flat with a radiator that worked only half the time but clanged monotonously all of the time, and a toilet that wouldn’t stop flushing unless I hit the tank with the broad side of a dictionary.
But I embraced the unplanned quietude, which I had jokingly christened my Solitary Refinement. I bought a pint-size fake tree and decorated it with tinsel and ornaments from a local drugstore. I hung the holiday cards I’d gotten above my imitation fireplace, and I stocked up on port wine and fancier beer. And every day I spruced up my blue Oxford sweatshirt with Nick’s present to me. Eleanor decreed long ago that the Royal Family must give only gag gifts at Christmas—which makes perfect sense; Sephora gift cards don’t quite cut it for a woman who has her own Gutenberg Bible—but I think Nick missed the satisfaction of giving actual thoughtful presents to his loved ones, because he blew past our amiably low price cap and bought me a delicate diamond solitaire pendant on a long gold chain (so I could wear it under my clothes, next to my heart, without anyone being the wiser). I gave him a sweater and a cheat guide for cryptic crosswords. In my defense, he is almost as hard to shop for as his grandmother, and he needed both.
On Christmas Day, I luxuriated in changing out of my sleeping pajamas and into a new flannel set specifically for loafing around, and spent the day watching movies. Just as I got antsy for human contact—right at the part of The Sound of Music when the Von Trapp kids are parading around Salzburg dressed in nothing but some old drapes—I heard a sloppy knock at my door.
“Who is it?” I shouted. My peephole was permanently fogged.
“Gaz. I bring delicacies.”
I fumbled at the chain and tugged open the door. Gaz charged through, a burst of frosty air around him as he made a beeline for my compact kitchen, carrying several grocery bags from Harrods. He dumped his quarry on whatever counter space he could find and surveyed my place.
“Cilla said your flat was small, but I didn’t realize she meant you could see into the lav from the kitchen,” he said. “I could probably use it from here.”
“Go ahead, you just metaphorically peed all over the place anyway,” I said. “What are you doing here? I mean, I’m glad to see you, but I’m not exactly company-ready.”
“My family is all done in by about two o’clock. Big fat Christmas dinner and then straight into a food coma.” He patted his stomach. “But I’m a growing boy and I need my third meal, see, and Cilla said you wouldn’t go with her to Yorkshire to have her eighteen nieces and nephews blow their noses all over you, so voila, your savior is here.”
Gaz started pulling things willy-nilly from the bags. “I brought all kinds of goodies. Come have a butcher’s. We’ve got cheese and onion pasties, a pork pie; have you ever had one? Bloody brilliant. Oh, and a spot of cheese and caviar, and some chocolates.”
It was the sweetest gesture, and one he’d clearly planned well in advance. I gave him a sniffly, tight hug.
“Now, now,” he said, reddening, but clearly delighted. “I know I’m a sexy beast, but I can’t have my mate’s girl throwing herself at me.”
We carried the food into my living room and spent a lively night yelling at the remainder of The Sound of Music, cheering so vibrantly at the nun with the carburetor that my downstairs neighbor banged on the ceiling to shut us up.
“God, what a film,” Gaz said when it ended, folding his hands onto his stomach. “That naughty baroness was the first woman I ever saw who drew on eyebrows. I didn’t know if I was afraid of her or in love with her.” He screwed up his face. “Probably both. Might explain a few things.”
“Yes, when are you going to declare yourself to Cilla?” I asked casually.
Gaz looked startled. “Is it that obvious?”
“Maybe not to most people,” I said. “But the way you two thrive on goading each other always seemed suspicious to me.”
“You’re bonkers,” Gaz sighed. “She thinks I’m a stuffed git.”
“Cilla doesn’t suffer fools. She wouldn’t spend so much time needling you if she thought you were one.”
Gaz brightened, then his face fell again. “She’s seeing that Tony bloke, though,” he said. “Never mind whatever shady business he’s probably up to with that nightclub of his. All that white powder in the loos doesn’t get there on its own.”
“You’re almost a solicitor. Or a barrister. Whichever it is,” I asked. “Can’t you sue the pants off him for something?”
“That’s tempting,” Gaz said. “I’ll be a solicitor in about a year, and then I can get into business. Maybe that’ll impress her.” He frowned and rubbed his nose. “Maybe if I weren’t such a fat oaf,” he said harshly. “Maybe if I lost a bit of weight and stopped drinking. But I can’t help it. That’s who I am. My feelings have loads of flavors.”
I laughed, but not unsympathetically. “Lose it for yourself, if you want to, but not for anyone else,” I said. “Cilla will see through Tony eventually, and she clearly knows you were the only person for the job of cheering me up tonight. She’ll come around. Maybe even while we’re all in Klosters and Tony is stuck here.”
Gaz shot me a grateful smile. “You’re a real mate, Bex,” he said. “Let me at least return the favor. What do you want to know about this whole Klosters bit? Or have Nick and Clive already briefed you?”
“Hardly. When Nick and I talked about it, I got so fixated on the etiquette part that I didn’t even ask him about the other people coming,” I said. “And I haven’t seen Clive for ages.”
“Yes, too busy doing world-beating reporting like COUNCIL APPROVES PLAN FOR NEW LIFT AT HOLBORN STATION,” Gaz joked.
“Poor Clive. I admire how hard he’s trying,” I said. “But I do need it explained why the Palace isn’t more worried about him coming to Klosters. He’s essentially the media now.”
“Top News hardly counts as media. It’s barely a step up from words printed on bog paper. People only even see it because it’s forced on them when they’re getting off the Tube,” Gaz said. “But we also sign our lives away, as I’m sure Nick told you. And the Fitzwilliams are thick as thieves with Richard. If Clive ever violates that, Thick Trevor will twist him up so that his nose unloads into his bowels.” He grinned. “This trip is quite good people-watching, actually. I can’t wait for you to experience Pudge.”
I coughed around a piece of pork pie. “What is a ‘Pudge’?”
“It’s a who. Bea’s sister Paddington,” Gaz said. “She was an eleven-pound baby, and the nickname stuck. She’s…how to put this delicately…a total drooling gobshite.”
“That’s the delicate option?” I laughed.