‘Well … not yet.’ The truth was they hadn’t talked about it. Angela wasn’t sure how she felt. But Brett seemed to have all the answers.
‘If I go to the Listers’, we can say it’s work-related. She’ll accept that. Then you and Logie can have some mother-daughter time together. You and I can both have a relaxed Christmas, and then we can regroup and talk about things in the New Year. Sound good?’
It didn’t sound good. It sounded awful and clinical and like they were already divorced. Angela didn’t want to ‘regroup’. She wanted her life back. But she hadn’t protested at the time, and all of a sudden it was done, agreed, decided. That was the way things had been since the separation. Cold and businesslike and with Brett firmly in the driving seat. At least that was how it appeared to Angela.
The irony was that she had been the one who’d asked for time apart. She’d thought they both needed space, a cooling-off period after the drama of her fall. But the cooling-off period had quickly become too cold for comfort. Brett, as always, had had his work to distract him. But with Logan still living up in London with her brother, and Furlings empty, Angela had had nothing but time on her hands. She felt as if her life were in constant limbo, with no end in sight, no certainty, no plan. Were she and Brett headed for divorce, or reconciliation? Did they want divorce, or reconciliation? Angela didn’t know. If Brett knew, he certainly wasn’t sharing those feelings with her.
A week after the Mustique phone call, the prospect of a lonely Christmas at Furlings with just her and Logan around the tree suddenly sank in with bleak and terrible force. So Angela did the obvious thing and called Jason, inviting him and Tatiana to join them. They accepted at once, and the next day Logan announced that Tom, her first serious boyfriend, would also be coming down. ‘If that’s all right, Mum?’
For forty-eight hours, Angela was happy again and looking forward to a family Christmas. But when Brett heard the news he hit the roof and they’d ended up having an almighty row. Whatever entente cordiale had been reached between the two of them unravelled like a ball of yarn flung carelessly over the edge of a cliff. Once again, tension reigned.
Sod it, Angela thought, tossing gold, red and green ornaments into her trolley willy-nilly until it was overflowing with Christmas tat. I’m going to enjoy the time with my children, whether Brett likes it or not. He was the one who decided to bugger off and leave us to it. Logan was already here, floating around the house in a fog of love with her new ‘man’. And Jason and Tatiana arrived the day after tomorrow. Michaela was always telling her to ‘live in the present’. Angela decided she was going to do just that.
A few hours later, back at the house, she was putting up the Christmas tree with Tom.
‘How’s that? Better?’
Perched precariously on top of a ladder, Logan’s boyfriend was attempting to secure the top of the enormous Norwegian pine to the upper balustrade with a length of garden twine.
‘Yes, I think so. That looks straight to me,’ said Angela. ‘Come down and take a look.’
Logan had driven off to Tesco in Chichester to buy more milk and bread and family-sized tins of Quality Street chocolate – ‘basic supplies’, as she put it – leaving her mother and boyfriend to put up the tree alone. Angela was glad of the chance to get to know Tom, whom she’d already decided she liked immensely. He was short and stocky and not particularly handsome, but there was a boyish charm about him that she immediately warmed to, and he had the best, loudest, most infectious laugh she’d heard in years. More importantly, it was clear that he worshipped the ground Logan walked on, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Angela had been very fond of Seb Harwich, and sad when Logan’s fling with him had petered out in the wake of Fire-gate. But Tom was definitely a better fit for her.
‘So what are your family up to this Christmas?’ Angela asked, hoping she didn’t sound too nosey or demanding as she handed Tom a packet of red blown-glass baubles with reindeers on them. ‘Won’t they miss having you around?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Tom cheerfully. ‘Pa’s just got married for the fourth time and is on honeymoon in Indonesia, I believe. And Mum’s in Scotland with husband number two and my three vile stepsisters.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Angela. ‘Why are they vile?’
‘Well, they’re Scottish,’ said Tom. Sensing this might not be explanation enough he added, ‘They’re spoiled, too. And not wild keen on Mum. Probably because she broke up their parents’ marriage.’
‘I see,’ murmured Angela.
‘Also,’ said Tom, through a mouthful of green plastic hooks, ‘they’re called Kendra, Kyla and Kate. Can you imagine?’
‘Really?’ Angela giggled.