Everywhere she goes that day she looks at people, trying to see the colours around them, the auras that Blue can see. When she’d been talking to Blue this morning she’d fully believed in it. Yes, she’d thought, yes, this all makes perfect sense. Of course Floyd has dark auras. Of course he’s pretending to be someone he’s not.
But as the hours pass and she sees no auras and Floyd sends her silly, festive text messages all day festooned with Santa Claus emojis and bunches of holly, as the carollers’ repertoire sinks into her psyche and the sherry softens the edges of her consciousness, her fingers push the blades of the scissors back and forth through the shiny paper on her living-room floor and the lights of the neighbours’ Christmas trees flash their reflections on to her windows, it starts to seem bizarre and dreadful.
What a strange girl Blue is, she thinks to herself, turning off her lights, slipping off her clothes, untwirling the tinsel from her hair. What a very strange girl indeed.
Fifty-seven
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 whilst 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 turning here holds a memory of Christmases past. The annual pilgrimage for pizzas on Christmas Eve, where they pre-booked 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 neighbours’ 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 towards his front door.
PART FIVE
Fifty-eight
Laurel Mack.
My God, what a woman.
Dazzling.
I could not believe that this woman was allowing me to put my hands upon her. That she was in my house. In my bed.
She smelled like five-star hotels. Her hair, under my fingertips, was like a satin sheet. Her skin was conker smooth and gleamed under the light. She tasted of icy winter mornings when my mouth was on hers. She held the back of my head hard against hers, those pretty hands entwined in my hair. She laughed when I joked. She smiled when I called her name. She spent an entire weekend in my home. And then another. She told her dying mother about me. She let me join her for a family birthday celebration. She sought their approval and she got it. She took my daughter shopping. She cupped my buttocks as she passed me on the stairs. She woke up with her head on my chest and she changed into my clothes and walked barefoot through my house and drank coffee out of my mugs and parked her car on my street and kept coming back and coming back and every time she came back she was better than I remembered and every time I saw her she was more beautiful than I remembered and I spent every waking hour in a state of raw disbelief that a woman like her would want to be with a man like me.
But now it is Christmas Eve and I am sitting in my living room trussed up in a Paul Smith jumper and a pair of trousers that are slightly too tight on me. Poppy is in her room wrapping gifts and choosing clothes. And Laurel is parked in her car on the street outside and I can see the serious set of her face from my front window, I can see the way her jaw sits a millimetre offset, the slow blink of her eyelids as she finds the strength to come into my home. Because I know and now she knows it, too.
I am not the man she thought I was.
The doorbell rings and I go to my door.
Fifty-nine
Floyd greets Laurel with a kiss on each cheek. She smiles brightly and says, ‘You look lovely. Really Christmassy.’
And he does. He looks handsome and jolly. The holly green of his jumper suits him. But under her chest her heart races, her breath comes tight and hard.
‘And you look beautiful as ever. I love your jacket.’
‘Thank you.’ Laurel runs her hands down the silk velvet and forces another smile. ‘Where’s Poppy?’
‘Upstairs,’ says Floyd. ‘Wrapping your gift.’
‘Oh, bless her.’
‘Come in.’ He ushers her into the kitchen. ‘Come. I’ve got a bottle of champagne chilling. Can I interest you in a Buck’s Fizz?’
Laurel nods. A small drink will calm her nerves.
Floyd seems tense, too, she notices, not his usual effortless self. She watches him closely as he pours her drink, checks that the glass is fresh from the cupboard, that he doesn’t hide it from view as he pours in first the champagne and then the orange juice.
He raises a toast.