How We Met (38 page)

Also, now he had not just given his notice in at Bella Italia, but walked out in a hot-headed, self-important strop, what the fuck did he expect them to live on? Thin air? She already had barely enough money for a pint of milk at the end of the week, when all the friends she’d left at Primal Films were spending a tenner on a latte and a Pret A Manger sandwich every day, without even thinking about it. She tried not to be bitter, but sometimes when she was looking down the back of the sofa for 20p it was hard.

‘But think about the long term,’ Eduardo had said. ‘Think about when I get a better job with more prospects.’

She’d cried tears of frustration, right there and then at the table, then slapped down her napkin and walked out herself. God, they were such a cliché.

And now she was standing outside the restaurant, freezing and mascara-streaked, a week before Christmas and about to go for a walk on her own. Another bloody cliché.

Eduardo had nodded solemnly. ‘OK,’ he’d said, ‘if that’s what you want.’ No fight, she’d noticed. No, ‘But my darling girlfriend, you can’t wander the streets alone at night.’ That’s because, she knew as she watched him walk away and reach inside the pocket of his coat, he couldn’t wait to call his mates, find out where they were, and stay out getting smashed till the sun came up.

Well, sod him. She didn’t care. The thought of going home with him filled her with dread. Billy wasn’t even there, his room would be empty, and it struck her that a home without her baby didn’t feel like a home at all. That the thought of just those two being there in the morning made her feel horribly anxious, and that couldn’t be right.

So, she wandered the snow-covered streets for a while, not really knowing what to do with herself. Today, Friday the nineteenth, was the day many people had finished work for Christmas, and she suddenly found herself in the midst of festive-season anarchy. The all-day drinkers in their Santa hats, careering across the road, people snogging in public. There was a man sitting on the steps of the library in Market Square being sick between his knees.

Merry Christmas …

She walked past the John O’Gaunt pub, one of Lancaster’s best live music venues, warm and fairy-lit tonight and, as she did, she thought she could hear the opening riffs of ‘Stella’, one of the Fans’ best songs, Fraser’s voice, soulful and breaking. Norm on the drums and all four girls: her, Liv, Melody and Anna, knowing every lyric of every song. So proud.

She fast-forwarded to now: a death, a divorce – how differently would life be lived if we knew what lay in store for us, she wondered? Impossible to live at all, presumably, and, anyway, if she thought about it too much, she knew she’d weep.

Just then, a group of girls wearing reindeer hats and a lot of sequins piled out of the pub.

‘Merry Crimbo, love!’ one shouted at her, in a thick Lancastrian accent. ‘Why you on yer own? Come and ’ave a drink wi’ us!’

Paralytic with a group of strangers: for an alarming second, this sounded like the best idea in the world. Then, Mia came to her senses. ‘Thanks, but no, but have one for me! And Merry Christmas to you too!’ she shouted.

Merry Christmas to you.

She walked to Dalton Square, where she sat on a bench till her bum went numb. She pulled her fur jacket tighter and leant back her head. The sky was still snow-filled; it reminded her of the colour of damson skins and, through the silhouettes of the stark, bare trees, the clock face of the town hall glowed, ghostly and yellow, like the moon. From one of the surrounding pubs, she heard Slade announce, ‘It’s Christmaaaaaassss!’

She felt a sudden pang for Billy, to kiss his sleep-smelling face, squished against his pillow. For a second, she thought of going over to Melody’s and doing just that, but stopped herself just in time. Melody had been through enough recently; she was taking the divorce very hard. The last thing she’d want would be Mia turning up, an emotional
wreck on her doorstep. Plus, if she really thought about it,
Billy was the last person she wanted to see, just thinking of him, so sweet in his pyjamas, made her stomach churn with guilt, because what if she couldn’t give him what she’d always wanted for him?

Just a mum and a dad in the same house – everything she’d never had; a feeling of belonging and security? She’d tried, she really had but she had pretty much come to the conclusion tonight, that she just couldn’t do it anymore, even if – as her mum kept telling her – it was easier, more practical. It wasn’t in her heart. She knew now, she was never going to fall in love with Eduardo, perhaps, amongst many other factors, because she was already in love with somebody else.

It was bloody Christmas, too. Weren’t people supposed to be with those they loved – at least
liked
– at Christmas? She looked at the clock: 9.10 p.m. – it was still early. She
had an idea
, and before she talked herself out of it, she
picked up her coat and started walking.

Jean Harp’s home, a neat council house, tucked into a cul-de-sac on the outskirts of town, was not hard to find since it had a flashing Santa sleigh in the front garden, three illuminated snowmen leading up the garden path and, just in case you were still having trouble locating it, a giant inflatable Santa Claus yelling, ‘Over here!’ from the chimney.

Mia stood in front of it, blinded by the flashing lights, feeling as if she should put her hands up in surrender. It occurred to her that this feeling was quite fitting, that as she swept the inch of snow from the top of Jean Harp’s garden gate and undid the latch, that the game – whatever the hell that was – was indeed up.

The air rang with the cold and it was snowing so hard that it was difficult to see more than a few metres in front of her. Mia pulled her coat tighter around her and started up the path. It had come to her attention, some time ago in town, when her efforts to catch a bus had failed and she’d begun the twenty-minute hike up to the Bowerham estate, that the bondage heels, even with thick tights, were not the most sensible footwear choice for blizzard conditions. Her toes were sodden, two packs of ice.

She stepped, knees up like a flamingo, making deep imprints in the fresh snow.

It was a traditional, pebble-dashed, square-fronted house, the sort of house a child might draw, with a red front door and four windows, glowing with inviting light. Mia’s insides jittered with nerves. Was this a terrible
idea? To turn up in the midst of Fraser’s task? Maybe he’d be in the middle of monk-like silence and concentration?

Shielding her eyes from the dancing Christmas lights that emanated from inside, she peered into one of the bottom windows. The glass was decorated with stencils of snowflakes and Mia pressed her nose up against the gap between them, a smile spreading across her face. The sly devils: this wasn’t a staid Scrabble tournament; this was a bloody Christmas party!

In Mrs Harp’s downstairs, two rooms knocked through with an arch in the middle from which reams of paper chains hung, the furniture had been pushed to the side and two large tables had been set up; round each, four players sat huddled over a Scrabble board.

Everyone was wearing party hats, each table glowed with candlelight, festive tipples glimmered in cut glass and there was music, muffled, but s
urely
not … Mia cupped her ear and moved in closer to confirm that, yes, indeed, a group of OAPs were nodding their heads, tapping their feet to Beyoncé.

‘If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it … If you liked it
, then you shoulda put a ring on it. Uh-uh-oh …’

Then she spied a woman – could this be the legendary Jean Harp? With grey spiky hair and gigantic bauble earrings, she was shimmying between the tables, a tray of drinks in her hand.

There was the sound of laughter, of festivity, and Mia had to turn away so she could have a snigger to herself.

Turning back, she scanned the room for Fraser, but there was a huge Christmas tree in the corner and, through the snow and the kaleidoscope of bauble lights, she could only make out a sea of silver-haired, party-hatted heads. She shielded her eyes with her hands and there, sitting below the Christmas tree, was Mrs D. Oh, my days, thought Mia. Would you just
look
at her.

She was wearing a Santa hat, cock-eyed on her head, and what looked like elf slippers on her feet. Actually, now she looked carefully, all of them were wearing elf slippers on their feet. Never mind a Scrabble tournament, this was some sort of elf convention. Mrs D’s cheeks were flushed with alcohol, or happiness, or both, her eyes animated, as she leant in and whispered something to the woman next to her. The woman turned, her mouth an O, and then she was laughing, bent over, and Mrs D was laughing too, and Mia realized in that moment that all this time she had thought Mrs Durham was a morbid, miserable old bat, when really all she’d ever needed were some friends.

Mrs Durham had her hands pressed together at her lips now, staring at the Scrabble board, as if in anticipation of something; in fact the whole room seemed to be arrested in anticipation. Nobody moved, everybody stared at the boards. The decorations hanging from the arch in the centre of the room seemed to flutter like tumbleweed.

Then suddenly, there was a muffled cheer, a man shot up from his chair, throwing his arms in the air. Everyone was clapping. The man was jumping up and down now, and as he turned around, his mouth open, grinning and pumping his arms up and down, Mia caught his eye and realized it was Fraser.

His eyes and mouth grew wider.

‘Mia?’

Two seconds later, he had flung the front door open, his face obscured by the swirling snow. ‘What the hell are you doing here? I just did it! I just used up all my seven letters in one go.’

‘I know.’ He looked so
chuffed
, so easily pleased, like a boy on Christmas Day, so different from the man she’d just left at a restaurant, that Mia wanted to kiss the living daylights out of him right there and then.

‘You do?’

‘I just saw you through the window. You’re so clever. How bloody clever are you?’

He paused, grinning at her. He seemed to be searching her face.

‘
Come in
. It’s fucking freezing out there. Did you walk here? Are you all right?’

‘I’ve probably got frostbite and shall have to have my feet amputated but, apart from that, I think I’m
OK,’ she said, hobbling somewhat dramatically to prove her point.

Mia stepped into the warmth of the hallway. The scent of Christmas flooded her nostrils: orange peel and cinnamon and sherry and happiness.

He was smiling at her intently, but then the smile suddenly fell from his face.

‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘Birthday dinner. Not good?’

Mia smiled so she wouldn’t cry. Then she made two big steps towards him and threw her arms around his neck.

‘I don’t want to talk about it tonight,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘I just want to come in and play. Can I?’

‘Course,’ he said, somewhat bemused, as she lay her head on his chest, felt the warmth of his body. ‘Course you can.’

‘Also, I’m just wondering …’ Mia looked up at him. ‘Beyoncé?
Really?
’

Fraser clicked his tongue. ‘My iPod shuffle,’ he said. ‘It’s my party mix, they can’t get enough of it.’

‘Mary, is that you? I
thought
it was you.’ Just then, Mrs Durham appeared in the hallway, wearing the Santa hat and a violent-green jumper with a snowflake on. They sprang apart. ‘My dear Mary,’ she said, shuffling towards her with open arms and a brandy in one hand.

They hugged. She smelt of mince pies and booze. ‘Well, Mrs D –’ Mia did her best to conceal the wobble in her voice – ‘so this is what you get up to at your Scrabble nights. And there was me, thinking it was all fuddy-duddies with their heads in a dictionary.’

Mrs Durham chuckled, naughtily. ‘I’ve knocked myself out, dear,’ she said. Mia doubted she was ever quite going to get the hang of how to use that phrase. ‘I’m knocking myself out with this Scrabble, you know. And this man –’ she hobbled forward in her elf slippers and got hold of Fraser’s cheeks – ‘is a born Scrabbler.’

‘She plays a mean game,’ said Fraser. ‘Whooped my ass. Thrashed me in the first two games. Sixty-three points on a treble word score. End-game word of twenty-one.’

‘Ah, but this one got seven letters in one go and it’s only his first time,’ said Mrs Durham, eyes alight.

Treble word score, seven letters, end-game? Mia felt
as though she’d walked into a cult, a particularly jolly cult.

‘So what was the word?’ said Mia.

Fraser beckoned her inside. ‘You’ll laugh at this,’ he said. ‘Should bring back memories.’

Mia followed Fraser and Mrs Durham inside. Beyoncé had turned into Bruce Springsteen, ‘Dancing in the Dark’, and the woman with the grey spiky hair was refilling everyone’s glasses.

Mrs Durham took Mia by the hand. ‘Mary,’ and she put Mia’s hand into the woman with spiky hair’s soft one, ‘I want you to meet my very good friend Jane Harp. Jane, this is my very good friend Mary.’

‘Mia,’ corrected Mia.

Jean leant in. ‘Jeane It’s OK, she’s always calling me Jane.’

Jean had shrewd brown eyes and an elegant Roman nose. Mia guessed she’d have cut a striking figure in her day. In her bright red woollen dress, quite risqué and figure-hugging for an OAP, she still did.

‘Now, will you have a tipple, Mary?’ and she winked and filled Mia’s glass up without her answering.

‘And you MUST slip into something more comfortable. Please,’ and she gestured to Mia’s shoes. ‘You look absolutely perished. Here, put on some elf slippers, they are compulsory.’

She took a pair from the collection under the tree and handed them to Mia.

‘One size, one quid each from Poundstretcher – aren’t they wonderful?’ She chuckled, as Mia sunk her freezing cold feet into their furry warmth.

‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘They are just heavenly.’

She and Fraser looked at each other, then at their feet and started sniggering. ‘You think that’s funny, come and look at my seven-letter word.’