I’VE NEVER UNDERSTOOD why every year you hear people remarking in astonished tones how Christmas has taken them by surprise. You can picture all the old dears in their fifties, scraping the ice off their windscreens in the morning, talking to each other over their front lawns.
‘Morning, Marjorie, bit of a chill in the air this morning. Soon be Christmas again.’
‘I know. Snuck up on us this year, hasn’t it, Ralph?’
That’s right, because of course we were all expecting it to fall in the middle of April. How inconsiderate.
Every non-pregnant year of my life, so all of them so far, I start my shopping straight after Bonfire Night, and have it finished by the end of November. I put my tree up on the first of December. I start attending the parties during the first week of December, and they go on until Christmas Eve. Christmas never takes me by surprise.
This year, I glance at the calendar one morning over my melon and notice that it’s suddenly the twentieth of December. How did that happen? I didn’t even notice that the government had cancelled November.
I’m twenty-two and a bit weeks now. My friends know about the baby, and as Chrissie is one of them, all of Horizon knows. This includes people I’ve never even met. Hector, a virtual stranger, knows. The woman in the corner shop at the end of my road knows. It’s probably about time I told Mum and Dad. Well, as it’s Christmas in five days’ time, I decide to do it then.
I phone straight away to avoid changing my mind.
‘Hi, Mum, it’s me.’
‘Who’s me?’
‘Me. Rachel. Your daughter.’
‘Rachel! You’re alive! Dave! Dave, it’s Rachel! She’s alive!’
Yeah, all right, maybe I deserve it. And with the news I’m going to give them for Christmas, this is going to get worse.
‘Mum, I was wondering if it would be all right for me to come and spend Christmas with you.’
‘Course you can, love. That’ll be lovely. Granny’s here, she’ll love to see you. Will you be wanting Christmas lunch?’
I remember suddenly that I promised myself I would go and see Granny to make up for pretending to Jean that she was dead. This will kill two birds with one stone.
‘Yes, please. I’d like to come round in the morning this year, and spend the whole day, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course it’s all right. We’ll look forward to that, love. Got some big news, then?’
Did I tell you how insightful my mum is? She scares me sometimes. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, Mum.’
There’s a kind of mini Christmas celebration on the last day the office is open before Christmas, which is Friday the twenty-second. There are a few nibbles and a glass of alcohol-free vinegar each. Jean is making the annual league champion presentations. I’m in the top ten, so I get a ‘Well Done’ card. Val’s third, which is a turn up for her. She gets a bottle of Blue Nun. And Marion from the other side of the room has got top. White rum for her. None of them has come close to Jean’s old record, and Marion is still a hundred and twenty-two sales below my record from last year. She’s had a good year, though, regardless of that.
Paris is not taking part in our mini Christmas party. Her jacket is draped over her chair, but she’s pleasingly absent. She has spent so much time away from her desk since she joined, it’s hardly surprising she’s at twenty-fourth place. There are only six people between her and the part-timers. That’s a poor performance.
Shall we have a look and see where she is? On her back in the stationery cupboard? Nope. Kneeling on the conference-room floor? Not there either. Hands and knees in the ladies’ loos? Men’s loos? Surprisingly, she’s not in any of these places. There’s only one other place to look.
If we go up three floors to the personnel department, we can see that most of the offices and desks are empty. This is not open plan, like the sales room, but the offices all have glass walls, so it’s clear that Paris is not in any of them. Further along the corridor is a conference room where all the personnel staff meet once a week to discuss, well, personnel. It seems that everyone is crowded in there.
Here is Leo, the supervisor, and Carl, his assistant. Chrissie says they’re having an affair, even though Leo has been married for twelve years. Next to them are Lauren and Pat, drinking but not talking. Pat is Lauren’s mum. Over by the window on his own is Trent. He’s about six feet five and nine and a half stone. He also has halitosis from hell. I expect everyone in the room can smell it, but if they stay far enough away and take quick, shallow breaths through their mouths, they can survive.
And here in the doorway to the kitchen are Nick and Paris; Nick’s arm draped across her shoulders, Paris’s hand tucked into the back of his waistband. She’s actually got no business being here because she’s Telesales, and everyone knows it. In fact, if you look closely you can see that everyone in that room is taking furtive glances at her and pursing their lips. The revelry is fairly subdued this year, because of the interloper in their midst. But do Nick and Paris notice, when they have eyes just for each other?
Yeah, I think they do because they’re heading out towards the men’s loos now. How romantic.
Horizon is closed now until the day after Boxing Day. We’re approaching our busiest time of year, so it’s nice to have four days off in readiness.
I’ve got a few cards through the post, which I open lethargically on Christmas morning. One from Susan, one from Chrissie, one from my uncle and auntie in Swindon. It’s ridiculous but even at the age of twenty-four I am still disappointed when I wake up and find no stocking on the end of my bed. Santa doesn’t visit single people.
Can you see that little package on the coffee table? I’ve left it there on purpose since it arrived a week ago, so that I would have something to look forward to when I woke up today. I’ve been walking past it for seven days, my eyes lingering on it longingly, wishing I could open it early. Well, I could, of course, but that would spoil the surprise.
I hold it in my hands for a few moments before opening it. At this point it could be anything, from anyone. All the while it’s intact, it’s from Hector, but just in case it isn’t I’m feeling reluctant to open it and destroy the image.
Curiosity always wins.
It’s a little blue velvet jewellery box and inside is a pair of very light blue drop earrings. They’re so pretty, they catch and reflect the light when I move. The card has a penguin on the front hitchhiking a lift with Santa’s sleigh. It is from Hector. He writes, ‘Have a truly magical Christmas and I hope everything in the New Year happens perfectly for you. H xx’
I love the way he signs it just ‘H’. It’s so intimate, as if we know each other so well, all that’s required is a hint of who it’s from. But of course, he and I are complete strangers.
I do hope it’s not from Harriet in Marketing.
I’m wearing the earrings now, and I have chosen my outfit today based on them. Well, the top anyway. I’m still pretty much dependent on the black lycra skirt, but my top is pale blue. How do I look? I think I still look pretty good, considering I haven’t had my highlights or eyelashes done for several months and I look like I’m storing some small beanbags in my bra. Mum is bound to notice this time, but that’s OK.
Here I am again, standing at the point where Sarah and Martin Kennedy made beautiful music together. It’s particularly touching on Christmas Day, don’t you think?
It’s ten thirty and Mum and Dad are in the kitchen in a fog of heat and steam and alcohol fumes. They’re both wearing paper hats pulled down low over their foreheads and they’re giggling loudly as they read each other the lame cracker jokes. They’re clearly both pissed.
‘Hi, Mum: hi, Dad,’ I say, coming in to the room. They turn in unison to face me, then exclaim, ‘Rachel!’ also simultaneously, their red, grinning faces beaming at me like something off a cheap Christmas card. I am twenty-three weeks’ pregnant now, and there is a definite bump, but neither of them mentions it, which is weird. OK, I think to myself, I’ll make an announcement over dinner.
But that’s easier said than done. You can’t just bring this thing up spontaneously, you need some kind of opening. Well, even before an opening, I need there to be a break in the conversation. My granny is here too and she’s a tenacious conversationalist. Once she’s started, she absolutely will not stop until she’s finished, no matter how long that takes and regardless of how many interruptions there are.
‘So, Rachel, you’re looking very well. How’s that boyfriend of yours? Tom, was it? What a lovely young man he was. He was here last year, wasn’t he, Clare? He reminded me so much of a lad who lived over the road from Grandad and me when your mum was still a girl. Before she had her childhood stolen from her.’ She stares fiercely at my dad, who raises his glass at her. ‘Do you remember him, Clare? I think he was called William. You were sweet on him for a long time.’
‘No, I don’t remember a William, Mum. Who wants custard and who wants ice cream?’
‘Haven’t we got brandy butter?’
‘No, it wasn’t William, that was the boy that lived next door to me when I was a girl. This one was called something else.’
‘You know we haven’t got brandy butter. We never have brandy butter. It’s custard or ice cream.’
‘It was one of those traditional names, though, like maybe Philip or Albert. You must remember him, Clare. He had acne and a budgie.’
‘Can I have both, Mum?’
‘Ugh, James, custard and ice cream in the same bowl?’
‘Or was it the budgie that was called William?’
Mum still stuffs the pudding with pound coins, I suspect just as much for my benefit as for James’s, so you really have to have your wits about you while you eat it. The table falls silent for five minutes as everyone concentrates furiously on not breaking their teeth, or swallowing any money. At the end, I’ve got six pounds out of mine, James has got seven and even Granny has done well and found five. Mum and Dad put any they find straight back into the pudding so the last portion is always particularly dangerous.
The table is cleared, plates scraped and coffee made. We all sit down in the living room for a film or a snooze, or a bit of both. James gets his new remote-control tank and heads out into the street to liaise with the neighbours’ kids and compare presents. It feels like the moment is coming and I’ve got butterflies, although I’m not sure if it’s dread or excitement at the prospect of telling my parents.
‘So, Rachel, how are things with you?’ Dad says, leaning back and sipping his coffee. ‘How’s your life?’
It’s perfect. I look at him and Mum, smile and say, ‘Much better than I thought I would be six months ago.’
‘Why’s that, love?’
‘Well, I’ve got some really good news. For all of you. Mum, Dad, Granny, I’m going to have a baby.’
Mum’s mouth goes into a wide, open-mouthed grin and she looks immediately at Dad, to see what his reaction is. He’s smiling too, and also looking at Mum. Then they both turn back in unison to me.
Dad says, ‘Oh Rachel, love, that’s fantastic!’
Mum says, ‘I’m going to be a granny, I can’t believe it!’
Granny says, ‘I mean, it’s a ridiculous name for a bird.’
‘When then? When does it all happen? August? July?’
‘Ah. No, actually it’s the twentieth of April.’
‘Twentieth of . . .? But that means you must be about five months’ gone already. Have you only just found out, then?’
I predicted this would happen and I decided in the car on the way over that I’m going to tell a teensy-weensy little white lie to save their feelings. ‘Yeah, just about a week ago.’ Well, they’ll never know, will they? No need to tell them I found out back in August and told a perfect stranger the news minutes later. ‘I didn’t suspect a thing and then finally went to the doctor last week because of a slight pain in my tummy and he tells me I’m five months’ gone. Can you believe it?’
Granny is looking at me shrewdly, her eyes narrowed. ‘No, no, I’m completely wrong. The bird was called Cyril. The lad was called Henry. Henry Bateman. Last I heard of him, he was in prison, I think. Your Tom reminded me so much of him.’
Everyone looks at Granny, as if she’s just made a valuable contribution to the conversation.
‘Yes, of course, where is Tom, Rachel? He should be here with us while you break the news. Or is he telling his parents?’
I’ve predicted this, too. But this time, I decide to go with the truth. Well, part of it, anyway. ‘Actually, Tom’s not the father. We broke up.’
‘Oh that’s a shame. He was lovely.’ She’s so wrong about Tom. He had big curly hair and bit the skin around his fingers the whole time. ‘So who is the father then? And when can we meet him? Is he coming round for a drink later or something, after you’ve had a chance to break the news?’
‘Er, no. We broke up too.’ No need to mention that he’s blissfully ignorant of his imminent offspring. Or that he’s spending Christmas with his wife.
Mum’s disappointed. ‘Oh, no. But he’s going to be involved, is he?’
‘Oh, I should think so. We haven’t really discussed it yet. But there’s plenty of time to work out all the details later, isn’t there?’
‘You need to make sure you get some money off him,’ says Granny suddenly. ‘Because you won’t be able to work, will you? Or you’ll have to have a nanny or something to look after it during the day. And those things cost money.’
This is not something I’ve given any thought to at all. I don’t know how I’m going to manage financially but I hadn’t considered asking Nick for money. I’ll store that away for consideration after it’s born. I guess his wife is going to have to find out after all.
So here I am later that night, back home and slumped on the sofa in front of Sleepless in Seattle. I love this film: it’s so simple you can follow it while you worry about being a single parent with not enough money to keep the baby alive. There aren’t many films I like that don’t demand my full attention.
Remember those little worry lines that flitted on and off my face on a certain hot night in July? Well, they’re back, and I think they’re permanent now. I have made the decision to have the baby and I’m not going to change my mind, but telling Mum and Dad, and my three friends, has set that decision into stone somehow. All the while it was just Hector who knew, it felt as if it was happening in some secret, unseen part of my life and could therefore be kept completely separate. It didn’t encroach on or affect my life at all, really. Apart from my clothes not fitting me any more. But now it’s like I’ve brought the baby into the world already. It’s out there now, real, solid, causing changes, making differences, altering the way people think, the way they behave. Mum and Dad were different after I’d told them. They sobered up really quickly and the topic of conversation didn’t move on from the subject for the whole of the rest of the afternoon. What we will all be doing different next Christmas. What it will be called. Whether it’s a boy or girl. They spent hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds on it, thinking about birthday parties and Christmas presents to come – things they’ve seen on telly and would love to buy for it. Dad was actually talking about teaching it to join wood. It was all ridiculous.
The film’s finished so I’ve made myself a hot chocolate and am flicking through Parenting. There are those photos again. Red face, eyes screwed tight, legs akimbo. Christ, is that one of her internal organs coming out? I slam it shut and fling it on to the floor, and my eyes land on the blue velvet box that held my earrings. I pick it up and hold it in both hands and at that moment – did you notice? – those little worry lines smooth out again. I’m going to ring him. I need to thank him for the gift and I should wish him a Merry Christmas, seeing as how I didn’t get him a present or card. Bloody hell, why didn’t I?
There’s no reply at his home number. He’s probably round at Sarah’s, having a few drinks with his family. It’s eight thirty; I’ll try his work number, just in case, and if I don’t get hold of him there, I’ll try Sarah’s – just to wish her a Merry Christmas – and see if I can prise out of her who she’s got round. I could even do a sob story about being on my own and see if she’ll invite me.
It’s answered on the second ring. ‘McCarthy Systems, Hector McCarthy.’ His voice is dull and flat.
‘Hey, Hector. It’s Rachel. Merry Christmas.’
Sitting at his desk, Hector closes his eyes and a smile appears for the first time that day. ‘Hello, Rachel. Merry Christmas to you, too. God, it’s good to hear your voice.’ He closes the folder he’s reading and drops it carelessly on to the desk.
Wow. Did you hear the difference in his voice then, once he knew it was me? He sounds like he’s smiling now.
‘I just wanted to say thank you so much for the earrings. They’re absolutely beautiful.’ I touch them absently as I speak.
‘Well, they had to be beautiful. It’s what . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘Are you having a good day?’
‘Not bad. Been to my mum and dad’s. What about you?’
‘Well, I’ve pretty much been here all day.’
‘Oh Hector, why? You shouldn’t be sitting there all on your own on Christmas Day.’
He sighs deeply. ‘I couldn’t bear to be in the house today. I would have just been sitting there alone, thinking about things, remembering. No thanks.’
‘But what about Glenn and Sarah? Why didn’t you go round there?’
‘Nah. They’ve got a houseful today. Lots of friends of theirs . . .’ He trails off and I’m sitting here thinking that for all he knew, I might have been there. Is that why he didn’t go? Then he says, really quietly, ‘Did you go?’
‘No.’ I didn’t even know about it.
Hector lets out a long breath and I have the feeling he’s been holding it for a while. ‘Oh. Oh, well.’
On impulse, I blab out, ‘Look, Hector, don’t sit there on your own for the rest of the night. I’m here on my own – why don’t you come round for a Christmas drink? We could keep each other company. I’ve got a large Yule log.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says with a smiley voice. Then there’s a protracted silence during which I start imagining all sorts of things like he’s married, he’s got a long-term girlfriend, he’s embarrassed by my obvious interest or the worst one, he’s irritated by my refusal to leave him alone. I’m picturing his face, lips pressed together, brow furrowed, wondering how best he can let me down without hurting me. Then there’s a long exhalation of breath, and he says, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, Rachel.’
Looks like my imagination was spot on. But the fact is, although I was imagining all those things, I didn’t really expect any of them to be real. Deep down – well, not all that deep, actually – I was still convinced that he does like me, does want to be with me. It’s so new, so unprecedented, that a bloke would say no to me. He sounds regretful though.
‘No? But why? What . . .?’
‘I’m sorry, truly, but I’d just feel uncomfortable. You know, what with you and—’ He stops. What I can’t see is how he’s dropped his head down to rest his forehead on his hand, but I can hear that his voice is dull and flat again. ‘It’s too . . .’ He shakes his head, then straightens up in his seat. ‘I should never have . . . I’m sorry, Rachel.’
‘Why are you sorry?’
‘I just wish . . .’ He’s whispering now.
‘What do you wish?’ I whisper, tears pricking my eyes.
‘I wish . . . you a very Merry Christmas, Rachel Covington. Take very good care of yourself and that baby, won’t you? And I truly hope that your new year is everything you want it to be. Bye.’
The phone clicks and goes silent. And I’m left sitting here alone on Christmas Night, knowing that he meant that goodbye to mean for ever, and I’m never going to hear from him again.