In Paige and Shane’s flat
I don’t wake, because I’m not asleep. I can’t sleep with Shane’s body next to me. He breathes, and I count the breaths, not dozing for the dread taking up residence in my stomach. It wiggles and agitates, like a family of mice have set up in there. I’m not hungry. I haven’t been hungry for days. A diet of Coke Zero sustains me.
Giving up on sleep entirely, I take two diazepam from the bedside table. My anxiety is the worst it’s been. I’m running out. It’s going to be a hard sell on my GP to get more. I pace to the living room, put my head against the window. Why are some stragglers on the way home singing I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day? Ah, yes. It’s the 25th.
I’ve been up since 4.13 a.m. Bad dream, though it hardly needs to be said. When are my dreams not, you know, bad? Blood and black hair, gold jewellery. Hyperventilating sobs that aren’t mine. Zanna’s voice calling for someone. Shane won’t be up for another half an hour or so. He went out with some gym friends last night, so he told me. Merry Christmas.
Six sleeps until the documentary goes live. I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to appear on a blog, in the news, something about me. I’ve been playing pen pal with my anonymous correspondent. They send back short replies.
Why are you doing this? I’d asked.
Cus I fucking hate you.
Going mad, I’ve guessed all sorts of culprits, even — during one evening when perhaps I’d taken one too many diazepam — Zanna’s ghost, emailing from beyond the grave. But Zanna would never write “cus”. Angela wouldn’t either. I wonder if perhaps I don’t know this person at all. Perhaps a complete stranger has made a shot in the dark. Here I am, worrying over nothing. Maybe I’ll laugh about this later. Still, I wait for a response to my last email.
What do you want?
Nothing. No response so far. It’s like a taunt, being kept waiting for news I don’t want.
I check Prattle, another daily obsession, a ritual of self-flagellation. Of course, there are some positive comments, but I only ever focus on the bad. The wild theories flew back and forth, strangers discussing my innocence.
I know the police timeline checks out, but I wonder if there’s another way for Paige to have done it. To have killed Zanna for the blog. After all, Zanna’s mother said after she died how Paige was asking for more credit on the blog. That Zanna wanted to fire her. I call that motive.
We’ve got no evidence Paige knew Zanna wanted to fire her, though. It’s hardly enough to claim someone is a murderer.
I think she did it for Shane. Maybe she killed Zanna and emotionally manipulated him in his time of grief?
I think it’s weird no one looked at Shane a bit more. I thought the partner was always the first suspect.
You guys, the killer was literally there, caught red-handed. Some people just don’t want to accept the facts.
I shower the bad dream feeling off my skin, buffing myself with sugar scrub in oil, like a plum fairy. I’m still learning to enjoy this day, Christmas. It more often than not goes down like a lump of coal.
Oliver Bonas decorations hang on the tree, a real tree with spines that have all but destroyed my cordless vacuum cleaner. Tongue-in-cheek baubles hang on it, a little bottle of Moët champagne on a gold ribbon, a teeny bottle of rosé wine. A red lobster model sits in the branches, festooned with white pom-poms glowing with the warm light. A gold “P” and “S” nestle in the branches. It isn’t the traditional tree, but brands tend to send more novelty decorations and I make do. Dangling in the spiky branches are small Swarovski crystal trinkets, sent over in a box by the brand. The filter I’m using to film them accentuates the light the snowflake shapes throw around the room.
@swarovski thanks for bringing the Christmas cheer to our merry little home this year #gift
The room is the result of hours of work. Our six-foot tree stands in the corner of the living room against the huge windows. Shane and I went to choose and collect it together, and to take pictures for Instagram. We got it free for tagging the tree company. The reflection of the glittering baubles and lights from the tree mingles with the lights of the Albert Bridge, of the flats opposite the river, of the headlights and taillights on the cars tootling along the Thames. We are suspended in an eternity of lights around us, living in a Yayoi Kusama installation. I never want it to end, him sleeping safe in the other room while I keep watch over this tiny kingdom, our slice of the world, but I know the sun will rise soon. At least it will rouse Shane, so we can open our presents.
Shane has been generally miserable about Christmas ever since we’ve been together, but just because he’s going to be a Grinch, it shouldn’t stop us from trying to have a nice day. Beneath the tree lie the gifts. One large one for me, a black box with a white ribbon and camellia flower. I don’t need to read the boxy writing on the top to know what this means. Chanel. My stomach drops. But Shane doesn’t know, couldn’t know, that we can’t afford this.
Smaller gifts sit around it, wrapped by me in brown paper, this year finished with black ribbon. An #itsawrap Instagram post was followed with copious heart-eyes emojis.
When I was little, with my mum and dad in the terrace house, I thought the bigger the gift, the better. As I‘ve gotten older, since I took over the blog and the numbers seemed to multiply on their own like rabbits, I learned the smaller the present, the more precious. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fantasise one day a small, squarish box would be heading my way, with a glimmering promise inside, tiny but huge. Christmas is the most common day of the year to propose. Who knows what Shane has planned? But I calm myself. I never bring it up, marriage or babies. Men don’t like it. I won’t make Zanna’s mistake, that’s for sure. Men don’t want to propose to a woman who’s begged for it. Hopefully Shane will do it on his own, soon.
Before Shane wakes up, I do my makeup quietly in the ensuite bathroom. I smooth first primer and then foundation over my face, buffing it over the flaws. A little dimple scar on my forehead from chickenpox, dark marks dancing down the hollows of my cheeks from spots I picked in my early twenties. Soon, I’ll be the age Zanna was when she died, thirty-two. There’s a sick thud in my stomach.
Padding through to the kitchen on tiptoes, I get started on a healthy egg-white omelette breakfast. Healthy, for Shane, and lavish, for me. We have it every year with champagne. It’s our tradition. I’ve tried to create a Christmas that is just ours, unmistakably. One that doesn’t remind me of my parents and doesn’t remind me of Zanna either. Later, after I clean the dishes away, we settle on the sofa and take turns to bring presents over in the order we want the other to open them. Opening my Chanel handbag, I hold it like a baby. So much more precious to me because I really shouldn’t have it. Perhaps I’ll return it to pay money towards the credit card bills, or our overdue rent. I should, but I won’t.
“It’s the Hobo! How did you know I wanted it?”
“I saw the hints on your Instagram stories,” he says, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated manner.
“Well, it is beautiful.”
“You can put it with the rest.”
“Oh yes! I’ll have three. Mummy, Daddy and baby,” I laugh, stroking the bag. Maybe I’ll sell the whole family, though I’d have to find a convincing reason if Shane ever asked where they were. I lovingly lay down the bag like Mother Mary did Jesus in his manger, and fetch a gift from under the tree for Shane. A heavy box that I hold out to him in both hands. As he unwraps it, I bite my nails. Unable to resist the compulsion to start explaining before he’s reacted to the gift, I say, “I thought you’d want something for everyday, you know.”
“Oh my days, Paige.”
He prises open the wooden box with a hinge on the back. I read the name of the brand upside down. Even the wrong way up it reads “wealth”. It’s a watch I caught him lingering over in a window on the King’s Road. At least I hope it’s that one. My stomach turns over looking at it. For under £5,000, I’d bought it as a celebration when I got the documentary, before the email and despite the bills, celebrating riches to come. You can’t live with a scarcity mindset. That’s one of the key rules of manifestation.
“They said I can return it,” I say, but he is already reaching over and grabbing my neck with his huge hand. He pulls me towards him and plants his lips against mine.
“No way, it’s perfect,” he says, smiling, easing the black watch out of the box, eager to put it on. A little boy with a remote-control car.
“You’re perfect,” I say, smiling, having earned my kiss. Shane puts the watch on. He reads through the manual, working out how to change all the settings while sipping on champagne. Then there’s another tradition of ours, opening cards. Though we celebrate alone, this adds a little more festive spirit. Shane’s friend from school sent a card with a picture of his baby. Shane’s family, his aunt and cousin, sent a card too. I have a card from Sissy, which fills my heart with a warm feeling. I open a number of cards from PRs with promises of drinks in the new year. These are who most of my cards are from.
Shane opens one and says: “Aw, Mr Mazur. What a legend.”
Mr Mazur, the old flat block’s supervisor. Such a sweet, older man, he was always so fond of Zanna, and nice to me too, though she got all his kindest attention. That was generally the way, but she was better with him than I was. I struggled not to wrinkle my nose; his breath had that nicotine tang.
He constantly showed us videos of his little girl and wife on his phone, playing in the park or doing something otherwise cute. It was inescapable, happened every time we spoke with him. He glowed with pride as his phone screen lit up his face, scrolling for the most recent adorable thing his daughter had done.
“You remind me of my girlfriend,” he would say to us and wink, jokingly flirting. Zanna handled the clumsy and sometimes, to my mind, off-putting flirting with ease, with unsuspecting good heartedness.
After we open all the cards, Shane shows me the tricks his new watch does. While my face is close to his over the watch, he kisses me, and then we have sex on the sofa. Afterwards, I wriggle out from under him to go to the toilet and put my dress back on. I sigh. He’s ripped the lace. He’s too rough. Still, Christmas is going quite well, isn’t it? For once I have high hopes, or is it simply the effects of champagne before lunch?
When I come back through to the main room, where he still sits on the sofa, I smile. He frowns. I stop in my tracks. There’s something in his hands. My phone.
“Do you mind—” he begins. His voice is as controlled, cold and hard as the weights he lifts in the gym. “—telling me what the fuck—” his voice rises to a military, sharp, loud shout on “fuck”, and I flinch, “—this is.”