The 12 Christmases of You & Me Page 5

  ‘I hope so.’ I really do, because I miss the relationship we had until a few months ago. Our bond, our closeness, our cuddles on the sofa. Things didn’t work out between me and Annabelle’s father, and although he’d been there in snatches of weekend outings and sleepovers when she was younger, it’s mainly been just the two of us. I miss her, and I’m scared we’ll never get back on track.

  Annabelle’s at home when I get back from work. Her presence is obvious from the moment I step into the hallway and almost trip over her school bag, which is spewing PE socks, loose pens and a tatty-looking notebook onto the carpet. Her coat has been flung in the general direction of the hooks on the wall, but it’s missed the target and is clinging onto the corner of the radiator below. And then there’s the noise pulsing down the stairs. Some new girl band Annabelle is obsessed with, even though none of them seems capable of enunciating their words so the lyrics of every song on their album are an indecipherable warble of high-pitched sound. I’d usually despair at the racket (especially when it’s taken two doses of paracetamol to shift my headache) but then I remember my dream last night and the terrible music we subjected our parents to in the mid-90s. I pick up Annabelle’s belongings from the floor, returning the pen and notebook to the bag and dropping the socks (along with the rest of the PE kit liberated from the bag) into the laundry basket. The post has been ignored, stepped over on the doormat, and I shove it on top of the microwave to deal with later. It’s only an early Christmas card, so it can wait.

  With the radio switched to Smooth, which I can just about hear over the caterwauling upstairs, I pour some pasta into a pan and set it going on the hob. I’ve got some leftover Bolognese sauce in the fridge I can heat through, which is a godsend on days like these.

  My phone starts to ring as I’m elbow-deep in the freezer, hoping to find some garlic bread, and I’m happy to switch the radio off before I answer it. I can’t stand Cliff Richard at the best of times, but especially when he’s singing about mistletoe and wine (which I am never, ever touching again, by the way) in the middle of November. Christmas has been encroaching on my life all day, from the weird nostalgia dream to the festive cupcakes in the tearoom at lunchtime and the giant tree I caught a glimpse of as I drove through town on my way home. It isn’t lit yet, but it’s only a matter of days before Woodgate will be glowing with festive cheer.

  ‘Hey, you.’ I check the pasta as I pass before sinking into a chair and semi-collapsing against the table. It’s been a long day and I’m more than ready to crawl into bed.

  ‘Hello, grumpy pants.’ Lily sounds much more upbeat than I feel (which, to be frank, isn’t difficult). ‘Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you – it’s been hectic and we haven’t even finished rehearsals yet. I’ve only been able to switch my phone on because Emily was desperate for a cig break.’ I hope Emily is a teacher, not a pupil, but I don’t get the chance to ask as Lily’s on a roll. ‘I don’t know why I ever agreed to direct this bloody musical. I can’t act. I definitely can’t sing. And I’d rather poke my eyes out with a blunt toothpick than read Dickens. I must be mad. Do you think I’m mad? You’re a therapist – what’s your expert opinion?’

  ‘You’re certifiable, but then we’ve known that for years.’ I find myself smiling, despite my grumpy mood, but then Lily has that effect on people.

  ‘That’s true.’ Lily doesn’t sound at all put out by my ‘diagnosis’. ‘Anyway, what’s got you all grouchy? Annabelle playing up again?’

  ‘No, not really.’ I mean, I’m not happy about the school bag dumped in the danger zone of the hallway, and I could really do without the yowling that is supposed to pass for music upstairs, but I can’t blame my daughter for my mood. ‘I’ve been feeling off all day.’

  ‘Hangover from hell? I told you not to drink so much yesterday.’

  ‘First of all, you really did not discourage me from drinking – quite the opposite, in fact. And it isn’t just the hangover. I had this weird dream last night and it’s left me feeling a bit … odd.’

  ‘What kind of dream?’

  ‘You were in it. And Jonas and Aaron. It was the youth club’s Christmas disco, the one where Jonas turned up in the Phantom mask. Do you remember when Aaron insisted on being called Aaron D?’

  Lily splutters with laughter down the line. ‘Oh my God, he did, didn’t he? I’d totally forgotten about that.’

  She’s giggling again, and I can’t help joining in. ‘I’d forgotten too, but it was in my dream.’

  ‘No wonder you feel weird.’

  ‘It wasn’t the Aaron bit that left me feeling odd.’ It’s the double memories thing. Although I know my dream veered off and created an alternative version of events, it felt real. It was so vivid and bright and colourful, and I’ve somehow retained the new version on top of the reality. It’s confusing and strangely alarming.

  ‘So what happened in your dream?’

  ‘Not much.’ I don’t want to tell Lily that I kissed Aaron in the dream. ‘I can’t really remember the details, just that it left me feeling strange.’

  ‘Dreams can do that, but it’ll pass. Get an early night and you’ll wake up feeling much better.’

  I hope so, but there’s still a knot of dread in my stomach. Because it isn’t just the dream that has me feeling freaked out. It’s the photo.

  ‘Do you remember the photos we were looking at last night? The one from the disco?’

  ‘The one where I look like a Lego man?’ Lily’s tone is deadpan. ‘No, I forgot all about that. It hasn’t haunted me all day at all.’

  I ignore the sarcasm. ‘Do you remember who else was in the photo?’

  ‘I wasn’t that drunk, Maisie.’

  ‘Who was in it?’

  I hope she remembers the original photo – the one with Aaron, where I’m grinning like an idiot because of my first kiss.

  ‘You and Jonas.’ Lily speaks slowly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Anybody else? Aaron, maybe?’

  ‘Nope, just the three of us. Me with my ridiculous hair, you with your little plaits, and Jonas with that Phantom mask. Did we ever find out why he was wearing that, by the way?’

  We didn’t, but I don’t get the chance to answer as a hissing and spluttering from the hob alerts me to the fact that my pasta is boiling over. Leaping at the oven, I turn the hob down, hissing myself as I’m splashed with boiling water escaping from the pan.

  ‘Everything okay, sweetie?’

  I’m still holding the phone to my ear as I scuttle to the sink, dunking my hand under the cold tap. ‘I’m having a pasta catastrophe. Gotta go.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night. Take care.’

  Hanging up the phone, I inspect my hand. It seems fine. A bit pink but there’s no real damage. Still, this day seems to be going from bad to worse – and I haven’t even faced my teenage daughter yet.

  SEVEN

  ‘Pasta, again?’ Annabelle emits a half-sigh, half-growl as she plonks herself down at the table. ‘If you look at my DNA, you’ll find I’m ninety per cent fusilli by now.’

  I’d usually take three deep breaths to keep myself calm in situations like these, but I’m secretly impressed by her wit and the pinpointing of the pasta I’ve cooked. At her age, my pasta knowledge started and ended with tins of spaghetti hoops.

  ‘I couldn’t face battling my way around Tesco after work. It’s been a really strange day and I just want to eat, have a bath, and go to sleep.’

  ‘Where’s the garlic bread?’ Annabelle searches the tiny, bistro-style table squeezed into our little kitchen, as though a garlicky baguette will suddenly appear before her. Ah, there you are. Silly me.

  ‘We haven’t got any.’

  Annabelle purses her lips and looks at me, blinking slowly. ‘Why not?’

  I try to calm myself but my shoulders tighten and my nostrils flare. Yes, I am anxious about last night’s dream and its effect on my memories, and my daughter’s ungratefulness is trying my patience, but I am in control. Ta
ke deep breaths, just like you’ve been practising with Lily whenever she feels jittery about the wedding.

  ‘There wasn’t any in the freezer.’

  Annabelle’s brow furrows. ‘Then why didn’t you buy some?’

  I am in control. I am anxious and annoyed, but I will not give in to these feelings. I will remain calm. Deep breaths. Lots of them. I am serene. Unruffled. I am floating on a cloud of tranquillity.

  ‘Mu-um.’ Annabelle slams her hand down on the table and I flinch. The cloud evaporates from beneath me and I plummet back down into my oppressive little kitchen.

  ‘Did you listen to a word I just said?’ Snapping is not constructive. It isn’t part of the calming-down techniques I preach to my clients, but I really can’t help myself. ‘I just told you I couldn’t face a trip to Tesco. That I’m having a rough day. I really don’t need to listen to you moaning about garlic bread. So please, either eat the pasta or don’t.’

  ‘Fine.’ Annabelle pushes the bowl of pasta away with an index finger and folds her arms across her chest. ‘I won’t.’

  Deep breaths, Maisie. The deepest. Fluffy, tranquil clouds. Just think of the lovely bubble bath you’re going to sink into later. My shoulders start to drop and my nostrils return to their normal state. I pick up my fork and start to eat. I’m halfway through my bowl of pasta when Annabelle furtively picks up her own fork. It’s a manoeuvre of four acts: she places her hand down on the table for a moment before sliding it over to cover the handle of the fork. Her fingers slowly furl around the handle, resting for a minute or two before she finally lifts the utensil away from the table. I don’t mention the fork-grab – I don’t say a word at all, in fact – as she starts to nibble a piece of fusilli. She’s on her third piece before I’m brave enough to utter a word.

  ‘How was school?’ It’s a common question. One I try to remember to ask every day, and today I receive the same one-shouldered shrug and ‘It was alright,’ I usually receive in return. Not so long ago, Annabelle would chew my ear off with stories about her day. I used to know every little detail of my daughter’s life, but now she won’t even tell me what she had for lunch.

  My bubble bath isn’t as relaxing as I’d hoped it would be. The tension leaves my shoulders and my headache has finally eased off, but my mind is still abuzz with the dream I had last night. I can’t stop thinking about that night, replaying it over and over again, alternating between the reality and the dream version. I try not to think about kissing Aaron, but the image keeps creeping in, popping up out of synch. I’ll be chatting to Jonas and suddenly my eyes are closing as Aaron’s lips loom towards mine. Shaking my head to remove the image, I focus on Lily and Jonas and their funny quirks – Lily with her Lego-man hair and Jonas and his Phantom mask – and my chest aches with happiness and pride and sorrow. We were so close, the three of us, and the dream has only reinforced how much I miss our friendship. I’ve still got Lily, obviously, and I don’t know what I’d have done without her, but I feel Jonas’s absence every single day. I know Annabelle misses him too, even if she no longer brings him up in conversation. She used to talk about him all the time, but he’s dropped away from her vocabulary as though she’s forgotten he even exists.

  Dragging myself out of the bath, I wrap myself in a towel and head into my bedroom. The plan was to crawl into bed after my bath, but although I’m exhausted, my brain is still fired up by the dream. I decide to be brave and send a text to Jonas – the first in over a year, when I finally got the message and stopped trying to contact him – but I can’t seem to get the tone right.

  Hi Jonas. Long time no text! How are you?

  It sounds awkward and clumsy. Delete.

  I had a funny dream last night. It was the youth club Christmas disco and you were wearing that Phantom mask!

  I haven’t seen the man for two years and I’m going to send this as though nothing has happened? Delete.

  I’m sorry for what I did. I miss you.

  Definitely delete, even if it’s true.

  In the end, I change my mind about texting him and head downstairs, where I find Annabelle parked in front of the television, a tube of Pringles on her lap. She offers me the tube, which I take as an olive branch and delve inside.

  ‘What are you watching?’ Putting two crisps together, I place them in my mouth to create a duck’s beak. Annabelle rolls her eyes and sighs. I am a lame duck, apparently.

  ‘Catfish. The Katy Perry episode. My favourite.’

  Wow, almost three sentences there. That must be a record.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Annabelle sighs heavily and doesn’t even attempt to answer, her eyes firmly fixed on the television. Standard. I take the hint and zip it, crunching carefully on the Pringles to make as little noise as possible. I try to pay attention to the TV programme but start to feel restless after a couple of mind-numbing minutes. Still, I don’t want to move away; this is the most contact I’ve had with my daughter in weeks. We’re almost touching and everything. If I lean over, we’d be shoulder to shoulder. (I don’t lean over. Annabelle would definitely get the hump if I actually made physical contact, and she’d hole herself up in her bedroom again.)

  Leaning across to the coffee table, I grab the photo album that inspired my weird dream and start to flick – quietly – through the snaps. I start at the beginning, with the photo outside our new house. It looks so familiar, it could have happened yesterday. The next photo is the inexplicable shot outside the youth club. I skip past, as it’s too unsettling to look at. I flick the page to the shot of Kurt and me on the picnic blanket.

  ‘Aww, look at Uncle Kurt.’ Annabelle grabs the album and rests it on her own lap, nudging the Pringles tube out of the way. ‘He looks so cute and chubby. How old is he here?’

  I frown as I do the calculations in my head. ‘Ten, I think. Maybe eleven.’

  ‘And there’s Gran and Grandad. They look so young!’ Annabelle bends down to better see the photo on the next page. ‘Where’s Auntie Tina?’ She flicks to the next photo. And the next. They were taken at the caravan park we stayed at during the summer of ’95, and my sister is in neither of them. And when Annabelle flips over to the next set, she’s absent again.

  ‘She must have taken the photos. This was taken in the days before selfie sticks, remember.’ I angle the album so I can get a better look at the next photo. It was taken at Christmas – you can tell by the paper hats we’re all wearing – and all the family is there (apart from camerawoman Tina), plus Lily and Jonas. I’m sitting in between them and Jonas is doing the bunny ears thing behind my head.

  ‘Don’t you have any photos of Auntie Tina?’ Annabelle flicks through the remainder of the album, but it seems my sister is completely absent.

  ‘She must have been camera-shy.’ I shrug and close the album, stifling a yawn. I’m utterly exhausted, and although it’s been wonderful spending these few minutes with my daughter, I’m suddenly desperate to lay my head on my pillow and close my eyes. Maybe tomorrow the fog of the dream will have lifted and I’ll feel more like myself again.

  EIGHT

  There’s music again when I wake, but this time it isn’t East 17 begging me at top volume to stay another day. It’s a much gentler sound. Calming. Soothing. And I feel as light as air as my eyes flutter open, adjusting to the bright light of morning. Except the light is harsher than I’m expecting and I find myself squinting at my surroundings. People. Lots of people. All dressed in grey and black and green. Lots of wooden chairs, one of which I’m sitting on and it’s making my bum numb. I look up, squeezing my eyes shut against the unforgiving strip lighting.

  I am not in my bed.

  I am not in my bedroom.

  I appear to be in a hall. An assembly, it seems, as I’m surrounded by my old classmates and we’re all wearing school uniform. Jonas is by my side, his bottle-green tie loosened so the knot is resting by the second button of his shirt rather than at his throat. His teenage trademark eyeliner and red lipstick are in pl
ace, and his hair is ruffled to bird’s-nest proportions.

  I turn to my other side, expecting to see Lily, but it’s Aaron sitting to my left. I lean over to look beyond him, but there’s another boy sitting there, not Lily. He looks vaguely familiar but a name isn’t forthcoming.

  ‘Jonas.’ I whisper the name, not only because we’re in a packed hall and there seems to be some sort of recital happening on stage, but because it feels alien to be talking to the boy who was once my best friend again. I know everything about him. His first kiss was with Lily, back in primary school and way before I met them, his idol during his teens was Robert Smith from The Cure, and his first love was Jessica Tindall. I know who he lost his virginity to (neither Lily nor Jessica) and I know that he was arrested as a twelve-year-old after a spate of shoplifting (he was given a warning rather than an official caution, but it wasn’t the threat of repercussions that made him stop. It was his mother’s tears during the drive home).

  I know everything about the boy sitting next to me, but his name is clumsy on my tongue and I’m surprised when he smiles at me. It’s an easy smile, wide and carefree, his teeth dazzling against the crimson of his lips. There is nothing clumsy or hesitant about that smile.

  ‘Do you think she’s going to go through with it?’ Jonas’s smile falters as he gazes at the stage at the front of the school hall. There are three rows of pupils standing in the centre of the stage, with Evie Lane standing a pace in front of everyone else. The star of the show as she sings ‘O Holy Night’.

  I’m doing it again, I realise as Evie sings about the night Jesus was born. Dreaming of the past. If I recall correctly, this is the last day of term before the Christmas break, before we returned to sit our mocks in preparation for the real deal a few short months later.

  ‘Maisie?’ Jonas leans in to whisper my name, and I’m jolted away from the upcoming GCSEs (if you can call exams that happened twenty-five years ago ‘upcoming’) and realise he’s just asked me a question.