Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin Read online

  ‘Yes, she’s fine. She and Mark are thinking of the Caribbean for their next holiday.’

  He winces. ‘Currency rate is appalling at the minute. And that’s a fourteen-hour flight.’

  I glance at his handsome profile as he concentrates on the screen. I can’t imagine either of these factors putting Erin off her dream of lounging under a palm tree, with Mark on hand to rub in the sun cream. Or me, for that matter. The furthest Harrison and I have been is Bournemouth. He says it’s because there are so many places we’ve yet to discover at home, here in the UK, and I do think he’s got a point. But I suspect it’s also an excuse because boarding a plane might bring on one of his anxiety attacks. (He gets twitchy when his feet aren’t safely on terra firma.)

  I’m very proud of Harrison. He has lovely wavy blond hair that makes him look a bit like an artist and he’s the most super-logical, intelligent person I’ve ever met. The thick-rimmed glasses he wears would look geeky on some men, but on Harrison, they look quite sexy. He’s also caring and very responsible – the sort of person who doesn’t take chances. He actually sits down and reads the terms and conditions, instead of flicking over them and assuming everything’s in order.

  ‘So, as I was saying before Erin arrived, if you were to transfer your savings into this high-interest account, I think you’d be onto a winner.’

  Turning, he catches me stifling a yawn and smiles. ‘You don’t really care, do you?’

  I grin at him. ‘Yes, I do. Honestly! But you’re so much better at this stuff than I am, so I suppose I just rely on you to tell me what’s best.’

  He shrugs and runs a hand through his blond waves. ‘Well, what I think is best …’ He reaches an arm around my waist and drops a kiss on my neck. ‘Come on, wriggle closer,’ he murmurs.

  I smile and hitch along the sofa, snuggling up to him. Perhaps we’ll forget about numbers for a while – a very long while.

  ‘That’s better,’ he says, tapping my back and returning to the laptop. ‘You can see the screen properly now. Now, high-interest savings.’ He rubs his hands together then peers eagerly at the screen. I study him affectionately, like a mum watching her kid tear the wrapping off a Christmas present.

  ‘Unless –’ He turns with a sexy glint in his eye and my spirits rise. ‘What do you say to throwing caution completely to the wind?’

  ‘I’m all for that,’ I murmur, running my hand along his thigh. I wonder what he has in mind? Sex on a week night, perhaps?

  He pats my knee and gives me a cheerful wink. ‘Brilliant. We’ll go for investment funds, then, shall we? Let’s live dangerously.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  After a while, my mind starts to wander.

  I keep thinking about Erin planning her romantic night with Mark. Perhaps I should do something similar. Harrison always says sex is best left for weekends when he’s got more energy, but I’m sure I can persuade him that a little mid-week spontaneity would be nice.

  I spring up off the sofa.

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  I wink at him. ‘Wait and see.’

  Upstairs, I rummage in my underwear drawer and find my one pair of black stockings. I’m out of practise so it takes me the best part of fifteen minutes to get them on smooth and straight. But when I wriggle into the close-fitting little red dress I bought to wear at Harrison’s work do last Christmas, I’m feeling really quite sexy. Adjusting my hair, I allow some dark tendrils to fall down, framing my face. A slick of scarlet lipstick and an extra coat of mascara and I’m ready for anything!

  I navigate the carpeted stairs carefully in my black patent high heels and strike a pose in the living-room doorway. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘About what, Puss?’ Harrison is focusing hard on the screen.

  ‘About this dress you chose for me last Christmas?’ I experiment with a sexy pout in profile.

  ‘Hm?’ he murmurs, still not looking up.

  I sigh, feeling a bit of an idiot standing there in my best harlot outfit, knowing I come a poor second to a graphic of the FTSE 100.

  ‘Harrison!’

  He glances up at the urgency in my tone. His face relaxes and breaks into a smile. ‘Very nice. What’s the occasion, Puss?’ He pats the seat next to him.

  I wince slightly at the pet name, which has only recently come into being, but I’m heartened by his positive response.

  ‘No occasion.’ I smile enigmatically and sit down next to him, crossing my legs artfully to reveal just a glimpse of stocking top. ‘I’m not at the restaurant tonight, so I thought we could – erm – celebrate.’

  ‘Oh? And what did you have in mind?’ He slides his hand up my thigh and waggles his eyebrows suggestively, which for some reason makes me think of Groucho Marx. I shake the image from my head and lean over to kiss him – just as he turns to glance at his watch, which means my mouth totally misses the target.

  ‘The news is on in a minute,’ he says cheerfully. ‘How about we watch that then nip along the road for a takeaway?’ Clocking my lack of enthusiasm, he tucks a loose tendril of hair behind my ears and says, ‘Keep that lot on, though. You’re looking very sexy, Puss!’

  Sighing, I teeter back upstairs and slip into jeans and a jumper. I don’t really mind. It’ll be another night of falling asleep in front of the telly, but there’s something really cosy and intimate about that, isn’t there? I’m so lucky to have someone like Harrison in my life.

  Chapter 2

  ‘What do you think?’ asks Mum, holding out a plastic lemon-squeezer with the sort of feverish excitement she once reserved for Def Leppard concerts.

  ‘It’s a plastic lemon-squeezer, Mum.’

  She doesn’t hear me. She’s too busy dropping it in her trolley along with a bright-green loofah in the shape of the Incredible Hulk and a set of labels for jam-making – ooh, where’s she off to now? Ah, yes, of course, the washing-up liquid.

  I stand there, experiencing a horrible panicky sensation like I always do with Mum, as if my insides are slowly deflating. I wonder if things will ever change. I really should be helping her heft that bargain box of twenty-four ‘Skweezee’ bottles into her trolley but I can’t seem to summon up the energy.

  ‘Right, that should do,’ she says, avoiding my eye.

  I can’t help it. I have to say it. ‘You never make jam, Mum, so why the labels?’

  ‘They’re marked down. And you should never say never!’ She smiles triumphantly and trundles off towards the checkout. My heart gives a painful little squeeze. Mum used to be so vibrant and self-assured when she worked at the hospital. She had an easy way with the staff – firm but always fair seemed to be the general opinion of her. And with her pale-golden hair pushed back in a quirky knot, she managed to be stylish, too – not always easy when you’re wearing scrubs. I remember being so proud of her.

  Now, the hair that straggles down her back contains a lot more grey strands than golden, but she refuses point-blank to let me organise for a mobile hairdresser to call round and give her a trim.

  Back at hers, we lug the spoils out of the boot and I brace myself to face the house. I should be used to it by now, but the impulse to escape is just as strong as ever. When I finally moved out, three years ago, into a little flat of my own nearby, the relief (and the guilt) was enormous.

  She unlocks the door and pushes it open to its full extent and we squeeze through the small gap. Manoeuvring the gigantic load of washing-up liquid, I accidentally knock against the hall table and the tower of boxes perched on top tumbles off, spilling their contents everywhere. (A mish-mash of car-boot sale tat, by the looks of things.)

  Mum turns and gives me a frosty look. ‘Tidy that up, will you, dear?’ She pushes on into what used to be the living room but is now just an extension of the chaos in the hallway: boxes and objects piled high, and towers of newspapers everywhere, most of them unread. She has two newspapers delivered every day – one national and one local – and I’m never allowed to throw them out. I used to tr
y sneaking a few old papers in my bag to dispose of at home, but she’s no fool, my mum. She’s got eyes in the back of her head. So now I’ve given up. It’s not worth the bitterness and the hurt silences.

  ‘Pot noodle?’ she shouts from the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘I brought some sandwiches,’ I call back, stacking the load of washing-up liquid bottles on top of an identical monster family-pack, bought the last time we were in the shop seven days ago. ‘Ham salad. Your favourite.’

  ‘Oh, lovely. Bring them through.’

  We eat squashed together on a two-seater sofa, an ancient standard lamp with a fringed green shade towering over us on one side. On the other, a chest of drawers is bumped right up to the sofa, and a laundry basket sits on top, containing a tangle of old electrical leads and dozens of paperback books. Perched at a jaunty angle on this pile, looking sad and slightly cross-eyed, is the largest of Mum’s stuffed parrots. This one – a hideous blue, green and pink thing – is sitting in a cage.

  Mum has a thing for exotic birds. She says they make her happy. If it weren’t for the man-made chaos in here, you might think she was aiming for a ‘tropical rainforest’ feel to her décor, in that wherever you are in the house – even sitting on the loo – you’re practically guaranteed a sighting of a stuffed parrot.

  Mum tucks into the sandwiches with gusto. I’m sure when I’m not there she lives on tea and biscuits and microwave meals. And pot noodles. The oven finally disappeared under piles of junk about two years ago, so now only the kettle and microwave are fully functional. The fridge gave up the ghost about the same time and hasn’t been fixed because Mum refuses to have visitors to the house, apart from me (and that’s only on the unspoken understanding that I won’t criticise her living arrangements) so I try to bring a healthy food parcel every time I visit.

  ‘How did you get that bruise?’ I ask, and she glances at a big purple mark on her arm.

  ‘Oh, that.’ She shakes her head dismissively and pulls her sleeve right down. ‘I was climbing over a pile of bedding and my foot got caught in a duvet, that’s all.’

  ‘God, Mum, you have to be careful,’ I murmur. ‘Anything could happen.’

  It’s actually my worst nightmare. That Mum’s hoarding might end up being the death of her. That, one day, a pile of boxes will tumble on top of her, or worse, that she might accidentally start a fire that will blaze all the more fiercely as it devours her monstrous, ceiling-high towers of newspapers and medical journals. What if she can’t get out of the building fast enough?

  But she’s immediately on the defensive. ‘Oh, rubbish. The place might seem a bit untidy to you but I’m the one who lives here. I’m used to it.’

  ‘Yes, but all these newspapers? It’s a fire hazard, Mum. And what if a pile of boxes falls on you and you injure yourself and I’m not here to help?’

  She laughs and pats my hand. ‘Honestly, Poppy, you can be so melodramatic at times. I’m absolutely fine. Now, let’s have some tea. And you can tell me all about your new job.’

  ‘I haven’t got it yet, Mum.’

  ‘When do you find out?’

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘Well, they’d be stupid not to make you restaurant manager. You know the place inside out.’ She takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘Who else would do such a good job?’

  I smile at her, surprised to find my throat tightening with emotion. Mum’s default mode is generally prickly and defensive these days. She’s rarely so openly affectionate. ‘I hope you’re right, Mum.’

  She smiles. ‘Of course I’m right. You’ve given everything to that place. It’s only what you deserve.’ She sets off on a winding assault course to find the kettle, weaving around wobbly landmarks and walking over a rustle of newspapers that haven’t yet migrated to one of the towers against the wall.

  I stare around me, taking in the full extent of the nightmare. I try not to look, usually, because what tends to happen is, I start noticing things that surely even Mum wouldn’t be sad parting with. (Most of it is useless tat, to my eyes anyway, but stuff like the growing stack of washed-out tin cans she’s keeping ‘just in case they come in handy’? I mean, really? So then I’ll start hinting about possibly disposing of them to make space for other things, at which point a heart-twisting mix of seething anger and tearful vulnerability will appear on Mum’s face, and I’ll know to stop because I’ve gone too far. Then I drive home feeling sad, guilty and utterly frustrated because I’ve racked my brains and I really don’t know what to do to help her.

  The one time I gently suggested she might want to speak to someone about her collecting (I wouldn’t dare call it hoarding), she stormed away into the bathroom – the only room with an operational door to slam – then wouldn’t take my phone calls for a week. She apologised eventually but I haven’t dared be so direct with her since.

  Mum was a doctor specialising in cardiology before she and Martin divorced and she went to pieces.

  The only hearts she’s interested in these days are the cheap, ornamental kind with cute slogans on them.

  Harrison and Mum tend to give each other a wide berth these days. He and I had a shouting match over Mum – the only heated argument we’ve ever had – when he said wasn’t it time I took the situation in hand and cleared out all the clutter myself instead of letting her fester her days away in such a hell-hole? I couldn’t make him understand that Mum has always had a will of iron and that if she digs her heels in over something, there is no one on this earth – not even me (especially not me) – who can shift her.

  She was pregnant with me when she started her medical degree, and it’s a mark of her steely determination that she gave birth during the Easter holidays and was back at uni along with all her classmates when the new term began. Despite baby me keeping her up at night, she still managed to pass her exams that first year with flying colours.

  I don’t know how she did it without any help and precious little sleep. I always imagine her sitting in a little pool of light at the kitchen table, poring over her medical books at some deathly hour of the night, flicking the pages over with one hand while managing to soothe and feed me at the same time. Having a tiny baby to take care of was never going to stop Donna Patterson, as she was then, in her quest to become a doctor.

  When I was one, Mum fell in love with Martin Ainsworth, her next-door neighbour. At least, I think she loved him. She must have, in the beginning. But I can only really remember the rows.

  Until I was twelve, I assumed he was my dad because neither he nor Mum ever told me any different. I couldn’t understand why we didn’t have the close sort of relationship my friends had with their dads. I was desperate for his approval but I never quite managed to please him and I thought it was because I wasn’t bright enough or funny enough or well behaved enough. There were times when I almost managed to convince myself that it was just the type of person he was – always harshly critical of everyone – because he was like that a lot of the time with Mum, too. She could never do anything right, either.

  But deep down, I always knew it was my fault he didn’t love me enough.

  When I found out – at the age of twelve – that he wasn’t actually my biological dad, a lot of things that puzzled me about him finally made sense. I wasn’t his real daughter and he must have resented me being there, particularly because I ate up so much of Mum’s time and love.

  Mum fell to pieces after he left and they divorced, which surprised me. I thought she’d much prefer the peace that reigned in the house once he’d gone. I certainly did. When Martin was there, it sometimes felt like we were inhabiting a war zone, never quite certain from one moment to the next what was about to rain down on our heads. Not literally. Martin was never physically abusive. But emotional abuse, I discovered, can feel just as wounding.

  When he’d gone and it was just Mum and me, I could finally relax.

  It was alien to me at first. I marvelled at the peace, picturing the inside of my head as smooth and silky soft, like th
e new lilac throw on my bed, instead of the jumble of painful chaos it contained when Martin lived with us.

  Being older now, and having had time to reflect, I can see that he struggled right from the start, bringing up another man’s child. He was a jealous sort of person anyway, and I was a constant reminder to him of Mum’s first love. It was never going to be a solid basis for a harmonious family life.

  That Christmas when I turned twelve, Martin was working away and I met my real dad, although I didn’t realise at the time that this was who he was.

  Christmas that year was wonderful.

  No arguments. No stern expectations. No worrying that I was doing things wrong and would upset Martin and ruin Christmas. We just had a fun time, me and Alessandro, doing lots of silly and exciting festive things. Mum said she was pleased I had a good time but she hung back from joining in. I have a clear memory of her standing with her arms folded in the doorway, biting her lower lip, watching as Alessandro and I hammed it up in the kitchen, singing along to Slade as we cooked Christmas dinner together.

  Even now, looking back, I get a lump in my throat, remembering how hopeful and excited I was to discover that this fun-loving, kind, affectionate man was actually my real dad. This was how my life was supposed to be. This was how it would be from now on! Of course, he had to return to Italy because that was where he lived. But he would come back to see me, I was certain of that.

  I don’t think Mum was planning on telling me he was my biological dad. When he came that Christmas, she introduced him as a friend from university, but after he’d gone, I kept badgering her about him, asking lots of questions. Even at that young age, I could feel the tension between them and sensed there was something more to their relationship than just friends.

  I was also puzzled by the feeling that I’d met Alessandro once before. When Mum introduced him, I thought I recognised his face, although I couldn’t for the life of me remember where I’d seen him. When I mentioned this to Mum later, she said I couldn’t possibly have met him before because he lived in Italy; he must just remind me of someone because that sometimes happened. It still nagged at me, though.