‘No,’ said Sofia firmly. ‘He does. Doesn’t he?’
‘Well, call him Tom then,’ said Carmen.
‘I’m not calling him Tomato d’Angelo,’ said Sofia. ‘Mind you … ’
They were still amicably bickering as the nurse came to shoo them all out and make way for the wan-faced women lumbering up and down the corridor, waiting for their own babies as the day shift arrived and new life appeared in the world, and everyone acted as if this was perfectly normal.
‘Goodness,’ said Carmen, yawning as her father drove them back to the house. ‘I am going to be terrible at work today.’
‘Auntie Carmen, you’re not going to work today!’ announced Pippa. ‘You have to come to our school concert because Mummy can’t.’
‘Well, we can come to that,’ said their grandmother. ‘Once Sofia’s settled.’
‘But we want Auntie Carmen to come,’ said Phoebe in a small voice.
Irene looked at her younger daughter, and for a moment couldn’t speak. She squeezed her arm instead.
‘Oh, I’ll phone Mr McCredie,’ said Carmen. ‘He can do without me for a half day. I think I’ve got everything pretty much set up.’
Mr McCredie didn’t know what hit him when he woke up with a hangover and had to open the shop entirely by himself. A week to Christmas and there was a steady stream of punters from the very instant he opened the door while fiddling with his coffee cup.
Everything – the Paddington pop-up book, the skiing anthology – all went as the final shopping day loomed and people started to get anxious. He received several offers on the train set, each of which made him lapse into gloom, which customers often took for silence as if he was mulling it over, and generally they upped their offers to no avail.
He was quiet, but thoughtful. Carmen’s reaction to his news – sympathy, coupled with amazement that anyone could still worry about it in this day and age – had struck home.
He had been so terrified of letting people know, letting them in after the cruelty he had grown up with at home and at school. The shame, the shame of decades, which had dogged him through relationships, through the death of his parents. His mother had said nothing, ever; left nothing. He had been nothing but a crashing disappointment to his father. The world of books, vast landscapes to play in and hide in, had become his home, and he had hidden in here until almost everything – years, money, life – had gone.
But now, as he saw the happy faces, as his fingers flew while wrapping up brown paper packages with string for excited children and other cheerful customers, and observing the excited tourists taking photographs of the window, he wondered why he had turned away from this for so long.
Carmen had phoned in a gush, so happy that her sister had had her baby and that she now had to take care of the children that day, apologising profusely, and her happiness had bubbled over the telephone. She definitely made him feel more cheerful when she was around.
And they would have a good Christmas. The shop had never made so much money. So. Someone probably would want the business.
He would sell the house. And buy somewhere small, he supposed, as retired people do. One bedroom. Maybe a new flat with triple glazing so it was always warm, somewhere out in the suburbs where there were no steps to get everywhere so he wouldn’t risk tripping on the ice. Maybe two bedrooms, one for him and one for his books. Just him. On his own.
‘Are you all right?’ said the nice lady who was watching him slow down and stop wrappingThe Snow Queen, which was annoying as it was her last bit of shopping and she was very much looking forward to sitting down and having a coffee at the café Dahlia worked at and if he didn’t hurry up it would be eleven o’clock and full of people who had planned to meet there then and she’d miss it and wouldn’t get a seat.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr McCredie absently. ‘Merry Christmas.’
The woman stopped short on her way out as a handsome, recognisable man held the door open for her. Oh no! How she regretted rushing to make her pre-11 a.m. deadline. She considered pretending she’d forgotten something but the shop was not large and Blair Pfenning –Blair Pfenning!– was holding the door for her.
‘I’ll just sign the rest of the stock,’ he said loudly to Mr McCredie, who nodded gratefully.
In behind him slipped Oke, head down. It was the last time, he’d decided. He was fed up with making a fool of himself. It was ridiculous. She didn’t want him. He was going home.
He had just thought … maybe one last time. Before he caught his flight. Just to say goodbye. To somehow explain, in a way that did not come easily to him, that he did not usually travel expecting to meet people; quite the opposite, in fact.
But he had liked meeting her. Very much.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Where’s Carmen?’ He peered through the back.
‘She’s not here,’ said Mr McCredie, about to explain, direct him the right way, but his head was pounding, and he felt very sick.
‘So, yeah, these should do you,’ interrupted Blair, brandishing a pile. He’d really also come to see Carmen, and was annoyed she wasn’t there. Whatever. There were plenty of women who were very happy to have him. He wasn’t going to let her hurt his ego, just because she made him laugh.
‘God, I can’t believe I made it down. Bit of an exhausting night, know what I mean, lads?’
Blair could not have found two less laddish people to attempt having laddish banter with. Both men stared at him suspiciously.
