‘Okay. I’m sorted.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’ve pushed the sofa around so I can see out of the glass doors. It’s snowing again. In the glow of the garden light it’s magical. Whereabouts are you?’
‘I’m also on the sofa, gazing winsomely at where the yellowing wallpaper is starting to sag off the wall.’
‘I have a really cool umbrella.’
‘What?’ Beckett had completely forgotten what they were talking about. He shouldn’t have asked Mary ‘where are you?’ It sounded like something you’d ask on a phone date. If phone dates had become a thing in the twelve years since he’d casually dated. The beer had seemed a good accompaniment to a chat with a friend. Now the drinks and the blanket, the warmth of Mary’s voice, had lit a sparkler in his stomach. The gentle crackle that, if he didn’t hold it carefully, could start a wildfire.
‘I could give Li an umbrella. Although she’d know that brand costs more than the budget, so I’d have to explain where I used to work. If they decided to google me, and I can’t believe those coffee mums wouldn’t, they’d find out who I am.’
‘Is that a problem?’ Beckett couldn’t believe he’d never thought to google her. He’d obviously underestimated the scale of the fashion company.
There was a pause before she replied. Would the internet reveal how she’d ended up in Sherwood Forest? Was Mary a fashion celebrity? Would there be images or articles about Bob’s father?
And in what universe could Beckett think hunting online was better than simply asking her about it?
‘I don’t know. Rosie has one of our bags. It’ll be a big deal to them. People treat me differently when they think I’m some glamorous, swanky fashionista. I’ve always felt uncomfortable with it. Now more than ever, because that person, that life, has gone. I want my new friends to accept me as me, without my past swaying their opinion.’ She sighed. ‘One day, I’ll be ready to share all about it. Not yet.’
Beckett made a silent promise not to search for Mary Whittington online, however tempting.
They carried on talking for another half an hour or so, but Mary was clearly exhausted, and so Beckett made the mature move and insisted they ended the call before it got too late.
He sat for a long time on the sofa once they’d both rung off with a jokey ‘Love you!’
Beckett loved Mary, that was in no doubt.
What shook him to his core was finally admitting to himself he was falling in love with her.
You idiot, he berated himself, finally dragging himself up to bed. This is only going to end badly.
Badly. Or was there the tiniest chance it could be the start of something wonderful?
Either way, he felt helpless to stop it.
22
MARY
It was still snowing when Bob started whimpering at six-thirty on Sunday. Thankfully, after a fretful day he’d only woken once in the night, and this time he settled enough to allow us another couple of hours cuddling in bed before a need for a bathroom trip and a nappy change forced us up. Now fully light, the view out of every window was pure, sparkling white, as far as I could see. I messaged Beckett to say there was no way a car would make it out here, and he replied confirming that he was also snowed in. I settled upon a day of snipping, sewing and strategically adding sequins, with lots of tea and toast, soup and snacks. After my weeks of Christmas-merriment avoidance, I now felt ready for some gentle Christmas songs in the background while I worked. I did skip every track that reminded me of previous years, which meant expanding my repertoire to some very weird and not-so-wonderful festive tunes.
Coffee morning on Monday was also called off, so I spent a second day in solitude. This time, however, having plans that were cancelled, alongside messages asking if I was okay, still had electricity and groceries and plenty of nappies, it felt very different.
The exhaustion felt different these days, too, I realised after waking up from a late-morning nap. For months, I’d been weighed down by a bone-deep listlessness. Once the raw anger and loss had eased, it had been replaced with a numb apathy that would have frightened me, had I the energy to be bothered. Now, while my body was so tired some days it felt like lugging around a bag of wet sand, it was a product of sleep deprivation, as well as, I assumed, recovery from pregnancy. For the first time since spring, I wanted to do things. I had purpose, and motivation, to force my jellied muscles up and about. I’d had days during the summer when I’d wondered if I’d ever feel joy, or hope, or anything much at all, ever again.
Now, I reflected while stitching toadstools onto green felt knickerbockers, my emotions ending their hibernation meant that I had moments when I felt the pain of everything I’d lost so keenly it took my breath away. Yet I accepted it, because I now knew this was the only way to also experience the contentment of a cosy afternoon watching a blackbird hopping through the drifts in my garden, a needle and thread in my hand, my heart-stoppingly beautiful son cooing in his bouncy chair beside me. Allowing my brain to process another chunk of the rage and resentment also made room for the glimmer of anticipation at how perfect the angel wings I’d constructed out of layer upon layer of glittery netting would look under the spotlights.
It was hard, when the hurt reared up out of nowhere and impaled me through the chest (it wasn’t out of nowhere, it was the first three notes to ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’ before I had time to grab my phone and click skip). Yet it was bearable, because I could send a quick message to my friend, with a photo of the almost finished Shrek Santa waistcoat, or the massive piece of cheesecake I was about to eat, or Bob’s smile when I tickled his tummy.
Monday lunchtime, when I had suddenly begun to cry, thinking about Shay’s family, and wondering whether they’d have the Christmas Eve party without me, Sofia sent a photo of the snowmen her kids had made, ranging from a six-inch-high blob with one stick poking out of its head to a near-perfect replica of Jon Bon Jovi.
I was learning about being physically alone – devoid of adult company, at least – and yet not lonely.
I was starting to realise I would be okay.
Later that afternoon, before darkness fell, I bundled Bob into the papoose and went to investigate outside. The sun had made steady work on the snow, the patches on the lane now interspersed with puddles. I sent yet another photo to Beckett, with a big thumbs up, and spent the evening preparing for a day with Gramps tomorrow.
