A creak sounded overhead, and Beatrice stiffened. Putting a finger to her lips, she shook her head, uncurled her legs and padded upstairs to check on the children, worried that Sadie had woken, but both girls were sound asleep.
Beatrice envied them. She had a feeling it would be a long time beforesheslept peacefully again.
The aroma of his mother’s famous mulled wine permeated the house, filling Mark’s nostrils with the scent of cloves and cinnamon. It was the epitome of Christmas, yet Mark couldn’t remember a Christmas where he felt less festive. Today was Christmas Eve, but to him, it could have been any random Wednesday.
‘I hope you’re not going to mope around like a wet weekend, like you did yesterday,’ his mother said. ‘You’ve got a face that would turn milk sour.’
‘I can’t help the way my face looks.’
‘Nonsense! Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to guess?’
‘There’s nothing wrong.’ He dropped into a chair, wishing he’d gone to Bristol for Christmas. At least there he could be alone with his misery.
‘Are you ill?’
‘No, I’m fine.’ Did being heartsick count as being ill?
‘Are you having financial troubles? Because if you are, your father and I can help you out.’
‘My finances are fine. But thank you anyway.’
‘Problems with your book, your publisher, your Muse?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
‘Why ask?’
‘I wanted to be sure. What’s her name?’
Mark tensed, then gave a small shake of his head and stared at the tinsel draped around the guilt-framed mirror above the fireplace.
‘Have you fallen out, or is it unrequited love?’ his mother persisted.
‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’
‘I doubt it.’ She opened her mouth to say something else but the shrill ring of the telephone in the hall interrupted her, and she bustled off to answer it.
Glad of the reprieve, Mark slumped back into the cushions and closed his eyes, the thought of trying to be jolly for the next few days filling him with dread.
His mother came back into the sitting room. ‘It’s for you.’
‘What is?’
‘The phone.’
‘It can’t be.’
‘It is, if your name is Mark Stafford.’ She gave him an arch look.
‘Who is it?’
‘Do I look like your secretary?’ she demanded, then relented as he heaved himself out of his chair. ‘She says she’s your agent, Angela somebody-or-other. I didn’t catch the surname.’
‘Angela? Why is she calling mehere?’
His mother tutted. ‘Don’t ask me – askher.’
