Chapter One
To Haf Hughes, the best things about Christmas, in ascending order, are: all-you-can-eat mince pies, novelty jumpers, the fact you have a licence to be permanently too full and slightly pissed for the duration, and, most importantly, that there’s no need to be a functioning person.
Which is why, while on the phone to her parents, she stumbles over the words, ‘What do you mean you’re going on holiday for Christmas?’
She hadn’t even meant to ring them. The last few days at work had been so hectic that she barely felt awake. She’d finally crawled out of bed sometime around lunch, which had been happening more and more, and flopped down on the couch to watchGilmore Girlsfor the tenth time. The only sense of time passing had been Netflix kindly asking if she was still watching. Twice. It was only as the season was nearing its regular Christmas episode that Haf had thought she could do the tiniest bit of life admin and ask her parents what train she should book home next week.
But in her half-asleep state, she’d hit the button to start a video call, and her mum had answered in record timing. Which had been, of course, completely typical because Haf was not looking the best version of herself. She’s pretty sure that her mum recoiled when Haf appeared on screen, deep dark bags under her eyes, sallow skin and a hoodie barely hiding her dirty hair.
‘Don’t you remember, darling? I’m sure I told you.’
God, a functioning memory. Haf can’t remember ever having one of those.
‘I don’t know,’ she mumbles.
Her mum basks in the golden light of the nook – a room that was once Haf’s bedroom but now has an admittedly very comfortable sofa bed, a small TV and lots of knitting supplies. In contrast, Haf’s basically in the dark with the living-room curtains half-heartedly slung open, and only the wintry glow ofGilmore Girlsproviding any light.
‘We just thought it would be a nice change. The travel agent in the village – you remember Emma? – she found a really nice hotel in Madeira, and we’re going to spend Christmas Day on the beach. Flying out on Christmas Eve. All-inclusive, two weeks, just us two and the sun. We’re so excited!’
‘Just . . . you two?’
‘Yes, just the two of us, darling. We’ve not had a Christmas just the two of us since before you were born. Youdoremember us talking about this, don’t you?’
Haf mentally runs through the last few months – a blur of slogging away at work and staying late with the occasional half-paid-attention-to conversation with her parents, usually done while she was seeing to other essential life processes like eating or paying bills or – just that one time – while on the loo.
She comes up completely blank.
‘Not really, Mum,’ she admits. ‘Things have been a little hectic.’
‘Well, yes, I expect so with all your hard work and everything, but that’s why we didn’t think you’d be coming home. You’ve beensobusy, and obviously we’re very proud. We did tell you though. Didn’t we, David?’
Half of her dad’s face appears on screen. No matter how many tech demonstrations she’s done in the past, her parents havenever quite managed to position the camera so she can see both of them.
‘We did, Mari. It was when we called you in October, when you wanted to know what a pension was.’
Shit. Haf must have forgotten, or not listened properly to start with. You think you’d remember something as important as Christmas plans, but Haf has forgotten all sorts of things over the last few months.
Both her parents, or the parts of their faces she can see, look a bit worried, so she picks the best option in front of her.
‘Oh, yeah! Of course you did,’ she says, her voice light with fake laughter. ‘Silly old me. Brain’s not plugged in today.’
‘It’s tired from all that thinking you’ve been doing.’ Mum beams.
‘We’re really proud of you for working so hard the last few months.’
They didn’t know the half of it.
‘Thanks, guys.’
‘I hope you’re doing something nice too?’ asks Dad.
Nothing as nice as a two-week all-inclusive,she thinks, trying and failing to not be bitter as orange pith.
‘York is so lovely at Christmas, isn’t it?’ Mum says, though it’s more a statement than an actual question.
‘Well, yeah. Snowy. Lots of people doing their big Christmas-pressie shops. All the pubs have mulled wine on the go...’
A swirl of panic flickers in her stomach, but Haf ignores it and tries to focus on the pretence that she’s not a total fuck-up.
