She heard Wilson suck in his breath. ‘So the two of you decided to stay in London?’
‘No, just me. Jack’s in Whitfield because, y’know, we’re not …’ At the last moment, she couldn’t get the words out because it seemed so desperate, so obvious, and that wasn’t why she was calling him. Well, Hope had thought it wasn’t. ‘Listen, I wanted to thank you for the CDs, and guess what? I put them on my iPod. It was so easy!’
‘I did tell you that,’ Wilson said, but he sounded distracted as if this wasn’t the conversation that he wanted to have.
‘And I climbed up a ladder to change a lightbulb,’ Hope told him, and finally it was all right to be unbearably smug about that major achievement. ‘It took me about half an hour and most of that was spent imagining myself falling off and breaking every bone in my body, but still …’
‘Oh God, I expect you to be running the world by the end of the week,’ Wilson drawled, and even the gaggle of teenage girls surreptitiously swigging from a bottle of cider and shrieking at the back of the bus couldn’t dent Hope’s good mood, or stop her stomach curling in on itself when his voice got all low and drawly like that. ‘Are you disgustingly proud of yourself?’
‘I am. I even went back up the ladder just for kicks.’
‘Course you did – but can we skip back to the part where you’re in London and he’s not? Anything significant about the fact that you’re not spending Christmas together? Like, you’re still broken up?’ Wilson asked, and he made it sound like just an idle enquiry but Hope was sure that she could hear the catch in his voice.
Talk about leading questions. ‘Well, we sort of got back together,’ Hope admitted. ‘And then we broke up again.’
‘Again?’ Wilson didn’t seem that impressed with her statement, and Hope wondered if she’d been getting ahead of herself, if it had been arrogant to think that Wilson might be interested in her news. ‘I can’t keep track, Hope. You’re always breaking up, then getting back together for the sake of the house plants and the fact that you’ve been together for decades.’
‘Well, for starters, we don’t have any house plants, and also thirteen years hardly counts as decades and … and … this time it’s for good.’ Hope lowered her voice as she realised the couple sitting behind her were now leaning forward so they could eavesdrop more effectively on her conversation. ‘This time it’s different because, well, I was the one who broke us up, and it’s over. It’s so over. No regrets. No going back. It’s the best thing for both of us,’ Hope said, and it didn’t matter how many times she said it, it was still difficult to say, and it still made her throat ache as the words squeezed their way out. ‘So, Jack drew the short straw and had to go back home for Christmas while I stay here.’
Wilson let out a long, low whistle. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Up and down,’ Hope said truthfully. ‘I’ve been through every emotion it’s possible to go through in the last forty-eight hours, but I absolutely know it was the best thing to do – and I think, deep down, he does too.’
‘You’re not spending Christmas Day on your own, are you? ‘Cause you’re welcome to come round to my sister’s. She’s got enough food in to feed the five thousand and still have leftovers to last until New Year’s Day,’ Wilson said.
‘Alice from next door has invited me round for Christmas lunch,’ Hope replied, and she tried to sound as if she was fine with that, though she’d heard Alice and Robert through the party wall having many tense conversations about everything from their free-range organic turkey to just what Alice intended to say to Robert’s mother if she went off on one about Alice’s stuffing. ‘Should be fun.’
‘You know what else might be fun?’ Wilson asked, and Hope was sure that it wasn’t just her imagination and that he was drawling again.
‘What would that be?’
‘If we got together later in the evening. I mean, I could come to yours, if you wanted.’
It was too soon for Wilson to be asking Hope stuff like that in the same purry voice he’d used when he was bringing her off. And far, far too soon to come round to the flat she jointly owned with Jack if there was an outside chance that there might be a repeat performance.
‘Or I could come round to yours?’ Hope heard herself suggest. ‘If you wanted.’
‘Oh, I want,’ Wilson said, and Hope felt as if every millimetre of her skin was blushing. ‘Say, around eight? Shall I come and pick you up?’
‘No, I can walk, though getting home might be a problem, unless I want to pay about a gazillion quid for a taxi.’ Everything Hope said seemed to indicate that she was primed and good to go.
Wilson obviously thought so. ‘You’d better bring your toothbrush just in case, then.’
Hope thought he might mention the possibility of one of them sleeping on the sofa, but he didn’t, and before she could broach the topic herself, he said, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Enjoy the elderflower vodka.’
He rung off and Hope turned round to glare at the couple behind her, who were so up in her phone call that she was almost wearing them as earrings; then she folded her arms and tried to look prim and slightly despondent, as was appropriate for a woman who’d recently come out of a longstanding relationship.
It would have been more convincing if she could only wipe the sappy smile off her face.
IT WAS THE oddest Christmas Day Hope had ever experienced. It was also the first one she’d ever started with a hangover, which would never have happened on her mother’s watch.
When Elaine had opened her front door to see Hope standing there with two bottles of Cava, a huge bag of tortilla chips and a brave smile, she’d looked rather put out. ‘But what on earth are you doing here, Hopey?’ she’d demanded. ‘You’re meant to be up North. And where’s Jack?’
Though she could have sworn that she’d been fine, Hope’s face had collapsed in on itself, and Elaine had let her cry all over her very expensive Vivienne Westwood Anglomania dress, and had insisted that she didn’t have to have any elderflower vodka, but unearthed a bottle of Stolichnaya and proceeded to get Hope good and drunk.
Little Sorcha’s mum, Polly, had arrived just in time to back Elaine up when she’d tried in vain to tell Hope that she’d be fine on her own and that it would be the making of her. Hope hadn’t been convinced, but at least Polly hadn’t begun drinking yet and had neatened up the ends of Hope’s crooked bob. After that it had all been a bit of a blur; Hope knew that she’d cheered up because she distinctly remembered Singstar being switched on and singing ‘The Winner Takes it All’ with Marta, and talking about breeding poodles with the drummer of a minor indie band who’d been recording their second album in Simon’s studio, but apart from that she wasn’t even sure how she’d got home.
Still, it was nice to come to at her own pace, without her mother pounding on her bedroom door at five-minute intervals to make sure she was ready to go to church. It was even nicer not to have to go to church, or try to explain to her mother that she was an apathetic agnostic.
At a very civilised one o’clock, Hope hopped over the garden wall with yet more bottles of Cava and huge chocolate Santas for Lottie and Nancy, who were appalled that she’d broken up with Jack, but had obviously been told not to mention it by Alice. Still, they made up for it by shooting Hope evil looks every time she caught their eye.
Apart from that, it was actually rather lovely to be a guest and not a beleaguered daughter who was only good enough to peel potatoes and de-vein prawns. Hope offered to help, but Alice asked her, through gritted teeth, to entertain her mother-in-law. Hope was expecting a battle-axe with a blue rinse, but instead Sophia was a dyed-in-the-wool leftie who’d marched at Aldermaston, camped out at Greenham Common, and had recently been kettled in Whitehall. They spent a pleasant hour drinking Cava with pomegranate juice and getting very angry about education cuts, library cuts, NHS cuts, and any other cuts they could think of.
Soon it was time to sit down for Christmas dinner, and it seemed that every fa
mily groaned at the jokes in the crackers and insisted that everyone wore their paper hats, and were more interested in eating the stuffing and the pigs-in-blankets than the actual turkey. Normally Hope loved Christmas dinner, she even loved Brussels sprouts, but she was too churned up to eat. It wasn’t just about Jack or her hangover, but also a lot to do with seeing Wilson in a few short hours, with toothbrush, which could only mean one thing. It was a thing that terrified and thrilled Hope in equal measure. Not that it was a thing that she could actively participate in, because it would be wrong and tacky when she and Jack had only just split up. But just the thought of the thing was enough to have her toes curling in her shoes, because having sex with only one person, for the entirety of your adult life, made the mere thought of a thing with someone else a little bit frightening.
‘You’ve barely touched your sticky toffee pudding,’ Hope heard Alice exclaim, as Lottie muttered to Nancy, ‘She doesn’t even deserve any pudding after what she did to Jack.’
Hope pushed her bowl away with a rueful smile. ‘Sorry, I’m absolutely stuffed from your roast potatoes,’ she said, even though she’d only been able to manage one, with was five less than she usually shovelled into her mouth. ‘Shall I make a start on loading the dishwasher?’
‘You will not,’ Sophia said with great force. ‘You’re a guest in this house and, anyway, it doesn’t take long to load a dishwasher. Not like doing the washing-up, which wastes far less water.’
It was another two hours and a viewing of It’s a Wonderful Life before Hope was allowed to leave, after she promised that she’d take half the turkey and a completely intact chocolate yule log with her.
It was six o’clock by the time she was safely back on her side of the garden wall, and all the panic and anticipation that she’d had to tamp down reared up again, and Hope found herself doing a complete circuit of the flat with arms flailing in all directions, which accomplished precisely nothing, when she had much to accomplish. Although she’d had a bath that morning, Hope felt the need to shower and shave off every extraneous hair on her body. It was also very important that she slathered herself in a fig-scented body moisturiser that she’d bought herself, rather than use any products Jack had liberated from the Skirt beauty cupboard.
Hope wasted ten minutes hunting for the knickers that matched her black and white polka-dot bra, not that Wilson was going to be seeing them, so it didn’t really matter whether they matched or not, and then she stood in front of her open wardrobe and steeled herself for the style dilemma that lay ahead. It was important she looked vaguely on trend but not especially sexy, as that would only send out the wrong message. Then again, Hope didn’t want to look as if she’d made no effort. After all, a girl had her pride.
Eventually, she wriggled into a teal-blue lace shift dress, with long sleeves and a high neckline, even if the hem hovered at mid-thigh. Still, thick woolly tights made the short skirt look a lot less come-hither, and she went easy on her eye make-up – just a quick up and down with her mascara wand, before dusting her face with powder and applying some Rose Salve lip balm.
Hope was now running late. She zipped herself into her black knee-boots with the sensible heel and quickly packed a bag with toothbrush, vitamins, pyjamas and a spare pair of pants, only because she might have to stay over. If it got really late and Wilson was drinking and she couldn’t get a cab without taking out a second mortgage. Then she grabbed the two bags she’d packed with yummy treats and alcohol, and headed out into the frozen, deserted streets of N7.
The frost made everything glitter like the Christmas decorations Hope could see when she glanced idly in at people’s windows. She turned off to walk past Holloway Prison, where she hoped the inmates were having a nice Christmas (apart from the serial killers, obviously), then wended her way through the back roads to get to Kentish Town. It was usually a good forty-minute walk, but she was striding along at great speed, and not just because the sooner she arrived, the sooner she could get indoors where there was central heating, but because the fizz of anticipation was quickening both her blood and her step.
As she hit Kentish Town Road, which was deserted apart from a gang of teenagers gathered outside the one convenience store that was open and trying to persuade people to buy them alcohol, Hope’s phone beeped. She reached for it with bumbling, gloved fingers, the fizz fizzling out as she braced herself for a text from Jack or, worse, her mother, which would make all her good cheer evaporate and her conscience kick in, so she’d be forced into an abrupt U-turn and a cold walk home.
Hello, Miss Delafield. You still coming? Shall I meet you halfway? Wilson
Hope’s good cheer returned in full force as she pondered why the thought of meeting Wilson halfway seemed rather saucy and suggestive. The fast walk had upped her heart rate, and Hope suspected that she wasn’t filled with good cheer so much as raging horniness. Not that there was anywhere open at quarter past eight on Christmas night where she could buy a quick dose of bromide. She really must remember not to drink too much, because that was when all her best intentions fell flat, Hope decided, as she adjusted the strap of one of her jute bags.
No need, she texted back. Only five minutes away. Please crank up the central heating.
It didn’t seem like five minutes, but no time at all before she was standing outside Wilson’s building and pressing the buzzer.
‘Is it you?’ asked Wilson.
‘No, it’s burglars,’ Hope replied. ‘Burglars whose fingers and toes are turning into little icicles.’
Wilson laughed in the split second before he buzzed her in. She began the long trek up the stairs and as she reached the third-floor landing, she heard a door above open and when she rounded the next corner, Wilson was heading down the stairs to meet her.
‘Happy Christmas,’ he said. ‘Kettle’s on.’
‘I have half a turkey, a whole chocolate yule log, cashew nuts and a tin of Quality Street,’ Hope informed him, and she was sure that it wasn’t the long march from Holloway and the stair-climbing that made her sound so out of breath. ‘And posh bubbly and cheap bubbly.’
They came face to face on the fourth landing and Wilson didn’t say anything, just stood one step above her – and all of a sudden, Hope felt ridiculously shy. She also felt like quite the brazen hussy, with her toothbrush and a spare pair of knickers stowed away in her handbag.
‘Hey,’ she croaked and raised her eyes timidly to see Wilson smiling down at her. Wilson wasn’t given to smiling much, which was a pity, because when he did, he looked almost silver-screen handsome, and Hope felt her frozen limbs begin to thaw out. ‘Have you had a nice day?’
‘Well, I discovered that Brussels sprouts taste much better when they’re fried in bacon fat. Here, let me take some of this stuff,’ he added, relieving Hope of both of her jute bags. ‘And I was forced to play football on the Heath with a gang of under-sixteen-year-olds who had no respect for the offside rule.’
‘Well, at least you worked off some of the bacon fat,’ Hope said, as she followed him up the last flight of stairs, and found herself in the perfect position to ogle – no, not ogle – appreciate Wilson’s long legs and the firmness of his arse. Christ, she needed to nip the appreciating in the bud, because they were just two friends having a Christmas drink. Though could you really be friends with someone when you’d already given each other an orgasm and had a nagging suspicion that a Christmas drink might lead to more of the same?
‘How about you? What kind of day did you have?’ Wilson asked as he shouldered open the door to his studio and ushered Hope through.
‘Mostly I talked about political protest with Alice from next door’s mother-in-law,’ Hope said, as they walked across the room together. Then she walked up the spiral staircase first and wondered whether Wilson was staring at her legs and what he could make out of her arse through her bulky winter coat. ‘I wish our Brussels had been done in bacon fat ’cause they tasted a little swampy.’
She was finally on Wilson’s home t
urf, where it was cosy and warm, and all the lights had been dimmed. He’d even lit tealights in votive candle-holders and lined them up in rows on the windowsills. Hope couldn’t decide if it was festive or seductive.
Wilson was unpacking the gourmet treats she’d brought with her, as Hope slowly unbuttoned her coat. It felt like she was performing a striptease, especially when Wilson lifted his head, looked straight at her and began to walk over from the galley kitchen to where she was still standing by the door. He held out his arms for her coat, then waited as she unwound her scarf and pulled off her hat.
‘Oh, Hope, you cut your hair,’ he said sadly. ‘Why would you do that?’
Her hand shot up and kept going, because each time she went to touch it, her hair was so much shorter than she remembered. After Polly’s repair job, Hope didn’t think it looked so bad – there was something of a flapper vibe to it, and it had a slight wave now it wasn’t weighted down by its own length. But maybe she’d just been kidding herself, because Wilson had angled his head so he could see her new do from all sides and was looking distinctly underwhelmed.
‘It tangles really easily,’ she explained. ‘And I thought it would be easier to manage and I fancied a change. You hate it, don’t you?’
‘I don’t,’ Wilson protested. ‘It suits you. It’s just a bit of a shock.’
‘Do you think it looks more ginger?’ Hope couldn’t help asking. ‘It just seems more orange now.’
‘What? No! It looks gorgeous, you’re all eyes and cheekbones,’ Wilson said gamely, lightly touching the ends, and as Hope turned her head his warm fingers brushed against her cold cheek.
Hope thought she might have gasped, because she’d been agonising about that first touch, and she saw Wilson’s eyes widen and darken, and she couldn’t say which one of them stepped closer, but she heard the soft thud of her coat fall to the floor, and then she was in Wilson’s arms and they were kissing.