“Christy?”
She’d forgotten Alix was on the phone. She needed to get rid of her. Even if she could talk about it with her friend, which she couldn’t, Alix’s way of dealing with things was different from hers. For a start, Alix didn’t avoid difficult situations. If she wanted to know something, she asked. If someone annoyed her, she said, You annoyed me. Which was why, before the wedding, she’d said, You’re making a mistake. Someone else might have said, Do you think… or Is it possible that… But not Alix.
Christy handled things differently.
“Sorry, you rang in the busy hour.” She managed to inject just the right amount of fake breeziness into her voice. “I’m cleaning up more paint than you’ve seen in your life. Have fun at your event. Talk soon.”
She ended the call and walked blindly back into the kitchen, barely hearing Holly when she protested that she’d wanted to talk to Aunty Alix.
She had to keep busy. Yes, that was the answer.
She switched on the oven to reheat the casserole she’d made earlier. Then she finished stacking the dishwasher. Her hands were shaking so badly one of the plates slipped from her fingers and crashed on the floor, scattering shards of china across the tiles.
Holly screamed and jumped on the chair.
Christy found herself thinking that at least clearing up the mess gave her something to do. Another job to fill those yawning gaps where stress and anxiety tried to take hold.
“It’s okay. Stay calm. Don’t move. I’ll fix this.” She was talking to herself as much as her daughter.
She took a breath and tipped the broken pieces of china into the bin.
“Mummy? Why are you crying?”
Was she crying? She pressed her palm to her cheek and felt dampness. She was crying. “Mummy’s a little sniffy, that’s all.” She blew her nose. “Maybe I’m getting a cold.”
Holly scrambled from the chair and wrapped her arms around Christy’s legs. “Kisses mend everything.”
“That’s right, they do.” If only that was all it took. She scooped up her daughter and hugged her tightly.
“It will soon be Christmas.”
Christmas. Family time.
Emotion clogged her throat and swelled in her chest. She couldn’t confront Seb before Christmas. No way. It would be better to pretend everything was normal. She could do that. She was used to doing that.
“Time for bed.” She scooped Holly into her arms. “You’re getting too big to carry.”
“I want to wait for Daddy. I want Daddy to kiss me good-night.”
“Daddy is going to be late tonight.” She carried Holly upstairs, operating on automatic.
“Will we see a reindeer in Lapland?”
“I’m sure we’ll see a reindeer.” She refused to allow emotion to intrude on this time with her child, but the effort required was so great that, by the time she’d finished bath time and read two stories, she was almost ready for bed herself.
She switched on the night-light that sent a blue-and-green glow swirling across the ceiling.
When they’d first moved in, Christy had suggested a princess bedroom like the one she’d had as a child, but Holly was fascinated by snow and ice and wanted her bedroom to look like a polar research station. When I grow up I’m going to be a scientist like Uncle Zac. It had taken a while to agree to a design they could build themselves, but Seb and Zac had finally transformed the room the month before. As the men worked on the structure, Christy had painted snowfields and mountains on the wall opposite the bed and tried not to be disappointed as her dream of floaty canopies, fairy lights and plenty of soft pink had been supplanted by steel gray for the so-called laboratory area and sleeping shelf.
It wasn’t what she would have chosen herself, but even she had to admit it was cozy.
She kissed her daughter, left the bedroom door ajar and headed downstairs.
The sick feeling had become a knot of tension.
She laid the table for dinner. Lit candles, then blew them out when there was still no sign of him an hour later. She turned off the oven.
She’d made the casserole while Holly had been watching half an hour of TV.
Her own mother had refused to have a television in the house. Christy’s childhood had been a roundabout of carefully curated learning. Violin lessons, piano lessons, ballet classes, riding lessons, art appreciation and Mandarin lessons. Her mother had insisted that every moment of her time should be spent productively. Flopping on the sofa was frowned upon, unless it was done with a book in hand. Tell me about the book, Christy. Let’s discuss it.
Christy eyed the slim book that had been taking up space on the side table for weeks. The cover reminded her that it had won a major literary award, but each time Christy sat down to read it she never made it past the second chapter. She already knew the main character died. The people were horrible, and they made horrible choices, which meant the ending could only be one thing: horrible. Why was it that books worthy of the book group were always depressing? What was good about a book that left you feeling miserable? She couldn’t bring herself to read it, which meant she’d have to read some reviews on the internet if she had any hope of sounding intelligent and engaged. What would I have done differently if I’d been in the same situation? Everything!
She glanced out the window into the darkness.
Still no Seb.
By the time she finally heard the sound of his car in the drive, the casserole was cold and congealed.
She smoothed her hair, closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath.
She’d pretend nothing was wrong. It would be fine. And maybe she was imagining things anyway, and the whole thing would go away. There was probably a simple explanation.
By the time he opened the front door she was ready and waiting. She even managed a smile.
“You’re so late. I was worried. Did your meetings overrun? You must be exhausted.” She hovered, heart aching, mind racing.
“Yes. Sorry.” He hung up his coat. Kissed her briefly. “Freezing out there.”
“Yes. They’re saying it might even snow. Can you believe that?”
Were they really talking about the weather? What had happened to them?
Her mood plummeted even further.
Seb followed her into the kitchen, forgot to duck and smacked his head on the low doorway.
“Damn it. This house hates me. Why didn’t the guy who built it make the doors higher?” He rubbed his forehead and glared at the doorway of the kitchen.
“They probably weren’t as tall as you.” For once it felt as if she and the cottage were on the same side. She felt hurt, betrayed and more than a little angry with him for proving Alix right.
“I know I should have called you, but—”
“I don’t expect you to call. I know how busy you are.” She wanted to move away from the subject. “Do you want a drink? Wine?”
He hesitated. “Is there beer?”
“Beer? I don’t—yes, I think so—” She jerked open the fridge door so violently everything inside rattled. She’d chilled a sauvignon blanc, but he wanted beer. They always drank wine. Why did he suddenly want beer? Was it the influence of another woman? She rummaged past vegetables and two neatly stacked containers of food for Holly and found a bottle of beer left by Zac. “Here.” She thrust it at him and watched as he snapped off the top and drank, not even bothering with a glass.