Kitabı oku: «I Heart Christmas», sayfa 5

CHAPTER FIVE

I didn’t know anyone who jumped up and down and cheered for Monday mornings but since I’d started at Gloss I’d taken Monday dread to a whole new level. Before, it meant replying to all the emails I’d ignored on Friday, a bit of a telly hangover from Mad Men, Game of Thrones or True Blood, depending on the time of year. Now Monday meant press day, which meant checking, rechecking and re-rechecking every word on every page of the magazine. Gloss might only have been a teeny, tiny weekly but there were still a good deal of stern looks, raised voices and little cries in the toilets. Mostly Mary took care of the stern looks and raised voices while I, admittedly, was the one having a little cry but now, since she was off on the Love Boat, I had the pleasure of being in charge of the whole shebang. There had been a time when I thought working on a proper magazine at a proper publishing company would be all glamorous like The Devil Wears Prada but in reality it was turning out to be very stressful and a lot of hard work. Like in The Devil Wears Prada. And so far Stanley Tucci had yet to appear to cover me in free Chanel, although I was still hopeful. Hopeful or stupid. I needed a fairy godfather to keep me in designer goods and empowering speeches.

For the want of an avuncular gay mentor, I let Delia drag me out for lunch. Even though I really wasn’t supposed to be out of the office on press day, I really needed to update her on Cici’s nervous breakdown. It was only fair.

‘I can’t believe how long it’s been since we went out for lunch.’ Delia speared a piece of lettuce and munched away happily, as though it was real food. ‘Hasn’t it been ages?’

I nodded in agreement, and shovelled a mouthful on quinoa down my throat, wishing I hadn’t ordered quinoa. One day I would learn not to order something just because I’d seen Jamie Oliver going on about it. It was horrible. We’d settled on The Breslin for our powwow which was always a bit more trendy than I wanted it to be. It was the kind of place that said ‘totally come in jeans!’ but then when you came in jeans it raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘oh, you came in jeans.’ But it was far enough away that there wouldn’t be anyone else from the magazine there, yet close enough that I could escape without being missed. Plus, the food was delicious. As long as you didn’t have the quinoa.

‘I’m so glad you were able to sneak away,’ Delia said as the waiter refilled our water glasses with impressive stealth. ‘It’s like we never have time for each other anymore. Hanging out with you was the best thing about Gloss, it really was, not that I’m not really excited about the new role. I’m really excited. But I’ll miss you.’

‘Yeah, I didn’t think I’d see you before the Christmas party,’ I said, eyeing the bar for celebs. There was a man who looked a bit like Michael Fassbender three tables over but when he stood up he was so short that if it was Michael Fassbender, I didn’t want to know. Why kill the dream?

‘Holiday party,’ Delia corrected me. ‘Non-religious.’

I pouted but said nothing, persevering with my grains.

‘But I’ll be there. I’m glad you’re coming. I never know anyone I actually want to hang out with and I have to go because Grandpa would go crazy if he heard I didn’t go, even though he never goes, but still he expects me to go which is complete double standards, you know?’

If my food hadn’t been so bloody awful, I might not have noticed that Delia was rambling. I stopped chewing for a moment and tried not to freak out. Delia was nervous. Delia was never nervous. What was going on?

‘The exec floor is really dull,’ she carried on, sipping water quickly and then punching her fork into yet more lettuce. ‘I don’t think they’re even doing secret Santa. Isn’t that awful? Grandpa says I’ll get used to it but I don’t know … Maybe it is too soon, maybe I don’t have the experience. I suppose we’ll see. How’s your appetiser?’

‘It’s horrible,’ I said, with fear in my heart. Whatever was going on, I really wanted to know before my main course arrived because if I was getting fired, I was changing my order to the burger and getting a cocktail while I still had a company credit card. ‘Delia, what’s wrong?’

‘Why would anything be wrong?’ she asked in a voice so high pitched it hurt my ears. ‘I’m just a little stressed. That’s all it is.’

Now I knew she was lying. Delia Spencer had never been stressed in her entire life. She was so in control, I had wondered more than once if she wasn’t actually some sort of media magnate cyborg, created by her grandfather to take over the family business. The only evidence to the contrary was her sister. Oh. Fuckity fuck. Of course, her sister.

‘Delia,’ I put down my fork. If she was going to say what I thought she was going to say, I was in for enough punishment, I didn’t need to suffer through another mouthful of superfood. ‘Is this about Cici coming in yesterday?’

She pursed her lips, looked down into her lap and nodded.

‘You mean your new assistant, Cici?’ she asked with unwarranted optimism.

‘You can’t mean it?’ I asked. She couldn’t. I hadn’t had a memo about everyone in the world going completely insane so this must just be a very, very late April Fool’s joke.

For a moment, there was an awkward silence at the table that had never existed between me and Delia before. I waited for her to laugh and tell me she was taking the piss and of course she didn’t genuinely expect me to have her clinically insane identical twin working on our magazine, on our baby, that we had fought so hard for, but she didn’t. She just sat there, pushing some sad little leaves around her plate and waiting for me to say something else. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

‘I know everything you’re thinking,’ she said after realising that I wasn’t going to speak. ‘And you’re completely within your rights. I know it seems crazy to even think about having Cici around after, well, after everything.’

‘Can I get you ladies anything?’ An overly chirpy waitress in a shirt and tie appeared behind Delia.

‘Do you have anything that’s like a cosmo?’ I asked, unable to take my eyes off Delia. ‘Doesn’t have to be a cosmo but is definitely as strong as a cosmo?’

‘Uh, sure,’ she replied, with almost as much fear in her eyes as there was in mine. ‘Anything for you?’

‘Whatever you get for her,’ Delia muttered, throwing back her water in preparation for something harder hitting her stomach.

‘Two cosmos then,’ the waitress replied, backing away as fast as she could. Sharp instincts. She’d go far.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm down, but my heart was racing and I had a really bitter taste in my mouth. It could have been the quinoa but I was fairly certain it was just straight-up bile.

‘It’s going to sound dumb,’ Delia said, resting her elbows on the table and wiping her hands over her face, ‘but she really has changed.’

‘Because she spent a month at a spa in India and got a dodgy hair wrap?’

‘Maybe,’ she said, pulling on her ponytail. ‘And maybe because Grandpa threatened to cut her off if she doesn’t get another job.’

‘So make her your assistant if you want her around so badly.’ I was trying, but failing, not to squeak when I spoke. ‘She’ll be putting anthrax in my cappuccino within a week.’

‘Don’t you breathe in anthrax?’ she asked, reaching for her phone to Google it.

‘That’s not the point,’ I yelled, slapping the phone out of her hand. ‘There’s no other job in the entire company, the entire Spencer Media empire, that you can shove her in? I don’t believe it for a second.’

‘Of course there is,’ Delia replied. ‘But she wants to work at Gloss. We sat down and talked and I genuinely, genuinely think she’s changed. And for what it’s worth, I think she feels guilty about all the stuff she did to you, and to us. I’ll keep an eye on her, I’ll make sure she’s not up to anything, you have my word.’

‘You can’t babysit your psycho sister while you’re running a publishing company,’ I sighed as it dawned on me that I wasn’t getting a say in this. The deal was as good as done. ‘I just can’t believe you’re doing this to the magazine.’

‘There are two ways to look at it.’ Delia’s cheeks were red from embarrassment. I hated that she felt so uncomfortable, hated putting her in a position where she was torn between work, friendship and family. Unfortunately, I hated her sister more so she was just going to have to get used to it. ‘There is a chance that I’m right, that she isn’t lying and has finally woken up to what a total bitch she used to be. In which case, she’s really smart and she’s going to be an asset to the company. She’s a good assistant, she’s super smart, she kicks ass and she looks after her own.’

‘Because she’s always been so wonderful to you,’ I said, arms folded, bottom lip out, the full grumpy chops.

‘I was never her own,’ she admitted. ‘But she’s loyal to her friends and you have first-hand experience of how far she’ll go when she’s committed to achieving something. Maybe we’ll be able to use her power for good?’

‘Maybe,’ I nodded. ‘Can I just use your phone to check if Hell has frozen over?’

‘The other way to look at it is this,’ Delia said, ignoring me. Probably rightly so. ‘My grandpa is eventually going to cave and give her a job. Would you rather it’s the job she says she wants, in a place where you can keep an eye on her and have the whole staff keep her in check? Or would you rather she was somewhere else in the business, pissed off that you – in her eyes – have screwed her over again and dedicating every moment that she could be answering your phone to destroying your career?’

Well, when she put it like that …

‘You’re going to make me hire Cici as my assistant,’ I said, hardly believing the words as they came out of my mouth.

‘I’m not going to make you do anything,’ Delia replied. ‘Because I’m not an asshole. But it’s genuinely the best idea I have come up with. I’ve been over it a thousand different ways and I can’t think of a better solution. I know you don’t trust her and I don’t expect you to. It’s hard enough for me to give her another chance but really, I do believe she’s different.’

‘I know, she’s been to India and has forgotten to get her nails done.’ So this was how it felt to be backed into a corner. ‘She’s an entirely different person.’

‘She’s been volunteering,’ Delia lowered her voice as though she were telling me a terrible secret. ‘At the park. With old people. She hates old people. Honestly, it’s freaking me out. That’s one of the reasons I want her somewhere I can keep an eye on her. At first I thought she might have hit her head or something but it seems to be sticking.’

‘So it’s not just that she’s got an inexplicable vindictive streak just for me,’ I asked, making sure I had my mad ducks in a row. ‘You now think she’s actually psycho?’

Delia looked pained. But not pained enough to throw herself on the floor and beg my forgiveness. Why hadn’t I just hired Tessa or Blair or Serena van der Woodsen when I had the chance?

‘If I do this,’ I said, thankful for the massive pink cocktail that was set down in front of me as I raised my hand and started counting off conditions on my fingers, ‘and I do mean if, there’s a trial period, she actually has to come into the office every day and do work, she’s not allowed to spit in, on or around me, or anything I might consume.’

‘I mean, it sounds reasonable,’ Delia nodded. ‘She really does have the potential to be so good. She worked for Mary for an age and you know how tough she can be.’

I did know how tough Mary could be. I also knew she had never arranged to have an entire suitcase of borrowed and slavishly saved up for designer clothes – not to mention one very special pair of Louboutins – blown up by French airport security for shits and giggles.

‘And you know, she didn’t suggest this, I did, so it’s not part of a plan.’ She took a tiny sip of her cocktail, politely ignoring the fact I had already almost finished mine. ‘I promise.’

‘Which is just what she would say if it was part of a plan,’ I replied.

‘But you’ll give her a shot?’ Delia asked, her eyes sparkling ever so slightly. From hope or booze, I wasn’t sure.

‘I suppose I’d better get used to the taste of laxatives in my tea,’ I nodded, resigned, reluctant and terrified. ‘Might help me lose a couple of Christmas pounds.’

‘Hey Angela.’

I wouldn’t normally be so surprised to hear a man’s voice shouting my name but since I was hiding in the ladies’, trying to find the strength to put on a brave face after lunch with Delia, it was a bit of a shock.

‘Yes?’

‘Angela, you in there?’

‘I’ll be out in a second,’ I shouted back, stashing the second finger of a Twix back in its wrapper and down into the deepest, darkest depths of my handbag. Eating chocolate in the toilets really was a new low but then so was hiring Cici to be my assistant. ‘Give me a minute.’

‘Great, I’ll put the beauty pages on your desk.’

Another fun fact I had just found out about press day – I couldn’t even go to the toilets without Jesse, our managing editor, hunting me down like a dog. God help me if he found out I’d actually left the premises for lunch, let alone had a drink.

Most of the time I liked Jesse. He was the same age as me, lived in Williamsburg and knew all the words to Taylor Swift’s latest album, even though he played guitar in an indie band and looked like a super hipster. And because he worked on a women’s fashion magazine, he knew an awful lot more about nail varnish than your average bloke. If he’d been gay, he’d have been my gay best friend. Since he was sadly straight, he’d had to settle for the role of my work husband, meaning that it was his responsibility to bring me snacks whenever he left the office and make sure I was never without the latest Game of Thrones-inspired meme. Aside from his general, personal qualifications, it was hard to find a good managing editor and I was delighted when Mary had managed to lure him away from the low-paying but high-credibility music paper he’d been working on to come to Gloss. You really had to have a mental imbalance to love being a managing ed, all that time spent checking and correcting and making sure no one had snuck any dirty acrostic poems into the feature articles or teeny tiny penises into celebrity fashion spreads. Not that anyone in our team would do that. Except for maybe me. And Jesse genuinely loved it.

Back at my desk, surrounded by every Christmas card the office had received, some delightful fluffy reindeers I’d picked up at Target and several Alexander Skarsgård posters, I stared down at the beauty pages, willing myself to read every single word, to see each syllable and to start caring about what eyeliner Selena Gomez was wearing this week. It wasn’t Selena’s fault. Usually I’d be thrilled to know that she mostly used MAC but that I could achieve the same effect with Maybelline (even though I knew you couldn’t really) but I had a lot on my mind. Jenny and her baby banter seemed like something that had happened a million years ago and the new house in all its leafy Park Slope glory would be something I worried about when we actually had to move. In four days. Right now, I had enough on my plate. I had to work out how to work with Cici without either killing her or inciting her to kill me. Maybe if I sent back all my Christmas presents and just asked for one little miracle instead …

My office phone, appropriately wrapped in silver tinsel, rang quietly, as if afraid to interrupt my review of Jennifer Aniston’s best and worst hair days.

‘Hello?’

I hated not being able to see who was calling, I thought as I answered. There was something so threatening about answering the phone not knowing who it was. Of course, I could have just peeled the Twilight stickers off my phone so I could see the screen but that would have been too easy.

‘Angela, it’s your mother.’

Aah. Because so far, today had been far too easy.

‘Hello, Mum.’ I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, hoping it would calm me. It didn’t. I had no idea why people did that. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Everything’s fine,’ she replied in a voice that implied that was, in fact, not the case. ‘I was just wondering if you’d heard from Louisa this week?’

‘No,’ I said, sitting up straight. ‘I’ve been trying to call her but she’s busy. Why? What’s wrong? Is she OK?’

‘Oh, I’m sure she’s fine,’ Mum said. ‘Not that I’d know, she never comes round with that baby.’

‘Well, she’s probably busy taking it to see her mother and not mine,’ I replied. ‘Or doing, you know, stuff.’

‘No need to be snippy,’ she sniffed. ‘So, you haven’t heard? It hasn’t been on the Facebook?’

‘Has what been on the Facebook?’

It was sometimes quite difficult not to lose my patience with her.

‘Well, her next door told me and she said she’d heard it from Janet who works in the hairdresser’s but you know what she can be like.’ My mum took a sharp breath and the phone line crackled with silence for a second. And then she started again. ‘So I don’t know whether it’s true or not. But that’s what they’re saying.’

‘You don’t know what is true or not?’ I asked. At least she was right about one thing – her next door was a right old cow.

‘That Mark and that Katie are having a baby.’

Oh. Mark, my ex-boyfriend, my ex-fiancé, and ‘that Katie’, better known as the blonde tart he cheated on me with. They were having a baby.

‘Well, that sounds very nice for them, Mum,’ I said, pulling at the ends of my hair and trying my best not to care. ‘Did they say when?’

‘You don’t sound very bothered.’ My mother had clearly expected more of her only child. Maybe some oohs and aahs or even a few tears. And she might have got them if I hadn’t already had such an incredibly shite day. ‘I haven’t forgotten him showing up here on your wedding day.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ I really didn’t have enough emotional mileage to deal with this non-bombshell. A man I’d broken up with nearly four years ago was having a baby with a woman he’d been involved with for, well, more than four years. Unfortunate maths aside, I really didn’t feel that affected.

‘He shows up at your wedding, causes a scene and then just goes and has a baby with someone else willy-nilly?’ Mum said in disbelief. ‘And you don’t care?’

‘Not really,’ I said. And I didn’t. Part of me wanted to but that part was busy working out what it would do the first time Cici left a rat in my desk drawer. The rest of me was fully aware that I had a really rather spectacular husband of my own at home, so meh.

‘Well, it’s just you’ve been married more than a year now and he’s having a baby …’ Aah, so that was it. ‘They’re not even married yet, you know.’

‘It’s not a race,’ I pointed out. ‘Mark isn’t winning because he’s having a baby first.’

Mum made an unconvinced humphing sound.

‘And anyway, I’m married and he isn’t.’ I was fairly certain that meant I’d won. If it was a race, which it wasn’t. But if it was …

‘I know you’re busy with your career,’ she said, taking special care to pronounce the word career with all the disdain she felt that it deserved. ‘And you know we’re very proud of you—’

‘Tell her I’m proud of her as well,’ I heard my dad shout down the line.

‘I said “we”. Be quiet, David,’ she scolded. I smiled. ‘As I said, we’re very proud of you, me and your dad, but you’re not getting any younger, Angela.’

A fact I was completely aware of and did not wish to be reminded of again.

‘We don’t need to have this conversation,’ I said, putting a verbal black line through the topic. ‘We’re not ready, that’s all there is to it.’

‘No one’s ever ready for a baby,’ she replied. ‘If me and your dad had waited until we were ready for you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But never mind me, the last thing I want to do is be accused of interfering.’

‘The last thing,’ I sighed. ‘Listen, Mum, I’ve got to go. I’ve got loads to do and—’

‘Well, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about as well,’ she said before I could hang up. ‘Just very quickly … Me and your dad are coming over to you for Christmas.’

‘What?’

My grip tightened around the handset and I sat straight up in my chair, begging her to start laughing.

‘We were talking about it last night, how we haven’t seen you in ages and how you’re so busy with your career.’ Pause for a distasteful swallow. ‘And how if you do decide to start trying for a baby, you shouldn’t really be travelling anyway and so we just did it! We booked the flights. Your dad did them on the internet.’

‘What?’

‘Surprise!’ Dad bellowed from across the room. ‘Merry Christmas!’

‘What?’

‘Dad’ll send you an email message with the details so you can meet us at the airport,’ she said, sounding considerably more cheerful than she had at the beginning of the phone call. ‘Love to Alex.’

And with that, she hung up.

Love to Alex? Love to bloody Alex? It wasn’t too long ago that my mother would only refer to the love of my life as ‘that musician’ and now he was getting sent love? It was just all too much. I had my Christmas plan. I could work the move in, I could deal with Jenny and I could manage Cici, but my parents? In my house for all of Christmas with no warning? I couldn’t cope with any more surprises.

Without even replacing the receiver I reset the line and dialled Alex as fast as I could.

‘Alex,’ I wailed when he answered. ‘Mum just called to say they were coming for Christmas and I’m freaking out and I don’t know what to do and they can’t come, they can’t, please tell me they don’t have to come.’

‘Um, OK?’ he replied. ‘I’m in the furniture store. If I send you a picture of a sofa, can you let me know whether or not you like it?’

‘ALEX!’

‘Right, your mom, sure,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll fix it. And don’t freak out if I’m not home when you get in tonight. I have an appointment with a builder at the new place.’

‘The new place,’ I said, trying to find a way out from underneath this horrible cloud of shittiness that I had just created for myself. I was a horrible daughter. ‘OK.’

‘And it’s forecast to snow,’ Alex’s voice crackled. For some reason, American phone lines were always a bit rubbish. ‘So don’t stay late if you don’t have to.’

‘I never stay late if I don’t have to,’ I muttered. ‘I’ll see you later.’

He really hadn’t grasped the enormity of the situation. Probably because his parents lived upstate and he saw them about once every five years or at family weddings and/or funerals, whichever came first. My family were not his family. They were selfish and wonderful and passive aggressive and there was a reason I was perfectly happy to have them on the other side of the ocean.

‘Love you,’ he replied before hanging up.

With my face flat on my glass desk, I stared down at my black Jimmy Choo biker boots and sniffed. You knew things were bad when they couldn’t put a smile on my face. I’d had plans to drag Jenny out to dinner and then to see The Nutcracker but there was no way I’d be out of the office in time to make it. So that was day one of my Christmasgasm effectively ruined and if I couldn’t find a way to convince my parents that Christmas in New York was a terrible idea, the whole thing would be buggered. With a sob, I turned back to the beauty pages, throwing myself into the many different looks of Beyoncé. Whether I liked it or not, my big week off was starting to look about as realistic as the virgin birth.

‘I’m totally leaving,’ I announced to my favourite ASkars poster, stretching my arms high above my head. He gazed down at me with brooding approval. It was just as well I’d married my Alex and not Alexander. I would have got really annoyed having to find the weird Swedish characters on my phone every time I wanted to text him.

Enough was enough. It had been a great big bastard of a day and I needed to go home. Jesse had put the final pages to bed half an hour earlier and everyone else was long gone. Attempting to get ever so slightly ahead of myself, I’d stayed to answer all the emails I’d ignored over the course of what would go down in history as the worst Monday ever, but I realised when I signed off an email to the head of finance with three kisses and a smiley face that was I done for the day. While my lovely week of vacation was now nothing but a dream, I had at least snagged Tuesday off and Alex had promised me his undivided attention for twenty-four hours. I had really struggled to decide what to do with him. Ice skating? Christmas shopping? A train trip upstate to walk around some lovely woods? To be fair, given the day I’d had, I would settle for a duvet day and the odd reassuring pat on the head. But it felt good to know I was going home to something warm and comforting following a day of stress and clinically certifiable insanity.

On my way out, I ran my fingers over all the empty desks and boxy computer screens, feeling a rumbling of professional pride. OK, so I struggled with my personal relationships from time to time and I had just broken my mother’s heart but workwise, things were objectively on the up. The Gloss office might be the least sexy office in the entire Spencer Media building but we were still in the building and that was an epic achievement. Yes, it smelled of fish on Tuesdays but that was because the canteen served fish on Tuesdays and we were right by the canteen. Some of the team considered that a negative, although I wasn’t quite sure why. Better to be the crappy office next to the Spencer Media canteen than to have no office at all. Plus, I was greedy.

The first time I’d visited Spencer Media three and a half years ago, to talk to Mary about writing a blog for The Look, I had thought my heart would beat right out of my chest. The thought of being right in the heart of Times Square – the theatres, the shops, bright lights, big city, the naked cowboy and suspect adults dressed as Elmo … But tonight I just wanted to get home without tripping over Spider-Man or being invited to a comedy show. Alex had been right, it was snowing by the time I left, but the fresh chill of the air felt good on my face. I fell into step with the rest of New York as we rippled down the subway stairs, everyone moving in the same direction without saying a word. The station was crowded and when I finally made it onto a train, it was even worse. I slung the strap of my satchel over my head, pulling it in closer to my body. No matter how long I lived here, I would still treat the subway with suspicion. The subway and every single human being alive.

This close to Christmas, travelling in the city was always a chore. Commuters crossed with Christmas shoppers and every train car was full of musicians or dancers trying to make some money from the out-of-towners. Usually I didn’t mind it. More often than not, I forgot my headphones in the morning and who didn’t like watching four kids performing the Thriller dance on your way home from work? And while Jenny was against mariachi in all its forms, I loved a jaunty tune on the L train. But tonight, it was too much. Between everyone’s giant winter coats, the bags and bags and bags of shopping, there really wasn’t room for two Spanish guitars and an accordion. With my face pressed against the metal bars separating the privileged few who had forced their way into a seat and the rest of us sardines, I closed my eyes and tried to block out enthusiastic strains of ‘Feliz Navidad’ but there was no point. Thank God I had my tree at home. Oh my God, we were going to have to move the tree.

‘Oh!’

We were just pulling into 1st Avenue station when I felt someone grab my arse. And not in a particularly friendly way. If there was such a thing.

‘A crowded subway is not an excuse for an inappropriate touch,’ I shouted at the squish of people pouring off the train before giving the rest of my fellow passengers an accusatory stare for good measure. I couldn’t even be slightly flattered – in this crush, whichever perv had copped a feel had hardly been driven to it by the sight of my fabulous rear. He probably just went round all the carriages with his hands out, hoping not to run into one of those blokes who left their fly open ‘by accident’. Unless … oh cockingtons. Unless he wasn’t as much a perv as someone who went around feeling people’s arse pockets for things he could steal. Things like the iPhone I vaguely remembered shoving in my back pocket when I was being rushed onto the train without enough time or room to open my bag. Brilliant. What a fabulously shitty end to a fabulously shitty day.

Brooklyn was always colder than Manhattan and the winter wind blew in sharp off the water, pinching my face with sleet as I climbed the subway steps and ambled down the street to the apartment. This I would not miss. I rummaged around in my bag, mitten-covered fingers searching for sharp, shiny keys, muttering to myself about my lost phone and wondering who was enjoying my vast collection of pictures of other people’s pets. Bath, beer, bed. Bath, beer, bed. It wasn’t much to ask for, just five quiet minutes out of an entire twenty-four hours.

‘Angela?’ Right there, on my doorstep with a suitcase in one hand and a toddler in the other, was Louisa. ‘Merry Christmas!’