Best Served Cold, page 18
‘I have all that. Anything else?’
‘A grating of nutmeg?’
‘Possibly at the bottom of my spice box, but I can find it.’
Jack puts a coffee on to percolate while I rummage for the spice. It’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas…
‘I’ll call you Christmas Day if that’s all right?’ Jack leans down to give me a final, lingering kiss. ‘It’s been a great weekend, Lily. I enjoyed it no end. I wish… Well, I wish.’ He laughs. I detect an uncertain sound to it, and I wonder if his wish included me. Did he wish he could be here for Christmas? Or maybe I could join him at his uncle’s? There is still time, but I will never bring the subject up. Christmas is always a touchy subject for me and something I never push for. It is a wonder I managed to get into the Christmas spirit enough to put the decorations up, although it was mainly for Alice and Rose.
‘Listen.’ He’s hauling on his gloves. ‘You’ve got a big day tomorrow. The weather is against you. Make sure you have everything where you want it. Don’t leave anything to the last minute, eh?’ He stops, as he must have seen the look on my face.
‘I never leave anything to the last minute. I have lists about my lists about what I need to do.’
He grins. ‘Okay, I meant like me. I’m notoriously bad at getting organised and then run around like a bleedin’ headless chicken to get sorted.’ He kisses my forehead. ‘Enough with the preaching. As I said, good luck tomorrow, and I shall see you the day after Boxing Day.’
‘Thanks. Looking forward to it. Now,’ I glance at my watch, ‘not wanting to shove you out, but you have a train to catch, and it’s pretty hairy out there.’ I guide him to the door.
‘I’ll be very careful.’
‘Let me know if they have cancelled the train and come back. Okay?’ The air outside is chilly as he steps out into the communal corridor.
‘Don’t worry, I will. I’m not sleeping out in the park in this weather.’
Jack’s call comes through about half an hour later to say the trains are skeleton, though some are still running. He will catch one that will get him back to London by early evening if it all goes to plan.
I’m starting to feel as if a strobe light has been put on in my head. I decide to lie down and take a nap. I don’t feel guilty, as it’s Sunday, and I’ve had a busy weekend. Setting the alarm, it’s only moments from when I put my head down on my pillow to jolting upright, woken by its strident beeping. Peering at the clock, I can see two hours have whizzed past. It’s close to seven, and it’s black outside my window. Shaking myself awake, I have a shower, hoping it will invigorate me. There are so many things I must do; I need to figure out where to start. What was the last thing Jack said to me? Ah, yes. I should check all my stuff is ready for tomorrow.
My list is pinned to a corkboard on my desk. I go through it: bag packed, check. Phone charged, check. Smart clothes and clean underwear, check. Scarf and gloves on the hook with my warm coat, check. Umbrella, along with winter boots. No slipping and falling trying to impress in heels. Check. Oh, and the most important part, my portfolio of paintings. I unzip it and get all the work out to examine again. Lifting the sheet of thin tissue paper off each one, I feel pride. This is all mine. I have made these from nothing. Placing them carefully back into the portfolio, I re-zip it and leave it on the table.
My head still thumping, I crawl back to bed. I pray I’m not going down with anything, as I feel as though I am nailed to the bed. I’m so tired.
Chapter Nineteen
MONDAY, 21 DECEMBER – LOSING MY MIND?
I must have slept like the dead, as the alarm goes through two cycles to wake me. I’ve given myself a lot of time in case I need it. Clambering groggily out of bed, I rush my shower and breakfast, which makes me feel as though I’m not adequately prepared for the coming day. I don't normally have to hand over work this close to Christmas, but the publishing company had to put the date back for some reason.
It’s an arduous journey. Checking on the internet, I see trains are delayed, so I ensure I arrive early at Brighton Station to assess the situation. There is a train that will get me into Victoria at a reasonable time, as long as there are no delays or dramas anywhere en route. I phone Mary to update her, not that there is anything I can do except cancel, and this is not an option. I get the impression she’s not had an easy time getting into work either. I’m wondering why her phone hasn’t melted, the amount of vitriol she is spewing about public transport, the infrastructure of London and the bloody government. She lives in Kensington, and I know from experience the city shuts down as easily as the trains. It used to be faster to walk somewhere in the snow in London than crawl along in a bus or car.
Getting a taxi from Victoria to the New Renaissance offices is also an ordeal. Too many people are hailing not enough taxis, although I eventually manage to grab one. It is beginning to snow as I slog up to the building, feet, fingers and nose frozen, battling gusts of icy wind, and with my portfolio acting as a sail, I’m already exhausted. Heads are lowered, and I get the sense people want to be home for Christmas now. These last few days are pointless. It’ll be Christmas Eve on Thursday, and everyone, including me, wishes we could all slink off home this very minute.
I’m ushered in and offered a coffee, although we don’t get that far.
Mary is in her big office, and my portfolio is open on her large, shiny, mahogany desk. We are both staring at it.
‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘What, exactly, is this, Lily?’
My breathing is erratic, and I need to place both hands on the table to stop myself from falling over. My legs are like rubber. I’m sure I will collapse right here in front of her.
‘I don’t know—’ I put my hand across my mouth. Is that to catch the scream threatening to come roaring out? ‘I don’t know how this has happened.’ I feel tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. ‘Mary! I don’t know what’s going on—’
‘I think,’ says Mary, ‘we need to calm down and talk this through.’ She doesn’t sound calm.
‘Talk what through?’ I know I sound hysterical. Who wouldn’t be in these circumstances? ‘All my sodding work is gone, and I don’t know where it is!’ True, the backing card and the protecting sheet are still there, but the paintings are conspicuously missing.
‘I can quite plainly see it is not there.’ Mary sits in her oversized, comfy computer chair, although she looks far from comfortable. ‘What we have to ascertain then is where the fuck is it?’
Mary never jokes, and she never, ever swears. Sweat dribbles down my ribs.
I try to control my breathing. ‘That’s it. I checked it all last night—’
‘Then you must have forgotten to put them back into the portfolio?’ She looks like a condemned man offered a lifeline, but I dash it.
‘No. I remember putting them all back in and then leaving the portfolio on the table. Mary! You know me. I don’t make mistakes like this.’
‘Agreed, except you seem to have made one now.’ Mary frowns and taps the table with a beautifully manicured nail. It is bright red, and I get the impression she has dipped all her nails in fresh blood. Maybe she’s thinking she’ll get a second coat this morning? ‘Was there anyone else in your flat? Anyone who might have, um, say, moved them without your knowledge?’
‘My boyfriend Jack was with me all weekend—’
‘A new boyfriend? And why haven’t I heard about him until now?’ She points at me. ‘Could he have had anything to do with this?’
‘What? No. In fact, as he left, he told me to check everything was where it should be. I know it was all there after he left.’ I nod stupidly. ‘Because I checked.’
‘Then, Lily, my dear, we have a problem.’
‘What the hell do I do?’
‘You either find them or replace them. Have you scans of them?’
‘Yes, I always scan them, just in case…’ I look at her. ‘Can you use the scans?’
‘I will need to see them, see how you’ve cropped them—’
‘I don’t crop. I have the whole thing, the edges and all.’
‘I also need to know the resolution you scanned them at. If we are lucky, we might be able to use them. If not, well, I gave you the options.’
‘Bollocks!’ I hold my hands over my face.
‘Ditto!’ says Mary.
I long to shriek out of the train window all the way home. Am I losing my mind? How could this have happened? But that’s not the only thing, is it? Last Tuesday, I found that used bowl in my sink when I returned from the supermarket and then the damaged painting. I don’t ever want to go down this line of thought. Has there been someone else in my flat? Add to that the strange noise in the night and the scuff marks on my roof terrace. What the hell is going on?
Ripping off my coat and flinging it on the floor, I stand in the middle of my living room, fists clenched and sweating profusely. Think, now. Think! Where could they be? I take a deep breath and stare about me. Starting at one corner of the living room, I search in all the obvious places, then I search in the not-so-obvious places, and then I have to look in the most ridiculous places. I do the same in the kitchen, and when I open the freezer, I have the most terrible shock. As expected, the top two drawers are frozen lasagnes and packets of peas, then the third one makes me stumble back. They are all in there. I take them out, crisp and cold. The colours have melted and run as if water has been dribbled all over them. Every single one is ruined. My breath catches in my throat, and I crumple to the floor. I am blinded by my tears. I know they were all in the portfolio when Jack left. So that only leaves me, doesn’t it? Did I do this? To myself? The phone ringing makes me jump. Mary. I let it slide from my hand onto the lino. A message pings through. She wants, no, needs to know if I’ve found the paintings. I have to laugh. Yes, indeedy, I have found them. And to all intents and purposes, I am going utterly mad!
Perhaps a nice cup of sweet tea will make this all better? Make this nightmare go away? No, better than that. A bottle of wine will do the trick.
The only person I trust to call is Alice. She arrives like she’s been beamed over. I’m eyeing the second bottle of wine as she takes off her jacket and gloves. ‘Fancy a glass?’ Am I slurring? I bloody well hope so.
‘You look smashed,’ she starts. ‘But yeah, I’ll have one.’
‘Smashed? No shit!’ I nod and grin at her. ‘Alice? Can I ask you a personal question?’ I think for a moment. ‘I mean, a personal question about me?’
‘What?’
‘Am I mad?’ I chew on my bottom lip, tugging at a piece of skin. I make it bleed. ‘You know? Crazy-arse bonkers?’
Alice sits on the sofa and pats the space next to her. ‘You need to explain what the heck is going on!’
‘Yes, I do, and yet, unfortunately, I don’t have a blinking’ clue!’ I hand her a very full glass of wine.
‘Lily?’ She is talking to me in that particular tone people reserve for frightened children. ‘What happened today? Is this to do with Jack—’
‘No, no, no. Me an’ Jack are fine.’
‘Then it’s to do with Mary? And your book?’
‘Oh yeah. Just a little bit.’ I refill my glass, but most of it sloshes over the rim. ‘Oopsy.’
‘Lily!’
‘Okay, okay. It’s like this.’ I close my eyes. ‘When I got to the publishing house and opened my portfolio, guess what?’
I watch her face change. ‘Oh no. What?’
‘No, go on. Guess.’
‘You know I can’t. Just tell me.’
‘It was bloody empty. Nothing inside. Nada. Rien. Fuckin’ zilch!’
Her hand flies to her mouth. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’
‘Ha, ha, ha! I wish.’ Wine slops down my chin and seeps into my top. ‘You know, you’ve gone so pale you look almost white!’
‘God forbid! Listen? Did you leave them behind—’
‘Let me stop you there.’ I hold up my hand and totter to the table, sloshing wine as I go. ‘Here they are! I bet you can’t guess where they were? No? Give up? They were in the freezer, all covered in water as if they’d been run under the tap. Isn’t that nice?’ I fall back onto the sofa.
‘This isn’t right.’ Alice stands and starts to pace around the living room. ‘First, the red wine stain on your artwork and then the whole bloody lot is destroyed?’
‘Exactamundo.’ I wag a finger at her. ‘And the only suspect is liddle old me.’
‘No, Lily. I know you, and you don’t do stuff like this. There has to be another explanation.’
‘I think the explanation is staring you in the face.’ I point at myself. ‘I’ve gone mad.’
Alice sighs. ‘What you need to do now is drink some water and get into bed. I’ll be back to check on you before my shift. Are your spare keys still on the hook?’
‘Yep.’
Alice helps me to bed after forcing a couple of glasses of water into me. ‘I’ll work this out. Don’t you worry.’ She kisses my forehead gently. ‘There’s something wrong here, Miss Lily the Pink, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.’
Why the hell did I agree to go to Harry’s parents that year for Christmas? Maybe it was because my sister Sophie was so excited to be coming with us? I should have stayed home with my parents, as although we didn’t know it then, it was the last Christmas my mum was alive. But we did go, and the consequences blindsided us all.
The day before Christmas Eve, we all stood in St Pancras, having met Sophie off an earlier train, wondering if we would be able to get to Harry’s parents for Christmas. Alice had bar work and aimed to catch the last train home that night. I worried she might not make it.
‘She’ll be cutting it fine,’ I confided to Harry.
‘It’s her decision, and if the worst comes to the worst, she’ll stay in the house and come up when she can.’
Sophie made a face. ‘On her own? That’d be really miserable.’
Sophie, at eighteen, was four years younger than me and yet, somehow, a lot older. Was this the bane of the elder child? That we used machetes to clear the way, and our younger siblings blithely hopped, skipped and jumped in their designer trainers or stilettos at our heels? Seemingly so. She was smaller and rounder than me, with short-cropped, bleached blonde hair, but we both had hazel-coloured eyes, the same as our mum.
We’d booked tickets for the 8.33 am train, though that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Snow on the tracks meant every train was either delayed or cancelled. Clutching our rucksacks and bags of presents, muffled in scarves, hats and gloves, we stood watching the announcement board with everyone else, our breath huffing in the air. Finally, the train we needed to see rolled in, the passengers disembarked, and when the announcement came, we all rushed up the platform to get seats. We were lucky and found three together. I sat next to Sophie, and Harry faced us.
‘Fingers crossed, there will be no more delays.’ Harry hauled off his coat but left his woolly scarf on. ‘I’ll call Dad to come and pick us up when we are within spitting distance. Snow is snow, after all.’
A bulky man thumped into the seat beside him. I saw Harry roll his eyes as the man spread across his seat and started to inch Harry up against the window. Harry jostled back, and the man grunted and frowned. I was glad I had Sophie next to me, as I could elbow her in the ribs with impunity. A few stragglers leapt for the train as the doors slid shut. A sharp jolt meant the train was beginning to move.
‘At last,’ sighed Sophie. ‘How long does the journey take?’
‘About two hours,’ said Harry, ‘but as I said, that’s when conditions are perfect.’
Chugging past Camden Town, we pointed out all the places we knew to Sophie. Light snow was fluttering down, and though Sophie and I thought it was magical, I could see Harry was worried.
‘If it’s snowing here, that probably means it’s like blizzard conditions back in Sheffield.’
‘Then that’s even better.’ Sophie clapped her hands together. ‘We’ll have a proper white Christmas.’
‘Not if we’re stuck in a cheap, nasty little hotel in Wellingborough over the holidays.’
Sophie looked aghast. ‘That’s not going to happen, is it, Harry?’
‘I hope not.’ Harry shrugged. ‘I’m looking forward to my mum’s Yorkshire pudding and Christmas cake. Not stale cheese and onion crisps and a Crunchie!’
‘Don’t tease me.’ Sophie turned to me. ‘He is joking, isn’t he?’
‘I certainly hope so.’ Thinking about it, though, I also felt anxious when we passed by St Albans and then Luton with the snow deepening on either side.
‘These are the Chiltern Hills,’ said Harry, indicating out of the left-hand window. ‘In summer, they are rolling hills of green countryside. Now you can see why I’m concerned we might not make it?’
The rolling hills had been replaced by white. The hedgerows were bumps in the white, the trees poked up, laden with white, and the villages we shot past were heaped with white. It looked as if the whole place had been covered in icing, and we were crossing a gigantic Christmas cake.
There was movement further up the train. The snacks trolley was being wheeled down the aisle.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘As we had breakfast so long ago in the mists of time, shall we order something now?’
‘Okay.’ Sophie eyed the contents. ‘Is there anything remotely edible? Ooh! Don’t they have any alcoholic drinks? We can start celebrating early.’
‘Wow!’ Harry nodded at me. ‘You can see whose sister she is.’
‘I may have been first out, but I do believe she has overtaken me.’ I rummaged in my bag to find my purse. When the trolley arrived, we got three coffees that were not particularly coffee-like and three limp sandwiches. Harry tweaked out a note and got a packet of Porky Scratchings and three Mars Bars.
