The Christmas Contract, page 1
www.harpercollins.com.au/hq
PAMELA COOK is an author, podcaster and teacher who writes stories of longing and belonging, delving deep into the psychology of her characters and the complexity of relationships in all their forms. She has had four novels and one novella published traditionally and two independent titles. Pamela is the host of the Writes4Women podcast and teaches writing workshops through her business, Wildwords, and at various writers’ centres. Her latest release is Out of the Ashes, the follow-up to her first novel Blackwattle Lake.
You can learn more about Pamela at pamelacook.com.au, find her podcast at writes4women.com, and reach her on Facebook at PamelaCookAuthor, on Instagram @pamelacookwrites and on X @PamelaCookAU.
For Jack and Charlie, who inspired Finn. Thank you for showing me how gorgeous little boys can be.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Sometimes—not very often—I almost regret throwing Jason Arnold out the door along with his suitcase and six years of a not-very-steady relationship, and this is one of those times. He may have been a dud partner, a barely-there father and a lying, not to mention cheating, Mistake but the man was handy with a power tool, and I could really use that skill right now.
‘Urgh.’ Dirty dishwater belches from the pipe and splats me in the face. The oily fluid coats my cheeks and runs down my neck into my already sweat-soaked cleavage. As fast as I can, I twist the bolt-thingy back onto the top of the plastic U-bend to stem the flow. The blockage must be further along the pipe. Maybe.
A rancid taste coats my tongue and I turn my head and spit onto the floor as I wriggle out from under the sink like a horizontal hula dancer.
‘You said spitting is for llamas.’ Finn sits at the bench on the one stool we own, crunching his way through an apple, his mop of sandy ringlets slightly shading his narrowed eyes. His father’s jade green eyes (sadly) which apparently trumped my baby blues. Hardly fair given his ambivalence about the whole parenting thing.
‘Spitting is for llamas.’ I push myself to my feet and wipe my grotesquely clammy palms down the side seams of my denim shorts. ‘It’s also for mummies who may have just swallowed a mouthful of something gross.’ Thankfully, at the tender age of five, my son is too young to read anything dirty into that comment but my cheeks burn.
‘Is it fixed?’
I swipe a hand across my forehead and tuck a strand of lank hair behind my ear. ‘Nope. Looks like I’ll have to call a plumber.’
‘And we’ll have to keep washing up?’
‘Sadly, yes.’
Finn groans dramatically, drooping his shoulders and letting his head fall to the side as if a hypnotist has put him into an instant deep sleep.
‘It’s not that bad. There’s only two of us and we don’t make much mess. Plus, if you want to earn pocket money for that telescope you want, it’s an extra job to add to your list.’
‘I guess.’ He shrugs, takes a final bite of his apple and tosses it into the compost bin. ‘I’ll go and feed Pumpkin.’ In a flash he’s off the stool and out the door to tend to his pony, the one job he does without complaint. The door bangs behind him, making me jump.
I sigh into the solitude of the kitchen and survey the carnage that makes a mockery of my ‘we don’t make much mess’ proclamation. Dishes piled up in the sink. Last night’s pots and pans still unwashed on the stovetop. Reusable bags full of unpacked shopping waiting beside the pantry. Not exactly ready for a Country Style feature anytime soon. The contents of Finn’s kindy bag are strewn across the floor—his Spider-man drink bottle, a half-eaten sandwich and a drawing he’d been about to show me when the dishwasher once again did its impression of a seaside blowhole and spewed water all over the linoleum. Luckily the artwork, perched precariously on top of the backpack, survived.
I pick it up and my heart splinters. On one side of the page a stick figure with yellow shoulder-length ringlets holds the hand of a much smaller one with similar coloured spirals springing from its forehead (right above the arms which appear to be sprouting from the ears). Next to them is a tree with a three-pointed star balancing on the top, and on the left-hand side a single figure stands next to what could be a motorbike. Then again, it could be a tractor or a police car or a monster truck, given all Finn’s vehicles look the same—two wobbly circles connected by a straight-ish line and a T-shaped steering wheel slash handlebar. But the word scrawled in jittery crayon letters beneath the stick man gives it away: ‘Dad’. His own name, along with ‘Mum’, is written beside the other two figures, the gulf between them and the bike guy a painfully realistic metaphor. Is a physically absent father better than one who lives under the same roof but barely engages with his son? Because he’s too busy ‘engaging’ elsewhere, online and off? My jaw hardens and I shake my head to loosen the memories and send them scampering.
No point dwelling on the past, not when there’s plenty to be doing in the present. Dinner won’t cook itself so I may as well get this chaos sorted. I take a peek out the window and a squadron of swallows swirl and dip inside my chest. Pumpkin chews on his hay while Finn—lips moving and face animated—brushes his flaxen mane. They’ve built such a strong bond in only a matter of months. I can’t wait to see them grow even closer. Like Ebony and me. Ebony. My beautiful coal-black mare, her coat glinting in the sunlight, her soft dark eyes meeting mine with so much trust ... my gut clenches like a fist.
The bouncy tone of Dolly Parton’s ‘9 to 5’ chimes, pulling me out of that line of thought in the nick of time. I pick up my phone and freeze at the caller ID: Dad. Why would he be calling at 5:37 on a Tuesday evening when it’s barely daylight in London? Then again, he does like to check work emails early, just in case he needs to berate someone for a job not-so-well done. Maybe I can let it ring out and message him later, after I’ve come up with the next set of lies about how well everything is going here at the farm. My hand tightens around the phone as Dolly starts on the chorus. If I ignore the call he’ll leave a snippy voicemail (which I could also ignore) but ripping the band-aid off now means I won’t have to spend all day wondering what could possibly be so urgent. I pull in a breath and exhale as I press the green phone symbol, pasting a ‘good daughter’ smile on my face in preparation.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Hello, Bridget.’ My father always insists on using my full name. ‘I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.’ He talks to his family with the same level of formality he uses with his business connections. No ‘Hi, honey, how are you doing?’ or ‘How’s my favourite girl?’ If he ever used that kind of tone I’d know there was something seriously wrong.
‘No, it’s fine, I haven’t started dinner yet.’
‘Oh, good. We have some news.’
‘We’ being the royal we, as he likes to speak on behalf of my mother, just as he likes to build up to his announcements instead of simply saying what he has to say as any normal person would. I fold my arm across my waist and wait.
‘I’ve been able to wrangle some time away from the office. Your mother and I are coming for Christmas.’
My stomach does some kind of weird spinning, cramping thing that makes it shrink to the size of a pea. ‘Coming where?’
Dad does one of his ‘don’t be ridiculous’ chuckles. ‘We are coming to see you, and Finn and ...’ There’s a pause on the end of the line and I know he’s racking his brain to come up with the name he so loathes. ‘Jason.’ Ah, there it is. ‘For Christmas.’
‘You mean for Christmas Day? You’re coming here?’ Does he mean here, as in here to Lynstock, a place he refers to as ‘the middle of nowhere’ which is in fact only one hour from Canberra?
‘Unless that’s a problem for you, Bridget, yes, we are coming to the farm to spend Christmas with you and your family.’
‘Okay.’ It comes out in a squeak. Like I’m a mouse and someone has trodden on my tail. I catch my breath. ‘That’s ... great. It will be great to see you.’ I try to infuse my voice with some enthusiasm. You get good at telling bald-faced lies when you’re the youngest child and only daughter of overbearing parents.
‘Yes, it’s been a while. I’m sure Finn has grown into a fine young boy. Your mother is very excited to see him.’
Is she? Might be nice of her to tell me that herself in some form of communication, but anyway. ‘Yeah, well, three years makes a huge difference.’ When do you arrive? How long will you be staying? Do you have to come? I bite down on my lip to keep the questions from escaping.
‘How are things there? Are you on track for the organic certification?’
He emphasises the last two words in that snarly way he has of saying things he finds distasteful. As if he’s popped a sardine into his mouth when he thought he was getting a chocolate frog.
‘We’re still in the conversion stage, but things are coming along.’ I turn to look out the window at the overgrown lawn, the paddocks that need slashing, the weeds choking the garden and, in the distance, the mini-tractor still bogged beside the dam. My eyes burn. I harden my jaw. I will not cry on the phone to my father.
Don’t I know it. And Dad is never one to baulk when it comes to a deal. Business is business, even if it’s done with your only daughter and her dead-beat partner. ‘All good.’ I’ve learnt from experience that saying as little as possible is the easiest and quickest route to ending the conversation.
‘All right then. Your mother sends her love. We’ll see you on Christmas Eve. We can talk further then. Goodbye, Bridget.’
‘Bye, Dad.’
The line goes dead. I stand perfectly still, phone clutched in my palm, like a mechanical doll waiting to be wound up so I can move my limbs. But inside is a whole other story, a cyclone churning beneath my skin. Ever so slowly I place the phone on the bench and lift my fingers to my face, press them into the hollows at the base of my brows, and wait for the full version of my name—and the human it represents—to evaporate so the real me can re-inhabit her body.
So: my parents are visiting for Christmas. Actually coming here to stay. Here, in the cottage I told them had been completely renovated. More than told—sent photos from my Pinterest board which I may have suggested was how the place already looked. They’re coming here to the farm Dad helped finance on the condition Jason and I got it up to scratch by the end of the year. Meaning we turn Grandma Molly’s Market Garden into a proper business that actually makes money, or at least has the potential to make money, so we can start paying off the loan. The loan he gave us on top of the trust fund I received for my thirtieth birthday, both of which I—we— needed to buy this place and get it up and running.
Only there’s one problem. Well, two. First: the place is nowhere near ready to turn a profit because I’ve been working it solo since Jason left around six months ago, less than five months after we moved in. Secondly: I may have omitted to tell my parents I am now a single mum. As much as they never liked Jason (and okay, they were right about him) the idea of me and Finn living out here ‘in the middle of nowhere’ (cue my mother’s horrified tone) would be absolute anathema to them both. They’ll use this to get me back into the fold, back into the family law firm they so wanted me to stay in alongside my brothers.
If Dad recalls the loan there’s no way I can afford to stay here and live the dream the way I’d planned. I bite down on my bottom lip and drag my gaze to the already raided Advent calendar—six chocolates missing when it should only be four—and do a mental count of the days left until Christmas. Three weeks exactly. I cave in on myself, as immobile as a beached jellyfish.
Basically, I’m screwed.
It’s a forty-minute round trip to drop Finn off at preschool, sometimes longer if I have errands to run. Like today, when I have so many things to do it’s making my head whirl like a theme park ride on overdrive, and the echoes of last night’s phone call are only making it spin faster. If I have any chance at all of getting the next veggie order ready for the chef at Bounty, I need to get the weeds under control and make sure the snails don’t gorge themselves on the zucchini flowers. That means more coffee grounds are needed. Cue a stop-off at my favourite cafe.
‘Hey, girlfriend.’ Ace flashes me his broad Jamaican smile. He’s quite possibly the best barista in the Southern Hemisphere. ‘The usual?’
I nod. ‘Yes please.’
I flick through the pile of mail I collected from the post office. Without even opening them I know most of them are bills, but one looks a little different. I slip my finger under the seal, rip the envelope open and slide out the enclosed document.
‘How’s my man feeling about heading to big school?’ Ace raises his voice over the noise of the grinder, the rhythm of his words almost lyrical. On instinct I inhale and honestly, the aroma is a mix of dark chocolate and caramel with a hint of almond and it’s, well … orgasmic.
‘He’s excited. Can’t wait to learn about the solar system and space travel, although I have told him that probably won’t be covered in the kindergarten curriculum.’
Ace laughs. ‘That’s one smart boonoonoonoos.’
‘Too smart for his own good sometimes.’ And mine. My smile belies my words as I unfold the paper in my hand. Luckily I’m not the only one who recognises Finn’s intelligence is pretty up there for a five-year-old. I’m a little concerned he’ll be bored at school but I don’t want to be the annoying mother who thinks her child is a genius, even though he quite possibly is.
The cream whipper whirs, and as I scan the letter, I can almost feel my blood flow slowing. It’s a formal letter from my father’s solicitor—he outsources, even for personal matters—reminding me of the terms of the loan he made me this time last year. I pause at the final paragraph:
In the event that the conditions of this loan are not fulfilled, the loan provided by Michael James Grainger will be withdrawn and the above listed property will be sold, as per the original agreement. As a reminder, the loan conditions are as follows:
* Grandma Molly’s Market Garden will be producing and starting to show a profit by December 31.
* Said business will be producing enough income for monthly payments against the amount lent from said date.
* Documentation showing profit and loss and projections for the second year of business will be made available to the lender on request.
My face is so hot I am sure there must be steam bursting from my eardrums. Not only does he remind me about our business deal on the phone, he has to send me a formal ultimatum. Is he even my father? Is it possible they took the wrong child home from the hospital and my real parents are two sweet, kind human beings who actually listen to their children and don’t give with one hand and snatch away with the other?
‘One Blue Mountain iced coffee for my favourite customer.’ Ace brandishes his cheesiest grin, but it fades as he looks across the counter at what must be the rapidly fading colour in my cheeks. ‘Everything okay, Bridie?’
‘Yeah,’ I lie. ‘Everything’s fine.’ If being bullied by your own father is fine. If the fact that you absolutely cannot start payments on the loan he grudgingly agreed to by ‘said date’ is fine. If ‘said’ father allowing you to chase your dream simply so he can stomp on it in his hand-made designer shoes and crush it to smithereens is fine. All because he’s a master manipulator who must get his own way at all times, regardless of the emotional toll on those he supposedly loves. ‘Thanks for the iced coffee.’ I take a swig and let the cold deliciousness soothe my aching throat and settle inside my chest, dousing the flames the letter has ignited. ‘See you soon.’
I shove the mail in my handbag and start out the door, suddenly remembering why I came in the first place. I turn back towards the counter. ‘I totally forgot. Any grounds?’
He glances down behind the counter. ‘Three bags full. I’ll bring them out for you.’
‘Thanks, Ace. You’re an angel.’
Bending down, he hoists a large nylon bag, full to bursting, over his shoulder, follows me out to the car and dumps it in the boot before repeating the process with the other two. ‘These things really keep the snails away?’
‘One hundred percent. They’re high in nitrogen so they make great fertiliser once they’re mixed with compost, and apparently snails aren’t into coffee so it keeps them and a few other pests away.’
Ace shakes his head and taps a finger to his temple. ‘I know where Finn gets his brains from.’
‘It’s not rocket science.’ I shrug. ‘But it’s pretty fascinating once you start learning about soil composition and conservation. I learnt so many simple things from my grandmother, but most people now just aren’t aware.’
‘Well …’ Ace bows as he steps back onto the footpath. ‘I am happy to be learning from you, my friend.’
‘Thanks, Ace. Sorry if I sound too preachy.’
‘Never.’ He winks. ‘Stay cool.’
Stay cool. Not that easy when the temperature gauge on the dashboard reads twenty-six degrees and it’s not even nine am. There’s no doubt the earth’s temperature is warming. How can anyone doubt it when the polar icecaps are melting at a rate of over thirteen percent per decade and some scientists are saying there won’t even be any by the year 2040? How can I not do everything I can to try and help the planet when I have a gorgeous little five-year-old who is going to inherit the mess my generation and the previous ones have created? Previous generations being the key phrase. Including my own father, who has no qualms defending the corporations most responsible for the state of the planet.
