Promises After Dark (After Dark Book 3) (30 page)

‘She’s grown up,’ my father says wistfully.

‘I had to, sooner or later!’ I say jokily but I know that I’m a different Beth in so many ways. I’ve seen another world to the one I grew up in, I’ve travelled and I’ve worked and discovered resources inside myself I didn’t know I had. And . . . I blush a tiny bit to think of it . . . I’ve learned some pretty amazing things about love and sex as well. It’s almost comical to think of how innocent I was when I left home last summer to travel to London, and yet I thought I knew it all. Well, I know a lot more now, that’s for sure!

Mum begins to bustle round me. ‘Come on, let’s get your luggage in your old room, and then we’ll have some tea and talk while I get on with this cooking. I’ve got a mountain to do before tomorrow!’

It’s like I’ve never been away. The house is just the same, a mix of cosiness and chaos, and it’s like dozens of other family Christmases – the hot scented fug of baking and roasting, the sound of carols coming out of the radio, the frantic air of organisation as my father is sent on last-minute errands to the butcher’s, the log man, the coal man, and my mother does her usual thing of trying to get ahead. My two older brothers, Jeremy and Robert, are stretched out in the TV room, watching Christmas specials with a bowl of crisps in front of them and cans of beer already open, waiting for what Christmas goodies are offered to them. In the sitting room, a tree, hung with all the old familiar decorations including a shabby old blue tinsel star, perfumes the room with pine and a twine of holly decorates the mantelpiece. There are already presents under the tree and the room is full of Christmas cards. It’s all just the same.

This year, I’m the one who’s different.

That evening we crunch through the frosty village to midnight mass. The voices of the choir soar upwards in the beautiful old tunes and we all join in with the Christmas hymns, belting out ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ with all our strength. The church bell starts to chime as we make our way home, ringing in Christmas. A message pops through to my phone.

Happy Christmas, gorgeous girl. I’m thinking of you. I love you. Dx

Tears start in my eyes even though I breathe a happy sigh and smile.

I look up at the clear night sky peppered with sparkling stars. Somewhere, thousands of miles away, it’s still daytime. It’s still Christmas Eve and he’s thinking of me.

‘Happy Christmas, Dominic,’ I whisper. And I slip my phone back in my pocket so that no one knows about my message. It’s for me alone.

Christmas Day is merry and exhausting. After breakfast, we gather by the tree to open our gifts. As I stretch out my hand to take a parcel that my brother Jeremy is passing me, my mother’s eagle eye catches the sparkle on my finger.

‘What’s that, Beth?’ She reaches out and takes my hand, gazing down at the circle of diamonds on my finger. ‘This is very nice. Who gave it to you?’

‘Oh, it’s just a bit of costume jewellery,’ I say airily. ‘From a friend.’

She looks at me suspiciously but I send her a look that I hope translates as: ‘I don’t want to talk about this right now in front of the others, ask me later!’

Mum seems to understand, though she drops my hand reluctantly and murmurs, ‘Those diamonds look real to me!’ under her breath. I wish I’d remembered to take the ring off but I know that secretly I couldn’t bear to. The ring is my link to Dominic, my promise. I want to be able to look at it at any moment, and remember.

We open our presents, and exchange thanks and kisses. We all have a familiar haul in front of us: the whisky, slippers and handkerchiefs for my father, the soap and scent for my mother, and books, films and music for the rest of us. It’s the usual comfortable set of presents from the people we love, and that makes them special. I’m excited that everyone seems to like the gifts I brought back from New York: a silver charm bracelet from Bloomingdale’s for my mother, baseball tops for my brothers and a J Crew sweater for my father.

‘Hold on,’ says my father, and he reaches out for a parcel I put under the tree the night before. ‘Who’s this for?’ He pulls out the beautiful pale blue box wrapped with a white ribbon and examines the tag. ‘To darling Beth, Happy Christmas, Love from Mark.’ He hands it over to me. ‘Something fancy from your boss, by the looks of it.’

I take the parcel and open it slowly, with everyone watching.

‘Gorgeous ribbon,’ breathes my mother. ‘You should keep that. You could use it again.’

I lift the lid of the box and reveal a mound of the softest tissue paper underneath. Holding my breath, I put my fingers into it and find another small box, this time in navy blue watered silk. I open that and reveal inside a perfect miniature painting in an oval gold frame. It must be eighteenth-century; a portrait of a girl with rosy cheeks and pink rosebuds in her powdered hair. One hand is lifted by her cheek and holds another flowering rose as she gazes out of the picture with merry blue eyes and a smile on her red lips.

There is a tiny note next to it in Mark’s elegant flowing hand. It reads:
In memory of your Fragonard.

I gasp. Could this be a Fragonard? It certainly looks like his style, but it can’t be possible. A real Fragonard miniature would be worth thousands. There’s no way Mark would give me that as a gift. This must be of his school, a painting in his style. Mark has given it to me to remind me of the painting I bought for Andrei, the stunning portrait of the reading girl. I gaze again at the bright rosy face, so perfectly realised by the artist’s brush. It’s beautiful. I love it.

‘Let me see,’ says my mother, craning curiously. ‘Oh, that’s very pretty. What a lovely present! I saw something just like that in the gift shop of the V & A.’

I stare at my painting. I don’t think this is from a museum gift shop, but maybe it’s better if my parents think it is. They wouldn’t like me to accept anything too valuable.

I think of Mark at home with Caroline this Christmas. I wonder how he is and if his fever is any better. I’ll call him later, I decide, to wish him a merry Christmas and thank him for this beautiful gift.

In the event Christmas Day is busy, and I spend most of it in the kitchen helping my mother prepare the feast. After an enormous lunch that goes on for hours, we do the traditional family things of playing games and teasing each other over yet more food – cheese, biscuits, chocolates and Christmas cake. There’s time for a quick walk around the village, stopping to chat to people we know, as the sun goes down.

When we turn for home, my father and brothers walk on ahead while my mother and I stroll along behind, and I tell her all about New York. I know she’s dying to ask me about my ring and I’m just working up to mentioning Dominic when I see a familiar figure in a puffy jacket and a woolly hat, walking along with a girl in a big fluffy white coat.

‘Isn’t that Adam?’ asks my mother, squinting over, trying to make him out in the failing light.

‘Oh – yes, I think it is.’ I stare over, not quite sure how I feel to see my old boyfriend. It’s hard to believe that I once considered him the love of my life. He looks like a stranger now – pleasant enough but nothing special. Compared to Dominic, he seems pallid and ordinary.

‘Adam!’ calls my mother and waves as he turns to look.

‘Mum! Why did you do that?’ I hiss, shooting her daggers.

‘No harm in letting him see what he threw away,’ murmurs my mother, smiling in a satisfied way. Sure enough, Adam has recognised us and is walking over, bringing his reluctant companion with him.

‘Hi, Mrs Villiers,’ he says as he comes within earshot. He looks at me. ‘Hi, Beth.’ He gestures to his girlfriend. ‘You remember Hannah.’

I look over at her and remember the last time I saw her – she was under Adam with her legs wide open as he pounded in and out of her. ‘Yes. How nice to see you again.’

She scowls at me and grunts something, shoving her hands deep in her pockets to indicate her boredom with the situation. I smile at her. I owe her one for deciding to sleep with my boyfriend.

‘How are things, Beth?’ Adam asks cheerily. ‘You’re looking really well. You still with that bloke you met in London?’

My mother’s eyebrows rise as she turns to look at me.

‘Um – yes,’ I say, flushing a little. ‘Everything’s fine, thanks. How are you?’

He nods enthusiastically, his plump cheeks shaking with the movement. ‘Yeah, great. Hannah is expecting a little one. We’re really excited.’

‘Oh.’ I look back at the sulky face of his girlfriend. ‘That’s lovely news. Congratulations. When is it due?’

‘In March.’ Adam smiles at me. ‘I can’t wait to be a dad.’

For a moment I have a flash of myself standing here, next to Adam, pregnant and looking forward to life spent bringing up a baby in the village where I grew up. I’m flooded with relief that I’ve found a different path. It’s right for Adam and Hannah, but it’s not right for me.

‘That’s fantastic. Good luck. See you around, Adam,’ I say, and my mother and I walk on together, heading after my father and brothers in the distance.

‘A man in London?’ says my mother in an inquisitive voice. ‘I think you’ve got some explaining to do.’ She gives me a sideways look. ‘And if that ring is a fake, I’m Audrey Hepburn!’

I laugh. ‘Don’t worry, I’m going to tell you everything!’

‘I should hope so. I’ve noticed you’ve got a different air about you.’ She gives me a keen look that has a touch of wistfulness in it. ‘You’ve changed, Beth.’

‘You’ll hear all about it. I was just waiting for the time to be right, that’s all. While the boys are washing up, we can sit down by the fire and I’ll spill the beans.’ Just then my phone buzzes into life. I pull it out, sure that it’s a Christmas greeting from Dominic. He should be up by now and sharing his Christmas morning with Georgie, or with his cousins, or wherever they’ve ended up. I wonder what he’s doing right now, whether he’s opening presents or sipping a glass of champagne over breakfast.

The message on my phone reads:

Dear Beth, I’m sorry to give you this news today of all days. but I thought you should know that Mark’s been taken into hospital. He’s seriously ill. Please call me. Caroline.

My father tries to persuade me not to drive, but I won’t listen.

‘I have to get to Mark,’ I say stubbornly when he attempts to talk me out of it.

‘You’re upset. You shouldn’t get behind the wheel, you’re very likely to have an accident if you drive in a state like this.’

‘Your father’s right,’ my mother chimes in, agitated. ‘You mustn’t go, Beth, I won’t allow it. There’s nothing you can do for Mark anyway!’

‘I can be there for him,’ I say, determined. ‘He’s done so much for me. You can’t forbid me, I’m not a child.’

‘I can forbid you from taking the car!’ declares my mother and we scowl at each other.

Jeremy heaves a big sigh and gets to his feet. ‘I can drive her,’ he says in his languid way. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘But you’ve been drinking,’ my mother says anxiously. ‘We all have!’

Jeremy makes a face. ‘I had a couple of glasses of wine over lunch but that was hours ago. I was saving myself up for the pub tonight. But I guess I can take Beth back to London if she has to get there.’

I’m washed over with a wave of relief. ‘Oh thank you, Jeremy! I owe you.’

‘You certainly do,’ he says but with a smile. ‘Come on, then, we’d better get going. The roads will probably be all right as it’s Christmas Day.’

I run upstairs to get my things.

The journey back to London takes just under two and half hours, which is very good going. Jeremy makes my mother’s small runabout car zoom down the motorway at speeds it probably didn’t know it was capable of. I’m agitated, watching the miles disappear with what seems like agonising slowness beneath our wheels. It seems to take forever to get back to the city but at last, in the darkness of the evening, we make our way along the roads that lead into the heart of London. I direct my brother through the intricacies of east London and into the centre, where we finally pull up at the Princess Charlotte hospital.

‘Thank you, Jeremy,’ I say, giving him a grateful look. ‘I really appreciate this.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he says. ‘Do you want me to wait?’

I shake my head. ‘Not unless you want to. I don’t know when I’ll be going back home. I want to stay with Mark while I can. I can get a taxi home later.’

‘Okay, sis. I’ll take a walk, stretch my legs and have a coffee and then head home.’ He grins. ‘I might make it back in time for the lock-in!’

Inside the hospital the mood is subdued. There aren’t many staff around and there is the sense that Christmas is happening somewhere else and everybody would like to be there more than here. I check my phone but there are no messages. I texted Caroline to let her know I was coming but there’s been no answer from her.

The nurse at the desk looks solemn when I tell her that I’ve come to see Mark. ‘He’s in intensive care,’ she tells me. ‘You can visit, but not for long.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’ I ask, frightened. ‘Is he going to be all right?’

‘I’m afraid his infection has developed into pneumonia. He’s fighting it as well as he can, but the fact that he is so weak already isn’t helping.’ She looks at me with sympathetic eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’