Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? (11 page)

Anyroadup, if I say so myself, the place looks terrific: the fire in the drawing room is blazing away, cheesy, cheery Christmas songs are playing in the background and the mulled wine is mulling. I think to take my mind off the play, I’ve been over-compensating by acting like Nigella on speed these past few days. By some miracle, I’ve managed to do all the shopping for Christmas Day and not forget anything, tidied the house from top to bottom and still found time to squeeze in an appointment to get my big bushy head of hair blow-dried straight for the holidays.
Well, straight-ish, given that my hair actually grows outwards and not downwards. Not unlike Sideshow Bob’s in
The Simpsons.

Come six pm and just as the last patient leaves the surgery, suddenly the drawing room seems packed with people: Dan, Andrew, James, the intern, Mrs Brophy yelling at everyone and of course Jules who’s been here all day, supposedly helping me, but who’s actually spent most of the afternoon slumped on a couch with a bridge of saliva between her knees and chin, watching
It’s a Wonderful Life
on TV.

The room is buzzing, everyone’s laughing and enjoying themselves and just as I’m racing around in my good Karen Millen LBD, topping up glasses and making sure everyone’s stuffing their faces with mince pies…surprise surprise…the phone in the hall rings.

Silence as we all look at each other and all you can hear is Shane McGowan rasping ‘Fairytale of New York’ in the background.

‘WHAT WAS THAT?’ yells poor, half-deaf Mrs Brophy.

‘Phone,’ says Andrew, pointedly not budging. ‘Must be a patient.’

Shane McGowan and Kirstie MacColl are growling out the bit where they call each other scumbags and maggots, while tension suddenly bounces off the four walls of the drawing room.

‘I’ll take it,’ Dan volunteers.

‘No, no, stay and relax, I’m sure whoever it is will understand that it’s Christmas Eve and that we’ve closed up for the holidays,’ Andrew smiles benignly. But it’s loo late – Dan’s already out the door. I’m focusing on handing out mince pies and desperately trying to convince myself that this is absolutely NO indication of how things will be over
the short holiday when the practice is closed and when Dan is meant to be
taking a break
.

Two minutes later, he’s back in the room, rubbing his eyes with the back of his palms, the way he always does whenever he’s really exhausted.

‘Everything OK?’ Andrew asks politely, glass in hand.

‘That was Beatrice Kelly,’ Dan replies and I know with absolute certainty what’s coming next. Beatrice is an elderly widow who lives on her own and is passionately devoted to her horses, which she treats almost like surrogate children. In fact, it’s a kind of joke around here that if there is such a thing as reincarnation, then to come back as one of Beatrice’s horses would be karma of the highest order.

‘It’s that hunter she had trouble with last week,’ Dan tells Andrew.

‘Oh, the hyperperistalsis case?’

‘That’s the one. Now she thinks it’s full blown colic and she’s panicking. Right then, sorry to break up the party, but I’d better get out there.’

I get a justifiable flash of irritation when I see that neither Andrew nor James as much as offer to go with Dan, but just sit there nursing their mulled wine, nibbling on mince pies and looking at him blankly. So, silently fuming, I dump down my tray of empty glasses and follow Dan down the freezing cold kitchen passage and out the side door.

‘Sorry about this,’ he says, pulling on a pair of Wellingtons. ‘But it’s all my own fault. I told Beatrice that if she had the slightest concern about that horse to ring me immediately. And you know what she’s like when it comes to her horses.’

I force my mouth into a stretched smile and utter the one phrase that pretty much summarises my life at The Moorings to date.

‘It’s fine, it can’t be helped.’

‘No, course not.’

‘I’m only sorry you’re missing the party, that’s all.’

‘I’ll be well back in time for Midnight Mass, don’t worry.’

I manage a genuine smile at this. Although neither Dan nor myself are the slightest bit religious, still Midnight Mass is the one time of year you can count on us heathens to cross the threshold of the local church. Useless pair of hypocrites, I know, but it’s just such a lovely service, with the kids singing carols and the big tree and most of the town there, half pissed.

‘I’m not a bit worried about the party,’ I say calmly, even managing to make myself believe it. ‘Sure we’ve still got all day tomorrow and the day after. Don’t we?’

I reach up to gently brush a tufty bit of his thick, black hair that’s standing upright on his forehead, then go to gently stroke his cheek, but he’s distracted and doesn’t respond.

And two seconds later he’s gone out into the dark, icy cold evening.

Half eleven that night and he’s still not back, so after I’ve tidied up the house, Jules and I walk to Midnight Mass on our own. Well, that is to say I walk and she staggers, having spent most of the evening knocking back approximately half a bucket of the mulled wine. I’m still hopeful that Dan might meet us at the church or even join us late during the service, but when we get there, there’s no sign of his mud-soaked jeep anywhere.

A sudden stab of worry: he shouldn’t have taken this long, should he? Maybe there’d been some kind of accident? So I call him but he doesn’t answer. Which only makes worry work like yeast in my mind.

By the time the choir get to
Silent Night
, Jules has fallen asleep and actually snores for the rest of the service.

Holiday = not off to a good start.

Christmas morning and the sound of a mug being plonked down on the beside table next to me wakes me up. It’s Dan, still wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday and looking more shattered than I think I’ve ever seen him. And older too; for the first time in the bright morning light I notice grey hair starting to sprout round his temples. All the ridiculous hours he’s been working finally taking their toll.

‘Hey, Happy Christmas, sleeping beauty,’ he says softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside me and rubbing his eyes exhaustedly with the back of his hands. ‘Made you some tea.’

‘Dan! Where were you? I mean, what happened last night? I was so worried…’

‘I know and I’m so sorry, love. It was all hours by the time I got back, so I just crashed out on the sofa downstairs so I wouldn’t disturb you. Believe me, I couldn’t get away any sooner.’

I haul myself up onto the pillows, waiting for the morning fuzziness in my brain to clear and for that two-second time-lag to pass before my thoughts come back into focus. Yeah, now I have it; he went to Beatrice Kelly’s farm last night, something about a colicky hunter.

‘Problem with the horse?’

‘Well, no, not really,’ he says, the black eyes suddenly miles away, full of concern. ‘I think the main reason Beatrice called me out was that she was feeling a bit lonely. You know how tough this time of year can be for anyone living alone. I think she just wanted the company more than
anything else. I tried calling you but of course, no signal on my phone up there.’

I nod and say nothing, knowing it’s completely pointless to. I can see it all too clearly: Beatrice was all alone on Christmas Eve. And of course Dan with the biggest heart in the south east, stayed up with her and talked the night away. So what can I do? As usual, nothing. Neediness always gets top priority in Dan’s life, always. It might as well be engraved on his forehead: ‘the squeaky wheel gets the grease’.

We exchange gifts and I give him his first. A satnav, which I know he wanted and which I bought when I was up in Dublin doing my call-back audition. It cost a packet and I had to go to loads of trouble to get it, but get it I did and he’s delighted with it…then he hands me a slim, white envelope, looking at me sheepishly.

‘Merry Christmas, Annie. This is…well, let’s just say it’s my small way of trying to make things up to you. For the anniversary night, for everything.’

I open it and almost fall out of bed with shock. It’s a voucher for the two of us for a weekend at Marlfield House, the posh country house hotel where our last, disastrous, aborted anniversary night was supposed to take place.

‘Dan!’ I manage to stammer, utterly overwhelmed at the gesture. Not just by the thoughtfulness of it, but by the fact that he actually intends to take a full weekend off just for the two of us to be together. The best Christmas present I could possibly have asked for.

‘This is completely wonderful…thank you…so, so much…’

I smile up at him and he gently takes my hand and starts massaging it.

‘Annie…I know things haven’t been easy here for you
and you’ve been so amazing to put up with everything the way you do. But you do know why I’m doing all this, don’t you? Why I’m working so hard and putting in all these ridiculous hours?’

‘Course I do…’

‘…all I’m trying to do is build up the practice…’

‘I know…’

‘…and then there’s so many people relying on me to keep things going. Depending on me for a living. Mum, Jules, Andrew, James, Mrs Brophy…and I couldn’t live with myself if I thought I was letting anyone down. You know that Dad left things in such a bad way when he died, and the only way I can haul us all out of this is just to keep on working at this pace…for the moment, at least.’

‘Dan, shhhhhhh, it’s OK and for what it’s worth, I do understand…’

He’s completely focused on my palm now, which looks tiny in his huge tanned hands, like he’s some sort of giant that’s played tricks with scale. But we’re only inches apart and it’s the closest and most intimate we’ve been in I can’t remember how long. The most emotionally available he’s been to me, literally, in years.

‘Just bear with me for a bit longer, Annie, that’s all I’m asking. The time will come when the practice is running smoothly and then we’ll have more time for each other, I promise.’

‘Hey, look, we’ve got the whole of today, don’t we? No work, no call-outs, no interruptions…’

‘Now that’s a definite promise, no working today,’ he smiles…the crooked smile that I love so much. Then he looks at me tenderly, in a way he hasn’t done in the longest time. I slowly slide my hand up his arm, wanting
nothing more than to kiss him, to feel his huge, warm arms wrapped around mine, to pull him back down into bed beside me.

‘So we’ve got all day today then? You give me your word?’

‘The whole day,’ he half-whispers, moving in closer still as I lock my arms around his tanned, broad shoulders.

Next thing, from downstairs, the dogs start to go mad at the unmistakable sound of someone letting themselves in through the front door.

‘DAN? ANNIE? Where are you? I thought you’d already be in the kitchen getting the turkey organised by now, what is going on? Don’t tell me you’re still in bed?’

Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, I do not believe this. It’s Audrey; arrived early and letting herself in with her own key, like she always does.

Mood shattered, romantic moment well and truly over.

Half an hour later and I’m up, washed, dressed and whizzing round the kitchen, full of hope for the day ahead and absolutely determined to make sure that everyone has the Best Christmas Ever. We’ll be like the family in the Dolmio ad, I think, efficiently basting the turkey, checking the stuffing hasn’t fallen out of it and pre-heating the oven.

Jules trails in mid-morning, yawning and demanding to know if I’ve got any Solpadeine lying around, that she’s dying with a hangover. So I efficiently whirl round the place sorting that out for her, while getting Audrey settled with a sweet sherry in front of the fire, then getting back to the kitchen, at all times acting the part of perfect hostess-cum-dutiful daughter-in-law.

Never in my whole life have I gone to so much trouble; I have officially busted my ass for this Christmas dinner and the only thing that’s getting me through is the thought
that tonight, when everyone’s gone, it’ll finally, finally, finally just be me and Dan. A.L.O.N.E.

Next thing Jules ambles into the kitchen in her lazy way, wanting to know where the Quality Street are. I’m just about to be a total Irish Mammy and tell her she’s not allowed eat them now, that it’ll only ruin her dinner, when next thing a car swooshes into the driveway.

A familiar looking, bashed-up green Nissan with two child seats in the back.

‘Ah, for feck’s sake!’ yells Jules, suddenly more animated than she’s been ever since she got here. ‘Hide! Quick! It’s the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse! Lisa shagging Ledbetter…the Countess Dracula herself!!’

I almost drop a boiling pot of carrots on the floor. ‘I do not befeckinglieve this!’

‘Even from here I can hear you blaspheming, Annie,’ Audrey berates me from the drawing room. ‘And can someone kindly bring me another sherry? In one of the good
crystal
glasses this time, please?’

‘Lie down flat on the floor, quick,’ says Jules, ‘maybe she didn’t see us. Maybe she’ll think we’re all out…visiting…or…at Mass or something.’

But it’s too late. Already I can hear Dan opening the hall door to Lisa as her eldest son starts yelling the place down that he got a football from Santa and will Dan come outside to play with him? She has two kids, by the way; Harry is seven and Sue is four. Harry, I’m fond of – he’s cute and easy to baby-sit and God knows I should know, having been called on to do it often enough. But Sue is a different story; moany, sulky and whingy, a kid that’s never, ever in good form, no matter how many treats you throw her way. But then, as Jules is forever at
pains to point out, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, does it?

And there’s something else about Lisa that drives me mental too, something I’ve been at pains to keep to myself all this time. Call it what you will, women’s intuition maybe, but I’ve always felt that Lisa has her eye on Dan and has had for a long, long time. There’s just something in the way her voice changes gear whenever she talks to him that never fails to alert my suspicions and while I’m far from jealous – Dan barely even notices me half the time, never mind when someone else is flirting with him – it does get annoying after a while.