I turn to look at her but she’s walking away, swerving past a woman with shopping bags, the top of a box of Christmas cards poking out of the top. I used to be like that: I used to have the Christmas cards already written and ready to go by the end of November, Nativity outfits would be high up on my agenda and the turkey would have already been ordered.
I think back to Christmas when we were kids; how hard Mum and Dad must have worked to make those moments so special. One by one I replay the memories, just like the ones on our home videos, the TV screen blinking into action with the scenes that were never caught: Kerry scratching her head beneath a checked tea towel; a grumpy-faced shepherd; the way we would grin at each when Mum’s back turned as we shoved handfuls of Quality Street into our dressing-gown pockets so we could eat them hidden beneath our duvets with our torches and a magazine; Christmas mornings on our parents’ bed when we were young; the excitement of Kerry bouncing on my bed shouting, ‘He came! He came!’; on to the mornings when we were far too old to have stockings, but still found ourselves on Mum and Dad’s bed, legs tucked beneath us as we tore open the presents that Santa had brought: face packs, mascara, nail varnish and always a yo-yo, satsuma and walnuts. Icing-sugar-smeared faces with gapped-toothed grins as we decorated the gingerbread angels that always looked wonky; how we would swap presents behind our backs – a T-shirt, a lipstick – as soon as Dad started clearing away the wrapping paper. Memories that are precious, memories that I will still have even once she has gone.
I find that I’m crying as I look up to see her – my beautiful sister – as she briefly stops walking to stroke a golden labrador. She pulls an ‘isn’t he cute?’ look over her shoulder at me. She always wanted a dog. I close my eyes, trying to fold away the tears behind my eyelids; I try to tidy them, put them away, but before I can, I picture me and Kerry sitting on the sofa watching a Christmas film. We were drinking Baileys and eating a chocolate orange – straight from the fridge – like she always insisted.
‘One day, we should all go to Lapland for Christmas . . . I’ve always wanted to go on a husky ride . . .’
I open my eyes and watch as she blows me a kiss, puts her earphones in and walks along the path.
‘We can’t afford this, Jen.’
Ed is looking at the e-booking. His mouth is saying all of the responsible things that are going through his mind, but I can tell by the pull of his lips that he’s as excited as I am.
‘I know . . . but Lapland, Ed. And Dr Popescu said doing something I always wanted to do with Kerry is a good way to say goodbye and celebrate her life at the same time.’
‘Is he also going to pay for it?’ Ed grumbles.
I ignore him. ‘You’ve only got a few years of the kids being this age, where they can really experience Christmas as it should be. It’s on my credit card, not yours, and look at the price! It’s a cancellation.’
‘It doesn’t make a difference whose card it’s on. It’s our debt.’
‘Don’t be a spoilsport, I might get hit by a bus before the bill even comes! We can pay it off when the kids are older.’ I dismiss his look of shock with a wave of my hand.
Kerry is licking her finger and flicking through the brochure. ‘Oh man, you get to go on a husky ride!’
‘Look!’ I reach for the brochure, taking it from her dead fingers. ‘We get to go on a husky ride!’
‘But . . .’
I know I’m bringing Ed round: he’s forcing his forehead into a frown, but I can see the laughter lines around his eyes. He turns the page; the lines crack their knuckles, ready to break free as he sees the picture of a little girl who resembles Hailey, in so far as she’s a girl and is wearing glasses. I may be stretching the resemblance part a little. The laughter lines relax; here we go. The page turns and there is a full two-page spread of the log cabin, the family of four, the presents beneath the tree. Ed has always been a sucker for Christmas.
‘OK.’ The laughter lines are released, a full-on massacre across his frown lines.
‘Woohooo!’ I jump up, pull his hands and make him join in the victory dance.
He glances up at the clock. ‘Shit, I’m late. I’ve got to get to work if I’m going to pay for this!’ He grabs his coat.
‘Oh, I forgot to check you’re OK picking up the kids tomorrow? I’ve got an appointment with Dr Popescu at three.’
My regular therapy sessions are really helping me; it’s good to be able to talk openly. Ed offered to come to the sessions too, but I enjoy the freedom they give me, and there is still the matter of the little white lie that I told him when I stopped the medication. I can be honest-ish with Ed about that now – he knows that my prescription has ‘changed’ to the antidepressants – but I’d really rather not open up the whole can of worms, not yet. Besides, I get the impression Ed doesn’t really like Dr Popescu – I can’t imagine why.
‘Yep! Got an alarm set on my calendar!’ He gives me a hasty kiss. ‘Just promise me you’re not going to have an affair with him!’
‘Promise.’
And off he goes, marching out of the house whistling ‘Jingle Bells’.
I love my husband so much sometimes it hurts.
Look at how happy he is!
I resist the urge to wink at Kerry as Nessa knocks at the door.
Are you ready?
‘I’m not here, dummy, I could go to the cinema with you both butt-naked and nobody would know. In fact . . .’ She begins taking off her shoes.
Don’t you dare! I said I would go to a scary film with you because you’re about to kick the bucket, I did NOT agree to going with you in your birthday suit.
‘Spoilsport.’
I laugh.
‘Hey, you ready?’ Nessa asks.
‘Come in, yeah . . . just let me grab my coat.’
‘Are you’re sure you want to do this? You do remember that you almost didn’t watch Game of Thrones because you were scared of the White Walkers, right?’
‘I know but, well, YOLO and all that.’
‘YOLO?’
‘Yeah, you only—’
‘I know what it means but you’ve never really been a . . .’ she finger-quotes, ‘“YOLO” type of woman.’
‘Well it’s time to change that.’
‘OK, then these are the rules.’ She begins ticking them off her fingers. ‘One: no looking away from the screen. Two: no hiding behind your popcorn. And three: no going to the loo when you think something scary is going to come on.’
‘Can I hold your hand?’ I ask as I throw my phone into my bag.
‘You can, but no getting fresh.’ She grins as her phone pings, hailing a message. I watch a slow, deliberate smile cross her face as her fingers flutter across the screen.
Kerry leans over her shoulder, swallowing down a sour piece of orange. Her eyebrows rise.
‘Who are you texting?’ I ask, pushing my arms into my jacket.
‘No-one.’
‘Well that no-one is making you smile like a Cheshire cat. What is a Cheshire cat, anyway?’
‘It’s from Alice in Wonderland.’
‘But why is it from Cheshire?’
‘No idea.’ Her fingers finish fluttering and she slips the phone into her back pocket.