“I don’t know about that,” I laugh.
“I do,” says Louise, and she holds my gaze. Eliot looks to his side at me, then at Louise, and laughs. “Ah, come on, I’m waiting.”
“For?”
“For you to tell me how beautiful I am, Louise. How young and handsome…”
Louise lifts her glass with a skinny, veiny hand and, before sipping, says, “You aren’t too bad. Although you need a haircut.”
“And to stop wearing Justin Timberlake’s hats,” I tease, and he laughs and says, “It was one time. It was hot. It was sunny.”
This is the fifth time we’ve done this in two months, Eliot joining Louise and me for dinner. Things have been settled—cozy—for the last few weeks. Quiet, even. Lucas has been working a lot but has decided on a suit. Marie’s been away on business with her dad, and has found her dress (and so have I). I’ve booked a pop-punk band for the STEN party, and its group chat has fizzled to only the odd weekly text. I’ve been working a lot at the Clarice, too, the shifts busier than ever before now that we’re a few weeks from Christmas. And every break I take has been spent helping Rosie take photos, as her Instagram following multiplies by the second. Eliot coming for dinner has become part of Louise’s and my weekly routine. And it’s the time I look forward to every week. The first time he came over was the evening after Marv and I walked to the Clarice together. I’d called Eliot and invited him over for pizza, with Louise and me, and he had come over that night brandishing a bottle of white wine, a four-pack of beer, and a giant chocolate gateau. Every time he comes, it’s the sort of evening that whisks by, the hours flowing, disappearing like water, and every time he leaves, I instantly think about when I can ask him to come next. Eliot is easy. He likes simple things. The pressure is off completely when he’s here. And I’ve even enjoyed the start of winter. It single-handedly whittles me down, the dreaded countdown to Christmas Day, when the Moreaus go skiing, everyone squirrels away with their family, and I sit, as usual, alone, as if it’s another day, sure, this time, that I’m the only human being left in the world.
“I feel like cheesecake is in my bloodstream,” says Eliot now. “But then, it’s Christmas soon. It’s practically law to turn your insides to lard, right?”
Eliot stands on Louise’s doorstep, empty-handed, the wine and dessert he brought over now devoured and drunk by us three, more wine than Louise is used to, as she’s already gone up to bed. Last time he visited, we sat watching Pucked, the Jon Bon Jovi movie I’d somehow missed, and he stayed until well after midnight, his hand under the blanket occasionally brushing my leg, and even that hadn’t felt long enough. But I’m glad. I’m glad I’ve let that gap between us continue to be slowly bridged, because it feels so much more natural, so much easier to let it. I keep thinking about what Marv said, and it has stuck. That someone shouldn’t be defined by one mistake for the rest of their lives.
“Do you have to go? It’s only nine thirty,” I say.
He steps back onto the gravel of the driveway, hands in pockets, and says, “I don’t want to. But I’ve got a lot of road to cover tomorrow, haven’t I?”
I nod, try to stay poker-faced, but I’ve been dreading saying goodbye to him this time. Because I won’t see Eliot until after Christmas now. He’s working on a building site in Northumberland—a run-down country estate—for the next fortnight. And then he’s away with Ana. With her family for Christmas. He never talks about her. But then, I avoid bringing her up.
“Well, enjoy sawing wood in Wrexham,” I say.
“Hexham.” Eliot smiles.
“Ah,” I laugh. “And Luxembourg after that. It is Luxembourg, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he says, nodding, and I cannot ignore this sinking heart in my chest. Lucas and Marie are counting down to their skiing trip in Austria with Jean and Amanda. Rosie is off, too, for Christmas week, going to Nottingham with her parents to stay with her sister and her husband until New Year’s. Even Fox won’t be at the hotel for the Christmas dinner shift, like me, on Christmas Day, because he’ll be in London with his dad. And Eliot. Eliot will be hundreds of miles away. In Luxembourg. With Ana. (Or psychothera-bitch as Rosie calls her.) And me. I’ll be right here, pretending it isn’t happening.
“So, will you be seeing Lucas over Christmas at all, before skiing, or after, or…” Eliot trails off.
“No,” I say, arms hugging my body from the cold. “He hasn’t really mentioned it, and I know he’s super busy with work so…”
“Right.” Eliot nods. “And you. Any Christmas plans?”
“Work on Christmas Day, most of the day,” I say with a small smile. “Louise has been invited somewhere. An old lodger of hers. Steve or something. She said she doesn’t fancy it, though.”
Eliot nods again. “So you won’t be alone?”
“Definitely not,” I say. “I’ll be with one hundred Christmas-hat-wearing dinner guests and three hotheaded chefs.”
Eliot smiles, standing tall opposite me. He hesitates, looks over the shoulder of his thick, black wool jacket, and I will for this to fizzle; this awkward, crackling atmosphere between us. “Your neighbors,” he says eventually. “They know how to party with the ol’ decorations, don’t they?”
I smile. “I know. There’s a rivalry. See who can cover their house in as many tacky lights as possible and get in the local papers.”
Eliot raises an eyebrow. “Well, I think number Two Fishers Way could do with an injection of tacky lights, actually.”
I shake my head.
“I dare you,” he says, “to stick a few lights up. Buy a turkey. Stick a Christmas film on. Eat a mince pie by the fire in front of the EastEnders Christmas special, even if you’ve never seen an episode in your entire life.”
I narrow my eyes. “Sounds… interesting.”
“It’s a sort of magic, actually, Emmie Blue,” he says, smiling, his words making clouds in the icy November air. “So, listen. I got you something.” He rubs his hands together, striding over to his truck, opening the door. “I didn’t want to give it in front of Louise. Thought I’d wait,” he says, leaning into the truck. “I know you get all embarrassed and hate opening things in front of people…”
“You didn’t need to get me anything,” I say, surprised.
Eliot closes the door, walks across the gravel toward me. “I know I didn’t.” He smiles. “But I saw it and immediately thought of you. It’s no big deal.”
He hands me a beautiful tissue paper–wrapped rectangle. The paper is gold, flecked with stars, and it’s tied with black, sparkly ribbon. “The dude in the shop wrapped it. Don’t give me any of the credit.”
I look down at it in my hands and feel something tug in my stomach. A gift. I don’t really get gifts at Christmas. Lucas and I have never really done presents, and probably because he knows I don’t “do” Christmas, and have never done it.
“Thank you, Eliot,” I say.
“Don’t open it now,” he says. “Save it. To open with your mince pie and EastEnders special.”