Christmas in the Snow (13 page)

Her heart lifted at the sight of them, for they were proof that there were still other people in her mother’s life besides her, Iz and Barry.

And of course, there were all the photographs taken of Barry with Julia – out on walks, beside the sea, picnicking in the park – the all-important visual standbys that reassured her
she knew him, the proof that she could trust him, when the confusion crowded in.

It took a moment for her eyes to find her mother. She appeared to occupy so little space these days and she was so still that it seemed easy to miss her sitting on the armchair, her gaze on the
circular rug, but her mind clearly many years in the past.

‘Hi, Mum.’

Her mother looked up at her, startled by her voice. ‘Who are you?’ Her tone was wary but calm.

Allegra swallowed. Oh God. ‘I’m Allegra. Barry . . . Barry sent me through,’ she smiled, her eyes doing their usual, wonderful job of hiding her emotions. ‘May I sit
down?’ She pointed to the sofa.

After a moment or so, Julia shrugged. ‘What did you say your name was?’ she asked, visibly leaning away from her.

‘Allegra.’

‘I like that name. I’m Julia Fisher.’ She held out a trembling hand.

Allegra stared at it for a moment – the hand that had smoothed her hair as she was tucked into bed at night, the hand that had held hers on the first day to school, the hand that had
stroked her cheek with pride when she’d got her offer letter from Oxford – before taking it in her own, holding in check the impulse to squeeze it, to rub the skin with her thumb.

The touch was fleeting, painful.

‘Have you heard it’s snowing in the Midlands?’ Julia asked, turning her head left and looking out across the landscaped gardens. It was dusk and the light had an ultraviolet
quality to it, a final burst of pigmentation as night and day rushed at each other in a clash of colour prisms before darkness finally, inevitably, won out.

‘Is it? I haven’t caught up with the weather forecast lately.’

‘I had to send my girls to school in their thermals today. They put up such a fuss.’ Julia shook her head solemnly.

‘Really?’ Allegra asked politely, remembering how her sister had always taken them off in the loos the second they arrived. ‘I imagine Isobel didn’t want to wear double
tights.’

Julia clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, but a smile enlivened her eyes. ‘Oh, she’s a madam, that one, always wanting to look right. She’d rather be fashionable
than warm.’

‘Hmm,’ Allegra nodded, remembering the morning battles well.

Julia looked at her. ‘You’ve met my daughter?’

Allegra blinked. What did she say? ‘Yes, both of them, actually.’

‘When?’

Allegra hesitated, trying to find a way through the lie. ‘At their school. I’m a teacher there.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’ Julia’s face clouded. ‘Has something happened?’

‘No, not at all,’ Allegra replied quickly. ‘Everything’s fine. I . . . I just dropped by to say how well they’re doing. I thought you’d like to
know.’

Julia relaxed again, a proud smile smoothing her features. ‘Oh yes. They’re such bright girls. Allegra, she’s so dedicated. Strives so hard all the time. I think she thinks . .
.’ Julia’s voice trailed off.

‘Mu—’ She caught herself. ‘Mrs Fisher?’

Julia looked at her, eyes clouded with emotions she couldn’t understand, memories she couldn’t filter. ‘It wasn’t her fault. I keep telling her that, but she
doesn’t believe me.’

‘She does. I’m sure she does,’ Allegra said, reaching forward and clasping her mother’s hand urgently. ‘And she’s fine. She just loves you very much. She
wants to make you proud.’

‘I keep seeing her face that night. The church was lit by candles. She looked so beautiful. So full of hope. She thought she could . . . could stop it.’

Allegra watched, angst-ridden as she saw her mother’s lips tremble, glassy tears dropping one after the other down her thread-veined cheeks. ‘Mrs Fisher, I came here today to tell
you how happy Allegra is. She told me today at break-time. She’s thriving; she loves you so much. Everything she does is for you.’

Julia turned her face towards her, her eyes wandering over Allegra’s face, and for a moment, just a moment, Allegra thought she saw recognition gather behind her eyes. But it was like the
sun peeping out from the clouds on a windy day, gone before it had even registered.

‘Thank you, Miss . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

It was bad today. She didn’t remember the introduction. ‘Call me Valentina.’ She didn’t know why she said it. She hadn’t known she was going to say it. Maybe she
just wanted to get a knee-jerk response – her mother wasn’t ‘here’ today; she was locked in the past again. But there was no response. No ripple of enlightenment, no crack
of understanding.

‘Valentina . . . That’s a pretty name.’

‘Thank you.’ Allegra swallowed back her disappointment.

Somewhere in the hallway, she heard a door close and then footsteps and she knew Barry would come bounding round the corner like an Old English sheepdog, too big and messy for this place, which
was all about low-maintenance ease and wipe-clean tidiness.

Sure enough, the strains of ‘Bread of Heaven’ drifted into the flat, and a minute later, he was standing in front of them, his hazel eyes twinkling as he held out a saucer with some
home-made sugar-dusted mince pies. ‘Judy thought we might like some of these,’ he said. ‘Shall I pop the kettle on and we can treat ourselves?’ The tiny shrug of his
shoulders afterwards indicated he was more excited by the prospect than anyone.

‘Uh, I’m afraid I have to get back,’ Allegra said, her voice thin and flat.

Barry took in her dampened demeanour immediately.

‘To your own family?’ Julia asked.

Allegra nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Enjoy it. They grow up so quickly. I can hardly believe my girls are getting so big. They’ll be taller than me soon.’

‘Yes,’ Allegra nodded, trying to smile as she stood with her mother. She had been five inches taller than her by the time she was thirteen.

‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ Julia said, leading the way. ‘It was so good of you to come.’

‘My pleasure.’ Allegra’s voice was subdued.

Julia led her through the tiny vestibule and to the front door. The wreath on it looked so large and deep, like a plump velvet cushion, it diminished somehow the plain fire door it decorated,
having been designed for the Farrow & Ball-painted panelled Victorian doors of the smarter London postcodes and obscuring slightly the brass number ‘16’. Allegra frowned, pushing
the leaves down a little with her finger. Would it confuse her mother if she couldn’t see the numbers clearly? Should she have bought the smaller size?

‘Well, goodbye.’ Julia held out her hand again and Allegra took it, her hand limper now than her mother’s.

‘Goodbye.’ She saw Barry, behind her mother, gesticulating wildly with his hands.

‘I’ll call you,’ he mouthed.

Allegra walked briskly up the corridor, aware the orange door hadn’t clicked shut yet and wondering if her mother was watching her go, realizing . . .

‘Allegra! Isobel!’ Her mother’s voice.

She turned with a start, but hope fled as suddenly as it had come as she saw her standing by the fire stairs and calling up into the void: ‘Girls! Supper’s on the table!’

Allegra slapped a hand to her mouth, tears that were never permitted to swell spilling out in defiance of her will as she watched her mother waiting for ghosts. She turned quickly and pushed
through the doors that led into the garden, huge sobs heaving her shoulders as she ran towards the car park. She fumbled in her pockets for the keys, desperate to hide in the blackness of the car
park.

‘Allegra?’

Barry’s voice – melodic though it was – was like a bucket of cold water upon her, shocking her into sense and her hands automatically wiped away the tears, drying her face in
an instant. ‘Hi, B-Barry.’

‘Oh, poppet,’ he said, his head tipped to one side as he took in her distress.

‘Sh-sh-she didn’t remember me,’ she gasped as his arms wrapped around her, making the tears come properly again. Resistance was futile with his bear hugs and she let her head
loll heavily against his chest, the smell of Lynx assailing her, the sound of his big heart a dependable plod beneath her ear.

A few minutes passed before she recovered enough to pull away with a gulp and a smile, embarrassed that he was having to take care of her as well as her mum.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she hiccupped. ‘It’s a bad day for all the Fisher women clearly.’

‘You are perfectly entitled to have shitty days. It’s a shitty thing you’re going through.’

She nodded, staring down at the ground and dabbing her eyes with the backs of her hands.

He patted her shoulder. ‘I only wanted to check that policeman had got hold of you? In Switzerland?’

She sniffed, looking back up at him. ‘You mean Sergeant Annen?’

‘Yes, that’s him. I know you’re busy, but he was a royal pain in the arse and I couldn’t have him pestering your mother like that. It was doing more harm than good, him
going over the same point again and again about that woman they found.’

‘You mean he actually spoke to Mum about it?’ She remembered how the name Valentina had elicited no response whatsoever.

‘No. I never put him through to her, but he was very persistent and I was worried she might pick up in my absence.’ Barry flicked his fingers distractedly. ‘I know you’ve
only just submitted the LPAs for registration and all, but—’

‘No, no. It’s fine, Barry. It’s definitely better I deal with it.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘I should get back or she’ll eat my mince pie and we’ll have a falling-out, she and I,’ he chuckled,
turning to leave.

‘Of course.’

He noticed the plastic carrier bag in her hand for the first time. ‘Is that something you wanted me to give her for you?’

Allegra peered in at the little motley collection of knickknacks she had scooped from some of the opened drawers of the Advent calendar: the figurine of the Madonna and child, a sprig of dried,
beribboned mistletoe, a carved wooden Angel Gabriel, a gold-tipped pine cone, feathered angel wings and a felted gingerbread man.

She held the bag out towards him. ‘They’re just some Christmas decorations Iz and I found when clearing out the house. They’re pretty old, but I just thought Mum might like to
have them around her – you know, to help make the new flat feel like home.’

‘That’s a cracking idea. I’ll put them in her bedroom so she can see them before going to sleep and when she wakes up,’ Barry smiled. ‘But are you sure you
don’t want them?’

She shook her head quickly. ‘No. I don’t do Christmas.’

‘What? Not even a Christmas tree?’

She blinked at him as more tears threatened. ‘It’s always a really busy time for me, work-wise.’

‘Of course,’ he nodded, but she thought he looked sad. ‘Well, listen, I’d better get back or that mince pie will be lost to me forever, and I don’t want to have to
arm-wrestle your ma again,’ he said with a wink, breaking into a run back across the gardens, thighs chafing, the carrier bag swinging wildly in his grip.

She watched him go.

Nurse Barry, an unlikely hero, but the only one they had.

Cinzia was already sitting outside her office when she walked in, Kirsty jumping up as Allegra shrugged off her coat and swapped it for the bunch of messages on Post-its in
Kirsty’s hands. The DNA test hadn’t taken long, but even an hour out of her schedule created a logjam.

‘Hi, Cinzia. Sorry to keep you waiting.’ Her eyebrow arched with satisfaction as she saw how many of the messages were from Sam Kemp. He wasn’t the only one who could conduct
meetings in secret and she had spent most of the day holed up in the Mayfair office with Bob, revising and redrafting their investment strategy into something a lot bolder. Garrard’s name
hadn’t come into the discussions once. She wouldn’t stoop to his level.

‘And this is the report you were waiting for,’ Kirsty said quietly, handing over a thick file of trades. Allegra glanced at it: Kemp’s work for the Leo Besakovitch pot.

‘Great, thanks. Just some coffees, please, and then you can head off.’

Kirsty nodded gratefully. It was only 6.30 p.m., but the Christmas benefit was the company’s biggest event of the year and everyone – even cool-headed, sensible girls like her PA
– liked to have proper time to get ready. ‘Uh, you should know Mr Kemp’s been very anxious to get hold of you this afternoon, Miss Fisher.’

Allegra glanced at her unflappable PA; she understood Kirsty’s understatement well enough to know that meant he’d been hitting the roof. ‘I see that,’ was all Allegra
murmured, with a cool smile, as she strode into her office, dropping the Post-its into the waste-paper basket as she passed. ‘Come in, Cinzia,’ she said, noting with a small stab of
alarm that her personal shopper had only a single bag hanging over her arm, and one large carrier.

Allegra walked to the desk, throwing her report file behind her desk and quickly bringing up the Dow Jones, FTSE and her emails on the trio of large screens, even though she’d been
replying to others in the taxi from Duke Street.

She looked up, a businesslike smile on her face. ‘So, what have you got for me?’

Cinzia unzipped the hanging bag. ‘Give this a chance.’

Allegra straightened up, already cautious. Any dress that came with a warning . . .

Cinzia pulled a long, strapless, black guipure lace dress from the bag. Allegra’s eyes slid from it to Cinzia. ‘And . . . ?’

‘That’s all I had for your brief. I’m sorry. We had an unexpected visit from the Qatari royal family. Our stock was almost cleared out in a day and I had to hide this, as it
was. The only other thing I had that was remotely suitable in your size was a gold mesh thigh-high.’

Allegra pulled a horrified face and walked over to the sofa. Her hand reached out for the fabric.

‘I’m sorry, Allegra. I know you think lace isn’t appropriate for business functions, but it’s long and the cut is modest by contrast. Plus I think the shape will really
work for you.’