Elegance and Innocence (33 page)

‘
You still owe me a drink
,’ it says.

A moment later, my phone rings. It’s him.

‘Hello, Louise?’ There’s the sound of crowds, train announcements. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes, yes where are you?’

‘I’m at Waterloo. I’m about to catch the train to Paris in a few minutes. Did you get my flowers?’

‘Yes, they’re gorgeous! I didn’t know that you were leaving today … Eddie … can you hear me?’ The line fades, his voice crackling inaudibly. ‘Eddie?’

‘I was saying, I wanted to buy you more, a whole desk full of roses! Next time, Louise! When I get back we’ll …’ and the line goes dead.

I put the roses in a glass on my desk. When they start to wilt, I dry them upside down. And when the petals fall, I collect them and keep them in an envelope.

A month goes by.

I throw the envelope away.

After all, I can’t be serious.

X
Xmas

Christmas is a very special occasion. If there’s one time during the year when you ought to feel good, affectionate, kind-hearted, thoughtful, and generous, it is certainly at Christmas
.

It is only natural to harmonize your physical appearance with these beautiful moral qualities and this for the average woman means a new dress, a lovely hairdo, and perhaps a beauty treatment. According to the type of Christmas party you may be invited to attend, the ideal costume is a long or short evening dress, and, without going so far as trying to out-sparkle the Christmas tree, it is perfectly appropriate for you to make a special effort to create a splendid appearance
.

The point to remember is that this is a very special evening, and it merits the honour of a special manner of dress
.

‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right on your own?’ Col is standing by the front door with his suitcase in one hand and his coat in the other.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘It’s only for a couple of days.’

‘But it’s Christmas. It isn’t just a couple of normal days. It’s a couple of Christmas days!’ he frets.

‘I’ll be all right,’ I assure him.

A car horn sounds outside and Ria emerges from her bedroom, dragging a bulging overnight case and two large shopping bags full of carefully wrapped presents.

‘The cab’s here, Col, we’ve got to go! Are you sure you’re going to be all right, Louise? It’s not too late to come to Dorset with me – my family would love to have you. Honestly, the more the merrier.’ Ria hates travelling and has accelerated into a total panic. I watch as she buttons her coat up wrong, puts her hat on backwards, and drops her gloves. ‘My keys! I can’t find my keys! Damn it, Col! The meter’s running! We’ll miss the train and I’ll be locked out of the house when I get home!’

‘Have you checked your pockets?’

‘Oh. Yes. Here they are. Now, the meter’s running. Col!’

‘Darling, it’s a minicab. It hasn’t got a meter.’ He gives me a hug. ‘Goodbye, honey, take care. Don’t forget to put the alarm on and call if you get lonely. The numbers are by the phone. I still feel dreadful about leaving you but I’d better get this one to the train station before she explodes with anxiety.’

I kiss Ria on the forehead and turn her hat the right way round. ‘Travel well, sweetheart, and Merry Christmas.’

‘I’m going to call you!’ she shouts as she hauls her luggage and shopping bags down the steps. ‘I’m going to check in with you every hour on the hour to make sure you don’t do anything silly!’

I watch as they pile into the cab. They wave. I wave. Even the cab driver waves. And a moment later, they pull away into the dull mist of the freezing morning air and are gone. I close the door and collapse against it. Alone at last!

Moments like these are so rare when you have flatmates. And, much as you love them, there’s still nothing like the wonderful, luxurious sense of freedom that descends when you’re by yourself. I walk into the living room, switch on the Christmas tree lights and pour myself another cup of tea. Then I snuggle down on the sofa and contemplate my liberty.

It’s December 23, 8:32 am. Very cold, but dry. Both Colin and Ria have now officially gone home for the holidays – Colin to meet Andy’s parents for the first time in their home in High Wycombe and Ria to her parents’ cottage in Dorset. Being recently divorced and virtually penniless, a trip to the States during peak rate time is off the cards for me. But no worries. This is my first Christmas alone and I feel oddly excited. I sip my tea and allow myself to become mesmerized by the lights on the tree. I could do anything, absolutely anything. I can listen to my own
music, watch what I want to on TV, leave the washing up stewing in the sink for days. I have all the time in the world.

Three hours later I’m in the office.

‘What are you doing here?’ Flora demands. ‘You’re the lucky one, remember? The one who gets to have Christmas off.’ She’s making paper chains out of old programmes and has glue in her hair.

‘Oh nothing,’ I lie. I don’t want to tell her I have nothing to do and so end up hanging out at work on my day off. ‘I was just passing and I thought I’d pop in and check my e-mail. Need a hand?’ I can’t remember the last time I made a paper chain. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve ever made a paper chain, but she looks like she’s having fun and it’s surprising how quickly the anticipated joys of leaving your washing up in the sink can pall.

‘Sure.’ She passes me a pile of strips and some glue. ‘Wow. If I were you, I wouldn’t be anywhere near this place. I’d be out doing my Christmas shopping. I haven’t done any and I don’t know when I’m going to find the time. I’ve promised to take my mother, my sister, and her two little girls to see the
Nutcracker
tonight, I’ve got a charity ball to go to tomorrow night … I might as well shoot myself!’

‘But instead you’re making paper chains.’

She looks at me. ‘Louise, I take my job very seriously. God forbid I should be skiving when I have an obligation to maintain office morale and to spread goodwill via the
ancient art of paper chain making. Or paper
chain fashioning
, as we skilled artisans like to call it. Do you realize how many holiday suicide attempts could be avoided by the simple addition of a paper chain to the depressed person’s surroundings? At least five, I should think. Which is why I’m hanging them up around here.’

‘So, that’s you, me, Poppy and what, two moody bystanders?’

‘Face it, no one ever visits our department. We’d have to lure a couple of depressives up here.’

‘Or we could invite Crispin and Terrance from Finance.’

We paste in silence for a moment.

‘A charity ball, eh? Sounds very grand!’

She shifts uncomfortably. ‘Well, not really a ball … more like an
event
.’

‘Could you be more cryptic? My Pritt Stick’s dead.’

She hands me hers. ‘The use of the Pritt Stick marks the pro from the amateur every time.’

‘OK, you can stop doing that now.’

‘Just one more joke.’

‘No.’

‘I
sooooo
don’t want to go,’ she moans. ‘I’ve been bullied into the whole thing by Poppy, who started on about the rampant commercialism of Christmas last February until I couldn’t stand it any more and has been practically forcing me, by the sheer multitude of her arguments, to take rash and drastic action!’

‘Calm down, girl!’

‘You don’t understand! She sang “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” to me until I snapped! She used to hobble around the office pretending to be Tiny Tim and pasted Post-its to my lunch box saying things like, “Feed me!” and “Don’t worry … I’ll survive … somehow!”’

‘Flora, you’re hyperventilating! What has she made you do?’

‘I said I’d go with her to feed the homeless.’ She hangs her head in shame.

‘But that’s admirable,’ I assure her.

‘It would be, except I’d give my right arm not to go. I am evil! I am!’ Her lower lip trembles and she covers her face with her hands.

I eye her suspiciously. ‘Have you been watching re-runs of Dallas again?’

She peers at me between two of her fingers. ‘Maybe just a little bit.’

‘Anyway, it will be fun if the two of you go,’ I point out, trying to paste a paper strip around my wrist as a makeshift bracelet.

‘Ahh! But that’s the problem! Poppy’s had to go home now for the funeral.’

The paper strip snaps off my wrist and flies across the room. ‘Funeral? My God, what happened?’

‘One of her mother’s dogs died at the weekend. Poppy says natural causes but her mother’s convinced it was murder.
You remember Albert, the terrier with the overbite and the bladder infection? Evidently the old man’s been having a go at him lately because he used to pee in his slippers.’ She sighs. ‘But that’s all over now.’

I stare at her. ‘They’re having a funeral for the dog?’

She nods. ‘Open casket. I was going to send a wreath, if you want to go halves.’

The English and their dogs share a bond that foreigners like myself can only marvel at. I decide to stick to more familiar ground.

‘So you have to go on your own to feed the homeless.’ I try to draw her back to the subject.

She glances at me sideways. ‘That is, unless you don’t have anything better to do?’

‘You are evil.’ I chuck a paperclip at her head.

‘Come on, Louise! It will be fun, I promise! And it’s only around the corner in the basement of St Martin-in-the-Fields. We’d be the early shift, from eight ’til ten and then you’d have the whole rest of the evening to yourself … pleeeeeeeease!’

I think about the washing up in the sink at home. What else have I got to do?

‘Sure.’

She squeals with delight and throws her arms around me. ‘You’re a perfect angel! Which reminds me, every year the volunteers have a costume competition. It has to be seasonal but I thought we could go as angels. The card shop
across the road is selling little silver plastic angel wings you slip over your shoulders with matching tiaras and I’ve got some old white nightgowns we can throw over our jeans.’

‘Perfect. Why don’t you go and buy some wings. And while you’re at it, make a dent in that Christmas shopping of yours. I’ll hold the fort till you get back.’ I wave my Pritt Stick as if it were a magic wand. ‘Now go and be free!’

There’s nothing like a little charity to make a girl feel warm and fuzzy all over.

We meet the next evening at the opera house and change into our makeshift angel outfits in the loo, slipping the faded flannel nighties over our jeans and donning our plastic tiaras and wings. The mood’s festive as we make our way down Long Acre towards Trafalgar Square. It’s raining rather than snowing and sharing an umbrella, we shuffle in time with our arms wrapped around each other’s waists. We arrive in the basement of the church to find it buzzing with activity. Elves are dishing out turkey dinners, reindeer pass out bowls of soup, partridges with or without pear trees are busy slicing up thick helpings of Christmas pudding. We’re quickly assigned to coffee and tea duty by the Ghost of Christmas Present, a man named Reg in an impressive crimson velvet robe and ginger beard.

For the next two hours we don’t stop. We make countless pots of tea and coffee, refill cups, sing Christmas carols, and wash stacks of dishes. We help unload the seemingly
endless supply of provisions that flood in from local businesses: deliveries of sandwiches, fresh fruit and veg, whole turkeys, clothing, blankets, tinned goods, cigarettes and shoes. Stacking them up in tall piles, they’re quickly removed and reorganized by a whole other army of volunteers before being distributed, sometimes to kitchens in less central parts of London where they’re more desperately needed. People wander in off the street, curious about all the activity and end up staying to help: groups of students, tourists, and those who aren’t homeless but somehow displaced. The way I feel. And for a couple of hours we’re part of something.

I’m aware of a feeling of incredible abundance – not just of supplies, but of energy, joy, and hope. As I rush to fill cup after cup, smiling and laughing with people I don’t even normally make eye contact with in the street, I realize I’m happy. This is the very stuff of happiness and yet it’s always eluded me in the past.

Suddenly, amidst a sea of unshaven faces, a familiar smile appears.

‘So, you think you can just sleep with me and then bugger off without a trace!’ Eddie grins. ‘Cup of tea, please while you’re at it. Chop, chop! My audience is waiting!’

He’s wearing a tea towel on his head and has a large faded blue travel rug wrapped around his body.

‘Eddie!’ I’m conscious of the eyes upon me, especially one giggling old grandpa in the corner, who’s been trying
unsuccessfully to seduce me all night. ‘Firstly, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Paris. And secondly, what are you wearing?’

‘We’re wearing costumes, right? Well, I’m the Baby Jesus and these are my swaddling clothes.’

‘You’ve got a tea towel on your head. Wait a minute, that’s our tea towel! Eddie, you’ve nicked our tea towel!’

He pulls himself upright. ‘Someone of my class doesn’t nick a tea towel, he embezzles it. But you’re in luck. I’m willing to rent it out to you for a small fee. Though you may have to part with your halo.’

I blush. ‘How long have you been back? And will that be one or two sugars?’ I ask, chucking a couple of cubes at him.

‘NO FOOD FIGHTS!’ Reg booms across the hall.

Eddie leans across the counter and looks round furtively. ‘Look, I’m a Baby Jesus, you’re obviously an angel, what you say we go lie down in a manger?’

‘He he he!’ the old grandpa giggles.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ Eddie grins.

I look into his enormous, smiling black eyes. ‘Eddie!’ I’m at a complete loss for words.

‘Yes, my angel?’ he whispers softly.

‘Hey! I thought you were here to play the piano!’ Reg shouts.

‘As I said, my audience awaits me!’ He steps aside to let the queue flow again and disappears into the crowd.

Flora leans over. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he was completely uninterested in volunteering tonight until he heard that you were coming along. I think he really likes you, Louise. You have been warned!’