Chapter 7 December 7th #2
“Are you hurt?”
“Only my ego, dear.”
I huff, dropping my bag and scanning up and down. “I’m going to have to push it through.”
“Okay, dear.”
“It might strip some of the branches.”
“Okay, dear. I’m starting to get cramp in my thigh. Would you mind hurrying things along?”
“Jesus Christ.” I push my hand through the foliage and take hold of the trunk, giving it a little wiggle. “Ready?”
He grunts, as do I when I push my weight into the tree, getting a face full of branches. “It’s really stuck,” I puff, leaning into it more, bracing myself for the moment it dislodges. “Okay down there?”
“I can see light.”
“But it’s dark.”
“The hallway lights. Keep pushing!”
“Fucking hell,” I grumble, kicking my heels off to get better stability. A loud crack sounds, and I’m suddenly stumbling forward. “Shit.” I release the tree and grab the doorframe, saving myself, as the tree shoots forward and Mr. Percival’s arms raise, fighting off the attack of branches.
“What a disaster!” He chuckles, rolling from side to side. “I might need a hand, dear.”
Exasperated, I go to him, taking both his old hands and easing him up slowly, watching his worn old face for discomfort, worried he’s broken something. “Are you sure you’ve not hurt yourself?”
“Yes, yes, very sure.”
Only when I’m certain he’s steady on his feet do I release him, and he brushes himself down and shuffles round to take in the damage. “Where’s your walking frame?” I ask.
“In my flat.”
“Well, that’s a bit silly, isn’t it?” I find my heels and hang on to the doorframe as I get them on. “How long have you been here?”
His watch appears from his pocket, and he holds it up close and personal to his face. “Thirty-five minutes.”
“Mr. Percival.” I scold him lightly, dipping to pick up his flat cap. “What are you doing dragging trees five times the size of you around? You should have called someone.”
“Like whom?” He faces me as he slips his watch back into his pocket, accepting his hat and popping it on.
“I don’t know. Family?”
“I don’t have one of those, dear.” Taking hold of the wall, he gingerly steps up the corridor over various arms of the tree. No family at all? “So you’re going to have to help me.”
He’s all alone. Not through choice. “Help you?” I retrieve my bag and put it on the stairs. “Right, yes. Help you.”
Mr. Percival places his hands on his hips and stands over the tree, and I join him, kicking my shoes back off. “Camryn, you’re bleeding!” A hanky is quickly on my cheek, dabbing. “Oh no, well now I feel terrible.”
Telling him the tree isn’t responsible for my injury would mean telling him who is.
But not telling him means he’ll feel guilty, and I don’t want the old boy to feel bad.
“It’s okay, it wasn’t the tree.” I scratch through my mind for something—anything—I can claim is responsible.
“I wasn’t looking where I was going in the office and got caught up in some Christmas decorations. ”
He withdraws and checks my cheek. “You need some alcohol on that.”
“Let’s get this monster of a tree in your apartment first, shall we? It’s blocking the way.” Turning back to the tree, I ponder how exactly I’m going to manage this. Mr. Percival is a small, frail old man. So I’m on my own.
Lunging over the tree, I bend and grasp the top with both hands, starting to drag it toward his front door. “We should go in bottom first so the branches bend the right way through the door.”
“Good idea.” He hobbles to his front door and opens it.
Endless needles stab my feet as I hoof the tree up and prop it against the wall, my breathing already shot.
“Right.” I bend and grab the trunk, backing up until I have to lean back, tugging on endless grunts to get the fattest end through.
“It’s going to be bald, Mr. Percival. Why on earth did you buy such a big tree? ”
“For the gnomes, dear.”
“What?”
“And Maureen. She likes a big tree.” Maureen. Lady friend? “That’s it, dear, you’re nearly there.”
The rustle of branches has me wincing, as they’re surely scratching all the paintwork off, but it’s plain sailing once the base dislodges, only sheer endurance required to drag it into his lounge.
“There.” I push it up against the nearest wall and blow out my cheeks, knackered, my surroundings registering as I slowly turn on the spot, taking it all in.
“What a lifesaver you are, dear.” Mr. Percival shuffles through the clutter with ease, not even looking down to make sure he won’t stumble over any of the endless trip hazards.
And he’s completely unperturbed by my obvious surprise.
“Now if we could just get it in the bucket I can pour this bag of sand in.” Another chuckle.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I pinched it off the building site at the end of the road.
” Facing me, he frowns. “Are you okay, dear?”
My eyes cast across his lounge again, feeling watched by the million sets of eyes staring back at me. “Mr. Percival, why is your lounge full of gnomes?”
“Oh!” He chuckles and takes one that’s nestled in the corner of one of his recliner armchairs, looking at it fondly. It’s Father Christmas—its face jolly, its cheeks red, a lantern held up in one hand. “I’m rather attached to them, dear.”
“How many do you have?”
“Last count, nine hundred and three.”
I cough and peek through a doorway to his small kitchen. More gnomes. Everywhere—on the table, the counter, the floor, the window ledge. I laugh under my breath at the fisherman on the edge of the sink with a fish dangling on the end of his line.
“I couldn’t let them go, you see, when I moved from my semi in Epsom, and I have no outside space here. So they live with me indoors these days.” He places Father Christmas back in the chair. “Now, about this tree.”
Half an hour later, I’ve tripped over endless gnomes and Mr. Percival has tripped over none, but the tree is in the bucket, and I’ve emptied the bag of sand in too, making sure it’s secure.
“Maybe a smaller tree next year,” I suggest, gazing up the length.
The top is bent over by a foot, wedged against the ceiling. “I think we need to trim it.”
“Hmmm.” He stands beside me. “It didn’t look this big in the garden centre.”
Something kicks inside me, and suddenly all I can see is my husband staring at our newly delivered corner couch in the lounge taking up two thirds of the space, me beside him.
“I hope you weren’t planning on having anything else in here.” He looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“It didn’t look this big in the store.”
“The store is the size of a hangar, Cam. Our lounge is twenty feet by thirty.”
I dance forward and fall into the corner, snuggling. “But it’s super cosy.”
“It’s practically a bed.”
I laugh, giving him grabbing hands, and he rolls his eyes, coming to me and falling onto the velvet fabric. “See,” I say, rolling over into his side. “And it’ll last until we’re old, wrinkly, and still in love.”
“I’m sure it will.”
I snuggle into his chest and sigh.
“Camryn?”
I look to my left, finding Mr. Percival holding up a shoebox full of mini hanging gnomes. “You can help decorate it if you like.”
“I have to go.” Pivoting, I make my escape, stopping when I see one of the gnomes, his trousers pulled down over his arse, pissing up a wall.
“Make sure you clean that cheek!”
“I will.” I leave, collecting my kicked-off shoes from the floor and my bag from the stairs, hurrying to my apartment and closing the door behind me.
I don’t know no Camryn.
I’m sure it will.
The urge to open the door again and head to a bar overcomes me, and I push the back of my head into the wood, gritting my teeth.
“No,” I say to myself, gazing around the soulless space as I shrug out of my coat.
I hold it up and see half of Mr. Percival’s tree is littering it, and a quick feel of my hair confirms a head full of needles too.
Dropping my shoes to the floor, along with my coat, I pad across the wooden floor, heading for my bathroom.
I need to feel . . . I don’t know. Something other than this suffocating solitude.
Dim light glows down on me as I stand in front of the mirror, stripping out of my clothes until I’m naked.
I sweep my hair back over my ears, my gaze falling to my breasts.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen them. Or felt them.
Many men have over the past two years, but never me.
I reach for one and cup it, the flesh spilling over my hold, and I start to massage, watching as my nipple slowly hardens until it’s a small bullet, the areola perfectly round and dark against my olive skin.
I tilt my head as I massage the other, thinking how they’re not as high as they once were.
Not as pert. They’re useless now. Except for pleasure.
Not mine, but men’s. A handful for them, just enough.
Soft skin, nicely shaped nipples that point in the right direction.
My gaze moves up and meets my reflection. What are these thoughts?
Toxic.
I drop my breasts, look away from myself, and step into the shower, hoping the pounding water beats away the torment in my mind.
It doesn’t. As I soap my body, I see my mother.
When I wash my hair, I hear my soon-to-be ex-husband telling me he’s leaving.
Closing my eyes, I see my perfect life playing out in the darkness, a reel of snapshots flickering through my mind.
My wonderful father. A mother who knows me.
A husband who loved me unconditionally. Until he didn’t.
My fingers clench at my hair as I stand under the spray, my gaze dropped, watching the soap slide down my wet body and gather around the drain.
The building tears are from the soap that has gotten into my eyes. I don’t cry anymore.