Chapter 19 December 19th #2
“They’ll survive without me for one day.
” Dec doesn’t say it, but I can see in his eyes he’s silently asking if I can survive without work for one day.
Especially on this day. It’s already got to ten in the morning, and I hadn’t even comprehended the time.
Hadn’t counted each second, minute, hour, willing them to pass by quicker.
Just desperate for the day to be over. Not that the grief goes away with the day.
It’s just . . . hard. More painful. And though it's still here, heavy in my belly, stirring in my heart, it’s sustainable—and it’s never been sustainable.
Another knock pulls me back into the room. Into the day. I grab my robe off the hook behind the door and swing it on.
“Is it the mad old man?” Dec asks.
“That mad old man helped make your birthday cake,” I remind him.
“He’s not mad. Maybe eccentric. And he’s ninety-nine, so he can be whatever he wants to be.
” I hurry to the door and swing it open, finding the mad old man.
At least, I think it’s him. Really, it’s only the walking frame that clues me into who’s at my door.
“Mr. Percival,” I say, trying not to react to the snowsuit—an orange and royal blue affair made of some grotesque shiny manmade fabric that looks wet.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” I feel at my cheeks, certain they must be flushed.
“You’ve not gone to work.” His eyes widen, and I wonder why for a moment. Until I feel Dec’s chest push into my back.
“Good morning, Mr. Percival,” he says, unusually cheerful for Dec.
“You stayed the night.”
“I did indeed stay the night. Couldn’t move after eating all that cake.”
“You enjoyed it?”
“Best Victoria sponge I’ve ever tasted.”
“See!” Mr. Percival’s chest swells with pride, making the snowsuit expand, almost enough to knock me back a step. “I’ve won awards for that cake.”
“At the Royal British Legion,” I add, looking back at Dec on a smile. I won’t burst Mr. Percival’s bubble and advise him that Dec’s only tasted the buttercream.
Dec blows his cheeks out and rubs his belly. Again, very unlike Dec. “Blew me away. Well, as you can see, I’m not holding Camryn against her will, so if there’s nothing else?”
The old boy recoils. Then grins wickedly, looking up and down the corridor, prompting me to crane my head and do the same, though who I’m looking for I don’t know. “You’re skiving,” he says. “Both of you. Called in sickies, have we?”
“Actually, I’ve not called in anything yet.”
“And I own the company,” Dec says. “So I don’t need to call in a thing.”
“Oooh, you own the company, huh?”
Dec frowns. “Yeah.”
“Impressive.” Mr. Percival waggles his brows. “Anyway, kids, gotta dash. I’m late for bingo.” He hobbles off, pulling me and Dec into the corridor.
“You really shouldn’t be going out in that weather,” Dec says.
“How else am I going to get there?”
“A cab?”
“I’m a pensioner. Can’t afford one of those.”
“I’ll pay.”
“I ain’t no charity.”
Dec rolls his eyes, and I chuckle. “Have fun,” I call, and then yelp when Dec seizes me and hauls me back inside.
He slams the door, carries me to the kitchen, and sits me down. “So what are we having for breakfast?” he asks, flicking the kettle on and then stilling. He slowly looks over his shoulder. His eyebrows gradually rise, his gaze drifting to the doorway.
“I’ll go get the cake,” I say, getting up and hurrying through to the bedroom.
Plunging my finger into the buttercream on my way back to the kitchen isn’t a temptation I can resist. “You make coffee, I’ll cut the cake.
” I falter on my way to the cutlery drawer, distracted by the practically naked man in my kitchen.
I sigh, collecting a knife—I must buy some proper knives—and take myself and the cake to the table.
Dec finds his own way around my sparse kitchen cupboards, bringing the coffee and plates.
I cut a huge wedge of cake for him, then take a smaller slice for myself.
We both sink our teeth into the sponge. “Oh my God,” Dec mumbles around his mouthful, closing his eyes and dropping his head back on a hum of approval.
“Good, huh?” I garble in reply, catching a blob of buttercream on the corner of my mouth and sucking it off my finger.
“Fucking orgasmic.”
I chuckle around my mouthful. “I’m not sure if his fruit cake is my favourite, or this,” I say, swallowing and taking another bite immediately.
Dec’s shoulders slump, his exhale loud through his nose. “So today.” He smiles as he reaches across and wipes up another blob off my lips, licking his finger clean.
“Today,” I parrot, my chews slowing.
“What can I do?” he asks, sliding down his chair slightly and taking his coffee, oh so casual, as if he’s here every morning and coffee and cake is part of our everyday routine.
“I don’t know,” I admit. He’s not really done anything so far, and yet so much just by being here. Being close.
“How about we go for a walk?”
“A walk?”
“A walk. You like walking. I like walking with you.”
“Okay.”
“We can stop for a coffee, avoid the Christmas markets, freeze our tits off.”
I smile. “Sounds perfect.”
“So are you calling in sick?” he asks, finishing his slice and looking at the cake longingly.
“I am.” For the first time in years. I cut him another wedge and plop it on his plate, and he groans as he starts to demolish his second piece, and I wrap my lips around mine, checking the time.
Thomas hasn’t called to find out where I am.
I can’t put it down to an assumption on his part that I’ve bailed the office because of the weather, like ninety percent of his staff have done.
Dec stands, dusting off his hands of crumbs, and comes to me, placing his palms on the arms of the chair and leaning down in my face. “Can I use your shower?” he asks quietly.
“It’s . . . smaller than your shower.”
“I didn’t ask how big it is, I asked if I could use it.”
“You can use it.”
“Thanks,” he whispers, lowering his lips to my cheek, taking my breath with that chaste peck, before he saunters off.
“Dec,” I call out, stalling him at the door. He looks back. “Thank you.”
“Shut up.” And he disappears, leaving me to make the call to Thomas.
Thomas wasn’t available, so I left a message with Crystal while I ate another slice of cake. Somehow, I don’t think it’s of any consequence to Thomas whether I go to work or not, since he’s apparently selling TF Shipping.
Dec, in the same clothes he turned up in last night—wool blend grey trousers, a navy, thin-knit quarter-zip over a shirt, and his coat and scarf—stands over Mr. Percival’s turkey again, staring at it. “It’s definitely dead,” I say, pulling my hat and gloves on.
“Ha ha,” he drones, taking my hand. “Watch it, there’s an icy patch.”
“Whoa!” My feet slip from beneath me, and I grab Dec’s arm with my spare hand, now clinging to him with both hands.
“What did I just say?”
“Not soon enough,” I mutter, steadying myself. “Christ, it’s cold.” I look up at the sky, no longer blue, but bright white, the clouds packed with snow just waiting to burst out and coat everything beneath in a few more inches.
“Hold on to me,” he orders, like he missed me hanging off his body. “It’s—” His head snaps to the side when a giant snowball cracks him in the temple, exploding and covering us both with slush.
“Oh my,” I breathe, hearing the familiar sounds of cackling kids fading into the distance as they scarper.
His eyes closed, his jaw ticking, his nostrils flaring, Dec gives his head a sharp shake to dislodge the snow in his hair, while I press my lips together, trying my damn hardest not to laugh in his face. “Little buggers,” I murmur, reaching for his shoulders and brushing off the snow.
“Yeah, little buggers.” His words are tight, sardonic, meaning he has a select few other words he’d prefer. I give him a straight-lipped smile when his eyes open, and he rolls his beautiful greys, scanning the vicinity. “Fuckers.”
I lose my battle to hold my laughter back and bury my face in the crook of his neck, if only to hide the sight if I can’t the sound.
He leaves me there for a time, his arm wrapped around my waist, pressing me into his side.
“Come on,” he murmurs, nudging me out with his chin.
“We’re sitting ducks here.” Moving his hold to my hand, he walks us onto the street and looks both ways.
“The coast is clear.” Another chuckle erupts, and Dec smiles across at me as we walk, pleased with himself.
“I’d take snowballs like they were being fired out of a machine gun if it means I get to hear that sound all day,” he muses, almost to himself.
I hug his arm, resting my head on his bicep, so thankful for this man, especially in this moment.
He’s skived work for me. Is trying to keep me busy, make me laugh.
“Where are we heading?” I ask, our pace slow and easy, not because of the hazardous conditions, but because slow and easy is how we do things.
“We’re just walking,” he says, gentle and relaxed. “No agenda. Wander, talk, if you feel like it, grab a drink, dip into a few shops if you like.”
I smile into his arm. “Okay.”
We walk for an hour straight, hardly a word between us spoken, until we end up on the corner of Hyde Park. Dec spots a small shepherd’s hut that’s been converted into a mobile coffee cabin. “Hot chocolate?” he asks, pointing to an A-frame sign propped up outside. “It’s apparently award-winning.”
“Award-winning hot chocolate,” I muse, smelling the coffee beans as we approach. “Sure.”
“Marshmallows?”
“That’s a really fucking dumb thing to ask.”
“I’m going to take that as a resounding yes and never ask you that question ever again.” He raises his brows to the server, who’s casting a smile between us. “Two hot chocolates, one with marshmallows, one without.”
“What?” I ask him on a gasp. “No marshmallows?”