Chapter 19 December 19th #4
The dress was already paid for when I got to the counter, and one look at Dec told me I’d get nowhere if I argued.
So I didn’t. But I will be paying him back, and I haven’t stopped thinking about how since we left the store with my beautiful gold dress.
What could I possibly buy him? A man who I’m certain has everything.
I’m still pondering this when we turn onto my street.
I see a grey Defender parked outside my building, the engine running.
Ron. “I’ll pick you up in a couple hours, okay? ”
“I thought we were walking?” I say with an arched, accusing eyebrow.
“You’re going to need heels with that dress, Camryn. No walking for you.”
“You tricked me.”
He hooks an arm around my waist and hauls me in. “Will you be okay for a few hours on your own?”
Yes, I will. Because for the first time since I lost Noah, I’ve been able to remember the happy times. I’ve been able to remember him without feeling annihilated with devastation. “I’ll be fine.”
He must see the peace in my eyes, as much as I can feel it in my soul. “Okay.”
“Thank you for the dress.”
He smirks. “Don’t be. It’s totally for me.” Slamming a firm kiss on my lips, he swallows me whole and leaves me breathless as he releases me, making me stand on my own two feet for what’s pretty much the first time today. But it’s okay. I can get through the next few hours until I’m back with him.
Dec reverses his steps.
“Thank you for today,” I blurt urgently, forcing my hands to my sides to stop them reaching for him.
He smiles, and the sight is enough to make me burst into tears.
He slips into the passenger seat. “Watch your step,” he says, before he closes the door, looking out the window at me as Ron pulls away.
I lift a hand, waving, revisiting every wonderful moment of the day.
I never imagined today could be anything less than dreadful. And it wasn’t. Because of him.
I don’t come out of my daze until they disappear around a corner, and I inhale deeply, filling my lungs and expanding my chest. Alive.
I hurry up the pathway as fast as the ice will allow, stalling just shy of the door when I notice something odd.
“Huh,” I breathe, inspecting the crater in the snow where Mr. Percival’s Christmas turkey’s been camping out for days.
“Well, I hope Maureen didn’t munch her way through the tarpaulin,” I mutter, hauling the door open and stepping inside.
I blow my cheeks out and pull off my hat and gloves, going straight to Mr. Percival’s door and knocking.
I hear his walking frame bashing the floor when I push my ear up against the door.
“Is that you, Camryn?” he yells.
“Yes, it’s me. Is the door open?”
“Yes, it’s open.”
“Can I come in?”
“Yes, you can bloody come in. Why would I tell you the door’s open if I didn’t want you to come in? Come in, come in, come in.”
He’s halfway down the small hallway to the door when I push my way inside, meaning he’s practically at the door, given how small the hallway is. “I didn’t want to assume. It’s mostly wide open when you’re home. And actually, Mr. Percival, you shouldn’t leave your door open.”
He looks me up and down before his gaze lands on the bag in my hand. “Been shopping?”
“Oh, this?” I put the bag behind my back, and I’ve no idea why. “It’s just a dress.”
“A party dress?”
“No, not a party dress. Just a dress.”
“So you’re not wearing it and going to a party?”
“No, I’m wearing it and going for dinner.”
“Oooh, with the man?”
“You know his name, Mr. Percival.”
“Show me the dress.”
“What?”
“The dress. Let me see it.” He gives me grabbing hands, and I roll my eyes, relenting to his demand, if only to get him off my back. I pull it out and watch as a grin that could be described as roguish washes over his old, wrinkly face.
“What?” I ask. “Why are you looking like that?”
“That’s a party dress.”
I stuff it back in the bag. “A party dress is only a party dress if it’s worn to a party, and I’m not wearing this dress to a party, so it can’t be a party dress. It’s a, I don’t know . . . a dinner dress.”
He chuckles, clutching at his walking frame as he lifts and lowers it constantly, turning around, before heading back into his flat. “Don’t tell me I don’t know a party dress when I see one,” he mutters. “Okay, it’s a dinner dress.”
I roll my eyes. “I came to check on the turkey.”
“What’s that, dear?” he yells.
“The turkey,” I yell back, following him into the kitchen.
“I was checking it’s—” The turkey greets me, taking up most of Mr. Percival’s table, the gnomes all pushed to the edge to make way for the giant bird, which has its guts in a bowl next to it.
Jesus Christ, it looks like a bunch of gnomes have gone all cultish, sacrificed a bird, and are about to drink its blood. “Never mind,” I murmur.
“So you’re going on a dinner date.” Mr. Percival takes a meat hammer and whacks the turkey, and I jump so bloody high I’m sure my head skims the ceiling.
“I suppose so.” Is it a date?
Whack!
I jump again.
“You suppose so? Isn’t that what it’s called when a man takes a lady out for dinner?”
“I suppose so.”
Whack!
I see it coming this time, and I still jump out of my skin. “Mr. Percival, why are you beating the shit out of your turkey?”
“Loosening the skin, dear.”
“You can do that with your hand, just by slipping it up its—”
“Jacksy?”
I snort as Mr. Percival drops the meat mallet and hobbles over to his stove, where a pot’s bubbling. “Try this,” he orders, luring me closer when I catch a whiff of whatever’s simmering.
“What is it?”
“Mulled wine, dear.” He ladles some into a mug and puts it in my hand. “Old Navy recipe.”
“That smells really strong.”
“Put some hairs on your chest, dear.”
“I don’t want any hairs on my chest.”
“Try it.”
Again, I’m pacifying him, not only because I’ve grown fond of the old boy, but because he’s got no one else to be his guinea pig and taste all these weird and wonderful Christmas delights.
“Bottoms up,” I murmur, taking a bigger swig than I should.
And coughing. “Christ.” I feel like an atomic bomb just went off in my head.
I wince, hiss, my shoulders raising and tensing to get me through the swallow and then the horrific taste.
I put a hand over my mouth, worried I’m about to bring it back up again. “What the hell is in that?”
“Brandy.”
“That’s gone straight to my head.” I put the cup down, the aftertaste kicking in, exploding in my mouth and burning my belly.
“You’ve not finished it.”
“I can’t finish it, Mr. Percival. I’ll be face first on the carpet.”
He chuckles, moving over to a chair and pouring himself a straight brandy. “Peckish? I made hog in the bog.”
I’m not going to even ask. “I need to get ready.”
“Are you looking forward to it?”
“Today’s a difficult day,” I say, reluctant. “A sad day.” I trip over my words, wondering why I’m even telling him this. “I guess I’m wondering if I should even be going.”
He hums, nursing his glass as he regards me. “What else will you do? Cry?”
“Probably,” I mumble, looking down at the bag in my hand. It was easy to be busy when I had Dec to keep me that way. Only ten minutes away from him, I’m questioning everything. Not him—never him, but . . . I don’t know. I just feel like I shouldn’t be smiling today.
“My dear Camryn, the cruellest stage of grief is coming to terms with the fact that you’re still alive and life is still happening when a huge part of you has died.”
I inhale subtly, taken aback. “How did you know?”
“Loss is a picture painted all over that beautiful face of yours.” He sips his drink, looking off somewhere, thoughtful momentarily before shaking himself back into the room. “We have two choices. Move forward or . . . well, the other doesn’t bear speaking about.”
“I’ve thought about it,” I admit. “On the darkest days, I thought about it a lot.”
“And what a tragedy it would be for the world to lose you. You’re still here for a reason. You’ll figure it out, and I have a feeling the man is helping you.”
“Dec.” I smile, small and with effort, and nod, as if accepting but not really sure if I can.
“Thanks, Mr. Percival.” I back out, leaving his door open, and go to my apartment to get myself ready.
I stop at the cabinet by the window and pick up the picture of Noah.
“Mummy’s going out,” I tell him, and then I say no more, as if I’m waiting for him to tell me that it’s okay.
That I can go out. That I can smile. That I can think about something other than the gut-wrenching agony his memory causes me every single day.
I wipe my eyes on a sniff, press my lips to the glass pane over his grinning face, and then put him back in the window to go get myself ready.
I’m not sure who the woman in the mirror is, in a gold dress, her dark hair loosely pinned up with perfect soft waves tumbling imperfectly.
Her cheeks glow, her eyes are smoky, her lashes thick and long with mascara.
I peek down my bare legs to the dainty cream suede stilettos that I found at the bottom of one of the endless boxes.
No tights. Tights ruined the look, but it’s sub-zero out there.
I put in some pearl droplet earrings as I go to the cupboard in the hallway and pull out my long cream coat, swinging it on.
And I’m ready.
An hour early.
I tie the belt of my coat and go to the fridge, considering a drink to settle my nerves.
Just a little. I pull out the orange wine Mr. Percival gave me and check the label.
“Maybe not,” I murmur. Thirteen percent?
No. I want a clear head for the rest of this day.
I close the fridge and sit down at the table.
Get back up. Pace through to the lounge.