Chapter 21 #2
I close my eyes and grit my teeth through another painful spasm. “It might go away.” There’s no way I can use the little loo in the hallway. It’s right next to the kitchen and dining room, and I’d end up gassing Harry’s relatives to death on Christmas Day.
“Is everyone in your family anosmic?” I ask.
“No, just me. Which is strange because I think it’s hereditary,” Harry replies, sending my panic spiralling further.
“These nibbles taste weird,” Callum says.
“Let me try one,” Katey says, taking the platter from her son.
But before she can confirm anything, I’ve already figured out what’s happened.
“Harry, I need to leave,” I say as Katey says, “Oh, you know, this tastes like that almond and oat cream cheese that our Jen uses.”
Harry looks at me, looks at his sister, at the tray of mostly devoured canapés, and back to me, my panic mirrored in his gaze. “Okay, I’ll drive us to mine,” he says, getting to his feet. Not, “We can’t leave yet.” Not, “But it’s Christmas.” Not, “I’m staying with my family.”
“Where are you two going?” one of the twins says. I’m freaking out too much about shitting myself in Harry’s childhood home in front of his entire family and don’t have any spare spoons to work out which twin said it.
“We’re going back to my flat because this little ass-nugget poisoned my boyfriend.” Harry points at Casper.
Instead of denying it, Casper puts his hands on his hips. “Wait a minute, this morning you said he wasn’t your boyfriend. Pick a lane.”
“My keys are in the kitchen.” Harry pulls my arm, dragging me through the house.
“Bye, everyone. Sorry about this. It was nice to meet you all,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I’m going home with Lando. Casper gave him the wrong cheese,” Harry says, interrupting whatever conversation Donna, Jason, Lionel, and Toby are having in the kitchen.
Donna gasps and places her hand in front of her face. “Oh my god, no. That was my fault. I must have mixed up the Phillies. I thought I had it . . .” She looks on the edge of breaking down.
I’m just trying to hold in my farts that might be more than farts.
“It’s fine, but we’re gonna go. Lan’s got logs to deliver.”
Lionel gives a nervous laugh, his expression falling into horror when he sees no one else is laughing.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll plate you boys something up and bring it round tonight. Where are you going? Back to yours, Har?” Donna chases us through the house and out to Harry’s little Ford Fiesta.
It should be a ten-minute drive to Harry’s flat, but it’s Christmas Day and the roads are empty.
The Muppet Christmas Carol soundtrack blasts through Harry’s speakers, as it has done since the first of November.
Harry sings along, adorable and tuneless as usual.
It’s almost enough to divert my attention from my insurrectionist bowels.
“Can you drive faster?” I ask, clenching as though my life depends on it. Clenching as I have never clenched before.
“I’ll try, but don’t worry if . . . you know. I’m not bothered.”
“You don’t care if I get shit all over your seat?” I say, half laughing.
“Honestly, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to pay for the professional removal of bodily fluids.
” Harry puts his foot down and speeds through a light as it turns amber.
“Not shit, but one time I really needed a wee on the motorway, and the next services were like twenty miles away. So . . . I only had this empty Fanta bottle, yeah?”
I wince, already knowing where this story is heading.
“I had no idea that you need to put a straw in the bottle or leave a gap because of the airflow or whatever.”
“Nooo,” I say, palming my face, but at least it’s distracting me from the pain. “Babes!” Okay, now I’m laughing. “You poor baby.”
“Piss everywhere. Luckily I couldn’t smell it, but I had to get the inside valeted for everyone else’s benefit. So don’t worry if the worst happens. I know a good place to take the car for cleaning.”
Outside Harry’s flat, he tosses me his house key. “Downstairs door code is nineteen sixty-nine. I’ll park up and come find you.”
“Okay,” I say, launching myself out of his car and running into his block.
The big front door is already open. Someone’s just leaving for a Christmas Day walk with their King Charles Spaniel.
“Merry Christmas!” I scream as I fling myself up the endless flights of stairs, and they stare bewilderedly after me.
I don’t make it in time. Story of my life. But my timing has only ruined my underpants, and thankfully not my Balmain jeans. I take both off and I’m on the toilet before I can defile Harry’s floor tiles.
Harry walks into the bathroom about ten minutes later. “Stinks in here!” he shouts before bursting into laughter. He spots my dirty Calvins on the floor and picks them up by the elastic waistband.
He picks them up! Doesn’t even think twice about touching them.
“Do you want me to wash these or sling ’em?”
“Yeah, you can chuck them. Thank you,” I say, suddenly fighting a lump in my throat. Why, though?
“What about your trousers?”
“I think they’re unscathed, but I’ll have to check them in a while.”
Harry disappears with my soiled pants and comes back a moment later with a clean pair of his. As if my lanky ass will fit in something that stretches over his cakes. They’re also sky blue, but beggars can’t be choosers. He’s brought me a fresh towel too.
“In case you want to shower.” He puts the items on the edge of the sink and inspects the seat of my jeans. “I think you’re good.”
“I’m sorry I made you miss your Christmas dinner,” I say.
Harry walks over to me, tilts my head up, and kisses my forehead. “Wow, you’re sweaty.”
I laugh.
“Don’t be sorry, okay? It’s not your fault. And I’d rather be here with you anyway.”
I don’t quite know what to say to that, so I keep quiet.
“I’ll be in the living room when you’re ready. Take your time. Have a shower if you need to, or give me a shout if you need something else.”
He leaves, and moments later I hear Gonzo’s voice echo through the slightly ajar door.
And now I’m sitting on the toilet in someone else’s flat, crying because . . . well, I’m not even sure I know why I’m crying.
Why am I this affected?
“Did you know about Toby?” I ask as we cuddle up on the sofa and watch the end of the movie. Scrooge is buying a fuck-off turkey and forcing a tiny rabbit with ill-equipped arm muscles to carry it through the town.
“Nope.” Harry unwraps another Quality Street and pops it in his mouth. He’s already smashed all the red and purple ones, now he’s making his way through the toffee fingers.
“How do you feel about it?”
Harry shrugs. Sucks at his teeth. “Dunno.” He doesn’t seem that cut up about it, and I don’t know if that’s something I should worry about. “Do you want your present?”
“Sure,” I say. I guess we’re done talking about Lionel.
I’m not sure why I want to drag that up again, but I do.
Harry has a tiny real tree in his flat. Seriously, the thing is only about three feet tall.
He said it was because he couldn’t be fucked to lug anything bigger up the steps, and I don’t blame him.
There’s a twelve-foot Christmas tree in the entrance hall of Hooke Manor, but what’s the point when no one’s ever around to appreciate it?
He leans forward and plucks a gift from the base of the tree. The shape is instantly recognisable as a book. It turns out to be a recipe book: 100 ways to Cook Asparagus.
I open another one from him. Vegan chocolates. They look delicious, but my bowels are on high alert, so I’ll wait until my hunger becomes too loud to ignore before delving in.
“I left your present in your car,” I tell him.
“No you didn’t. I brought it up.” Harry holds up a gift bag. “Can I open it now?”
Going by the loose bow on the top and his overeager face, I reckon he’s already peeked inside a few times. “Sure.”
“Oh my god, tickets to watch the live orchestral Muppet Christmas Carol!” He pulls out the second gift. A tiny Gonzo Charles Dickens plush. “I love it, thank you.”
“It’s on Saturday night, in the Forum.”
“There’s two tickets. Are you coming with me?” he says.
“Duh.”
Harry does the cutest little happy wiggle on the couch. Several empty sweetie wrappers tumble to the ground. I snap a photo of him because holding this moment in my memory won’t be enough. The details will fade too quickly, become hazy, and I need it to remain crystal sharp forever.
His buzzer sirens, echoing through the flat. Harry grabs his phone, and his dad is right there on the screen. In each hand, he holds a tin-foil-covered plate.
“Dad, alright?”
“Alright, Har,” Jason says in his thick Westcountry accent. He’s standing in front of the doorbell camera, but all we see is the side of his head and his ear. “Can you come down and get these? We’ve just eaten ours, and I’m too full to walk up that many steps. How’s your friend?”
“He’s good,” Harry says, getting to his feet and locating his sliders. “I’ll be down now.” He tosses his phone onto the sofa but doesn’t close the app.
I watch his dad waiting in the chill December evening, pacing the topmost step, breath fogging in front of his face. Eventually Harry appears.
“This one’s yours. This one’s Orlando’s. Your mother explained there’s a special cauliflower cheese, and . . .” There’s a tote bag hooked over the crook of his arm. He transfers it to Harry. “Here’s pudding. And there’s lactose-free custard, but you’ll need to warm that up.”
“Okay, Dad. Thanks. Tell Mum thanks too.”
“Love you, Har. Merry Christmas, son,” Jason says, wrapping his now free arm over Harry’s shoulder and kissing him on the forehead.
Before I realise it, I’m staring at a vacant street.
Harry’s on his way back up, and Jason will be heading home to Wrigsham.
I close the doorbell app and I’m about to toss the phone onto the sofa when something on Harry’s screen catches my attention.
The yellow mask of the Grindr logo rests in the midst of other random icons.
Harry downloaded a dating app? When?
I lock his screen and place his phone on the cushions.
Does this mean he’s ready to move on from whatever this thing is between us? Try something out for real with another guy? I think back to our conversation on Halloween, and I feel . . . hollow.
“Ding dong! Dinner’s ready!” Harry calls out from the hallway.
“I hope you’re hungry. You’d think with about twenty people to feed there’d be a shortage of food.
Wrong! There’s never a fucking shortage at home.
” He places the plates on the table. Pulls out two M&S Christmas crackers and pops them beside the food.
I pour some wine and Harry nukes the little pot of gravy.
We sit at the end of the table, our feet touching under the tablecloth, and pull our crackers, don our paper crowns, tell our jokes—“How does Good King Wenceslas like his pizza? Deep pan, crisp, and even,” and “What goes ‘ahhh?’ A sheep with no lips”—and say cheers.
“Here’s to your stinky butt for getting me out of a sensory overload Ellis Christmas special,” Harry says, holding his wine glass in the air between us.
“And to having friends who don’t care if you shit yourself in front of them.” I touch our glasses together.
“Cheers,” we say at the same time.