Chapter Eight #2
Nash takes the empty plates to the sink and yawns widely. ‘I’m really sorry but I need to sleep, like, now. I guess it’s probably too early, but that pasta has knocked me out.’
‘Go, go. I’ll wash up—’ Christopher says.
He was expecting Nash to protest and offer to help, and then they could have a back-and-forth but .
. . he just leaves. Like he said he would, and like Christopher told him to.
So why does he feel so unsettled? Irritated, even.
Is it the lack of the overly polite back-and-forth that forms the social contract?
He doesn’t really care about that stuff usually, so why now?
Maybe he’s just looking for petty things to be annoyed by for the distraction.
Instead, he thinks back to the Christmas he was going to have. No, will have. This weather can’t hold out much longer. The trains will be running, or at least some miserable rail replacement bus, but he’ll take it. Then Nash can just stay here alone.
It’ll all be fine in the morning, he tells himself firmly. It has to be. He doesn’t want to think about what happens tomorrow if both he and Nash are stuck here.
As usual, Christopher puts his feelings into scrubbing furiously at a pan, and soon the cookware and crockery are clean, dry and put away. The counter gleams.
All that remains is for him to get some sleep.
* * *
But before he can turn his mind to it, his phone begins to buzz.
It’s his mother. Typical really that one of the rare times he actually gets signal up here, it’s a call from Esther.
He wants to let it ring out and call her back in the morning, but there’s a snowstorm across the country – what if something’s happened to her?
‘Hello, Mother,’ he says, keeping his voice low. ‘Are you and Dad doing all right?’
The first thing she says in her clipped tones is, ‘Why are you whispering, Christopher?’
‘I’m not whispering.’
‘Well, you’re speaking very quietly. I’m not losing my hearing yet, but it feels like you’re testing me.’
‘Sorry, Mother, is that better?’
‘Your father and I are fine, to answer your first question.’
‘Are you still at home?’
‘Yes we are. Our initial plan was to drive north tomorrow to meet you at Katharine’s, but of course that’s on hold now.’
‘Have you decided not to risk it?’ He doesn’t want to outright ask them if it’s safe for them to drive in tricky weather – Esther’s right, they aren’t old, but they are older every year.
‘Darling, have you not looked outside all day? I can’t imagine it’s much better for you, but I’d have to dig the cars out. The motorways are practically ski slopes.’
‘It can’t go on for that long though, can it?’
Esther fills him in about various news reports and statements from politicians, and he tries to make sure he’s doing a good job of sounding as if he’s listening, rather than slowly sinking into a pit of despair.
That’s that, then. Unless there’s a Christmas miracle involving a sudden heatwave, which given the state of the climate he’s not sure he particularly wants, he’s stuck here.
Nash appears in the doorway again, dressed in a scoop-neck white T-shirt and sweatpants. ‘Sorry, can I just grab a glass of water?’ he whispers, before slipping around Christopher to take a glass from the cupboard. ‘Night,’ he mouths as he leaves.
It’s only when Esther is practically yelling his name in his ear that he realises he completely zoned out from their conversation.
‘Sorry, Mother, what was that?’
‘I asked you why there’s a man in your house?’
Shit. How did she hear that? He barely heard him.
‘Oh . . . well. He’s just staying. You know, because of the storm.’
There’s a pause, which with Esther could go either way. ‘A last-minute visit from a friend of yours? Does that mean we will get to meet him?’
Uh-oh. The emphasis on friend is very clear. That glimmer of excitement.
The one downside to having parents who are very accepting of the idea – and reality – that both of their children are queer, whether or not it’s been verbally confirmed to them or not, is that they always want to talk about it.
Kit’s been out for years, but the act of moving in with Haf seems to have turned Esther and Otto into parents competing for World’s Greatest Allies.
He fully expects Esther is trying to organise a Pride in Oxlea on the download.
He knows he shouldn’t feel this way, but for right now it would be nice if his parents were a bit more repressed about this, specifically to save him from this conversation. They are about practically everything else.
‘No, Mother. Remember I said someone was going to stay in the flat while I was away at Kit’s? Well, he arrived this afternoon.’
‘And you’re just letting him stay?’
‘Mother, I can hardly throw the man out into the cold.’
‘He’s a stranger, Christopher. I know he was renting the place but it’s different when you are still there. And I imagine you haven’t sorted out your spare room yet, so what, you’re sleeping on the couch?’
It pains him that she knows him so well.
‘It’s just for one night.’
‘We must be looking at very different weather forecasts.’
‘We are in different countries, Mother.’
‘I’m well aware of that. Otto, come here will you?’
In the background, he hears the familiar folding up of a newspaper that always signalled his father was about to do something. ‘My boy!’ he bellows down the phone. ‘I hope you’re all right in this snowstorm!’
‘I’m fine, Dad—’
‘He is not fine,’ snaps Esther. ‘Otto, he has a strange man staying with him.’
‘What’s so strange about him, dear?’ Otto teases.
Christopher bites down on his lip to stop himself from laughing.
‘Don’t twist my words. You know I meant a stranger.’
‘Has he never spoken to the man?’
‘We’ve spoken and even shared a meal together.’
‘Well now, he doesn’t sound like a stranger to me if they’ve broken bread.’
‘It was spaghetti, but close enough.’
‘Give me that newspaper. I want to whack you with it. You’re supposed to be on my side,’ Esther hisses.
‘I am always on your side,’ Otto says softly. ‘But if Christopher is happy to offer hospitality to this gentleman in his time of need, then we should just be pleased that our son is so thoughtful. No?’
There are a few beats where she mulls this over. ‘It wouldn’t be very Christian of you to throw him out,’ she relents.
‘True, though I’m not very Christian at the best of times. Nor are you really.’
‘That’s true,’ agrees Otto. ‘We haven’t been to a service that wasn’t a wedding or a funeral in years.’
‘It’s an expression,’ she says, exasperated. Eventually, she concedes. ‘It’s very kind of you to let him stay for tonight.’ There’s a very slight emphasis on for tonight, as though she’s reminding him that it would be unconscionable to let Nash stay any longer.
‘I’m glad you’re both safe,’ he says. ‘But I really need to get to sleep. It’s been a long day.’
‘Right-oh,’ cries Otto. ‘Sleep well.’
‘Goodnight, darling,’ says Esther softly before hanging up.
What a day. What a totally weird day.
Christopher makes the executive decision to ignore all the notifications on WhatsApp until tomorrow. No more talking to anyone tonight.
His bedroom door is firmly closed, and boy does he miss his bed already.
The couch is small and old and in certain places there are springs that are a little too springy and dig right in.
The chill in the air tells him it’s going to be a cold night, so he gathers every single blanket including the ones that are just to cover up how worn some of the inherited chairs look, and layers them up over him like a lasagne.
Although it’s been a long day, it’s still too early to sleep.
Maybe he can find something familiar to bake, he thinks to himself, as he’s probably stuck here for at least another day.
So he gathers a couple of Christmas cookery books from the spare room and takes them to read in his nest. The Little Library Christmas and a frankly enormous Nigella one balance in his lap, and slowly he flicks through the recipes.
He doesn’t have any of the key ingredients for Christmas – not a single chestnut or sprout in sight.
Naturally, he has an obscene amount of nutmeg and cinnamon downstairs but that’s not going to go very far without the rest. Before he owned the bakery, he’d be able to come up with alternatives, or even just dream up things irrespective of what was on his hurriedly scribbled inventory list. In the end, his brain whirrs too much for him to lose himself in the recipes.
He sets them down on the floor and lies back, willing sleep to find him.
But here lies the problem.
The only way he’s managed to fall asleep for the last few months is by putting on a film.
Practically speaking, he can still watch something.
He has a bunch downloaded on his tablet, so he doesn’t have to turn on the TV, and he can use his headphones to listen so as not to wake Nash.
Although, from the snoring currently rumbling from the bedroom, he’s pretty sure that Nash is completely flat out.
But he doesn’t watch just any film to fall asleep. He watches Nash’s films. And he’s not sure he could take the mortification of Nash walking in on Christopher watching one.
No, he’ll just have to fall asleep the old-fashioned way.
Except, his mind keeps turning to the snoring from the other room. No one else has been up here in months.
You get used to being lonely, he’s realised. It becomes a constant dullness. But now, amongst all this change and chaos, it feels magnified. Suddenly, Christopher can’t help but think that not being alone at night would be quite nice.
Time, his old enemy, returns to pass by excruciatingly slowly. Christopher is in for a long, lonely night.