Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Once she’s gone, Laurel insists that they spend the next couple of hours getting ready and dancing and being silly.
He finally remembers all the treats he’d made to bring to Christmas, still packed in his suitcase, and so hands them out to everyone, while Kit strictly controls the party playlist. It’s so nice, and just as he’s about to pick out something to wear, Ambrose holds out a wrapped parcel to him.
‘What’s this?’
‘Something I made.’
‘You made?’
‘Yes, don’t be weird about it. Just open it.’
The shirt is beautiful. It’s a simple dark navy linen, but it’s edged with floral Liberty fabric, and when he turns up the cuffs, as he always does, there’s a flash of golden thread woven through the flowers. It fits him perfectly.
‘I can’t believe you made this,’ he gasps.
‘I’m naturally talented.’
It all feels complete when Haf pulls out a pot of gold glitter gel and swipes a couple of lines across his cheekbones, like golden blusher. He feels more himself – no, more than himself because of their love and belief in him.
Everyone is dressed up to the nines. Kit wears a slinky structured black dress that just screams I’m an architect but in a way that works for her so completely, which clashes with Haf’s pink sequin mini dress and cowboy boots.
Any party is a reason for Laurel to wear silk, and she slinks along in a champagne gown.
And tucked into high-waisted wide-leg trousers, Ambrose wears a shirt in the same floral Liberty fabric that trims his own shirt, making them a matching pair.
They walk over to the community centre at seven to find it packed full of faces that are now so familiar to him.
There are still people to meet, and a herd of small children that he doesn’t yet know, who are frantically stuffing Party Rings into their faces.
But he doesn’t feel like the stranger walking in any more.
In fact, he ends up doing the rounds, introducing his friends and family to his new friends and family.
It turns out that Ursula was tasked with decorating and she’s done an incredible job.
No longer is there sad taped-up tinsel – instead there are well-placed fairy lights, and even a disco ball hanging from the ceiling over what seems to be a dance floor.
There’s a huge Christmas tree, which Christopher’s not entirely convinced wasn’t actually Ursula’s, decorated in black and gold and glowing with soft light.
There are also paper chains being made by some children in the corner, who throw them up onto the walls with abandon once they’re created.
‘Look, Christopher, there’s mistletoe!’ shrieks Haf, pointing back towards the doorway. She lunges at him and he just about ducks out of the way in time. ‘Come on, for old times’ sake.’
‘Get off,’ he laughs, pushing her away as she comes in for a second attempt. ‘Christ, there’ve been more than enough mistletoe kisses for one lifetime.’
‘Don’t say that. You never know what will come next,’ Laurel says sweetly. He’s pretty sure their drunken kiss last year also started out as a mistletoe kiss, but there’s not much he remembers from that part of the evening.
A few children start doing sock slides across the floor and for just a moment, Christopher thinks about joining them. Maybe later. He’s always enjoyed a good sock slide.
The tables have been dragged together for a huge buffet of picky food from the supermarket, and a whole table of various alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, which for some reason is not manned by Enid, but Thelma.
‘Can I interest you in some sloe gin?’ Thelma asks, waving a bottle of murky thick liquid.
‘Oh yes,’ cries Laurel, holding out a fresh glass.
‘Are you sure?’ Christopher murmurs. ‘It looks lethal.’
‘When in Rome, Toph.’ She takes a sip and her eyes go wild. ‘Cheese and rice, that could power a car.’
‘I’ll take one,’ adds Ambrose immediately, and Thelma fills up glasses for them and Haf too.
‘Now I regret agreeing to be the designated driver,’ says Kit sulkily. As Ambrose’s glass is filled up, she takes a sniff. ‘Fucking hell, actually, I take that back. You’re all allowed only one. There’ll be no vomiting in my car, thank you very much.’
‘Oops,’ says Haf, her glass conspicuously empty.
‘Dear God.’
He leaves them to fight over Thelma’s rocket fuel, and finds Shaz and Gar by the tree, arms round each other’s waists. They look so right together that he can’t even imagine not realising they were each other’s person.
‘Happy New Year,’ he says.
‘Blwyddyn Newydd dda,’ says Gar, but not in a correcting way. He gives repeating it a good go, which seems to satisfy them both just enough to suggest it was vaguely correct.
‘I can’t believe everyone did this,’ he whispers.
‘Of course they did,’ Shaz says. ‘Everyone loves you.’
‘Especially this one,’ says Gar, squeezing Shaz tightly. ‘It was her idea.’
‘Give off, it wasn’t.’
‘It was,’ Gar insists to Christopher.
Before Shaz can resist, he wraps his arms around her. ‘You nightmare,’ he says. ‘If you admit it, think of all the gratitude cake you’ll get from me.’
‘Oh all right, it was me then.’
‘Ha! Too easy,’ says Gar.
‘There’s one thing I was thinking, though,’ Christopher says. ‘Have you thought about doing this the rest of the year?’
‘What, celebrating New Year’s Eve? It’s a rogue choice but—’
‘No, you dingbat. Organising. Getting involved. You’ve done so much the last week, smashed it, and you loved it.’
She pauses. ‘You really think I did a good job?’
‘Yes,’ he urges.
‘I had been thinking it was time to go back to work,’ she said, with a glance up at Gar, who looks down at her with glowing pride. ‘Maybe I can speak to Tammy. Get into local politics and terrify everyone.’
Gar nods. ‘You are very good at that part, bab.’
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘It kind of . . . knocked my confidence when I lost the school job. It’s nice to be reminded I’m good at something.’
The sound of someone knocking on a microphone cuts through the party, and everyone turns to see Tamara standing in the middle of the room.
‘Good evening everyone. Thank you all for coming. I think Pen-y-M?r has been through a real trial over the last couple of weeks, and you all rose to the challenge. So, this is our thanks to all of you for your hard work and community spirit. Have fun, be merry, and Blwyddyn Newydd dda.’
She raises a glass of bubbly, and everyone does the same, chorusing variations on ‘Blwyddyn Newydd dda’ and ‘Happy New Year’. The music is turned up fully, and Ursula drags Tamara onto an impromptu dance floor with Joan, Cecil and Mervyn.
There’s a bittersweetness to all this that he doesn’t want to notice, but can’t help but feel.
The lack of him. He would be flirting with Myffy or dancing with Ursula and Tamara or he’d have picked up a tray and would be serving everyone snacks and drinks.
All the time flashing that Hollywood smile of his.
It’s not the first time Nash has crossed his mind in the last few days, but on this occasion, Christopher allows himself, just for a little while, to dream.
* * *
Quiet dreaming ends up not being the vibe of the night. Everyone of drinking age gets into Thelma’s rocket fuel, and soon the party is quite lairy. Having nursed a beer for the last hour, Christopher is feeling rather out of step with everyone else.
Especially so when Tamara appears in front of him with the microphone, which appears to be on, and slurs, ‘Christopher, you should give a speech.’
‘A . . . speech?’ he murmurs, but the microphone picks it up, blaring his words out over the speakers.
This, naturally, causes everyone in the room to start chanting the word ‘speech’ like a horrifying chorus.
Now he regrets not drinking any of Thelma’s gin. Courage, man, he tells himself. Just tell the people what they want to hear.
And perhaps even what he wants to say to them.
‘Ahem. Hi, everyone,’ he says, which is met with a couple of whoos from the crowd. ‘I just wanted to say, I’m so glad to be part of this community. Thank you for taking me in and giving me a home here. I hope that I get to stay here a long time with you all.’
His mind casts back to Christmas Day, the last time he was with all of these people. Celebrating then, too, yes, but also working together to protect Nash.
He takes a breath.
‘And, while he’s not here right now, I’m sure Nash would want me to thank you all for the way you took him in too. I’ve never seen a group of people so determined to fight the press. So, thank you.’
They’re all looking at him with big, sad eyes.
It’s not pity, though, or at least it doesn’t feel like it.
It’s more a shared grief. They’re taking his burden and splitting it out between them.
But then, they got to know Nash along with him.
Maybe not on the same level. After all, they tended to see Hollywood Nash.
Christopher saw that version, the pissed-off version, and the quieter, vulnerable version of Nash that he hides away.
‘I . . . I miss him too. It feels wrong in a way, celebrating everything without him here with us. But maybe one day, Nash will come back for us to thank him properly.’
And the man he’s been waiting for this whole time walks through the front door.