Chapter Seventeen
Two days to Christmas
Mel wakes while the house is still quiet and sleeping, the world outside pitch-black from what she can see through the sliver of window behind the curtains.
She shivers, pulling the duvet closer to her for a moment.
It is colder, without the heat of Finn’s body next to her—because last night he’d insisted he sleep on the floor, barely fitting in the space between the bed and the door.
They’d had a hushed argument about how ridiculous that was, potentially fueled by both the alcohol and all the unsaid things between them at the pub.
You will be so uncomfortable.
It’ll be more comfortable than sleeping next to you, trust me.
And, again, that echo of one more thing he’d said on the street outside. Maybe, Mel, I just can’t fucking help myself when I’m around you.
At least she’d actually slept, though, which is an improvement from the night before.
Only, now, she’s wide awake. She grabs her phone off the bedside table.
5 a.m. She lies still for a couple more minutes, then gives up, throwing the duvet off her and scrabbling around in the dark to find a cardigan, which she pulls on over her pajamas.
She steps as quietly as she can over Finn’s sleeping form, opening the bedroom door just wide enough to slip out and tiptoe down the stairs, wincing at each creak.
She switches the light on when she reaches the kitchen, her feet cold on the tiles, then blinks.
Through the French doors she can see the back garden—which is currently completely white.
Snow. There’s snow outside.
She feels a childish excitement rise within her, wants to go and wake someone up, to tell them about it—but of course it’s far too early.
But she can’t resist grabbing her trainers and stepping outside, relishing the feel of fresh snow crunching under her feet.
It’s not very deep, but there are still some tiny snowflakes falling—and there’s enough to build a snowman, surely.
She pulls her cardigan closer to her, the tips of her fingers turning icy.
She smiles. There is something magical about being out here in the early morning, before it’s light, like the snow is her secret.
She tilts her face up to the cold, feels a snowflake land on her cheek and melt. And lets out a long, slow breath.
When she goes back inside, she makes herself a cup of tea to warm up, then clings to the Aga as she listens to a couple of voice notes from Priya.
It’s got to be midafternoon in Australia, and she wonders what Priya is doing now—it’s school holidays so she won’t be working.
Priya sounds upbeat as she tells Mel that she and some colleagues are going for a “barbie,” that it’s actually easier to be vegetarian than she thought there, that she’s thinking of taking up surfing.
Mel thinks of her assertion that Priya would meet a surfer out there and snorts quietly to herself.
But underneath the positivity, Mel feels as if there is something in Priya’s tone she can’t quite read.
She’s probably trying too hard to make something out of it—it does sound totally dreamy, living right next to the beach, spending Christmas in the sun.
Priya finishes with asking Mel if she should come home for New Year’s Eve.
What do you reckon? I can be there on the thirtieth and we can make a plan to go somewhere fun.
Edinburgh again? Or, actually, maybe not, sorry.
We could even just do London, you know, go really big, I’m sure we could get in last minute somewhere.
You can tell me all about the holiday and I’ll tell you about it all here.
And then if you’re feeling sad I can be there to cheer you up.
It is carefully put—but Mel knows Priya is worried that there will be a fallout after this week with Finn.
That maybe Mel will fall to pieces after it’s done, no matter what she keeps insisting.
In all honesty, Mel is starting to worry about that too—but she puts that to one side for now, and records her message on WhatsApp.
Priya! Okay, that all sounds amazing and I’m definitely jealous.
But you’ll never guess what—it is SNOWING here.
Like, actually snowing—we are going to have a full-on white Christmas, I reckon.
And OBVIOUSLY I’d love you to come back for New Year!
But c an you afford the flights? When does term start?
Because it’s way too long to come for just a few days, isn’t it?
What about if I came to you? Actually, no, that wouldn’t work—I’m not sure I can get organized in time with everything going on.
Argh. But I need to see you soon, definitely.
Please tell me more about the surfing—and you’ve barely said anything about your job.
What’s it like in comparison to here? Come on, give me details, make me even more jealous.
Mel sends that message, then pauses before recording her next.
Also, please don’t worry about me, I’m fine.
It’s been weird, being back with everyone.
But I really think it’s good for me. She thinks of last night, how she felt, leaving Finn on the dance floor—and has to try to make her voice as upbeat as Priya’s.
I’m getting closure, and I think it’s good for me to say a proper goodbye—and it’s only three more days, anyway.
Then I won’t see him ever again and the whole thing will be done.
Her heart twists. Boxing Day. She’s got until Boxing Day, then it really will all be over—her time with him and his family done.
Anyway, all good! Let’s FaceTime soon, okay?
When she’s finished her tea, she creeps back upstairs, hesitating when a stair creaks under her bare foot at the same time as she hears a voice coming from one of the bedrooms. The one right at the top of the stairs—Hattie and Dylan’s bedroom. The voice is raised and stressed-sounding.
“We can talk about this later, okay? It’s way too early for this kind of conversation.”
“But, Hattie, if—”
“No, Dylan. I said we’ll talk later, okay?”
The door to the bedroom opens and Mel’s stomach lurches—she’s still standing right there, one hand on the banister. She feels a rush of guilt and embarrassment—even though she hadn’t been trying to listen in, and she’d only caught the tail end of whatever argument they’d been having.
She clears her throat. “Ah, it’s snowing. Or, at least, it’s snowed.”
Hattie purses her lips, glancing back at her bedroom door. “Has it?”
“Yep.” Her voice is a bit too high-pitched.
“Cool. Coffee?” She strides past Mel, and after a brief hesitation Mel follows her back down the stairs, feeling a bit at a loss. Hattie gets out two mugs when they reach the kitchen.
“Dylan wants kids,” Hattie says without preamble as she puts the kettle on to boil.
“Oh. Okay.”
“I don’t know if I do.”
“Oh,” Mel says again. “Well…” But, as in the pub with Kristen, she feels this is one area of life about which she is highly unequipped to offer meaningful advice.
“I know this is stupid,” Hattie says with an explosive sigh, “but we’ve never talked about it.
And I know, I know, we are getting married—we should have.
But we didn’t, okay?” She’s on the defensive as the kettle clicks off—and Mel figures it’s probably best to say nothing.
“It all happened so fast,” Hattie continues, “and I was kind of, I don’t know, swept away.
” She sweeps a hand across the air to emphasize the point.
“And then he just assumed, apparently.” Her nostrils flare as she fills a cafetière.
How— how —has Mel ended up having another version of this conversation?
She should direct Hattie toward Kristen, who is definitely more qualified.
And can everyone just stop throwing their relationships in her face?
Here they all are, talking about kids—when there’s a good chance she’s going to end up single for the rest of her life, probably not over the man who trampled all over her heart.
She’s a bloody joke, an impostor. And everyone needs to stop telling her things.
“I saw how much Mum had to sacrifice for us,” Hattie says, a little calmer now.
She hands Mel a mug of steaming coffee, and Mel takes it.
“And, look, I know how much she loves us. But I also know how much it changed her. I saw that it was her and not him who did all the work. Logically, I know that’s an extreme example—not everyone’s fathers are shitheads.
” Mel can’t help the subtle wince at the harshness of the word.
Not that she has any particular love for Finn’s dad, but she knows he loved Finn, even if he went about maintaining the relationship badly.
And she knows that Finn struggled with that—the need not to be like his father warring with the fact that he’s always wanted some kind of connection.
“I don’t want that,” Hattie says quietly. “I don’t want what my parents had.”
No matter how hard we try, I don’t think any parent can ever fully bring a child up without scathing them, just a little.
Oh, Susan.
Hattie’s eyes glimmer with tears, and Mel puts her coffee down so she can step toward her, lay a comforting hand on her arm.
“Hattie,” she murmurs softly. “I’m sure it’ll be okay.
” But the words stick in her throat, because how can she be sure?
People didn’t always stick together, didn’t always work things out.
Her parents were the exception, not the rule.
“What if I have to cancel the wedding?” Hattie’s voice hitches.
“I love Dylan.” She swipes at a tear. “Like, I really, really love him. But if I say I might want kids just to keep him, that maybe I could change my mind—that’s lying, isn’t it?
Because what if I don’t change my mind? I can’t lie to him.
That’s the one thing I can’t do,” she adds, and Mel wonders if that fierceness in her voice is coming from the fact that their dad had lied to their mum, over and over.