Chapter 1 #2
The Robinson Christmas parties are legendary.
The tradition pre-dates her parents, includes the entire neighbourhood, and often ends up in the local paper.
Even after the Robinsons moved to London over a decade ago, they continued the festivities, travelling back year after year to the family home – dubbed Willowby Manor by some long-gone relative.
Before they retired and moved back to the manor, Mia’s mum and dad would take an extra week off work to prepare for the party, and Aunt Gertie hadn’t missed one in fifty years.
Even as an adult, Mia looked forward to the event all year.
Mia’s phone vibrates, and her spirits soar. She can’t help it. This must be James, finally texting her back! She fumbles to pull the device from her pocket and hurriedly unlocks it.
Mum wants to know where you are. Party starts in 45 minutes.
Damn. It’s from Charlie. Her brother is eleven months older than her, a fact that their mother loves to tell anyone and everyone. ‘Irish twins those two! Got into so much trouble. I couldn’t sit down for more than a minute for years!’
Mia ignores the text and swipes back to the home screen. Tapping her finger against the side of the phone, she holds out for another ten seconds and then opens the thread with James. Her last message, sent five days ago, is still unread. The upbeat, no-pressure message taunts her.
Hey! Last night was so great. Want to get together sometime this weekend?
Lifting her chin, Mia draws in a deep breath and stows the phone back in her pocket.
She will not check again until she reaches Worcester.
She will not allow herself to obsess over unread messages.
Second-guessing her decisions. Especially the most pertinent one that she has a sneaking suspicion has led to this sudden silence.
Instead, she is determined to enjoy this trip.
To relax. And when she gets off the bus in Worcester, James will surely have sent a text explaining his silence.
The bus is set to depart in five minutes.
The seat next to Mia remains untaken, and she takes the liberty of scooting her handbag over into the empty space beside her.
The driver fiddles with things in the front and the engine roars to life.
Mia breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, they can be on their way.
One straggling passenger hauls herself up into the bus and makes her way down the aisle in search of a seat. Mia turns towards the window, hoping the woman will get the hint. There are still plenty of other places left.
But today is not going Mia’s way, a fact she silently laments as the woman sets herself down in the seat beside her, pointedly nudging Mia’s handbag back into its proper space.
‘Glory,’ the woman pants. ‘Thought I was ’bout to miss the bus. And wouldn’t that have been a shame?’
‘A crying shame,’ Mia agrees. She won’t cry. She’s not the crying sort. But if she were, she imagines it would be a sort of relief to simply crumple into tears at the way life has been treating her for the last week, especially when she is trying so very hard to stay positive and strong and—
‘I’m Trudy. What’s your name, love?’
‘Mia,’ she offers reluctantly, hoping these introductions aren’t the beginning of a five-hour-long conversation.
‘Mia! One of my kittens was Mia. Loved that little tabby. She’d sit on my lap at meals and eat real human food! Have you ever heard of a cat that liked carrots?’ She shakes her head and – are those tears sparking in her eyes? ‘She lived to be fourteen years old, if you can imagine that.’
‘Impressive,’ Mia murmurs, taking note of the copious amount of cat hairs sprinkling Trudy’s tweed coat.
‘’Course, her memory lives on.’ Trudy sniffs and dabs at her eye. ‘She birthed six different litters throughout her lifetime. My little black one, Mischief, is her grandson.’
‘How many cats do you have?’ Mia asks, almost afraid of the answer.
Trudy laughs as the driver eases the bus into the traffic. Finally, they are on their way. ‘Oh, not too many. Last I checked there were eight of them.’
Mia hopes her expression is still pleasantly neutral. It would be rude to let her jaw drop. ‘That’s … a lot of cats.’
‘Do you think so?’ Trudy laughs again. The sound is a little bit like a wheeze. ‘I like them better than my children, really. And I live in a rambling old house that’s practically enormous. Plenty of room for all of us.’
‘Do you own the house, then?’ Mia says, looking out the window as if for an escape.
The landscape is almost entirely obscured by falling snow.
So much for getting lost in the view. Her nose is starting to tickle – maybe from the cat dander?
Between the window and her chatty seatmate, she’s starting to feel decidedly trapped.
‘Yes, I bought the place in the early aughts. Been fixing it up to suit my tastes ever since. I don’t suppose you want to see some pics?
’ She reaches a hand into her pocket, contorting so her body presses briefly against Mia, then pulls out a large phone in a faux fur case.
‘I’m quite proud of the before and afters. ’
‘Why not,’ Mia says, with as much enthusiasm as she can muster. Which isn’t much. She leans towards Trudy, mindful of the cat hair covering her coat, and resigns herself to what lies in store for the next five hours.
Five hours turned into six, what with the traffic and the weather.
Mia has never been so ready to disembark, and she gathers her things, mildly impressed that Trudy still has anecdotes about her cats to share.
Mia thought she’d surely run out around the three-hour mark as Trudy had fallen silent for, by Mia’s count, thirty-seven seconds.
Until she’d visibly brightened and said, ‘Ah! But I haven’t told you about the twins’ antics from last year!
’ and carried on for another three hours.
‘Nice chatting with you,’ Mia tells Trudy as they make their way down the aisle. And, to her surprise, she means it. The constant conversation has held her anxiety at bay, and she hasn’t thought of James or checked her phone once.
‘Oh, you too! Don’t forget to look me up next time you’re in Westminster!
’ Trudy hauls a dilapidated suitcase out of the bowels of the bus, and waves a jolly goodbye as she crosses the car park.
Mia follows suit, locating her suitcase and pulling it free from the melee with a hearty yank.
She staunchly ignores the answering twinge in her abs.
As her patent leather boots sink into the slush that’s built up in the car park, she winces against the cold, pausing to wrap her scarf more tightly so that she can tuck her chin into its warm folds. Finding a somewhat sheltered corner, she pulls out her phone and dials her parents’ landline.
It rings and rings. ‘Come on …’ Mia mutters. But there’s no answer.
A call to Charlie produces the same result.
Of course, the Christmas festivities are in full swing by now, and it’s likely that everyone is too busy partaking in holiday cheer to answer their phones.
Well, good for them. Mia imagines them all merrily ensconced out of the cold, drinking hot toddies and wearing their thick Christmas jumpers.
The thought makes her inexplicably angry.
She wades over to an alarmingly scarce line of taxis, struggling to drag her rolling suitcase behind her. The taxi driver cracks his window and Mia gasps out her parents’ address.
‘That’ll be a hundred and twenty pounds, luv.’ He glances her over. ‘A fair price for how bad the roads are tonight.’
A hundred and twenty pounds! That’s highway robbery.
She should have rented that car in London – although they probably would have gouged her even more.
And chances are she would currently be stuck in a ditch, freezing to death.
Mia sucks in yet another calming breath.
It’s not lost on her that she’s been doing a lot of those today.
Of course she’d prefer it if her family picked her up and she didn’t have to shell out, but what choice does she have? ‘Can I put my suitcase in the boot?’
The cabbie nods a yes and presses a button, and as it pops open he mentions, with just a touch of glee, ‘It’ll be another five pounds for the boot, luv.’
‘Of course it will,’ Mia mutters, dragging the suitcase around the back and hefting it into the boot.
‘For five pounds you could at least help load it.’ But he seems more than content to wait within the comforting warmth of his car.
She trudges around to the rear door and lets herself in, batting the snow from her head and shoulders. ‘All right, let’s get on with it then.’
The interior of the taxi is stiflingly hot.
Mia opens her jacket, fingers brushing over the knitted design of her favourite Christmas jumper, which she proudly whips out on 1 December and wears all month long.
Her dedication to the jumper is arguably a testament to how much she usually loves the festive season.
But this year, with her phone still proclaiming its demoralizing lack of notifications, the trek up here as miserable as it could be and the sinking realization that things have gone very, very south with James?
There’s nothing happy about this Christmas.
The festivities she would normally take pleasure in now seem like they’re rubbing these miseries in her face.
As if the world is saying, Everyone else’s lives are happily working out. What about yours?
‘What about mine,’ Mia grumbles. Indeed.
After a harrowing forty-minute ride over ice and snow, the cabbie dumps her at the bottom of the steep drive up to her family home.
‘Drive’s too slick to make it up, luv.’ Mia bites her tongue, hard, and pays him his fee.
She’s tempted – very tempted – to skip the tip, since this chap has already made more than his fair share off her, but forces herself to pull out another five pounds.
It is Christmas, after all. She can’t avoid a tiny bit of snark, though, in her over-the-top cheery, ‘Thanks for a lovely ride.’ She receives a mere grunt in response.
Not even a thanks for the tip. Just pops the boot and inclines his head as if to say ‘off with you then’.
Tramping out into the snow once again, Mia drags her suitcase behind her as she starts up the drive.
Her boots slip on the gravel over and over.
At least the cabbie wasn’t exaggerating.
She grumbles and pants, wrestling her suitcase – why did she pack so many clothes?
– handbag sliding down her arm, toes frozen solid.
The hundred metres or so up to the house seem like an eternity, and Mia realizes three things as she struggles.
One: the sight of Willowby Manor has never felt more comforting.
The house has been in her family for generations and feels as timeless as the landscape it resides in, with its many gables and peaks outlined in warm white lights, the ancient stone reassuringly solid against the falling snow, the golden blocks of window light spilling out on to the pristine landscape.
The sprawling estate holds so many lovely memories for Mia, including sledging down this steeply pitched drive as children.
Tonight, despite the challenging travel, the weather and the way the world at large seems to be fighting her personally, she’s never been happier to be home.
Two: never let Lucy talk her into joining a hot yoga class again.
She knows that a single girl of her age has to make some effort to stay in shape, sure.
But with her calves screaming at her as she lugs her suitcase up the drive, Mia decides that the world doles out torture enough on its own.
There’s no need to go seeking it out by subjecting her abdominals to the horrors of yoga again.
Hunching against the howling wind, Mia finishes up her mental checklist as she takes the last few steps towards the house.
Sadly, her final realization is the one responsible for the tears lurking under the surface all day.
As she plods around to the back door, not yet ready to face the masses of revellers inside, Mia accepts that James is never going to respond.
She slept with him last Friday, and apparently that’s all he wanted.
A week has gone by, and his silence is crystal clear.
Three: Mia’s been ghosted. At Christmas.