Chapter 46
Ivy
Our plans for a quiet Christmas at home pretty much disintegrated as soon as we set foot in our new home, courtesy of Westminster City Council.
Instead, the twins and I have voted to go to a local pub for Christmas lunch.
It’s nothing special—part of a big chain—but it has a carvery, and I’m hoping it will be more festive than this place.
When I’m not working at the caff or creating late-night sketches and paintings to sell in my Etsy shop, I’ve spent every minute trying to make this revolting little box into something resembling a home.
I’m grateful that I haven’t had many hours at the caff this week, no matter how much I need the money.
The truth is, the girls are seriously shaken up, and they’re doing a much worse job of hiding it than me.
I feel fundamentally unsafe here. The girls know it, and I know they know it. We may have been mere metres away from the phone muggers and drug dealers of the Harrow Road at any given time in our old flat, but this is different.
Then I felt exposed, but now I feel trapped: trapped in a tiny, smelly box with criminals all around us.
Two days ago, I caved and called Gen. I thought there would be nothing worse than going back to Alchemy and letting other men touch me, but the knowledge that I’m putting my sisters in any danger is far, far worse.
Every night, we push the sofa in front of the door.
It’s not much, but it helps us feel a tiny bit more secure.
I go out as little as possible because I don’t feel comfortable leaving them here on their own.
During the last two shifts I've done at the caff, they’ve gone out to do some Christmas window shopping.
Gen was as sweet as you could expect. She was fucking furious with Xavier on my behalf.
‘I will track that man down and strangle him with my bare hands,’ she said.
‘He did everything he could,’ I protested. ‘It wasn’t just me. He fell in love with me, too. The only difference was, he wasn’t in a position to offer me anything.’
Gen has promised to let me take it slow on my first few shifts while I get back into the rhythm of things.
I’ll start on the fifth of January.
She’s also promised to talk to the guys who work on the doors, and see if any of them want to help me out. It’s clear that I need some kind of company for my little sisters during those late shifts, and ideally that company comes in the shape of a big, scary guy.
Speaking of big, scary guys, that tattooed monster down the hall seems to have a radar for whenever we’re coming or going. So many times, I’ve caught him staring at the girls, and I don’t like the way he looks at them. I don’t like it one tiny bit.
If I thought life couldn’t get any worse, I obviously didn’t have the imagination to factor in a six-foot-five paedo.
Now I do, and my only goal is to get us out of this place and into some other kind of accommodation as quickly as humanly possible. I’ll fuck every member of Alchemy if I have to. I don't care if the three of us end up living in a studio.
Anything has to be better than this.
My master plan for Christmas Day is distraction: turn the girls’ heads, with every wile I possess, so that they don’t notice quite how shit their lives have become over the past few months.
They may be fourteen, but they’re more astute than they let on. I only hope they’ll go along with my ploys. Exhausted though I’ve been, I’ve forced myself to spend as much time and money as I can possibly justify on the little touches.
A gigantic red-and-white striped rug from Ikea hides most of the stains on the living area carpet, even if it does a worse job on the lingering stench of stale cigarettes that I suspect will live in those nasty grey carpet fibres forever.
Some cheapo orange-and-clove-scented candles from the high street do a marginally better job, and they add some festive flair. I’ve been burning them as much as possible, these past few days.
Our rickety, old, fake Christmas tree, the one we’ve had for as long as I can remember, stands in one corner, reconstructed as best we could from its state in our old flat.
(I absolutely refuse to let myself think about how beautiful Belvedere must be looking today.
I wonder if Xav’s mum has let Selena unleash Wentworth Home all over the place yet.)
And I’ve bought some frozen croissants from Lidl, so that the buttery smell of baking fills the flat this morning. I managed to cram them into the tiny ice box at the top of the ancient under-the-counter fridge, along with the frozen peas and fish-fingers.
Every time I see the fish-fingers, I think of Xav and how quickly I won him over with those sarnies. He was a lot less posh, and a lot happier, when he had his mouth full of Birds Eye.
Anyway.
The girls wake up earlier than I would’ve expected, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and excited for Christmas.
It makes my heart crack in two that they still hope for the magic, that they still think today will be different, better, that I’ll be able to pull something amazing out of my hat for them.
But maybe that’s something to be grateful for.
They’re fourteen. Their lives are just beginning.
They still have options: they can work hard, and do well in school, and have a bright future.
And if the fact of it being Christmas brings them a sense of joy that our actual circumstances definitely do not, then who am I to play the Grinch?
Christmas is what you make it, after all. It’s far more about what’s in your heart than under your tree, so maybe we can make Christmas magic a self-fulfilling prophecy.
So I rally. I put the croissants in the oven, and I crank up the festive tunes on Magic FM, and I tell myself to stop being a misery-guts and give my little sisters as much as possible of the Christmas they deserve. I can manage false jollity for one day, surely.
With our tea brewed and our croissants baked, we sit cross-legged under the tree in our robes and PJs.
It’s bloody freezing in here, so we’ve got our fluffy socks on, too.
I left small stockings at the end of the girls’ beds late last night, and they’ve brought them through to open here.
They’re filled with affordable bits and pieces I picked up on the high street—K Beauty sheet masks and chocolate, hair care and underwear.
At least half the things are stuff I would have had to buy them anyway, but I’m hoping they don’t notice.
And they don’t. Their smiles are huge as they pull out body wash and chocolate snowballs and brightly coloured pimple patches.
The main event, though, is the matching navy Longchamp tote bags I’ve got them. I bought them off a pavement vendor on Oxford Street a couple of months back, and they’re either extremely good knockoffs or they’ve fallen off the back of a lorry.
Most likely the latter.
Do I give a fuck? I do not. Like I told Xav that first night, it must be nice to be able to afford morals.
The girls scream when they open them, and that’s all the validation I need that I’ve done the right thing.
‘Oh my God, thank you, Ivy,’ Rose shrieks, waddling over to me on her knees so she can throw her arms around me. ‘It’s so amazing.’
Lily piles onto the hug. ‘I love you so much! It’s so gorgeous!’
‘Thought you’d like new schoolbags,’ I tell them, kissing them both.
Fuck, I love them so much. Seeing them happy is like a shot of vodka—the warmth spreads through my entire body.
Like the vodka, the relief will be temporary, but I’ll take it.
As long as today isn’t a crushing disappointment for them both, I can live with myself.
‘We’ll be so cool,’ Rose says. I know, from having seen plenty of visual evidence at bus stops and on the Harrow Road, that the cool (and more comfortably off) girls at school move in a monolith of shiny, straightened hair and North Face jackets and Longchamp totes.
At least the twins will feel like they fit in a bit more.
I remember that nothing matters more when you’re fourteen than being accepted by the tribe.
They’ve each bought me a present, too, which moves me. I can barely afford to give them any pocket money at present, so their funds come almost exclusively from reselling their clothes on pre-loved platforms like Depop, which they do with admirable regularity.
‘It’s a top,’ Lily says before I can finish opening hers.
It is a top, a lovely little black cotton vest from Primark with a row of lace across the front.
‘It’s absolutely beautiful, love,’ I tell her, leaning in for another hug.
Rose has bought me mint-scented cooling foot cream, ‘Because you’re always on your feet in the caff. And we know how hard you work, and we love you so much.’
I screw my face up, trying not to cry. They’re such good girls.
Such sweet little things. Life hasn’t ruined them yet.
Maybe, just maybe, we can get through this hell.
And maybe we’ll all come out okay. Later, we’ll eat our carvery lunch and we’ll go visit Dawn, in the knowledge that she’s in the best of hands.
And then we’ll settle down on our saggy old sofa and eat chocolate yule log—thank you, Lidl—while watching Home Alone and pretending that we are anywhere but here.
The last present is from Xav. He gave it to me in Venice and told me to put it under the tree. I open the pretty paper to find the most beautiful box, marbled in pink and gold in the traditional Venetian way.
‘Wow,’ Lily says, stroking the box. ‘That’s so pretty.’
‘Isn’t it? They love their marbling in Venice. The stationery shops there were out of this world.’
‘Do you know what it is?’
‘Nope.’ I manoeuvre the lid off to find the most beautiful Venetian mask nestled in white silk.
It’s a full-face one: white porcelain bearing an intricate design of peacock feathers in teal and gold, the details picked out in gold glitter and tiny diamonds.
It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
There’s a small, marbled card tucked behind it.
With all my love, always. Xav xx
His handwriting is confident, dashing, just like him.
Fuck, I love him. I love that he bought me a coat because his practical heart couldn’t bear the idea of my being cold, but that he also couldn’t resist buying this for my artistic heart.
I love that he knew what enormous happiness it would bring me to gaze at something so exquisite, something created for purely decorative reasons.
The girls both gasp when they see it, and I love that. I love that, high up in this godforsaken tower block, the magic of beauty is still intact. That true craftsmanship still has the power to move us.
‘It’s so amazing,’ Lily says, brushing her fingertips over it. ‘I bet they used nail art diamonds to decorate it.’
I smile at her. ‘Probably.’
Rose, however, is now looking at me. ‘Are you really sad that he’s gone?’
‘Yeah.’ I tilt the mask this way and that to fully appreciate the work that’s gone into decorating it.
It’s truly astounding. The fronds of the peacock feathers must have been painted with the finest brush in the world.
‘I’m really sad, love. But he couldn’t stick around, because he’s marrying someone else. I always knew what it was.’
‘I bet she’s not as pretty as you. She can’t be.’
‘She definitely is. But I appreciate it. That’s not why he’s marrying her, though. It’s been arranged since they were tiny kids.’
Lily grimaces. ‘That’s seriously creepy.’
‘I agree. It’s unbelievably creepy.’ And a total fucking waste of a good man.
‘You don’t need the creepy posh guy,’ Rose tells me. ‘You’re amazing. You’ll find someone better. We both know you will.’
‘Totally,’ Lily echoes.
I’m so lucky to have these wonderful little pit bulls in my life.
But on that front, I have to disagree with them.