Prologue
It all began the day the Christmas decoration factory burned down.
‘Bloody hell, it’s like New Year’s Eve at Winter Wonderland,’ says Angelica. Her festive red and green tinseledged earrings flash in the late-June sunshine as we huddle together outside, watching the orange and yellow sparks shoot up from the factory roof.
Bang! Crackle! Bang, bang! Fizz . . . bang!
We jump back as the factory’s electrics explode and fire takes hold. There’s an almighty crash as part of the roof collapses. We gasp in unison, huddling tighter together and shuffling backwards at the same time.
‘Christ!’ Angelica, one of my closest friends despite the ten-year age difference between us, is the first to speak. ‘That was right over where you were sitting, Nell!’
I stare at the hole where the roof used to be, sparks and smoke spitting out of it like an angry volcano. I can’t reply. My blood runs cold and I feel my hands begin to shake. She’s right. I was sitting just under that roof beam only a tea break ago.
Gracie coughs like she’s trying to dislodge a bone from her throat . . . a whole leg bone by the sounds of it.
‘You all right, Gracie?’ I reach down to put a hand on her back.
Gracie is my other close friend at the factory.
She was my nan’s next-door neighbour for as long as I can remember, and she’s mine now, ever since Nan died and I took over the house.
Gracie is just five foot tall, and almost as wide, wearing one of her signature shapeless nylon dresses.
Although in her late fifties, she looks much older. She nods, still coughing.
Another fire engine arrives, blue lights flashing and sirens wailing.
The girls from packing let out a roar of approval as the firemen leap from the engine, as does Rhys from baubles, who’s wearing two of them as earrings.
Most of the girls are wearing tinsel round their necks and wave it like cheerleaders’ pompoms as the firemen leap into action pulling out their hose.
‘I will be,’ says Gracie in her gravelly voice as she slowly straightens.
Pulling out a packet of cigarettes from her front overall pocket, followed by a lighter, she sparks up, puffing smoke into the air, where it mixes with the thick black smoke chugging out from the factory roof.
She drags deeply on the cigarette between her long, hooked painted nails, exhales, then growls, ‘Better now.’
Sporadic bangs, sparks and flashes take us by surprise, making me leap out of my skin, but the girls from packing cheer again. ‘Better than Bonfire Night, this,’ says one in a dayglo vest top and a flashing gold Santa hat.
I shove my hands in the back pockets of my worn and comfortable calf-length jeans.
I live in jeans – I wear them to work, to the pub, at weekends.
Angelica thinks I have a vintage look going on, but it’s really just about reusing things, like the chequered shirts and the fifties bomber jacket I found in my nan’s attic, and scarves made from bits of fabric to keep my unruly red hair in place.
I roll the toe of my lace-up canvas pump around in the fallen white ash in front of me and push my hands deeper into my pockets, my collection of wristbands and bangles bunching together.
‘All my Christmases come at once,’ says Rhys from baubles, fanning away the heat and smoke with a ‘Santa Stop Here’ sign.
Gena, who works in the luxury crackers team, lets out a laugh like a machine gun that makes us all wince and put our fingers in our ears.
It grates up and down my already shredded nerves like fingernails on a blackboard.
Gena usually gets this response when she laughs.
It’s the reason she’s been moved off Christmas deely boppers – those headbands with baubles on springs that can smack you in the eye if you nod your head too much – at the front of the factory.
Instead she’s been put on crackers at the back to try and stop her high-pitched laugh from carrying across the factory floor.
‘Stand back, please, stand back.’ A fireman in a big black suit and a large white helmet waves his arms at us, and we shuffle back again with a few good-natured catcalls, mostly from tinsel, trimming and fairy lights.
As we move, there’s another huge bang and the remainder of the factory roof around the hole over my work station, blows off, showering pieces all over the car park.
‘I guess we’re not going back in today then?’ says Angelica. She clicks away on her phone, taking photos of the explosion and posting them on Instagram. As one hand takes a selfie, the other does a thumbs-up.
I look over to our managing director, short, fat Alwyn Evans, who is smoothing his comb-over nervously as he talks to the fire officer.
‘Might as well go to the pub.’ Angelica puts her phone into her big cream and gold handbag and hangs it over her shoulder.
I cough as the smoke catches in my throat.
My chest is tight and I feel a little light-headed.
I’d like nothing more than a sit-down and something to settle my nerves.
I look at the hole in the roof again. My whole body is shaking.
That could have been me gone if I hadn’t got out.
I shake my head in disbelief and reach for my own phone, running my thumb over the keypad.
I just want to hear my daughter’s voice and to tell her I miss her. I do miss her, badly.
‘You coming, Nell?’ Angelica asks.
I shake my head. ‘No. I gave my last twenty to Demi last night at the bus station.’ I check my phone for messages. There are none. I wonder if now would be a good time to ring, or if she’ll be busy. Who’d have thought, my daughter, nearly eighteen, and living in London. I look up at the roof.
‘She’s gone then, your Demi?’ Angelica asks. ‘Didn’t fancy the job in packing? Decided to go for this posh job in London?’
I nod, feeling the tears that keep filling my eyes, determined not to let them fall.
‘Lucky beggar. Wish I was off somewhere exciting, instead of stuck here.’ She folds her arms and her bag swings violently.
‘I took her to Cardiff last night to get the bus. She promised to text when she arrived safe and sound.’
‘Blimey, I’m amazed your car made it that far. And she’s really ditched her A levels and gone to get a nannying job in London?’
I nod again, because I’m not able to talk properly through my tight throat.
‘Strong-minded, that one,’ Grace pipes up.
‘Just like someone else I know . . . ’ She smiles at me and coughs, and I try to smile back, wishing I could see the funny side of this.
The truth is, I’m petrified for Demi. Not yet eighteen, and living in London with a family I’ve never met, working as an au pair.
She thinks I’m worrying too much, that I’ve got to understand she’s grown up now.
But she’s so young. I told her to wait, to do her A levels; she has plenty of time.
But she insisted A levels weren’t for her and she was ready to go. I’m just not sure I’m ready to let her.
‘They have to fly the nest sometime. Just like you did. Your nan was beside herself when you went off travelling. But you came back safe and sound, a bit bruised maybe and with some surprise news. But you coped. The world kept spinning.’
My face falls. I wouldn’t change having Demi for the world, but I wish I’d seen a bit more of life first. I just want something different for her. Maybe this is the best thing. I manage a smile
‘At least you’ll get the remote control to yourself now.’ Gracie stubs out her cigarette on the low red-brick wall and then coughs some more.
Angelica’s mouth turns down. ‘It’s a scary place, though, London. Who knows what lunatics are lurking around those street corners.’
For a moment none of us say anything, and a hole in the middle of my heart, loosely held together, seems to rip right open. The colour, whatever is left of it after the shock of the fire, finally drains fully from my face. I could strangle Angelica . . . and I just want to bring Demi home.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Nell! How stupid of me!
Of course she’ll be fine!’ Angelica grips my wrist, her face screwed up in apology, and the tears I’ve kept in start to pour down my cheeks.
Neither Angelica nor Gracie has children, but they’ve been like brilliant aunties to Demi over the years.
Angelica buys her fabulous outfits for birthdays and sends over magazines with the latest fashions for her to look at.
And Gracie has always been there, just next door, with a full biscuit tin, a listening ear and a couple of quid if Demi runs to the shop to get her milk and fags.
At the end of the road an ambulance whizzes past, sirens blaring, and I wonder again if Demi is safe. It’s just her and me; she’s all I have.
‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. You can owe me.’ Angelica links her arm through mine, not taking no for an answer, and we join the other groups of workers heading for the pub, tottering on their high heels, snowman deely boppers bobbing up and down.
Just then, my phone pings. I have a text, from Demi. The first since I left her at the bus station last night.
Here safe and sound. House is amazing. I’m going to love it here. x
That’s all it says, but I hold the phone close to my chest and breathe a sigh of relief.
‘Oh hiya, Nell love.’ I turn to see Gena, gripping on to one of her co-workers and grinning at me like a Cheshire cat. I have no idea what she’s got to be so happy about. With the factory fire, we’re all going to be out of work and out of pocket. I nod.
‘Gena.’
‘Sorry to hear about your Demi ditching her A levels. You must be gutted. Not the college type you thought she was going to be then.’ She smiles that Cheshire cat smile and her friend sniggers.