Nothing to Lose (40 page)

This would be, without doubt, the worst Christmas of her life.

Noah hadn’t come back. She hadn’t heard from him, and now never expected to. She assumed he’d returned to Anoushka and the
gîte
and the proper studio, and had forgotten all about his family in Bixford. It was almost a relief. Beatrice-Eugenie and Cair Paravel were certainly far happier without his loud, crashing, moody presence in the flat; Jix and Daff were regular visitors again; and Joel and Rusty had resumed their dropping-in for late-night drinks and chats. And, if she were honest, April was absolutely delighted about not having to perform sexual gymnastics on the sofa every night when all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and die.

But, she still loved him. The love that she’d felt for Noah had been so all-consuming that she knew it would take ages to work its way out of her system. And it also meant that the Ampney Crucis cottage-by-the-sea dream had gone too, which made her doubly miserable. In the April-Noah Utopia plan, she’d fondly imagined that this Christmas, with Noah and Bee together, would be like some happy families television advert. Noah would fill Bee s stocking at midnight, and then they’d stand in the bedroom doorway, arms entwined, gazing with mutual love at their peacefully sleeping progeny.

Then there was going to be Christmas morning, with the flat awash with festive wrapping paper, and gales of laughter. And they’d all go for a walk together, and come home ravenous, and have a proper Christmas dinner with crackers and everything, and slump afterwards in front of the telly, the room dimly lit by the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree in the corner . . .

And, to make matters worse, not only was she going to be facing yet another Christmas alone, but April was pretty sure she’d got a stalker.

She’d seen him, either slouched in his car on the waste ground near the park when she took Cair Paravel for his pipe-openers, or hanging around outside the Pasta Place. April was pretty sure she recognised him – although he was always careful to keep his distance and hide his face – and was trying to place him. She’d decided he must be a customer – either from Antonio and Sofia’s restaurant, or the Copacabana – and squinted now at everyone she served, just to watch their reaction. More scary was the thought that it was someone she may have unintentionally upset during the debt-collecting. She hadn’t mentioned him to anyone yet because he hadn’t actually done anything and he may not be watching her at all, but she was careful never to be alone after dark, just in case.

In fact the only good thing to have happened recently, April thought dizzily, as she flew backwards and forwards behind the bar, passing Toxic Wastes to customers who had ordered Head Rooms, and snatching Vanderbilts back from hardened Widow’s Kiss drinkers, was that Cair Paravel s training was coming on a storm.

Since the win at Bentley’s, and the decision to enter him – come hell or high water – for the Frobisher Platinum Trophy, Cair Paravel had become the embodiment of canine speed. He still needed something of Daff’s to get him into the right frame of mind, and April and Jix had gone through umpteen headscarves and had just started on fluffy dippers. However, thanks to either or both of them trudging out with him in all weathers to put him through his paces, Cair Paravel now ran in a straight line, chased the hare with enthusiastic hatred, and his times were improving with each session.

As soon as the venue for the Platinum Trophy was announced on New Year’s Eve, April and Jix had planned to enter Cair Paravel in the furthest distant qualifying heat. That way, they reckoned, if Sebastian should still be sniffing around, no one would discover that an illegally kept and dubiously owned dog was being put forward to run in the most prestigious greyhound race of the century, or at least not until it was far too late.

The worst thing that could happen would be if Brittany Frobisher chose to hold the Platinum here at Bixford, of course. If that calamity occurred, they may have to resort to their emergency contingency plan of reregistering Cair Paravel in Antonio’s name.

At least she seemed to have got away with keeping Cairey – not to mention Bee – in the flat. Whoever had informed Sebastian that she was in breach of her tenancy agreement had scored a spectacular own goal. The subletting bit didn’t matter now that Noah had gone, but Sebastian had swallowed her story really easily. She had wondered momentarily if it hadn’t been a little too easily, and whether Seb was trying to catch her out, but there had been no repercussions, and she was as careful as ever to make sure that Bee and Cairey remained under wraps, so she hoped that was one problem that shouldn’t bother her again.

She and Jix had tried to work out who would have been nasty enough to inform on her, but honestly couldn’t think of anyone. As far as she knew she had no enemies, and no one stood to gain anything from her eviction. She had wondered whether the stalker could have anything to do with it, but had dismissed that as fanciful nonsense. The two things couldn’t possibly be connected, and anyway –

‘April!’ Martina, wearing flashing antlers, was nodding violently across the bar. The gyrations gave a curious strobe effect to her body-pierced diamonds. ‘You’re using the wrong glass!’

‘Sod it . . .’ April stopped pondering, and immediately decanted the Double Jack into the appropriate receptacle, then added a mountain of ice to make up for the shortfall. She smiled at the customer. ‘Would you like a cucumber twist? We seem to have run out of everything else.’

Midnight came and went. Everyone had screamed ‘Happy Christmas!’ at everyone else, kissed total strangers, and carried on drinking. April, thinking frantically of all the things she still had to do at home, wished they’d all fall into a coma.

At half-past twelve, when the licence ran out, Martina indicated that thankfully it was time to put up the shutters. April, whose feet were squashed into a pair of someone else’s white boots, could have cried with relief. After a further frenzied fifteen minutes of wiping and washing and thrusting things out of the way, she grabbed her coat and limped painfully down the stairs.

‘Please, please, please God,’ she prayed, ‘let Jix have waited for me. Please, please, please don’t let me have to walk home on my own. Please don’t let me come face to face with the mad axeman – not tonight. I’ve still got presents to wrap . . .’

The stadium was deserted, just the security lights blazing as always, and the freezing wind which had roared for weeks, rattled and whined its way though the high wire fences. Jix, in leather and chenille and wearing a garland of mistletoe, unpeeled himself from the darkness at the bottom of the escalator doors.

‘Happy Christmas.’ He kissed her cheek.

‘And you.’ She kissed his cheek in return, desperately relieved to see him, and wrinkled her nose as they hurried through the imposing gates. ‘God! You smell like the scent counter at Harvey Nicks has exploded on you! And,’ she peered at him, ‘you’ve got about twenty different shades of lipstick smeared everywhere.’

‘I do love Christmas,’ Jix said happily, linking his arm through hers.

‘I hate it. Thanks for waiting, by the way. I was dreading walking home alone. You always get so many weirdos hanging around at Christmas.’

‘Do you mean me?’

‘Nah,’ April laughed. ‘I meant special seasonal weirdos.’

‘You get weirdos all year round here.’ Jix steered her across the ring road. ‘Have you done Bee’s stocking yet?’

She shook her head. ‘I haven’t done anything. There doesn’t seem to have been a spare minute. I’ll have to work like mad when I get in to make sure Father Christmas has been before she wakes up, and I’m totally knackered. Still, at least I’ve got three days off now. What about you? Are you all done?’

‘Oh, you know me – I go minimal on Christmas presents. Mum gets slippers and books, Bee gets whatever she wants, and you get – well, you’ll have to wait and see . . .’

April smiled in the icy darkness. Jix usually gave her hippie presents of patchouli or dream-catchers or joss sticks. She’d bought him a multicoloured striped scarf about twenty feet long – a la Doctor Who – from Naz at the charity shop.

‘I thought I might have been chauffeured home in style tonight.’

‘Sorry, shanks’s pony is the best I can do. I knew I’d be offered a few drinks; I didn’t want to risk losing my licence. It’ll do you good to walk – you spend far too much time in idle sloth.’

‘When I’m rich and famous,’ April grimaced, hobbling in the too-tight boots, ‘I’m going to be carried everywhere on one of those chairy-things with servants on either side handing me a fag and a cup of tea.’

‘You should have asked Noah to shell out for one before he scarpered.’

They scurried, heads down against the wind, into the High Street. Jix and Daff had been very kind about Noah’s non-appearance. April knew that they were both pleased that he’d gone, but also knew how hurt she felt and hadn’t openly gloated.

‘I bet Bee’s still running rings round your mum,’ April said, sliding the key into number 51’s lock. ‘This is the first year she’s been old enough to know about Father Christmas and she was determined to stay up and wait for him.’

‘So am I,’ Jix grinned, following her into her flat. ‘Oh, frigging hell!’

‘Happy Christmas, hippies.’ Noah reared up from the depths of the sofa. ‘Oh, and April – so enticingly gift-wrapped. Come here, honey, and let me get to the surprise . . .’

April stayed rooted to the spot. ‘Where’s Bee – and Daff? And what about Cair Paravel?’

‘Daphne was somewhat surplus to requirements when I arrived, so she’s gone back upstairs to her own little hutch. Bee is in bed.’

‘You put her to bed?’

‘She got in on her own. I merely told her to go.’

‘Noah – it’s Christmas Eve! Well, no, it’s Christmas Day now. She’s waiting for Santa! And she never goes to bed on her own.’

‘So I gathered.’ Noah raised his eyebrows at Jix. ‘I don’t know about you, but we’re just off to bed too. We’ve got weeks of catching up to do.’

Jix, shaking his head, gave April a horrified glance and walked out of the flat.

April counted to ten. ‘Where’s Cairey?’

‘Outside in the yard. He wanted to go out. As soon as I arrived he was scratching and whining at the door. I couldn’t believe you’d still got him, to be honest. Oh God – don’t let him in. Animals should live outside.’

‘No they shouldn’t. It’s freezing out there.’

April opened the back door, and the cold immediately hurt her throat. Cair Paravel had been huddling on the doorstep and practically tumbled inside. Fussing him, making sure he had his blanket in the corner by the cooker and plenty of water and a biscuit, she firmly closed the kitchen door. Having tiptoed into the bedroom and checked that Bee was well tucked in as well, and asleep, April kicked off the crippling boots and walked gingerly back into the living room.

For the first time she noticed the piles of luggage stowed in the far corner of the room by the Christmas tree, and the strapped and buckled folders containing Noah’s canvases, and the familiar battered cases of paints and brushes. This was no flying visit.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?’

‘You knew I was. I told you so in my letter. I just couldn’t say when exactly. Anoushka proved a little – let’s say – difficult. Anyway, we eventually reached an amicable arrangement, and I got a last-minute flight, and here I am. Now, come here and give me a kiss.’

April shook her head. Why wasn’t she more ecstatic to see him? She’d lain awake for nights on end, listening for his key in the lock. She’d pounced on the phone each time it rang, and had practically snatched the mail from the postman’s hands in the mornings. Every day, she’d dreamed that Noah would come back. And now he had.

He reached out for her. She wriggled away. ‘Don’t, Noah. Please. I’ve got so much to do. Presents to wrap, you know.’

‘I still want to unwrap mine.’ Noah’s grip was strong on her arm as he thrust her down onto the sofa. ‘Don’t struggle too much, honey. I don’t want to rip that sexy little dress . . .’

Ten minutes later, April fell off the sofa, clutching her clothes against her and threw herself into the bedroom. There was no time for a shower, which was what she wanted more than anything, to get the smell of Noah – sour wine, sweat and garlic – out of her body. Oh God, this was a nightmare. Who was it that said you got what you deserved? What the hell had she done wrong to deserve this?

‘Mummy . . .’ Bee’s head poked out from under the truckle bed’s covers, ‘has he gone away now?’

‘Who? Father Christmas?’ April struggled into her dressing gown and sat on the edge of the bed. She kissed the top of Beatrice-Eugenie’s halo of hair. ‘Not yet, poppet. Fie hasn’t even been yet. Look, your stocking is still empty.’

‘Not Father Christmas,’ Bee struggled into a sitting position, gripping her hands tightly round April’s neck. ‘Noah. ’

April exhaled. ‘No, Daddy’s still here. He won’t go away again.’

Bee gave a shuddering sigh and gripped tighter. ‘He’s not my daddy. He said so. And he said Father Christmas wasn’t real.’

Bastard, bastard, bastard, April thought, settling Bee down again, with merry laughter and soothing words about Noah only teasing her, and she’d find out whether Father Christmas was real or not in the morning when she saw all the presents he’d brought.

Twenty minutes later, with Bee at last sleeping peacefully, she stormed out into the living room. Noah, half dressed, was just emptying the dregs from the bottle of wine that she’d bought to go with Christmas dinner. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘I couldn’t find any half decent wine anywhere-’

‘Not the bloody wine! With Bee! How dare you tell her there isn’t a Santa Claus?’ April began dragging the presents she’d bought over the last months for Bee from the cupboard, and wrestling with two huge rolls of wrapping paper. ‘It’s the most magical night of any child’s life! How dare you?’

Noah drained his glass. ‘I merely told her the truth. No point in filling her head with lies. At least I was here to do it. I wasn’t dressed up like a tart in some tacky cocktail bar on the most magical night in any child’s life.’