One Perfect Christmas (6 page)

‘Why not?’ she gasps.

‘I can’t go into details right now,’ I manage to say, reaching for a pen and a piece of paper. ‘But will you call me in the New Year? Maybe we’ll go out for a
drink.’

‘That would be great,’ she says warmly, taking the note with my telephone number on it.

I sniff loudly and smile up at her. ‘Have a good Christmas.’

‘You too,’ she replies, patting me on my arm. ‘Drive carefully!’ she calls after me.

What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall when the news of my relationship with Joe breaks… She’ll want to kill me for not telling her beforehand. But I’ll introduce
her to him one day to make up for it.

My parents are coming to spend Christmas with us. They still haven’t met Joe in person. Well, not since he became famous, and not in the last year since we found each
other again. They knew him over ten years ago when I fell head over heels in love with him. I still remember coming home from Dorset on New Year’s Day almost a year ago. I had just said
goodbye to Joe at Wareham Station in Dorset after Lukas had discovered us at the cottage. I felt like my train was travelling at lightspeed as it raced me back to London. I didn’t want to go
home, to have to explain to my parents and Lukas what had been going on. But it was something I knew I needed to do.

Just under a year ago

The hall light is on, but I can’t tell if my parents are in when I heave my bags up to the white-painted-brick terraced house where I grew up, in East Finchley, north
London. It’s six o’clock in the evening, but it’s the middle of winter – New Year’s Day, in fact – and the sun sank a couple of hours ago. I scan the street-lamp
lit road with my heart in my throat to see if Lukas’s silver Porsche is parked up somewhere, but it’s nowhere to be seen. I don’t know if he’s still in the UK or if
he’s gone back to Germany. The thought of trying to track him down there… Of returning to the country house belonging to his cold mother and father… I’m filled with
fear. I need to find him. But first I need to face my parents. I know from the voicemail messages I forced myself to listen to on the train that they’ve been worried sick.

I put my key in the lock and turn it, pushing the door open. At the far end of the long corridor is the kitchen and, right at the end, eating their dinner at the little white table, are my
parents. They meet my eyes with shock in theirs, my mother’s mouth falls open and then they’re on their feet and rushing towards me.

‘Alice!’ my dad shouts.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ Mum shrieks, pushing past him to get to me.

I drop my bags with a thud onto the wooden floorboards as she reaches me. She checks my face with her hands to see if I’m harmed, and comes away finding nothing.

‘I’m sorry, I…’

My voice trails off. This is going to be the first of a very long line of apologies.

Where do I start?

‘Why did you lie about being in Germany with Lukas?’ Dad asks accusingly. ‘We were out of our minds with worry when Lukas turned up looking for you! He said you told him you
were staying with us!’

‘Shall we go back to the table?’ I suggest. I know I’ve interrupted their dinner.

‘No, no, I’ve lost my appetite,’ Mum hastily replies, pushing me into the living room. My dad looks a bit grumpy as he follows. Thank goodness for microwaves – he can
heat his food up.

‘So where have you been?’ Mum repeats her question the moment we’re sitting down.

‘Dorset,’ I reply, averting my gaze.

‘Did you go to see Joe?’ she continues.

At least they’ve worked that much out. I nod. ‘Yes.’

‘Bloomin’ heck,’ Dad mumbles. ‘After all these years. How on earth did you find him?’

‘Didn’t Lukas tell you anything?’ I ask warily.

‘No, he stormed in here looking for you, asking if we had any clues as to where you might be. Then we remembered you’d mentioned the cottage and before we knew it, he was gone. We
guessed afterwards that this might be about Joe.’

‘Why didn’t you call us?’ Mum asks.

‘I’m sorry. I had my phone switched off. I didn’t want to be contacted.’

‘We’ve been worried sick!’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Tell us what happened,’ Dad interrupts. ‘Did you see Joe? What was he like?’

‘He… He’s the same. Only different. He…’ I try to explain. ‘He looks just like he does when he’s on the telly—’ They won’t have
seen his films. They don’t go to the cinema much.

‘On the telly?’ Dad interrupts.

With disbelief, I stare at their faces.

And then it dawns on me. They still don’t know. They still don’t know who he’s become. Lukas didn’t even tell them that. Why would he? Wasn’t his pain enough to
deal with, without adding a heavy dose of humiliation?

I find my voice. ‘You know he’s not Joe Strickwold anymore, right?’

Bewildered, Dad sits back in his seat. ‘Who the hell is he, then?’

‘Joseph Strike.’

My eyes flit between them as confusion, recognition and finally shock, register on their faces.

‘Joseph Strike?’ Mum asks, her voice unsure.

‘The actor?’ Dad double-checks.

I nod, figuring they’ll want firmer confirmation than that, I reply, ‘Yes, that’s him. The Joe I met in Dorset is now Joseph Strike, the movie star.’

Both of them slump back in their seats, utterly flabbergasted.

‘You did tell him to go and make something of himself,’ I find myself muttering.

***

‘They’re here!’ Joe shouts from the living room. He’s been looking out the window, waiting for my parents to arrive. I go to press the buzzer for the
gate to let them in. Joe joins me in the hall. I realise he’s shaking slightly.

‘It’s okay,’ I say tenderly, touching Joe’s arm.

‘I’m freaking out,’ he replies.

‘Don’t.’

He flashes me a look. ‘This is your dad we’re talking about.’

‘Things are very, very different now,’ I remind him, opening up the door. I take Joe’s hand and lead him outside. As my dad drives the car into the driveway, I catch sight of
him and mum. They look like rabbits caught in the headlights.

They climb out of the car simultaneously, but I choose to get the dad part out of the way first. I jog towards the car and throw my arms around his neck.

‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Hello!’ he exclaims.

I turn and beckon Joe forward. ‘Dad, you remember Joe.’

‘Er, yes, of course.’

‘Hello, Mr Simmons,’ Joe says quietly, stepping forward to shake his hand.

‘Jim and Marie,
please
,’ Dad insists. Even back in the day, Joe referred to them by their first names. It’s funny to think of him feeling all formal now.

‘Jim,’ Joe repeats shyly with a smile.

I drag him away to the other side of the car, where Mum is trying to busy herself so she doesn’t stare at the great big elephant on the driveway.

‘Hello!’ she says, looking all flustered.

‘It’s nice to see you again,’ Joe says genuinely. She was always kind to him.

‘Come inside for a drink,’ I urge. They’ll chill out after a few sherries, I’m sure.

‘Let me help you get your bags in from the car,’ I hear Joe say. I lead Mum towards the front door, but she pauses for a moment to look up at the house.

‘Alice, this is beautiful.’

I beam widely.

‘Does Joe like it?’

‘He loves it,’ I tell her, looking back at him as he carries a suitcase across the drive with such ease that it looks like it must only weigh a few kilos. It still amazes me how fit
he is. He did fifty press-ups this morning without even breaking a sweat.

‘What do you think, Jim?’ my mum asks.

‘Wow. Truly special,’ Dad replies, shaking his head with amazement. ‘How old did you say it is?’ he asks.

‘Mid-sixteenth century,’ I reply. ‘Come and see inside,’ I urge.

Joe and I take them on a quick tour before settling ourselves on comfortable sofas in the living room. The room is vast with old stone floors, but it still manages to feel quite snug thanks to
its low Tudor ceiling beams, enormous fireplace and cosy rugs. As Joe puts two more logs on the fire, I glance down at the rug he’s standing on. We christened it last week, and repeated the
experience last night. My cheeks heat up as I remember what he did to me there. Joe gives me a quizzical look as he returns to the sofa. I can’t believe I’m thinking these dirty
thoughts in front of my parents!

As the evening wears on, Joe becomes more and more chilled-out. I think my parents’ initial discomfort put him strangely at ease, and in turn, they begin to relax, too. So much so that
they quite happily quiz him about what it’s like being a big Hollywood star.

‘I read something in the papers last week about your new film,’ Mum says as we sit around the big oak dining table. ‘You’re going to be teaming up with Michelle Bleech
again?’

I tried to play down my dislike for the actress earlier on this year, but I’m still a bit taken aback that my mum is mentioning her over dinner.

‘No,’ Joe says firmly, shaking his head.

I glance at him. ‘That’s not definite though, is it?’

I mean, I know he told me he wouldn’t take the part, but if his agent is going to put pressure on him…

‘It absolutely is,’ he replies, giving me a look. ‘I told you I wouldn’t take it.’

‘What if Nicky insists?’ I’m aware that my parents are watching this exchange with enormous interest, but I can’t not pursue an answer now that we’re back on the
subject.

Joe laughs. ‘He can insist all he wants, but what I do is my business. And yours,’ he adds, reaching across the table and squeezing my hand. He turns back to my parents.
‘I’m going to take some time off this year so Alice and I can be together more. This last year has been a bit crazy.’

I take a deep breath. ‘I’m not going back to work in the New Year,’ I blurt out.

‘What?’ my dad splutters.

‘Why not?’ Mum asks with alarm.

‘We’ve decided to make our relationship public. We imagine it will be quite big news. I can’t put the school or my pupils at risk.’

‘But what about your job? Your pay packet?’ Mum asks, flashing my dad a concerned look.

‘I’ll look after Alice,’ Joe interjects.

‘Yes, but…’ Dad’s voice trails off, but he looks disapproving.

‘She’ll never want for anything,’ Joe adds, staring across the table at me. His voice is quiet, but strong. ‘I’m never going to let her go, ever again.’

I squeeze his hand. And considering our past, how Dad insisted Joe leave me ten years ago, my parents remain respectfully silent.

It’s Christmas Day, and when Mum and Dad are snuggled up in front of the fire watching an old movie on telly and sipping at their sherries, I take Joe to one side.

‘I have one more Christmas present for you,’ I say to him.

He raises one eyebrow. ‘I have another one for you, too,’ he says in a low voice, ‘but it’s not really appropriate to give it to you in front of your parents.’

I whack him on his arm and try not to giggle. He grins at me.

‘How do you fancy coming into Cambridge with me?’ I ask him.

His eyes light up. ‘I’d love to.’

‘It shouldn’t be too busy, with it being Christmas Day. I thought I might take you punting.’

His face breaks into a grin. ‘Could this day get any better?’

‘Wait until you see if I can remember how to do it.’

‘I have faith in you,’ he says.

Last week after work I popped by to see my old boss at the Silver Street punting station. He agreed to let me borrow a set of keys so I could unlock one of the punts, as they’re not open
on Christmas Day.

We drive into the city and park on West Street, which is deserted. I take Joe across the road and there in front of us behind a field dotted with speckled brown cows is King’s College
Chapel, Cambridge’s most famous landmark.

‘Whoa,’ Joe says, staring at it in the not-too-far distance. The snow has mostly melted and there are blue skies today, so the sun lights up the roof of the chapel in a spectacular
fashion. It’s a perfect day for the river.

It’s still freezing cold, though, so we’re rugged up warm. Joe is wearing a beanie hat, but I worry it’s not much of a disguise. I’m hanging on for dear life to these
last few days of anonymity – we’ve decided to put out a press release in the New Year. It’s for this reason that I’m choosing to take Joe on a proper tour of the Backs
– the backs of the colleges – rather than upriver towards Grantchester where it’s quieter. This might be the one and only time that we can do it. I wonder if I can still remember
my script.

Joe settles himself into the low seat facing me, while I stand on the back of the punt. Familiarity floods me as I let the pole slide through my fingers and hit the river bottom below. I push
away and we’re on the move. We pass under Silver Street Bridge and the words come back to me in a flood.

‘The Mathematical Bridge is the only wooden bridge on the Backs,’ I adopt a professional guise as I relay this to Joe with a playful smile. ‘Popular fable is that the bridge
was designed and built by Sir Isaac Newton without the use of nuts or bolts, and at some point in the past, students or fellows attempted to take the bridge apart and put it back together. But they
couldn’t, and had to resort to fastening the bridge with nuts and bolts. This story is false: the bridge was built of oak in 1749 by James Essex the Younger to the design of the master
carpenter William Etheridge, 22 years after Newton died. The bridge you see today is a replica of the original bridge. It was rebuilt using teak in 1905.’ My memory serves me well. I’m
pleased.

Joe nods with amusement. ‘Hmm. Interesting.’

We pass Queen’s College, Clare College, King’s College and Trinity Hall, and then finally we’re on the approach to Trinity. I open my mouth to regale Joe with tales about
Cambridge’s wealthiest college. I want to tell him how some people say – completely untruthfully – that you can walk all the way from Cambridge to Oxford on land owned by Trinity.
But words fail me. All I can see is the place on the bridge where Lukas used to sit, reading his study books. It was on the bank there that he once helped me when I bashed my head on the underside
of the bridge and nearly knocked myself out, much to the hilarity of my colleagues. It feels wrong to tell Joe about Trinity, to
joke
about Trinity. Trinity – and Lukas – will
always have a special place in my heart, whether I want it that way or not.