The Christmas Party (35 page)

When I join them in the kitchen, breakfast is in full flow and, of course, every single song on the radio is a Christmas tune. There’s absolutely no putting it off now.

‘Tea, love?’ Dad asks. He looks as if he’s been up and dressed for hours. No doubt Mum has organised him a long list of tasks for today, since he doesn’t have to go in to work.

‘Coffee,’ I say. ‘Strong. Very strong.’

‘That bad?’

I nod my head, and instantly regret it.

‘Will you be able to come home early today?’ Mum says. She’s still in her dressing-gown as the kitchen is very much Dad’s domain in the morning.

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to see how the day pans out.’

‘But it’s Christmas Eve. Surely there won’t be much to do.’

This is the point at which I should tell them that my new, kick-ass career is already in tatters. I should tell them that I’m having to resign due to leaving my boss abandoned in the nude because he has done nothing but try to grope my boobs and bum for the last few months. But of course, total coward that I am, I don’t. I can’t tell them before Christmas and spoil their festive mood.

Instead I say, somewhat lamely, ‘I don’t know what the routine is at Fossil Oil as this is my first Christmas.’ And last, it would seem.

Dad hands me a coffee that looks as if it would revive a corpse and I gulp it gratefully. The hit of caffeine sends a shudder through me. Then he passes me a slice of lightly buttered toast with words I’ve heard too many times in my life. ‘This’ll put a lining on your stomach, Lou-Lou.’

I lean against the work surface and dread the moment that I have to move.

‘Don’t eat standing up,’ Mia says, proving that, on rare occasions, she does listen to me.

I’m probably going to have to face Josh Wallace this morning too, and that sends a rush through me that I can’t decide is fear or elation. Perhaps things will look different this morning, as they so often do. He may have arrived home and wondered what he was doing thinking about getting entangled with an insolvent single mum. Whichever way, I hope he’s realised that, if he’s looking for a quick and uncomplicated shag, I’m not his woman.

Mum waggles her head to catch my attention. ‘Dad and I were thinking of taking a certain someone into the shopping centre this afternoon to see …’ and she mouths, ‘S A N T A.’

‘Santa!’ Mia cries. ‘Santa!’ She’s very good at spelling. ‘We’re going to see Santa!’

Mum looks at me apologetically, but she’s the one who will now have to deal with Mia in hyperactive mode for most of the day.

‘You come too, Mummy,’ my daughter pleads. ‘You can tell Santa that I’m the best little girl in the world.’

‘I’ll try,’ I say. ‘But I can’t promise.’

Her face falls.

‘I have to work, sweet pea, but I’ll write a note for Granny to give him, just in case I’m not back in time.’ I scribble on the bottom of Mum’s shopping list.

I glance at my watch. ‘I’d better head to the office.’

Mum touches my arm. ‘Work isn’t everything, Louise,’ she says. ‘Always remember that.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ I wish. Again I fail to tell her that I’m going to have acres and acres of time on my hands in the very near future.

Scooping Mia into my arms, I give her a big, slobbery kiss and she squeals as she tries to wriggle away from me. ‘Be good today, mini-monster.’ Then, to Mum: ‘I’ll text you to let you know what time I’m coming home.’

The staff car park is empty as I swing into Fossil Oil. The roads were a bit slithery this morning, due to the snow that fell overnight, so it took longer than I’d anticipated to get here. Why does everyone forget how to drive the minute a snowflake lands? The traffic was hell. I needn’t have worried, though, as there’s hardly anyone else in sight. They’re probably afflicted with similar transport problems. Those who aren’t too hungover to get out of bed, that is. It’s with some relief that I notice Tyler’s reserved space is also mercifully empty. A wave of nausea grips me when I think about facing him today. How bold, how vengeful I felt last night with a few glasses of champagne down my neck and my daring act of defiance. Not feeling quite so clever this morning, eh, Louise?

In reception, Celia Barnes, wearing dark glasses, is slumped over the desk, head on arms and, if the wet, snoring noises are any indication, fast asleep. She looks as if she still has the remnants of party poppers in her hair and there’s a little dribble of saliva coming from the corner of her mouth. I wonder whether to wake her, but think better of it. She looks like she needs her beauty sleep.

Usually there’s a little morning rush at the café in the atrium but today it’s as dead as a doornail. I’m the only person around, so I order an Americano with an extra shot: I need something to get me through today.

Taking the lift to my floor, I walk through the open-plan outer office. Most of the desks are still empty, but the people who are here are in a similar state to Celia, slumped over their desks with not even a pretence of working. Normally there’s the gentle babble of conversation, the hum of activity. But all is silent. At one of the stations, I can see a man stretched out asleep underneath the desk, still wearing his dinner suit from last night. As I tiptoe through, hoping not to disturb anyone, he gives the occasional rasping snore. Perhaps I should go back downstairs, get a tray of coffee for everyone and charge it to Tyler’s expenses. Then I think that I’ve already done enough damage and should leave well alone.

I swing by Karen’s office, but it’s currently deserted and she’s nowhere to be seen. I hope everything turned out well for her last night and that she managed to go home with someone, anyone. Maybe she had an encounter with one of the firemen models, or even a real firefighter, and is happily tucked up in bed somewhere. Fingers crossed she’s OK and didn’t get up to too much mischief. No doubt I’ll hear all about it sometime. If this is to be my last day at Fossil Oil, I’ll call Karen later and arrange to have a catch-up coffee with her in the new year. If she’s still talking to me.

I scribble out a note wishing her a merry Christmas and leaving my phone number for her.

When I reach my office, the cheery explosion of Christmas decorations lifts my spirits. Amid the bleakly tasteful minimalism of Fossil Oil, it’s an oasis of festive tat. I sit at my desk and switch on my computer.

I expect it won’t be long before Tyler’s here, and I brace myself to do what I have to do. Opening a new document, I type the words that I really don’t want to. I’m letting myself down. I’m letting Mia down. I’m letting my parents down. But it has to be done.

Dear Mr Benson
. I think formal rather than informal is more appropriate, given the circumstances.
Please accept my resignation
.

Chapter Forty-eight

It wasn’t exactly the homecoming Tyler had expected. If he was truthful, he’d hoped Kirsten would be distraught, pacing the floor, torn between anger and relief when he eventually arrived, not knowing whether to condemn or capitulate, cry or crack him around the head with a karate chop.

Instead, there she was,
lounging
casually – very casually – against the doorframe, looking … well, rather self-satisfied. There was something else about her too. A sort of disconcerting glow that he’d seen before, he was sure, but not for a long time.

He pulled on to the M1 to head to the office – the traffic even busier than usual as it was Christmas Eve. All those people headed home to see their loved ones, and here was he with an overnight bag on the back seat and a flea in his ear.

Then he smiled to himself. It was Christmas. Kirsten wouldn’t stay mad at him for long. Of course she’d take him back. She always did.

The fact that he didn’t come home – through no fault of his own, it should be stressed – obviously hadn’t kept her from her beauty sleep as she was looking a little more than tousled. Perhaps she’d been in bed but hadn’t been able to sleep through worrying about him. Not that Kirsten ever let on. His wife was a woman who liked to keep her cards close to her chest.

There were traces of make-up round her eyes, so she obviously hadn’t bothered with her usual half-hour bedtime scrubbing-up routine in front of the mirror either. Tyler’s mouth turned up at the corners. Of course, she was playing one of her silly little games. All this was her feeble attempt to show him that she didn’t care. After ten years of marriage he ought to recognise her repertoire by now. Mind you, when Kirsten decided to play ice-cool, she could freeze water with just one stare. Well, this time he wasn’t going to play by her rules.

He’d almost said to her that he wasn’t going to beg. But of course he was going to beg. He was going to beg and cajole and vow to change permanently. And mean it this time. He
would
change. If it killed him, he’d be home by seven-thirty every night. First he’d let her stew a little longer. Kirsten obviously didn’t realise just how close she came to losing him sometimes.

He’d been unfaithful too many times recently. Yet in ten years of marriage he’d only had about ten affairs. One a year on average. That wasn’t bad going. If you thought about it, he’d only been 10 per cent unfaithful. Which meant, in effect, he’d been totally and utterly committed to Kirsten for 90 per cent of the time. How many husbands could say that? In the scheme of things it could have been a lot worse.

The annoying part was that she suspected him of playing away with Louise, and that was never going to be on the cards now. That woman was out as soon as he got to the office. That would make Kirsten happy. If he followed it up with a holiday in the Seychelles, and perhaps a new car, then he was home and dry. Job done, walk away.

When he stopped for the first traffic jam, Tyler sat and rubbed his hands over his weary face. This was different though. This had a nastier smell than his locker at the golf club. He just knew there was something awful lurking behind it, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Kirsten had always been so resilient. The harder you knocked her down, the faster she bounced back. Why was there no fight in her this time? How could she do this to him? Particularly now, when he was ready to transform them into Terry and June. And all over a stupid Christmas party.

Why on earth did she want to become independent at her time of life? He’d always provided well for her. She might well moan about him working all the hours God sent, but it didn’t stop her taking the holidays, stuffing the wardrobes with designer gear and driving round in the top-of-the-range car that it paid for.

By the time he reached the office, he was already tired. Bloody bone-tired. He parked his car in his executive space, but even that failed to give him the usual thrill. It took a great effort for him to turn off the heater and get out of the door. Lance wasn’t here yet, which was one small mercy. In fact, the whole executive car park looked like a ghost town. It would give Tyler time to get himself back into gear. The very first thing he would do was go to Lance’s office, shower in his private bathroom and get rid of this ridiculous outfit.

The chill morning air made his waiter’s uniform feel like a layer of tissue paper and the marble steps up to the revolving door were radiating toe-numbing cold through his feet. The whole office would be a total mess today, except for one person. And, in Tyler’s view, that one person – his good self – had probably suffered the most.

Chapter Forty-nine

Kirsten clanked the cups as she set them out on the tray and then hugged herself as she waited for the kettle to boil. She’d felt a deep sense of sadness when she’d finally closed the door on Tyler. Unbelievably, her resolve had almost slipped. Almost.

He’d looked so pathetic standing there in his ill-fitting waiter’s uniform, a look of dazed bewilderment marring his haggard but still-handsome face. She must have an incredibly strong nurturing instinct if she still had the urge to give Tyler hot sweet tea and Hedex and run a warm bath for him after all he’d put her through. It was hard to be the one causing the hurt, rather than the one getting hurt. But then there was a lurking satisfaction that eased itself to the forefront of her brain, combined with the sure and certain knowledge that she was doing the right thing, and the moment was gone.

It wasn’t much of a goodbye after ten years of marriage and certainly not the scenario she’d envisaged, even in her blacker moments. Perhaps if Simon hadn’t been waiting for her, keeping her bed and her heart warm, she would have taken Tyler back yet again and the whole jolly circus would have kept on rolling. Knowing that Simon loved her had given her the strength to move on, the final push to leave. Without him, would she have had the courage to see it through? She hoped she would.

No doubt Tyler would bombard her with flowers – ordered by his all-too-obliging assistant, Louise – when he realised that she really didn’t intend to take him back this time. She wondered what Louise would think when she heard that Tyler was to have his freedom. There would be no wife providing a convenient excuse against commitment to hide behind. Tyler could be an emotional cripple all on his own. If Louise wanted him she was more than welcome to him. And jolly good luck to her. Heaven knew, the girl was going to need it. She looked so nice too, but Kirsten knew only too well that looks could be so deceptive. Perhaps Louise would see through Tyler’s lies sooner than she had and would kick him into touch, but that was up to her. Love, as they so often say, is so often blind.

With a resounding ping, two slices of toast shot out of the toaster. Reaching for the butter, Kirsten applied it liberally. Today, the polyunsaturates could sod off. If she felt like clogging her arteries she would. The bacon smelled wonderful. She slipped it from the grill and the smoky, aromatic scent filled her nostrils. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation. It was going to taste wonderful, she knew it. Carelessly she flung it on to the toast with her fingers, licking the tasty remnants of fat from their scalded tips. She poured the water into the teapot and wondered whether old flames masquerading as oil-industry executives still liked Earl Grey tea for breakfast.

Hands laden with the tray, she kicked open the bedroom door. Simon was out of the shower, drying his hair, towel low on his hips. He wasn’t a mirage. He was still here in the flesh, literally, and she could hardly believe it.