The Great Christmas Knit Off (25 page)

‘And are you OK after your tumble in the village square?’ Kitty says softly. My forehead creases and my heart sinks slightly, but it soon lifts when she follows with, ‘Teddie loves lying in the snow, don’t you poppet? It’s such fun.’ The little girl nods and holds out her soft toy cat for me to see. I give it a stroke, feeling relieved and grateful to Kitty for kindly alleviating my potential embarrassment.

‘Yes, no physical damage,’ I say truthfully – only emotional, but I’m dealing with that. I take a big swig of Baileys.

‘I wanted to dash out and give you a hug,’ Kitty continues, lowering her voice and leaning into me, ‘but I couldn’t leave Teddie on her own in the café. I’m so sorry,’ she adds kindly, and my heart melts; with all that she must be going through, she still has compassion for a total stranger, face planted and bawling in the snow.

‘Thank you. You’re so kind,’ I reply, and she simply nods and gives me a gentle look before turning towards Lawrence.

‘I was going to call you today, but seeing as you’re here I might as well ask you now …’ Kitty pauses and ruffles Teddie’s hair. ‘I think it’s time,’ she says quietly. ‘Will you deal with …?’

‘Of course I will. No problem at all. I’ll call in this evening and take care of it after I’ve tidied up Teddie’s fringe.’ And whatever it is, makes Kitty let out a long sigh of relief, as if she has been holding it all in and can finally let go. She instantly appears to look lighter, even her shoulders have moved down from the tight position they were in just a few seconds ago at the nape of her neck. The moment changes when Cher darts back over to our table.

‘Sybs. So sorry, love, to interrupt your special leaving lunch.’ She looks really uncomfortable, awkward almost, which is totally unlike her.

‘What’s up?’ I ask, before taking another swig of Baileys.

‘Er, there’s a phone call for you.’ And for some reason she looks away.

‘Oh?’ I lift the linen napkin off my lap, place it on the table and instinctively go to stand up. ‘Who is it?’ I ask. Nobody knows I’m here, apart from Mum. Cher twiddles her earring furiously.

‘Please, just come with me out to the back.’

‘Cher, please, you’re scaring me.’
God, please don’t let something have happened to Mum or Dad.

‘Oh, no, sorry babe, it’s nothing like that.’ A short silence follows. Cher purses her lips, plants a firm hand on her hip and then quickly comes out with it. ‘It’s Luke!’

‘I
’ll be right outside the door if you need me,’ Cher says kindly, gesturing to the phone on the coffee table in her private lounge behind the bar. I swallow hard and give her a nod before closing the door and lifting the handset to my ear.

‘Hello,’ I say tentatively, my mind already in overdrive, trying to work out why on earth he’s calling me now. And here? Surely it can wait until I get back? It’s not like he’s phoned me at all since the wedding. Apart from one time, which was just full of excuses, so I didn’t really listen properly. No, he’s left Sasha to make all the calls, claiming that he didn’t want to upset me any more than was really necessary. Arrogant, spineless bastard, more like – did I not even deserve an explanation? After he had cleared out his gear on the day of the wedding, that was that; he cut ties with me, and the flat, not even bothering to enquire about his half of the rent according to the tenancy agreement that he had signed too. Not to mention all the other joint things: utility bills, the massive balance still owed to the wedding venue, the florist, the photographer, the tour bus company. And it didn’t all just go away because the wedding didn’t happen. It’s one thing him not wanting to marry me, but he could have at least mentioned it before the actual day.

‘Sybs, it’s me!’ I close my eyes, momentarily blanching at the presumption that it’s OK for him to have retained such familiarity by way of a casual ‘me’.

‘Who?’ I can’t resist making him sweat just a little bit and the hesitation in his voice is palpable.

‘Luke.’

‘Oh, hi,’ I say as casually as I can possibly muster, followed by a very breezy, ‘how are you?’ And this completely throws him.

‘Er, yes, I’m alright.’ He coughs. A short silence follows. ‘How about you?’ he adds.

‘I’m great.’ And I do the biggest smile ever – so big, I could give Ronald McDonald a run for his money. And because I’ve been on the telephone techniques course at work and I know that he’ll hear it in my voice and, as juvenile and immature as it may seem, I so want him to know that I’m doing fine,
actually!
Just the way I am. I’m not the crumpled mess I was in the weeks after May the fourth.

‘Brilliant,’ he says in an overly bright fake voice followed by, ‘I, er, had to call your mum, you know, to like find out where you are,’ he says, as if it were akin to a waterboarding session. I give him a few more seconds to elaborate further before losing patience.

‘Can you get on with it please? Only I’m in the middle of having lunch with friends.’

‘Friends? What friends?’ And there’s definitely a hint of surprise, if not suspicion, in his voice.

‘Nobody you know.’ Ha! I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the fireplace and do a very immature smirk. There’s a short silence.

‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I’m worried about you.’ Hmm, he hasn’t been worried about me for the last six months or so. ‘Are you OK? Why aren’t you at home?’ he says, talking too fast.

‘I fancied a weekend away,’ I say.

‘I see. I’ve really missed you.’ Another silence. ‘I still care about you, perhaps we could meet up and sort everything out?’

And I’m stunned. Really stunned. Does he have some kind of amnesia? Has he forgotten what he did to me?

‘Oh,’ is all I manage in response.

‘What do you reckon?’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, right now,’ I say, knowing if he’d said this a few months ago, then my answer might have been different – I was so desperate for closure, if nothing else, back then, and probably would have leapt at the chance to meet up with him to talk. But not now; I’m in a different place now.

‘I see,’ he says quietly, followed by, ‘I never meant to hurt you, you know, it just sort of happened—’

‘Is that the only reason you called?’ I interject. The past is the past and there’s no going back, that’s what Lawrence helped me realise, and he’s right. Besides, I’ve moved on.

‘Yeah,’ he pauses, ‘and to say that Mr, er, Mr Bungee …’ He stops talking, and sounds distracted, like he’s trying to remember the details.

‘Banerjee,’ I correct.

‘Yes, that’s him. He left a message on Friday afternoon, on my mobile, saying he wants to talk to you urgently. And that he’s left loads of messages on your home phone, but you haven’t
bothered
to call him back.’ Hmm, my back constricts. Mr Banerjee may be a bit traditional in his management style, but he’s not rude and I don’t believe he’d say I hadn’t bothered. Luke has put his spin on it.

‘I see.’ There’s no point in pulling him up on it.

‘Yeah, so he said that he had no other option than to call the next-of-kin number on your personnel file,’ he blurts out really fast. ‘I just picked the message up, we, er, I,’ he quickly changes, ‘got back from Dubai this morning and I had my mobile switched off. Didn’t want to get stung with a big roaming bill.’

‘OK.’ I inhale sharply, immediately parking the ‘Oh God, Mr Banerjee must have found out I’m to blame for Jennifer Ford’s spending spree’ thought that’s tearing around inside my head now. Instead, I let out a long silent breath and impulsively decide to go for it, once and for all, remembering my thoughts from yesterday – that she is my sister after all, that everything Lawrence said about letting go of the past and looking forwards is right. It’s time to draw a line under it. ‘And how is Sasha?’

‘Er, she’s …’ He coughs again and then sounds as if he’s clearing his throat in preparation for a big announcement.
Oh God, what’s he going to tell me? Surely, they’re not getting married, so soon? Or, nooooo! perhaps she’s pregnant?
I place a hand on the mantelpiece as if to anchor myself in readiness.
Keep calm and carry yarn, keep calm and carry yarn.
I say it fast, over and over inside my head like a mantra. ‘Look, Sybs, this isn’t easy for me you know,’ he starts, gruffly.

‘What isn’t?’ I ask, making an effort to keep my voice even.

‘Well, you know, all this …’
Whaaaaat?
‘And now, er, well, I’ve had to move back in with Mum and Dad,’ he finishes in a decidedly sulky voice.

‘Oh?’ I say, and an image of him squashed into the single bed of his parents’ boxroom springs into my head.

‘You might as well know,’ he says, begrudgingly, ‘Sasha never wanted me, not really. I panicked, I felt shit and had to get away, that’s why I went with her to Dubai, I needed some space.’ He can barely contain his perceived sense of injustice from seeping into his voice.

‘Oh dear,’ is the first thing that springs into my head, closely followed by an internal:
awwwww, well cry me a fucking river
, for which I have no shame as he then says,

‘So I’ve got nothing now.’

And I end the call.

Ah, now it makes sense. No wonder he’s claiming to be missing me. Bullshit! Talk about transparent. He wants to wheedle his way back into the flat. Well, it’s tough luck; he clearly doesn’t know me at all, if he thinks I’m that daft to not see what his game is. He can stew in his tiny little boxroom while his mummy moans at him for leaving his skiddy pants on the bathroom floor. At least I don’t have to step over them any more. Ha!

Moments later, and I’m aware that Cher is in the room.

‘You OK, babe?’ she asks tentatively, taking the phone from my gripped hand.

‘Um, sure … yes. That was Luke.’ The words are coming out of my mouth, but it’s as if someone else is saying them; I’m on autopilot. And for a moment, I’m not even sure if the call was real. I take a deep breath and get a grip: it was real all right, and it just goes to show the chasmic difference between Luke and me, what on earth was I thinking? This was the man I had seriously considered marrying, and I realise now that I didn’t even know him.

‘Yes, I know,’ she says softly, giving me a look. ‘What did he want?’ Cher cuts to the chase. She’s pacing around the room now, twiddling her hoop earing, and with a riotous look on her face.

‘I have to call my answerphone at home, Luke said my boss is desperate to get hold of me,’ I say, still feeling stunned.

‘OK,’ Cher says slowly. ‘Shall I do that for you?’ She has her index finger poised on the keypad.

‘No, it’s alright. I’ll do it, thank you.’ Cher nods and hands me the phone. ‘Sasha never wanted him, he said,’ I say absent-mindedly, as I tap out the number.

‘Oh!’ She hesitates, and then adds a vague, ‘Good,’ before letting out a long whistle and shaking her head.

‘Are you busy?’ I ask. ‘Only, I could do with …’ And my voice wobbles slightly. I swallow and try again. ‘Sorry, it’s Sunday lunchtime, of course you are. You’re rushed off your feet!’

‘Never too busy for you, my friend. I’m sure they can cope without me for a few minutes.’ She doesn’t hesitate, and perches on the arm of the sofa as I lift the phone to my ear.

‘Thank you,’ I mouth as I dial in with my pin number. A few seconds later, and the automatic voice says there are seven messages. I brace myself and go for it. The first message is from one of the Zumba girls asking if I fancy going again next week, the next four messages are from Gina, starting with a polite ‘Please can you call the office if you’re feeling up to it’ through to ‘Sybil, you need to phone me immediately.’ Oh crap. The sixth message is from Mr Banerjee himself.

‘Sybil Bloom. This is Mr Banerjee, senior housing officer, from the housing benefit department,’ he begins formally – like I don’t know who he is already; I’ve only sat in the end desk three banks behind him for the last nine years. ‘I’m calling because we’re all worried about you, given, your, um, well … your track record over the last few months. I’m aware that you’ve had a difficult personal matter to deal with …’ He coughs and there’s a short pause, followed by the sound of rustling paperwork, as if he’s checking his notes. ‘Maybe you could call me if you’re up to it. There’s been an incident, which is now under investigation, and we feel it might be wise for you to take a bit of time off while this happens. I understand you have a considerable amount of annual leave left still to take before the end of the current year, which will only be lost otherwise, so you could come back to work on …’ another pause, followed by a woman whispering (Gina most likely), ‘the – oh, the fifth of January.’ And the surprise in his voice is palpable. He then goes into a big spiel about my rights and how this will all be put in writing to me, and if I want to talk to someone then that can be arranged too, but a person from HR Services will be in contact with me in any case. ‘Good day.’

OH. MY. GOD.

I can hear the sound of my own blood pumping in my ears. I feel weird – whoever heard of someone’s boss calling to say they can take time off – they must think the cock-up to end all cock-ups is my fault and this is their nice way of saying I’m suspended during the investigation. But I also feel elated too as this means that I can stay off work until after Christmas! And how I feel right now is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. And you know what? I suddenly realise that I don’t actually care what happens to me – just sack me and get it over with already, as I actually hate my job. I do, it’s true. Of course, I truly hope I’m not to blame for Jennifer Ford’s spending spree; I really do, as I’d never do something like that on purpose. I really wouldn’t. I always try to get it right, do the best I can at work. Because I’m not a total idiot or fantasist; I know I have to support myself. As much as I’d love to knit and sew and earn my living that way, it’s just not ever been possible. And then it dawns on me! What if I am sacked? It’s one thing being all blasé and bold about it, but when it really comes down to it, how the hell will I survive with no income? I’ll be evicted if I don’t pay the rent and then Basil and I will end up homeless, which would be utterly ironic given that I had worked in the housing office, as there is no way I’m doing a Luke and scuttling back home to my parents’ house.