Five Winters(87)

“Of course.”

“Great. See you then.”

They headed off hand in hand, completely wrapped up in each other, as they should have been. I hadn’t been able to tell Rosie my big news after all, but that didn’t matter. I’d tell her on Saturday.

One way or another, next year was going to be an exciting year for both of us. I couldn’t wait.





32


Rosie hadn’t said what time she’d be coming round on Saturday morning, but I was back from popping out to the shop for milk and biscuits by nine. Then I settled down to a spot of cleaning—not because Rosie was coming over but because I’d totally neglected the flat lately, what with work and looking after Precious.

I had my rubber gloves on and was in the middle of scrubbing out the kitchen bin when the knock on the front door came. I went to the door like that, intending to finish off the job before I made Rosie a cup of coffee.

Only it wasn’t Rosie. It was Mark.

“Oh,” I said. “Hello.”

“Hi,” he said, smiling at me. “Sorry to surprise you like this. Nice gloves, by the way.”

I peeled them off. In the old days, I might have made a quip about them being Stella McCartney or something, but not now.

When I didn’t say anything, Mark pressed on. “So anyway, I’m on my way to the Museum of the Home. They’ve got a special Christmas exhibition on.”

“It’s on every year.” I’d been several times. Enjoyed it every time.

“Yes. Well, do you want to come with me?”

I’d barely seen Mark since Sylvia’s lunch party, and while a part of my mind registered that he was looking better—a lot better—than he had then, I was still glad to have a ready excuse not to spend time with him now.

“Sorry, I can’t. Rosie’s coming round this morning. I’m expecting her any minute, actually.”

Mark’s face fell. Despite everything, I had a sudden, almost overwhelming impulse to phone Rosie to put her off. To make myself available to Mark so he wouldn’t be disappointed.

Old habits die hard, I guess.

“Well, can I come in for a minute? Grab a cup of coffee, perhaps? I promise to scamper when Rosie gets here.”

I stepped back reluctantly. “Sure.”

I left him taking his desert boots off and went to put the kettle on.

“Did you enjoy the snow the other week?” he asked.

That great conversation fallback—the weather. Ugh.

“It was pretty,” I said, spooning coffee into a french press. “I was working, though, so I didn’t get the chance to go sledging or make any snowmen.”

“D’you remember that giant one we made one winter, the three of us? With the carrot nose and the pieces of coal for eyes?”

Of course I bloody well did. “Yes, I remember.”

We’d been out for hours—so long our hands had turned blue and we couldn’t feel our feet in our wellies—rolling giant snowballs and balancing them on top of each other, hunting out sticks for the snowman’s arms.

“I never did find out what happened to the scarf we used on him. Mum went bananas about it.”

“Someone somewhere is still carrying that guilty secret,” I said, because it was just too damn hard not to slip into banter with Mark, even when I really, really didn’t want to.

“Think they’ll take it to their grave?”

“Very probably.”

He took off his coat and slung it over a chair. Just like he’d done last Christmas. Exactly like he’d done last Christmas.

“I suppose you’ve heard the good news about Rosie and Giorgio?”

“I was there when he proposed. Or nearby, anyway. It’s fantastic news, isn’t it?”

“Hopefully, yes. I mean, I really like Giorgio. Who wouldn’t? And I can see he makes Rosie very happy. It’s just . . .”

The kettle boiled. I turned away to pour water onto the coffee grounds, not wanting to talk about why Mark might be cynical about Rosie and Giorgio’s marriage working out. Not wanting to talk about anything, really. I had shut and bolted the door labelled MARK in my mind a year ago. Maybe one day I’d be able to leave it ajar, but not yet. No matter how much it felt as if invisible fists were pummelling on it, clamouring to get it open.

“But obviously I hope they’ll be very happy together.”

I finished preparing the coffee and brought Mark’s over to him. I resolutely didn’t ask whether there’d been any progress on his divorce.

“How’s Buddy?”

“Buddy’s good, thanks. Mum and Gary have been taking him to agility classes.”

I was surprised. “Have they?”

He nodded. “It was Mum’s idea. We take Buddy for regular walks, of course, but he has so much energy. And what with him being a working dog, she thought he’d enjoy it.”

“And does he?”

He smiled. “Loves it. He’s a natural, apparently. Mum and Gary are already talking about aiming for Crufts.”

“Really?” My eyes widened at the mention of one of the world’s biggest dog shows.

“Certainly are. Got their sights on a trophy, and Buddy’s only been to five or six sessions. Apparently, he’s got star quality.”