Chapter 43

Chapter Forty-Three

The morning sun sprawled through the loft room where exposed brick walls met buffed-up wooden beams. A year ago, this was dusty attic space, where gigantic spiders laid their babies and did evil spider things. Now it was Quinn's bedroom when he stayed at his mother's home. Her house balanced the border, so that Quinn could sleep in the middle of the bed and half of him would be in Wales and the other side in England. He slept to the left, so that he would be in Wales.

Christmas morning. The heating on, and his room uncomfortably warm. He wore nothing except the blanket, and turning to the skylights, he blinked through the morning haze. He could already hear the noise downstairs; the smell floating up from the kitchen. His stomach rumbled as he thought of a delicious Christmas dinner.

Today should be the most magical of days, where he could celebrate with family and relax. But the memory of yesterday, foggy after one too many champagne flutes, came back to him. The first official day without his shop.

The prospect of having to play happy families opposite Harold made him want to jump from the loft window. Maybe Harold woke up ill and would be bed-bound all day. Or, maybe, he would see sense and give him his shop back.

Then there was Noah.

Oh, sweet Noah.

Their anniversary would be Christmas Eve! Boyfriends! They were Christmas Eve boyfriends! When everything else changed, Noah was there when he needed him most. He ruined a book signing, but that didn't matter anymore. Though maybe he would punish him.

Must find out if Noah likes S&M.

Quinn got out of bed and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. It might be zero degrees outside, but Claire's house was like Hawaii in the peak of summer. The old house pipes groaned day in, day out as they pumped warmth throughout the rooms.

His mum's house had always been nice and his father's touches were still visible, even after all these years. This loft was Harold's brainchild, another reason he woke up in a bad mood, and it felt too modern for the Georgian home. As soon as he was downstairs, back on the second floor, everything felt right again.

The home had a rustic charm mixed with academia. If that was even a thing. On the landing was an antique table with a chair that had books stacked on it. The bedrooms, with their large ceilings, had a musty feel to them, with netted curtains and lots of natural light, sometimes obscured by … more books!

The stairs creaked underneath Quinn's Pokémon socks. They were uneven, too, so Quinn held the railing, just in case.

They led to an open plan living room, an oasis of house plants and, yes, more books. Two double doors opened up to a garden full of more plants, which of course were dead now, their corpses mummified by snow. He walked into the beige kitchen with more plants and many more books, and granite tabletops. Harold was already at the dining table, decorated with candles, a wreath, and cutlery, the Christmas crackers placed in front of the plates.

When Quinn entered, his mother, red-faced, smiled. ‘Merry Christmas!'

Harold looked up from the newspaper, and Quinn avoided his eye. He could get through today without saying a word to him.

He could.

‘Merry Christmas, Mum!' He hugged her, observing the vegetables boiling on the stove. ‘Dinner looks good.'

‘Yes, it should be. I cooked it.' She winked, then took his hand. ‘Are you ready for your Christmas present?'

He credited his mum for keeping the Christmas spirit alive. Every year she made sure that she planned his Christmas gifts out to a tee, making sure they were wrapped and waiting for him when he awoke in the morning. It made him smile.

‘Only if you're ready for yours!'

Last night, like Santa himself, Quinn sneaked into the conservatory, where they always left their presents, and placed his mother's gifts next to his own. He had even bought something for Harold, despite everything.

‘Come on, then.'

They went into the conservatory together where a small pile of presents waited. Quinn unwrapped his, opening books, some clothes, and then a brand-new plant for his apartment. As his mum talked him through how to care for the lava rock plant, which was the cutest thing ever, he felt a pang of guilt that she had yet to know about Noah, and the possibility of a new life in London.

Finally, there was a rectangular-shaped present left to open.

‘Open this before I open mine.'

Quinn picked it up, underestimating its weight, and almost dropped it. His mum gasped, but breathed a sigh of relief when he secured it. He unwrapped the candy cane printed paper and saw that it was a framed photograph.

Upon seeing the photo, he cried.

It was a photo of his shop, only it wasn't his then. He was younger in the photo, stood to the side, with his dad next to him, his arm around his son. His lost shop, Kings & Queens, centred right in the middle, almost predicting the future.

‘I didn't know this photo existed.' Quinn sobbed.

His dad. Him. In front of what would become his own bookshop. He couldn't believe it.

‘Neither did I,' Claire said. ‘But when we were renovating the attic, I found a box of photos. Gerald had them developed and put them all away. And this was in there. I wanted to show it to you straight away, but then I thought it would make a pleasant surprise.'

‘It's a beautiful surprise.' Quinn got to his feet and hugged his mum. He could feel her shake in his arms, and knew she was crying, too. ‘Thank you. So much.'

‘I miss him.'

‘So do I.' Quinn looked at her. ‘But he's still with us. He'll always be with us.'

Claire wiped Quinn's tears before she wiped her own.

‘Now, open yours.'

He had only bought her one thing, small compared to all his stuff. But she didn't seem to mind. She picked it up, underestimating the weight just like him, and opened a box.

Confused, she opened the box, then pulled out a statue.

This time, it was her go to burst into tears. They had shed so much water between them that if they went outside, they would freeze.

‘It's perfect.'

Quinn had spent his money on a marble carving statue of his mother and his father. With perfect precision and detail, etched into marble forever, eternalised. Claire looked at the marble face of Gerald with a smile.

‘I'll put this front and centre.'

‘Do you really like it?'

‘Come here.'

She kissed him on the cheek.

That was enough.

After dinner, where Claire made most of the conversation, they retreated to the cwtch, as Claire liked to call it, and put on a Christmas film. Quinn had a glass of wine, and for the first time in a long time, he relaxed. Now and then his phone would buzz, Noah texting him about Christmas with Hermione and his cat, Mr Lavender, and Quinn would smile.

He spent most of the day not meeting Harold's eye, let alone engaging him in conversation. But as the credits rolled on Elf , Harold made the first move.

‘What do you want me to do with the stock?'

Quinn watched the credits like they were the most riveting thing on earth. ‘I suppose it's best to donate them to the rest of the bookshops.'

Short and to the point.

Maybe he would leave it at that.

But…

‘And the furniture?'

Quinn shrugged. ‘Some of the stuff is original, so you might want to keep that.'

‘Yeah, right.' Harold laughed.

Quinn remained silent. What was the point? It was Harold's space. He could do what he liked.

Claire sipped her drink, sat between them, ready to defuse the situation if need be.

‘You know, a couple of the other boys left after Gordon.'

‘Did they?'

‘Not happy with my attitude, they said.'

Quinn could only wonder why.

‘Means I don't have many people working for me at the moment,' Harold said. ‘If you wanted a job.'

For the first time that day, Quinn turned to Harold, incredulous.

‘Wow. Thanks.' Quinn pretended to consider the offer. ‘I think I'll pass.'

‘Figured.' Harold reached for a chocolate in a tin of Quality Street, his fingers roving for something in particular. ‘I'm probably going to sell it.'

‘You what? ' Claire spoke before Quinn. It seemed she hadn't been as shellshocked as he'd been. Sell it? After everything that happened?

‘Sell it,' Harold said, only this time slower, like he was uncertain.

‘You said you wanted it as a ticket office.'

‘Yeah,' Harold said. ‘About that. I saw people coming into the castle and thought, you know what, we can just sell tickets at the front.'

Quinn looked at his mother, and even now he feared the look on her face. It was the ‘don't you dare talk to me right now because I'm processing something that has made me furious' sort of look. The type of look that every mother seemed to acquire as soon as their child was born.

‘So, you don't want it?'

‘Well, I realised I could get more out of it by selling it.' Harold found the chocolate he was looking for – a green triangle. ‘It's a much bigger cost if it's a ticket office, isn't it? When I could sell it and get close to half a mil.'

‘I am … so disappointed.' Claire said.

‘Me too.'

Harold shrugged, mid-chew. ‘Just business.'

What was the true meaning of Christmas? Spending a wonderful time with family, relaxing and laughing, playing games? Whatever it was, it wasn't this moment.

Claire was on her feet as the opening bars of Eastenders played, and Quinn hoped, prayed, wished that she would do a Kat Slater and throw some wine over Harold. But she turned her back on him and left the room.

‘Where are you going? Phil's facing life or death!'

‘I don't care about Phil Mitchell!'

It would have been comical if it wasn't so gut-wrenchingly atrocious. It felt like one big trick, like a dirty secret had been exposed. Their very own Eastenders moment.

‘I didn't think you would be so low.'

Harold looked confused. ‘I'm not following.'

‘You don't think it's an issue that you're selling?'

‘Not at all. It's my place. I can do what I want.'

Quinn stood, unable to be in the same room a moment longer. As he was about to leave, Harold called after him.

‘I wouldn't have had to sell if you hadn't made my boys get all righteous!'

‘They didn't need me to realise what a horrible man you are,' Quinn retorted.

He expected a shout, maybe something thrown, but nothing came. Either he'd shocked Harold into silence, or he didn't care enough to make sense of the situation. Quinn expected the latter.

He found his mum in the kitchen, crying over a strawberry trifle. ‘I didn't know.'

‘I know you didn't.'

‘What am I going to do?'

He realised what she meant. What Harold did hurt her on a much deeper level. Quinn sighed, fearing the outcome.

‘That's up to you to decide, Mum,' he said. ‘For now, let's have the trifle together and not leave him any.'

Claire managed a giggle and let Quinn dish up the dessert.