Chapter 17

Romanticism is the abuse of adjectives.

Alfred de Musset

Christmas at Aunt Jenni and Uncle Paul's is fun. Nana O'Connor, who's eighty-eight and is now in a lovely care home nearby, joins us for the day, and so does Celeste's middle brother, Frank, who lives and works in Cork. We do a Zoom call with her older brother, Jack, who's currently in California, working for a tech firm. We also Zoom with Mum, Dad, Adrian and Cori, whose Christmas Day is almost over. We talk so long and so loudly that nobody really hears what anyone else is saying, but the gist of the news from Napier is that the twins trashed the house with excitement and baby Azaria was as good as gold the whole time.

They all looked great, I think later that evening when we've eaten and drunk far too much and are imitating beached whales in front of the TV. I'm so lucky to have family who get on, even if New Zealand makes it difficult to be physically close. Maybe next year I'll get a chance to visit my brother and his wife and get to know my niece and nephews. It's being able to build up enough holiday time from work that's the issue. I'd love to go for a month if I could. But unfortunately my job isn't like Charles's. I'm tied to a schedule and can't work just anywhere in the world.

I glance at my phone. He's sent messages throughout the day wishing me happy Christmas and telling me silly jokes from crackers. I haven't seen him since our evening at Kavanagh's when he gave me the watch. Celeste spotted it on my wrist earlier and said that it was a pretty extravagant gift that surely meant Charles was serious about me. I batted that away and reminded her I'd only bought him a bookmark.

The phone in my hand pings again. This time it's a selfie of him and a tall, well-built woman with strawberry-blonde hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders. Even if he hadn't told me, I'd have guessed this was his sister. The resemblance to him is evident. They're in what seems to be a small but very Christmassy room. Less stylish than Charles's own home, but warm and welcoming all the same, with a fat barrel of a madly overdecorated Christmas tree.

I message him back with a pic of me and Celeste in party hats.

My phone pings again almost immediately, and I assume it's a reply from Charles, but it's not.

Hope you're having a lovely Christmas. You deserve the best. Sx

For crying out loud! What's Steve doing sliding into my messages again?

I show it to Celeste, who tells me to block him, but it's Christmas and I can't make myself do that. In the end I simply send a generic Season's Greetings GIF.

I'm so over Steve. I must put my wedding dress up for sale.

#NeverWorn #MyMendedHeart

That could be the title of Charles's next novel.

I stay at Aunt Jenni's for two nights, then return home. The house feels bare because my festive decorating was minimal. All the family Christmas stuff is in the attic and I'm not a fan of going up to the dark, dusty space under the roof with its eerie shadows and unexpected bits of bric-a-brac from past times. Instead, I bought a little potted tree from the garden centre and put it on the sideboard along with a tiny wooden crib (also from the garden centre). Then I strung some indoor lights around the room, which I reckoned was enough to make it look festive. But it's not the same, that's for sure.

I sit by the gas fire, and for the first time since Mum and Dad went away, I feel alone. I know I'm not really alone; I could go back to Aunt Jenni's and stay there if I wanted. I also know that if I asked her, Mum would come running home to me. She wanted to when Steve broke up with me, and I was very firm about being perfectly OK, even though I really wasn't. All the same, I managed. But I'd give anything for her arms around me tonight and a whisper that she loved me. I allow a tear to leak from my eye and then pour myself a Baileys. If Christmas isn't a time for drowning maudlin thoughts in a sweet, creamy liqueur, I don't know when is.

The ring at the doorbell when I'm two thirds of the way down the glass startles me. The first thought that goes through my head is that it's Steve, and even though I'm not sure I want to answer the door to Steve, I open it anyway.

Charles is standing there, bundled against the cold in a black leather jacket and a tartan scarf.

‘I thought you weren't going to answer,' he says.

‘I didn't think it was you.'

‘There are people for whom you don't answer the doorbell?'

‘Sometimes. What are you doing here?' And then, realising that I'm being rude, I tell him to come in.

‘I got back from Ellis's early and thought I'd surprise you.'

‘I could've still been with my aunt and uncle.'

‘You could. But I made a bet that you wouldn't. Family is all very well, but most of us can only last a couple of days with them.'

‘Like you and Ellis.'

‘She lectures me,' says Charles. He unwinds the scarf and hangs it over the newel post before taking off his jacket and hanging it there too.

‘About what?' I ask, leading him into the living room.

‘Everything. Nice tree,' he adds.

‘Don't sneer.'

‘I'm not.' He grins. ‘I like it.'

‘Can I get you a drink?'

‘Wine?'

I produce a bottle of red from the cupboard. As I unscrew it, I realise that Charles is probably a cork-in-the-bottle kind of man. Oh well, this is a Lidl special, it got great reviews and they were limiting stocks to customers, so he'll have to do his best to like it.

He makes no comment on the wine, either its taste or the screw top. I sit opposite him and raise the remainder of my glass of Baileys. ‘Happy Christmas.'

‘Happy Christmas,' he echoes. ‘Was it good?'

I tell him how much I enjoyed being at Aunt Jenni's and how great a cook she is and how much fun it was to talk to Mum and Dad and Adrian and Cori.

‘How about you?' I ask. ‘Fab pic, by the way.'

‘Ellis and I had fillet steak and chips,' he replies. ‘We didn't talk to anyone.'

‘No turkey and ham? And not even a call to your mum?' I'm shocked.

‘We texted. She always goes to Nick and Rachel's for Christmas.'

As he tells me more about his family, I can't help wondering if it's him or his mum who's the most distant person in it, and he laughs and says that they're both very independent people.

‘What about your brother? Do you get on OK with him?'

‘I get on OK, as you put it, with everyone. I just don't see the need to be in their pockets all the time. Nor they in mine. I like doing my own thing.'

‘I guess that comes with being a writer. Being solitary and stuff.'

‘It comes with my family,' he says. ‘But the writing too.'

I decide not to follow up on his comments, as he thinks I'm inquisitive enough, but instead remark that he must be excited that his book was accepted.

‘I'm very pleased,' he admits. ‘I was more anxious than I should have been.'

‘It's a great book.'

‘Thank you.' He raises his glass. ‘And thank you for being such a good beta reader.'

‘I'm an ordinary reader,' I say as his glance flickers to the bookshelves in the alcove by the fireplace. He stands up and looks at them. My entire collection of Janice Jermyn and Agatha Christie. Dad's Harlan Coben and Lee Child. Mum's Patricia Scanlan and Ciara Geraghty, as well as the wide selection of random books that we all love, none Booker winners, but all great stories.

‘I liked Agatha Christie as a boy.' Charles takes out The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and flicks through the pages. ‘I enjoyed working out who the murderer was.'

‘And did you?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘I rarely did with hers,' I admit. ‘There was always a sneaky twist, particularly in that one.' I nod at the book in his hand, and he laughs.

‘I hope my sneaky twist is as good.'

‘It's pretty good,' I acknowledge.

We slip into silence, but it's a companionable, easy silence. Every so often I glance at Charles, who's gazing into the fire, seemingly deep in thought. I love being here with him, but I have to ask myself what on earth is going on between us. He's an older, divorced man, and in a million years I would never have imagined myself sitting in my living room with someone like him. I'm wondering what he's thinking about me. How is he framing the relationship, if relationship is even the right word, between us? Has he called over for some festive sex, as a quid pro quo for the watch? Is that it? I nibble on the end of my nail and then whip it out of my mouth, because I had them shellacked for Christmas and I don't want to ruin them. (They're a glittery gold. I love them.)

‘What are you thinking?' Charles breaks the silence.

‘It's usually women who ask that question.'

‘Ah, but I'm a man in touch with the emotions that women feel. That's a quote from The Times,' he adds. ‘So I'm allowed to ask.'

‘I was wondering about us,' I say.

‘Us?' He looks surprised.

‘If there even is an us,' I say. ‘Which I feel there might be. And yet I don't know.'

‘Of course there's an us,' says Charles.

‘And what are we?'

‘Two people who care for each other?'

‘OK . . .'

‘What do you want, Iseult?'

When my parents call me Iseult, I feel like I did when I was a little girl and in trouble over something. When Charles does, I feel like a proper grown-up.

‘I thought we were a holiday romance, but now you're saying we care for each other and I don't know what that really means. Don't panic, though,' I add. ‘There's no pressure. I don't want anything from you.'

‘I want you,' says Charles. ‘You make me feel . . . inspired. Renewed. Spirited. Wholehearted. Actually, wholehearted is best,' he continues. ‘You make me feel wholehearted about my life and about my work. You unblocked me.'

‘You're making me sound like Dyno-Rod.'

‘Are you always this . . . this down-to-earth?' he asks.

‘Yes. I'm sorry if that's not spiritual enough for you.'

‘Spiritual?' He laughs.

‘Um . . . I don't know the right word. But you're all creative and whatever. Your first thought when you heard my name was that I was named after a poet. But I'm not creative and I'm not poetic and I'm not really your sort of person at all.'

‘Are we having our first row?' asks Charles.

I don't say anything.

He gets up from the chair and puts his arm around me.

‘Don't overthink it,' he says. ‘I like you just the way you are.'

I recognise that line. I can't imagine Charles has read Bridget Jones's Diary, though.

I lean my head on his shoulder. He puts his fingers beneath my chin and tilts it so that we're face to face.

‘I never expected to meet anyone like you,' he says. ‘You've completely knocked me out of my groove. But I love it.'

I love it too.