66. Adam

66

ADAM

A ll I have to do is get through the next hour or two.

That’s what I tell myself as I step out of my car in front of Nat’s parents’ semi-detached house. If I can get through this, then my reward will be bundling my girlfriend into my car and driving back to London so that we can wake up together on Christmas morning.

I think longingly of my home, so beautifully festive in a way I didn’t know I craved, the turkey sitting in its massive pan of brine on the hob. I think of the gifts I’ve wrapped and laid under the tree in the library, Nat’s favourite room. I think of waking up entwined with my girlfriend, of fucking her slowly and deeply and tenderly before wrapping her up in a fluffy robe and taking her downstairs for a cup of her favourite tea and some gift-giving. I think of the long, peaceful morning we’ll have together before Dad and Quinn turn up for a late lunch.

I sigh and take the hamper I’ve bought for Noel and Adelaide out of the boot before approaching the front door, with its pretty pine-cone-stuffed wreath, as if I’m walking to my own execution .

There’s no blindsiding happening here, I remind myself. Stephen is fully aware that I’ve been invited to join the Bennett family for Christmas Eve drinks. This is all pre-planned. I apparently have his permission, if not his outright blessing, to attend. After all, this is the only family time Nat will get this Christmas, given she’s chosen to forgo lunch here tomorrow in favour of spending the day with me.

Twenty years.

Two decades of guilt and shame and anger and what-ifs, of incarceration and self-recrimination, of repentance and rehabilitation. Of making fortunes and battling ghosts. And, most recently, of falling in love and finding forgiveness. The sheer weight of it all swirls tangibly around me, through me, drying out my mouth and tightening my throat and flipping my stomach as I ring Noel and Adelaide’s doorbell.

I’m praying hard that Nat answers the door when that very slab of wood swings open and I find myself face to face with a man I haven’t seen since he appeared at my trial to give evidence, his face heavily bandaged.

My first thought is that I don’t recognise him at all. I wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a line up. I simply didn’t know him well enough at school. I didn’t give him enough of my attention—until I did.

My second is that he looks as though he’s seen a ghost. The Ghost of Christmas Past, if we’re to get literary about it. I may not recognise him, but I know exactly how he feels.

My third thought is that his eye looks weird. It’s fine, but it’s not okay. It’s not acceptable. And that whopping great glass golfball sitting in his eye socket is my doing.

Good God.

My fourth, as I stand there like a muppet, is that I have no clue at all what to say to him. None at all. Introducing myself to the man whose life I wrecked feels like the worst kind of disingenuity, because of course he’s all too aware of who I am. I gape at him, opening my mouth and hoping something inspired will come out.

And then he speaks.

‘Hi, Adam.’

I swallow. ‘Hi, Stephen.’ Hastily, I shift the hamper to my left arm and stick out my right hand. He gapes at it.

Please don’t leave me hanging on Christmas Eve mate, even though you have every reason in the world to do it and I deserve exactly that.

He holds his hand out and shakes mine. It’s a firm handshake, I think. A committed one. It’s not fearful; it doesn’t seem unwillingly given.

‘Merry Christmas,’ I say as we shake.

He nods curtly, as if embarrassed, and jerks his head to the left. ‘Come on through.’

As I follow him through the narrow hallway with its jaunty festoons of Christmas cards tacked to hanging ribbons, I find I’m shaking as if I’ve just braved a bungee jump. The fading adrenalin has me feeling weak and oddly weepy, too.

I’ve done it.

I’ve shaken Stephen Bennett by the hand.

He may not have given me the warmest welcome, but he was civil. Far more civil than our past warrants.

My reward for jumping off this metaphorical cliff reveals itself before we’ve cleared the hallway. My girlfriend comes out of a doorway at a trot, her arms full of a lovely baby girl who appears to be dressed as Mrs Claus. Nat’s a vision in a belted sweater dress and the thigh-high, chocolate brown stiletto boots I insisted (for my own nefarious reasons) on purchasing for her in Stuart Weitzman when we were stateside .

I break out a genuine smile, because she’s a total knockout.

‘Hi,’ she says breathlessly, pulling me into a group hug with the baby and kissing me on the lips. ‘Sorry—I was trying to give this one her bottle or I would have got the door.’

‘Hey, sweetheart,’ I say. ‘You look beautiful. And this must be Chloe, right?’

‘Mrs Claus to you,’ Stephen says stiffly, and I recognise and appreciate the gesture of his awkward little joke.

‘Hi, Mrs Claus.’ I tickle her under her chin before pulling my hand away, conscious that, while Stephen may be making uneasy peace with the idea of me dating his little sister, he may not be ready for me to lay a finger on his beautiful baby daughter. Even if she’s beaming at me with all the judgement-free, drooly joy of a true innocent as Nat hands her back to her brother.

I know enough about what Nat’s early years looked like. I know what she lost in material comforts. This house may not be a mansion in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, but the Bennetts now have a decent-sized home. What’s more, the warmth here is palpable before I’m even in the living room. There’s no faking a vibe like this.

‘There he is!’ Adelaide approaches as we enter what looks to be the main living room, her arms outstretched and a smile so genuine at the sight of me that I could weep. She’s wearing a long red dress and looks as elegant as always.

Behind her, the room is aglow with what looks like a real fire. A plump tree stands in the corner, decorated with the multi-coloured jumble of decorations that families tend to accumulate over years and decades.

‘We’re so happy to see you, sweetie,’ she says as she hugs me around the hamper. ‘Merry Christmas. ’

‘Merry Christmas,’ I say, a little more hoarsely than I’d like. This is an emotional overload: being invited into the Bennett’s home on such a special occasion; seeing Stephen; having to look Noel in the eye. So Adelaide’s generous, effusive greeting feels like a gift. ‘This is for you and Noel,’ I say, glancing over her shoulder at her husband, who’s hovering behind her.

‘Oh heavens,’ she says, taking it from me. ‘How lovely. Fortnum’s! My favourite.’

‘Adam.’ Nat’s dad steps around his wife, holding out his hand. ‘It’s good to have you here, son. Merry Christmas.’

‘Merry Christmas, Noel.’ I can scarcely get the words out, and when I do, my voice cracks. Dear God. These people are so… there’s no animosity. Awkwardness, yes, but no sign of hostility or even conflict. They seem genuinely at peace with my being here.

I have no idea what kind of conversations Adelaide has had to have with Noel and Stephen to bring them around to the idea of my being in Nat’s life, let alone stepping foot in their family home. All I know is that the woman’s warmth, her compassion, is a gift, and I can only conclude it’s infectious.

‘Thank you so much for welcoming me into your home,’ I tell Noel and Adelaide now as she offloads the hamper onto him. ‘It means the world to me.’

She lays a kindly hand on my arm. ‘Of course, dear. We wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, I’m sure you could use a stiff drink after walking into the lion’s den.’

I laugh awkwardly, because it’s an apt metaphor. ‘Not at all. And I’m driving this one back later’—I gesture at Nat, who has her hand on my bicep, a show of support that grounds me—‘so I’ll stay off the booze, if that’s okay. ’

‘I’ve made virgin mojitos,’ Nat says with a grin, and that gets a real laugh from me.

‘How festive.’

‘Right? A bit random, but they’re really good. Want one?’

‘Sounds great, sweetheart,’ I tell her, turning so I can drop a kiss on the top of her head. I can feel every eye in the place on me as I do.

A woman with curly auburn hair comes through from what I assume is the kitchen, holding an extremely full glass of white wine. This must be Stephen’s wife, Anna.

‘Anna, this is Adam,’ Nat tells her.

No context needed. This is Adam: the reason your husband only has one eye.

Anna looks me up and down, but it’s more like she’s getting the measure of me than judging me.

‘Adam. Hi. Merry Christmas.’ She shakes my hand briskly. Not only is she very attractive, but she has an instantly likeable face—one that suggests she’s smart and kind.

Somehow, seeing Anna and Chloe in the flesh, obtaining real, first-hand proof that Stephen is happy and thriving and loved, feels even more like closure than having him shake my hand.

Stephen approaches his wife and hands the baby to her. Chloe makes grabby hands as she goes, latching instantly on to one of Anna’s dangly gold earrings, and Stephen laughs and tuts.

I watch as he lovingly disentangles his daughter’s chubby little fingers from his wife’s earring.

For the first time in twenty years, I’m starting to understand that the scars from the terrible, terrible injuries I inflicted on him have healed more than I could ever have hoped.

I’m not just talking about prosthetic eyeballs.

I’m talking about his life .