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Chapter 32

THIRTY-TWO

28th December

‘For the love of shite, Maggie. I thought you were a bloody tramp or something!' a voice rings through the living room. The curtains are shut and I roll over to see my parents standing there, Mum with a golf umbrella in hand and Dad holding two pints of skimmed milk aloft, as if the tramp sleeping on their sofa could be lactose intolerant and he could attack them that way. They look around me to see a box of chocolates and rainbow-coloured wrappers lining the floor, dotted around mugs and tissues.

I sit up. ‘I was really good,' I tell them. ‘I saved Dad the blue ones and Mum the orange ones.' I reach up and shake the chocolate box at them so maybe they'll forgive me for eating the rest.

They both stand there slightly dumbfounded. ‘Did you have a party?' Mum asks me, looking at some of the satay sticks and sandwich crusts lying around. ‘You have your own place for that now, no?'

I do. But the truth is two days ago, I got a train back from Kendal. It was a long and complicated journey that involved two stops, a long wait in Manchester and sitting alongside carriages of people in holiday mode, looking jolly and loved up, carrying huge bags of gifts and holding hands. So by the time I got to London I knew I needed some sort of intervention to fix my emotional devastation. That came in the form of a Tesco Metro who were having a 2–for–1 on party food. I wiped them out of everything. After that, I came here. I couldn't bear to go back to my place, with my Christmas tree in the corner, all hopeful and decorated, so I came back to the only other place I knew I'd feel safe.

‘I watered your plants,' I tell them, pointing to my mum's monstera, tying my hair back from my face, wiping the drool trails from my chin.

They both look at said monstera then back to me. I also came here as I knew Mum and Dad went minimalist on the decorations this year as they knew they were going to be away. It felt better to be somewhere that wasn't screaming Christmas at me. I roll off the sofa and stand up to hug them in turn.

‘Merry Christmas!' I say, almost painfully, a blanket still wrapped around my shoulders. I try and rearrange my rubbish so it looks a bit more organised.

‘Mags, are you wearing my clothes?' my dad asks me. I look down. I had no choice. Mum is four foot eleven and I wanted baggy clothes that would give me a big giant hug.

Dad looks at the open suitcase in the corner piled with a muddy reindeer onesie and my toothbrush on the dining table. He comes and sits down next to me. ‘You alright, Mags?' he asks me and I shake my head, bursting into tears as he gives me the biggest of hugs.

Our little ex-council house in West London was the first and only house my parents have ever owned. Given their backgrounds, having their own bricks and mortar meant the world to them and, despite the neighbourhoods changing, evolving and fancy flats growing up around them, they stayed in their corner of the world and never moved. My earliest memories of this place involve them nesting the shit out of this red-brick terraced house. They surrounded it with flowers and plants, there was always a Welcome mat out the front, and there were photos on every wall. Unfortunately, those photos were usually of me. I stare up now from the sofa and see my university graduation photo, a photo that will haunt me for an eternity as it was the year I thought it would be good to get highlights that made me look like a tiger.

‘Seriously, that's a lot of party food, love,' my mum says, coming through from the kitchen with a tray of tea and interesting-looking cookies.

‘You can freeze the prawns,' I tell her, looking down at the tray. ‘That's a lot of cookies.'

‘They're Norwegian. There are seven types, it's what they do,' she tells me, offering me one. I take one curled up like a pretzel and stuff it in my mouth, the butter and sugar dissolving on my tongue like magic. Yep, I'll have another one of them.

Dad puts a gift bag on the table. ‘We also got you this troll that looks like a Viking and a fridge magnet.'

I half hear that as I'm on my third cookie, holding the plate under my chin with both of my parents looking on at me curiously. I offer out the plate to them. ‘Shit, did you want one?' I ask them.

They shake their heads. I have moved since my parents first came through the door. Mum ordered it as she came in for a hug and said I was starting to smell and that she could fry things off the grease of my hair so we had a tidy and I was told to go have a shower. I sit here with my hair slightly damp, twisted into a bun, wearing a fresh pair of my dad's flannelette pyjamas. Now I have cookies.

‘When we were at that sauna, we also had a threesome with a couple from Sweden,' my dad says. ‘His name was Bjorn.'

‘What was that?' I mutter, staring into space.

They both look at each other and giggle. ‘Nothing. Don't you like your Viking?' Dad says pushing it towards me.

I look at his spiky blonde hair, his beard plaited down the front, an axe in his hand. He looks angry which immediately makes me feel sad, everyone is angry with me at the moment, even this little Viking. ‘Does he have a name?' I ask them.

‘Erling.'

I nod. I think they thought that would illicit more laughter.

‘Are we allowed to ask why you're here, love?' my mum asks softly.

My eyes bounce between both of them sadly as I curl my feet into their green velvet sofa, retreating into a ball.

‘Is it to do with Leo?' she continues. I nod, my eyes welling up, emotion rising in my chest again. Mum comes to sit next to me, putting a hand to my knee. ‘Oh, lovely. He seemed nice. Can we ask what happened?'

‘Was it a Christmas thing?' Dad asks.

‘A Christmas thing?' I ask.

‘Well, Christmas is a notorious time for disagreements. Was it a squabble over gifts?' he continues.

I shake my head, a singular tear rolling down my face. Mum reaches over and squeezes my hand. ‘I think it was me. I may have messed up.'

‘Not possible,' Dad says and he gives me the same look he always has. I'm his girl. He's always had every faith in me. I'm just not sure I can live up to his lofty expectations of me this time round.

‘I think I possibly got with him at the wrong time. I have to make some difficult decisions at work and I blurred the lines a bit too much,' I tell them.

‘Did you shag him at work?' my dad asks, looking horrified and sitting back in his leather armchair.

‘Baz!' Mum squeals.

‘Noooo! Dad!' And for a moment, I emit a small laugh. It feels nice to know I can still do that. I shrug my shoulders to have to reveal to them the extent of my dilemma. ‘Work have asked me to let one of my team go – part of redundancies they're making across the company. They literally told me last Friday.'

‘Ouch,' Dad replies. ‘I guess that's one of the downsides of being the big boss. Did you let Leo go then?' he asks me, trying to piece it together.

‘No. I haven't made that decision yet. He found out and it made things awkward. He didn't want us being together making things complicated.'

Mum winces to dissect the situation. ‘So you argued about it?'

‘Not really. It's just Leo's also friends with the others. He felt a sense of loyalty to them.'

‘Jasper and Frank…' Mum recalls.

‘Yeah. How do you…?' I say, narrowing my eyes.

‘Well, when you come back for Sunday lunch, you do talk about the three of them a fair bit. I've never even met them but sometimes I feel like I have,' she tells me, leaning over and taking a biscuit from my plate. ‘They're your work family.'

As Mum says it, my lip trembles because it was so true. I worked hard to grow that family too, to ensure that we did a good job and that everyone was happy. To have to be the person that fractures that is heartbreaking.

‘So, the thing with Leo went tits-up as a result?' Dad asks. I nod, my breath shuddering to have to say that out loud.

‘We just put the brakes on it. I think. I don't quite know,' I say, through misty eyes. I think about his disappointment, the way he couldn't look at me. I know it's because of my secrecy but I also know it's because I leapt into our relationship without really thinking.

‘And did you really like him?' I nod again. They both look at me, pouting with sad eyes. It's not often I say that, to them at least. Being with him felt so very right, it hurts. ‘So fire one of the other ones, right?' he says plainly.

‘It's not that easy, Dad,' I cry. ‘I've spent a few days here and there with them over Christmas and they're all entitled to their jobs, they are all great lads. I've met their families, I've learnt a lot about each of them and…I just can't…'

Dad sighs, taking a long sip of tea. ‘You always spoke of the rich fella with the double-barrelled surname. Surely he'll be fine?'

‘Posh, turns out he's not that rich,' I inform them. ‘Plus, I recently met his boyfriend. It was big thing for him to introduce me to his other half.'

‘Oh. And the other fella?' Mum asks.

‘A bit socially awkward, late bloomer. This was his first job, it's all he knows really. I worry how he'd adapt.'

‘That's part of growing up though, right? Adapting,' Mum tells me. ‘Your dad and I didn't have it easy but sometimes change builds a touch of resilience.'

I rest my head on her shoulder when she says that. Maybe the difference though was that her and Dad had each other. I know Frank is making strides in his relationship with Norah but I worry what the upheaval would do. ‘Oh, hun. I don't envy you at all,' Mum tells me, trying to put an arm around me. ‘Plus, you were always so proud of that department. How awful that they've asked you to do this to your friends.'

As she says friends , my lip wobbles again and Dad urges me to pick up more of those Norwegian cookies again. ‘I'll be honest, I don't know what to do.'

I catch a glimpse of my graduation photo again, a mortarboard on my head, looking hopeful and full of enthusiasm for a life ahead of computer science. It had been a hardcore three years of data, machines and robotics, all very cold and clinical so it was always a surprise that my job would feel so completely the opposite and so very human.

‘You'll do the right thing,' Dad tells me with some certainty. Mum nods, taking a large sip of tea.

‘Which is?' I quiz them, curious.

‘You're just that sort of person, Maggie,' Dad tells me. He follows my gaze and looks up at my graduation photo. ‘You know, I knew you were always going to fly because you're smart. Smarter than I ever was. Like your mum, though I never said that out loud…' Mum beams at him from over the sofa. ‘But you've always been good with people. You do right by them, you get to know them, you're likeable, you have a way of knowing the temperature in a room and making it that bit warmer.'

I pout to hear him say it. That even in the face of all I've told him, he still has belief in me when all of mine has evaporated. ‘There's no easy answer here but the reason it's so confusing and hurtful is because you care about them all and I hope they'll see that much.'

Mum nods. Dad comes over to the sofa so they can sandwich me together and infuse all their love into me. I tear up at how unconditional and perfect it really is. ‘It'll all come good,' Mum mutters. ‘I'd be more worried if you were sitting here like some ice-cold corporate clone telling me you'd fired someone, rubbing your hands together, not giving a damn.' I nod, taking in her words. At least I'd look less like a tramp who'd broken into their house though.

‘It doesn't have to be that brutal either. You graduated with all them other computer science people. Surely you've got contacts so whoever goes can land on their feet?' Dad says wisely.

I feel a weight lift a touch from my shoulders. That's excellent advice. I do. People who went into big corporations but others who have their own setups, who went freelance. I can certainly make sure any split is done with good intentions with where they end up.

‘But you've got a good heart, just listen to it.' I lean into Mum who cups my face in her hands and tries to wipe away the worst of my tears. ‘And there we were thinking that you'd come here to see us,' she mutters.

‘I'm sorry…' I say. ‘I just needed to be somewhere I felt…safe.' Dad grins at this point. This is always what this house was about. From the beech coffee table, to the familiar long pile of their beige carpet and the same spotty mugs we've been drinking out of for years, this place will always be home. ‘And how was your trip? Do you have photos?'

‘Do we have photos?' he scoffs. ‘How about we freshen up, get some of that party food up and you can do that fancy tech thing where you get the photos on the telly?'.

I laugh under my breath. For all my academic achievements, this is the thing he tells people about the most. That and the fact I know how to charge a phone from a laptop. ‘It sounds kinda perfect.'

‘Also…'

My mum goes to her sideboard and pulls out my stocking. It's the same one I've had since I was young and she hangs it off her arm. ‘I know it's a bit late but I couldn't not. Merry Christmas, marvellous Maggie.' And as grateful as I am, as soon as I see it, I think of a Christmas morning with Leo, the stocking Sandy made me and a perfect moment in front of a fire, falling in love with someone so very wonderful and kind. And I think about how much I miss him completely.

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