Within ten minutes our Christmas meal was on our plates, the bhajis and samosas arranged on a platter in the centre of the table. I hadn’t bought any Christmas crackers because I hadn’t expected company, so we didn’t have any paper crowns to wear, but I’d improvised by giving Mark a stripey bobble hat and myself a straw boater, so we looked appropriately ridiculous.
Mark poured wine from the bottle I’d had chilling in the fridge and raised his glass.
As I lifted mine, I wondered what he would toast to, given the circumstances. But in the end, he just said, “Happy Christmas, Beth.”
“Happy Christmas.”
The curry was surprisingly good. It was as if it knew it was being served for a special occasion and had presented its most fragrant, spicy self.
“Mmm, this is delicious. Maybe we need to change our traditional Christmas fare in this country.”
“Well,” I said, “it would certainly be a lot cheaper.”
I couldn’t help but think of the probable waste at Grace’s house—Mark’s empty place, appetites likely dwindled due to the atmosphere.
Before sitting down to eat, Mark had sent Grace a text message—presumably to tell her he wouldn’t be back for dinner—then turned his phone off. I felt sorry for Grace, to be honest, having to cope with her family on her own, all her efforts to make a perfect Christmas ruined, but I did think a large part of the situation was her fault. Even if she hadn’t wanted the puppy, couldn’t she have been kinder to Mark? She must have realised how disappointed he was by her rejection of his surprise. He’d only done it to try and cheer her up about them not having a baby yet.
“What d’you think Dad would think about all this?” Mark asked, the bobble on his hat quivering as he cut up a large chunk of chicken.
I thought Richard would have advised Mark to go home. Leave the pup with us, son. We’ll take care of it. Go and sort your marriage out. But I didn’t want to say that. “I’m not sure.”
“He’d probably have thought I was a complete prick.”
“He wouldn’t have said that.”
“Maybe not, but he’d have thought it. And it’s true. I am a prick.”
“You just wanted to give Grace a nice surprise,” I started, but he shook his head.
“No, not for getting Buddy.”
I looked over at the sleeping bundle of fluff. “Is that what you’re going to call him?”
Mark grinned. “Why not?”
I nodded, grinning back. “Good choice.”
“No, I meant for marrying Grace to begin with. God knows what I thought we had in common. Rosie was right last Christmas—what she said about Grace trying to change me.”
“She said that about us both,” I reminded him.
He pointed his fork at me. “Yes, but you got out, didn’t you? You ended it with Jaimie, whereas I stuck around for another helping of bludgeoning and criticism.”
There was a slight tremor in his voice as he finished, a brightness about his eyes which made me shudder at the thought of where I might be myself if I’d just dragged through another year of never quite measuring up to what Jaimie and his girls wanted me to be.
Mark swiped a hand across his eyes and smiled across the table. “Sorry. This is all very maudlin for Christmas lunch.”
“It’s all right,” I said, although in truth, I didn’t know quite what to feel. I couldn’t risk thinking about the possibility of Mark’s marriage being over, in case I accidentally let a chink of hope into my heart. Which would be a ridiculous thing to do. Time after time I’d been forced to accept that just because Mark was single, it didn’t mean he would look at me as anything other than a sister or a friend. Why should anything have changed?
“I tell you what,” he suggested. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. Or even think about it.” He reached for the wine bottle and topped up our wineglasses. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said, but that lasted only until we were halfway through our dessert—a tin of sliced peaches I’d found right at the back of my store cupboard—because my phone rang. It was Grace, ringing me because Mark’s phone was off.
“Could I speak to my husband, please, Beth?” she said, cold as you like, as if it were my fault he was here eating curry and tinned peaches.
“Yes, of course,” I said, holding my phone out to Mark. “It’s for you.”
This time, he didn’t go into the bedroom to speak to her. So I left the room instead, shutting myself in the bathroom and sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. Even in there, I could hear his raised voice.
When he knocked ten minutes or so later to tell me he’d finished, I grabbed some towels to cover the wet patch on the sofa until I could clean it properly.
Buddy was still asleep, oblivious to the drama he’d caused. There was no sign of Mark. His coat had gone. Had he left while I was collecting the towels? Then I saw him through the french doors, outside on the patio, so I got my own coat and went out to join him.
“Just needed a bit of air,” he said.
I nodded, folding my arms around my body to keep warm, looking up into the bare branches of the plane tree.
“Remember those baby owls in the trees in the back garden when we were kids?” Mark said suddenly.
I did. Mark had seen them from his bedroom window and had come down to get a better view from the garden. I’d been the only one around to share his excitement. Sylvia, Richard, and Rosie had all been out for the evening—Sylvia and Richard for a meal, Rosie at the cinema with her boyfriend at the time.
“They were so soft looking, weren’t they? So . . .”
“Snuggly?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
We stood side by side, watching and listening, but there were no owls today, baby or otherwise. Just a dog barking somewhere and the sound of an occasional car passing in the street.
When Mark began to talk, it was almost as if he were speaking to himself, trying to work things out in his mind.
“Grace was just so beautiful. So perfect. She knocked me off my feet when we met, you know? But it wasn’t just her looks. I loved her self-confidence, the way she knew exactly what she wanted.”
“And what she wanted was you?”
“Yes, at the time. It was dazzling. We were both dazzled, I think. But it didn’t last. God, even on our honeymoon, if I’d bothered to look, things weren’t right. She didn’t want to go to the Eiffel Tower, can you believe that? Insisted we go to see the architecture in the financial district instead. I mean, sure, it was impressive. But better than the Eiffel Tower? I don’t think so. Even then, that early on, I was giving way to what she wanted, letting what I wanted slide.”
I wondered if really, Buddy—poor little Buddy—had been an act of rebellion. A way of Mark asserting, Here, this is me. This is something I want. Time for you to compromise and give way to me for a change.
“You know, at his age, Buddy would soon be snapped up from a rescue centre. You wouldn’t need to worry about him finding a good home.”
“What? So I could go back and carry on as before?”
“Does it have to be like before? Couldn’t you go to couples therapy or something?”