Old habits die hard, I guess.
“Well, can I come in for a minute? Grab a cup of coffee, perhaps? I promise to scamper when Rosie gets here.”
I stepped back reluctantly. “Sure.”
I left him taking his desert boots off and went to put the kettle on.
“Did you enjoy the snow the other week?” he asked.
That great conversation fallback—the weather. Ugh.
“It was pretty,” I said, spooning coffee into a french press. “I was working, though, so I didn’t get the chance to go sledging or make any snowmen.”
“D’you remember that giant one we made one winter, the three of us? With the carrot nose and the pieces of coal for eyes?”
Of course I bloody well did. “Yes, I remember.”
We’d been out for hours—so long our hands had turned blue and we couldn’t feel our feet in our wellies—rolling giant snowballs and balancing them on top of each other, hunting out sticks for the snowman’s arms.
“I never did find out what happened to the scarf we used on him. Mum went bananas about it.”
“Someone somewhere is still carrying that guilty secret,” I said, because it was just too damn hard not to slip into banter with Mark, even when I really, really didn’t want to.
“Think they’ll take it to their grave?”
“Very probably.”
He took off his coat and slung it over a chair. Just like he’d done last Christmas. Exactly like he’d done last Christmas.
“I suppose you’ve heard the good news about Rosie and Giorgio?”
“I was there when he proposed. Or nearby, anyway. It’s fantastic news, isn’t it?”
“Hopefully, yes. I mean, I really like Giorgio. Who wouldn’t? And I can see he makes Rosie very happy. It’s just . . .”
The kettle boiled. I turned away to pour water onto the coffee grounds, not wanting to talk about why Mark might be cynical about Rosie and Giorgio’s marriage working out. Not wanting to talk about anything, really. I had shut and bolted the door labelled MARK in my mind a year ago. Maybe one day I’d be able to leave it ajar, but not yet. No matter how much it felt as if invisible fists were pummelling on it, clamouring to get it open.
“But obviously I hope they’ll be very happy together.”
I finished preparing the coffee and brought Mark’s over to him. I resolutely didn’t ask whether there’d been any progress on his divorce.
“How’s Buddy?”
“Buddy’s good, thanks. Mum and Gary have been taking him to agility classes.”
I was surprised. “Have they?”
He nodded. “It was Mum’s idea. We take Buddy for regular walks, of course, but he has so much energy. And what with him being a working dog, she thought he’d enjoy it.”
“And does he?”
He smiled. “Loves it. He’s a natural, apparently. Mum and Gary are already talking about aiming for Crufts.”
“Really?” My eyes widened at the mention of one of the world’s biggest dog shows.
“Certainly are. Got their sights on a trophy, and Buddy’s only been to five or six sessions. Apparently, he’s got star quality.”
“Didn’t you want to take him to the classes yourself?”
“I haven’t got the time. Or I won’t have, not if Buddy really becomes a superstar.” He paused. “I’m applying to do a teacher training course in September. To become a maths teacher.” His head was down, and he looked suddenly shy.
A maths teacher. Yes! That was so right for him. “That’s fantastic, Mark.”
He looked at me hopefully. “Do you really think so?”
“Of course I do. You’ll be brilliant at it.”
He smiled. “Thanks. I’m pleased, I must admit. Finally—finally I know what I want to do. I’m looking forward to spreading the joy of maths to the world, you know? Anyway, as I won’t be working from home anymore, Mum and I have agreed to share care of Buddy. He’ll be with her during the week and with me at weekends. A bit like the child of divorced parents but without the need to shunt a suitcase back and forth.”
“Won’t he need a suitcase for all his dog toys and trophies?”
Mark smiled. “They can go in the boot of his chauffeur-driven limousine if he gets really famous.”
Damn. Despite all my efforts, we were back to our normal bantering selves. This could easily act as a gateway to a serious chat—which I was determined not to have—about how strained things had been between us lately. Where the hell was Rosie?
Right on cue, my phone bleeped with a message.
Sorry, can’t make it today after all. Last-minute Christmas shopping. See you next week. R. XXX
“Bad news?”
“Yes. Rosie can’t make it today after all.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He raised his eyebrows hopefully. “Though I suppose that does mean you’re free to come with me to the Museum of the Home after all?”
Five minutes later we were on our way. It was a quiet walk, what with me simmering like a pot about to come to a boil, resenting the fact that Mark thought he could just turn up and decide what I was going to do on the Saturday before Christmas. Furious with myself for relapsing and just going along with what he wanted.
Not that I didn’t want to go to the Museum of the Home. I always enjoyed going there, especially at Christmas. I just didn’t want to want to go with Mark. Yet, despite everything, it seemed that I did. And I really shouldn’t.
“Do you know about the history of the museum?” Mark asked, breaking the silence. Well, I supposed somebody had to break it. The Museum of the Home was two miles away from my flat. “It was originally built as an almshouse for the poor by this guy Geffrye. People were very altruistic in those days if they could afford to be, weren’t they?”
“It was probably an attempt to salve his conscience,” I sniped. “Geffrye was connected to the slave trade. That’s how he got the money to be altruistic. Didn’t you know?”
Mark’s face fell. “Was he? No, I didn’t know that.”
“Not a lot of people do.”
This time, when silence fell, Mark didn’t try to break it. Not at first, anyway.
Then he said, “Look, Beth . . .”
And I just couldn’t bear whatever he was going to launch into. Couldn’t bear to think about the days after Christmas when I’d ignored his calls. The uncomfortable atmosphere between us over the dinner table at Sylvia’s—Mark hollow eyed from the fallout of splitting with Grace, Buddy acting as an effective buffer for our awkwardness.
“Where d’you think Rosie and Giorgio will get married?” I asked. “Enfield or Rome?”
When Mark smiled sadly, I knew he was only too aware I’d spoken to shut him up. But he responded gamely anyway. “I’d have thought you’d know that better than me. Presumably, you’re going to be a flower girl or a matron of honour or whatever they call it?”
“The word matron conjures up images of starched nurses’ outfits,” I joked, casting desperately around for a scrap—no matter how small—of humour and feeling sadder than I’d felt since last Christmas as I did so. “I’m not sure that’s the look Rosie will want to go for with her bridesmaid outfits.”