For the Love of Christmas. Kate Forster

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      The cab slowed down as they turned into her street. ‘Just past the green Citroen,’ she said, pointing to her neighbour’s car.

      The first thing she noticed when the cab came to a standstill was that the door was wreathless. Then she saw there were no clumsily cut snowflakes taped to the windows. And finally she saw that there was no welcome home party at the door.

      No words on computer paper taped across the door, just some mail sticking out of the letterbox.

      ‘Here you are,’ said the cabbie stiffly and she regretted being impatient with him earlier.

      ‘Thank you,’ said Rebecca as she handed him his fare and a generous tip, enough to encourage him to help her with her large suitcases.

      Mollified, he got out of the car.

      ‘Must be nice to be home,’ he said, as he heaved a case from the boot of the car.

      ‘It is, actually,’ she said, telling the truth.

      ‘You were away a while, then?’

      ‘Eight weeks,’ she answered.

      ‘That’s a while. What were you doing away for that long? Work, was it?’

      He was heaving her case up the stairs now, so she felt she owed him something. A nugget to share with the next fare.

      ‘I was ill,’ she said. ‘I went for specialised treatment.’

      His eyes opened wide and he almost gasped.

      ‘You better now, then? Is that why you’re home?’

      She smiled, realising he needed her to be well, even though they didn’t know anything about each other.

      ‘I’m getting there,’ she said, with more hope than she felt.

      She felt for her long-unused house keys in her handbag, and put the largest one in the door.

      The click of the lock sounded so familiar, she thought she would cry.

      Maybe this was a dream, and she was coming home from work, with plans to decorate the house before the children and Jamie came home. She would make a roast chicken and salad for dinner, and their life would be a better version of what it was before.

      ‘Good luck, look after yourself,’ the cabbie called as he went back to his car.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, giving him a little wave before she dragged the cases inside.

      Closing the door, she leaned against it and breathed in the scent of her home. She had made it, she thought, and gave herself a mental pat on the back.

      ‘Hello?’ she called, knowing no one was home but hoping all the same.

      Nothing came back in return and she pulled her phone from her bag and dialled a number. She waited while the line connected across the continents.

      ‘Rose-Marie, it’s Bec, I’m home.’

      ‘Welcome home,’ said the instantly soothing American accent. ‘How are things?’

      ‘Lonely,’ Rebecca answered, feeling her eyes burning with tears. ‘No one is here. I don’t think they have been here for weeks.’

      ‘Did Jamie say he would meet you at the airport?’ asked Rose-Marie.

      ‘No, I just assumed. I left him a voice message with my arrival dates.’

      ‘Never assume,’ said Rose-Marie. ‘Ask for what you need. If you wanted him to pick you up, you should have said that.’

      Rebecca swallowed her tears.

      ‘And the red wreath isn’t up on the front door,’ she said. ‘That always means it’s Christmas to me.’

      ‘You can put it up,’ said Rose-Marie, and Rebecca heard the smile in her voice.

      ‘I know you think I’m ridiculous,’ she said.

      ‘No, I think you’re facing the unknown, and it’s frightening as things aren’t like they used to be.’

      Rebecca sat on the uncomfortable Danish chair that Jamie had bought last year. It was supposed to be a design classic but she felt the only thing it was designed for was a backache.

      But right now it felt good to have physical pain to accompany her emotional anguish.

      ‘Have a sleep, a shower and then call me when you speak to Jamie,’ Rose-Marie said gently.

      ‘Okay,’ she answered, feeling like a child.

      She placed the phone down on the glass coffee table that Jamie had bought years ago, when Sofie was born.

      That table had caused her so much worry, she thought, as she ran her fingers over the sharp edges.

      Each step Sofie had taken as a toddler was accompanied with ‘Mind the table’, until Jamie had renamed it the Mindthetable Table.

      Rebecca stared at it and then stood up, and went and opened the front door.

      Walking back to the Mindthetable Table, she lifted the art and architecture books from the glass and placed them on the floor. Next she took the set of sweet little enamel boxes with mother of pearl inlay and placed them on top of the books.

      Bracing herself, she bent her knees and lifted the monstrosity.

      ‘Gawd,’ she wheezed, almost buckling under the weight.

      Tottering like Sofie once had around the table, she inched her way out of the room, and then down the hall and out the front door.

      The stairs were precarious but she managed to get it out and down onto the street by the force of sheer hatred for the thing.

      ‘Goodbye,’ she sneered at the table.

      ‘Excuse me, are you throwing that out?’ said a voice behind her, and she turned to see a cooler, younger version of Jamie.

      ‘I am indeed,’ she said firmly.

      ‘Is it real or a replica?’ he asked carefully.

      ‘Real,’ she said with a smile, and he glanced at her home, and her lovely camel coat, and nodded.

      ‘Would you mind if I took it off your hands?’ he asked eagerly.

      ‘Not at all,’ she said with a smile. ‘In fact, there’s a chair you might like as well.’

      Fifteen minutes later, the chair and the table were gone and Rebecca felt extraordinarily happy with her decision, just as Jamie probably felt the same about his. If he didn’t want to live here, then he wouldn’t miss his stupid furniture, she thought, knowing she was being petulant but unable to stop herself.

      The voice of Rose-Marie СКАЧАТЬ