Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?. Claudia Carroll

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘The guy has so many by now, I’m surprised he doesn’t have them up for sale on eBay’.

      And so to my second Christmas wish: some alone time with Dan. Did you ever see a couple that needed it more? Now traditionally at the practice, we always host a little mulled wine and mince pies party on Christmas Eve, just after the surgery closes and before everyone drifts off their separate ways. We’re only closed till the twenty-seventh and of course, I’m cooking Christmas dinner for Dan and his family tomorrow, but I’m still hopeful that not only will Dan and I get to spend all of Christmas night alone together, but the whole of Stephen’s Day too.

      I’ve totally spelt it out to him. I’ve told him that this is our bit of time, for us and for no one else. That this means an awful lot to me and that by God we were going to make the most of it. No work, no farm calls, no phones ringing, no half the town descending on the house, just him and me. A.L.O.N.E. That with a possible year apart hanging over us, surely he agreed that we had a lot to talk about? Course his mobile rang in the middle of my big speech, so I doubt he took in most of what I was saying, but still.

      Point made. Cards laid on table.

      Come Christmas Eve and I’m at The Moorings, frantically getting everything organised for said staff drinks party. I’d already decorated the house, even remembering to put up the Christmas tree in the exact spot ordained by Audrey year-in-year-out. Though why she doesn’t just put masking tape on the carpet to save her all the bother of whinging at me that it’s not in its precise place, I’ll never know.

      Anyroadup, if I say so myself, the place looks terrific: the fire in the drawing room is blazing away, cheesy, cheery Christmas songs are playing in the background and the mulled wine is mulling. I think to take my mind off the play, I’ve been over-compensating by acting like Nigella on speed these past few days. By some miracle, I’ve managed to do all the shopping for Christmas Day and not forget anything, tidied the house from top to bottom and still found time to squeeze in an appointment to get my big bushy head of hair blow-dried straight for the holidays. Well, straight-ish, given that my hair actually grows outwards and not downwards. Not unlike Sideshow Bob’s in The Simpsons.

      Come six pm and just as the last patient leaves the surgery, suddenly the drawing room seems packed with people: Dan, Andrew, James, the intern, Mrs Brophy yelling at everyone and of course Jules who’s been here all day, supposedly helping me, but who’s actually spent most of the afternoon slumped on a couch with a bridge of saliva between her knees and chin, watching It’s a Wonderful Life on TV.

      The room is buzzing, everyone’s laughing and enjoying themselves and just as I’m racing around in my good Karen Millen LBD, topping up glasses and making sure everyone’s stuffing their faces with mince pies…surprise surprise…the phone in the hall rings.

      Silence as we all look at each other and all you can hear is Shane McGowan rasping ‘Fairytale of New York’ in the background.

      ‘WHAT WAS THAT?’ yells poor, half-deaf Mrs Brophy.

      ‘Phone,’ says Andrew, pointedly not budging. ‘Must be a patient.’

      Shane McGowan and Kirstie MacColl are growling out the bit where they call each other scumbags and maggots, while tension suddenly bounces off the four walls of the drawing room.

      ‘I’ll take it,’ Dan volunteers.

      ‘No, no, stay and relax, I’m sure whoever it is will understand that it’s Christmas Eve and that we’ve closed up for the holidays,’ Andrew smiles benignly. But it’s too late – Dan’s already out the door. I’m focusing on handing out mince pies and desperately trying to convince myself that this is absolutely NO indication of how things will be over the short holiday when the practice is closed and when Dan is meant to be taking a break.

      Two minutes later, he’s back in the room, rubbing his eyes with the back of his palms, the way he always does whenever he’s really exhausted.

      ‘Everything OK?’ Andrew asks politely, glass in hand.

      ‘That was Beatrice Kelly,’ Dan replies and I know with absolute certainty what’s coming next. Beatrice is an elderly widow who lives on her own and is passionately devoted to her horses, which she treats almost like surrogate children. In fact, it’s a kind of joke around here that if there is such a thing as reincarnation, then to come back as one of Beatrice’s horses would be karma of the highest order.

      ‘It’s that hunter she had trouble with last week,’ Dan tells Andrew.

      ‘Oh, the hyperperistalsis case?’

      ‘That’s the one. Now she thinks it’s full blown colic and she’s panicking. Right then, sorry to break up the party, but I’d better get out there.’

      I get a justifiable flash of irritation when I see that neither Andrew nor James as much as offer to go with Dan, but just sit there nursing their mulled wine, nibbling on mince pies and looking at him blankly. So, silently fuming, I dump down my tray of empty glasses and follow Dan down the freezing cold kitchen passage and out the side door.

      ‘Sorry about this,’ he says, pulling on a pair of Wellingtons. ‘But it’s all my own fault. I told Beatrice that if she had the slightest concern about that horse to ring me immediately. And you know what she’s like when it comes to her horses.’

      I force my mouth into a stretched smile and utter the one phrase that pretty much summarises my life at The Moorings to date.

      ‘It’s fine, it can’t be helped.’

      ‘No, course not.’

      ‘I’m only sorry you’re missing the party, that’s all.’

      ‘I’ll be well back in time for Midnight Mass, don’t worry.’

      I manage a genuine smile at this. Although neither Dan nor myself are the slightest bit religious, still Midnight Mass is the one time of year you can count on us heathens to cross the threshold of the local church. Useless pair of hypocrites, I know, but it’s just such a lovely service, with the kids singing carols and the big tree and most of the town there, half pissed.

      ‘I’m not a bit worried about the party,’ I say calmly, even managing to make myself believe it. ‘Sure we’ve still got all day tomorrow and the day after. Don’t we?’

      I reach up to gently brush a tufty bit of his thick, black hair that’s standing upright on his forehead, then go to gently stroke his cheek, but he’s distracted and doesn’t respond.

      And two seconds later he’s gone out into the dark, icy cold evening.

      Half eleven that night and he’s still not back, so after I’ve tidied up the house, Jules and I walk to Midnight Mass on our own. Well, that is to say I walk and she staggers, having spent most of the evening knocking back approximately half a bucket of the mulled wine. I’m still hopeful that Dan might meet us at the church or even join us late during the service, but when we get there, there’s no sign of his mud-soaked jeep anywhere.

      A sudden stab of worry: he shouldn’t have taken this long, should he? Maybe there’d been some kind of accident? So I call him but he doesn’t answer. Which only makes worry work like yeast in my mind.

      By the time the choir get to Silent Night, Jules has fallen asleep and actually snores for the rest of the service.

      Holiday = not off СКАЧАТЬ