a seat and so he stood for the fifteen-minute journey back into London, barricaded into his spot by other people’s suitcases and bulging bags of presents. The carriage stank of sweat, alcohol, fried chicken and desperation, the air punctuated by a baby’s increasingly desperate cries and the sounds of several computer games turned up to a decidedly antisocial volume.
No wonder he rarely travelled by public transport. Alex gritted his teeth and hung on; he deserved no better.
Not that anyone else seemed to be suffering. His fellow travellers seemed to be as full of Christmas Eve cheer as those on the plane, upbeat despite the conditions. But once he had finally got off the train and stood under the iconic glass curved roof of Paddington Station the last thing he wanted was to disappear underground and repeat the experience on a Tube train full of last-minute desperate shoppers, Christmas revellers and people freed from work and ready to celebrate. It was a couple of miles’ walk to Primrose Hill but half of that was through Regent’s Park and he could do with clearing his head.
Besides, he didn’t want to risk bumping into Flora when she dropped his bags off. For the first time in his life he had no idea what to say to her.
It was hard not to contrast the grey, unseasonably warm day with the crisp air and snowy scenes he had left behind. Hard not to dwell on the fact that for the first time in a week he was alone.
Hard to face the reality that this was his future. He’d always thought of himself as so self-sufficient. Hardened.
He’d been lying to himself.
Alex bought a coffee from one of the kiosks, curtly refusing any festive flavourings, and set off, the last week replaying through his head on repeat, slowing down to dwell in agonising detail at every misstep. He shouldn’t have kissed her. He shouldn’t have allowed her to kiss him.
He shouldn’t have proposed.
It shouldn’t hurt so much that she said no...
He wandered aimlessly, not caring much where his feet took him. The back streets were an eclectic mix of tree-lined Georgian squares, post-war blocks and newer, shabbier-looking business premises. Like all of central London, the very wealthy rubbed shoulders with the poor; wine bars, delis and exclusive boutiques on one street, a twenty-four-hour supermarket and takeaway on the next.
It wasn’t until he hit Russell Square that Alex realised just how far he had walked—and how far out of his way he was. He stood for a moment in the middle of the old Bloomsbury square wondering what to do. Head into a pub and drink himself into oblivion? Keep walking until he was so exhausted the pain in his legs outweighed the weight in his chest? Just sit here in the busy square and gradually decompose?
Or run home, grab the car and head off to Kent. He’d be welcomed; he knew that. Flora would try her best to pretend everything was okay. But he didn’t belong there, not really. He didn’t belong anywhere or with anyone.
So what would it be? Pub, walk or wither away in the middle of Bloomsbury? He leaned against a bench, unsure for the first time in a really long time which way he should go, looking around at the leafless trees and railings for inspiration when a brown sign caught his eye. Of course! The British Museum was just around the corner. He could while away the rest of the afternoon in there. Hide amongst the mummies and the ancient sculptures and pretend that it wasn’t Christmas Eve. Pretend he had somewhere to go, someone to care.
Pretend he was worth something.
His decision was made; only as he rounded the corner and hurried towards the huge gates shielding the classically inspired façade of the famous museum he was greeted, not by open gates and doors and a safe neutral place, but by iron bars and locks. The museum was closed.
Alex let out a deep breath, one he hadn’t even known he was holding, gripping the wrought-iron bars as if he could push them apart. No sanctuary for him. Maybe it was a judgement. He wasn’t worthy, no rest for him.
He stared at the steps, the carved pillars, the very shut doors. It was strange he hadn’t visited the museum in the eleven years he’d lived in London; after all, it was visiting this very building that had first triggered his interest in building design. The neoclassical façade built to house the ancient treasures within. He used to come here every summer with his grandmother.
With his grandmother...
When had that stopped? When had he stopped seeing her? Before he was ten, he was pretty sure. She took him out a couple of times his first year at prep school, had visited regularly before then, although he had never been allowed an overnight stay. And then? Nothing.
No cards, no Christmas presents. Nothing. He hadn’t even thought to ask where she had gone—after all, his father had made it very clear that it was Alex who was the problem. Alex who was innately unlovable.
But it wasn’t normal, was it? For a grandparent to disappear so completely from a child’s life? If she had blamed Alex for her daughter’s death then she wouldn’t have been around at all. And surely even his father would have told him if she had died.
There was something missing, something rotten at the heart of him and he had to know what it was, had to fix it. Fix his friendship with Flora.
Be worthy of her...
He couldn’t ask his mother why she couldn’t love him, why she’d left him. He couldn’t expect any meaningful dialogue with his father. But maybe his grandmother had some answers. If he could find her.
He had to find her. He couldn’t go on like this.
* * *
Christmas Eve was usually Flora’s favourite day of the year. All the anticipation, the air of secrecy and suppressed excitement. The rituals, unchanging and sacred. They were usually all home and unpacked by late afternoon before gathering together in the large sitting room to admire the tree and watch Christmas films. The last couple of years they had pretended that the films were to amuse the children—but the children usually got bored and wandered off leaving the adults rapt, enthralled by stories they had watched a hundred times before.
Then a takeaway to spare Flora’s dad cooking for this one evening, before stockings were hung. Milk and carrots would be put out for the reindeers, home-made gingerbread and a snifter of brandy for Father Christmas himself and then the children were bundled off to bed. The last few years Minerva and Flora’s mother had stayed behind to babysit the children and put the last few touches to presents but the rest of the family would disappear off to the pub for a couple of hours, finishing off at Midnight Mass in the ancient village church.
She loved every unchanging moment of it.
But this year it would all be different.
What if she had said yes? Right now she and Alex could be walking into the house hand in hand to congratulations, tears, champagne.
But it would all have been a lie.
Flora took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves as the car Alex had ordered for her rolled smoothly through the village towards the cottage her parents had bought over thirty years before, but her hands were trembling and her stomach tumbling with nervous anticipation. They must never know. Alex thought they would blame him but she knew better; they would blame her for driving him away.
She needed some air, time to compose herself before the onslaught of her family. ‘This will be fine, thanks,’ she said to the driver as they reached
