weathered metal stars and little festive wooden decorations. Our tree was festooned with gold bows and red baubles, and with tiny decorations made by Dad. It was beautiful.
I made us both some mulled wine (so thoroughly mulled I’d be lucky if there was even a breath of booze left in there) and brought two mugs of it through. Thom was sitting on the floor, staring at the tree.
Me: You OK?
Thom: [slightly surprised] Yeah. I am. Are you?
Me: Yes. I like how much this baby moves. And I like you.
Thom: My God, Christmas makes you emotional.
Me: You say that like it’s not fact number one about me.
Thom: Do you like it today?
Me: I do. More and more.
Thom: You’re going to have a baby here next time we do this.
Both: – All going well.
Me: We will. Are you going to cover it in ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ bibs and babygros? Will you get it tiny baby antlers?
Thom: I don’t think they exist.
Me: Well, now we know what we can pitch to Dragon’s Den, don’t we?
We stayed up late tonight, mostly just resting against the sofa, looking at the tree, until suddenly at 11.59 Thom said, ‘Right, get to bed. Father Christmas won’t come otherwise.’ Quite right, too.
December 25th
Oh, a lovely day. Thom woke me up with such wonderful treats, gifts from under the tree and a tray of Christmas breakfast in bed: buttery scrambled eggs and toast, fresh orange juice and tea, and a little mince pie. ‘I’m going to look nine months preg by New Year if you keep this up,’ I warned, stuffing the mince pie in my mouth first. ‘Ah, the beauty of Woman in bloom,’ Thom countered. ‘Plus, blooming woman, we need to be at your mum and dad’s in an hour. Shall we open something here first?’ My mouth still full, I grabbed the nearest gift and thrust it at Thom, nodding, wide-eyed.
Here’s what we got one another:
From Thom:
A new MAC Ruby Woo lipstick (mine’s run out)
Four paperbacks, none of which were about babies
Plants for the window-box
To Catch a Thief, my favourite Cary Grant film
From me:
A boxset of Paul Newman films (maybe a little bit for me too)
A tie (of course)
Two poetry books
A jar of homemade chutney (annual ritual)
We thanked one another, then I said with mock casualness, ‘Oh. What’s that? Is there something still in the tree?’ Thom looked at me quizzically, then pulled out a gold envelope from within the branches. His face lit up. ‘It’s not what you think it is, I think,’ I warned, ‘but have a look anyway.’ He pulled out a little card, similar to the one he’d given me last Christmas (and yes which we still used, thank you very much).
Thom: ‘For a night off.’
Me: Ah, but don’t you know how these things work? Turn it over.
Thom: ‘Definitely redeemable more than once.’ Thank you, Keeks, but a night off from what?
Me: From everything. I may regret this once the baby actually arrives, but I don’t want to you to feel that your every waking hour away from work has to be spent here, with your baby. Or with me.
Thom: Where else am I supposed to be?
Me: With your friends! Wherever you want! I know that you want to look after me, but I want you to know that you’re allowed nights off too. To be a pal to someone other than us. I know we don’t need to give one another permission, but if you ever want it, it’s there. OK?
Thom: You’re going to be a nice mother.
Me: I do hope so. I’ve already bought a card with that message for you to give me on Mothers’ Day.
As we wrapped up to go over to Mum and Dad’s, Thom said, ‘By the way, there were other things I wanted to get you but I thought they might be pretty depressing as special gifts, and I didn’t want you to think that you were just a breeder to me now. Maybe you can have them another time.’ He widened his eyes at me mysteriously, as is his wont, and we headed off.
When we got there, the house was strangely quiet, Susie and Pete and the kids not having arrived yet. While Thom went to give Mum a kiss, Dad took me to one side.
Dad: Listen, love, I think your mum’s a bit overworked at the moment, so be gentle on her, alright?
Me: Overworked? She’s been retired two years.
Dad: Katherine, I mean it. I think she’s too worried about all of us – my heart, your pregnancy – and we need to go easy on her. Tell your sister.
Me: Dad, I will, and we will. We’ll be model daughters. Susie and I were worrying about her only the other day.
Dad: Why’s that?
Me: I got some … odd things in my advent calendar this year.
Dad: [something flickering across his face] Did you, now? Alright, love, don’t mention anything about this to your mum, alright? Just … be a good girl.
He gave me a kiss and a hug, but I felt worse, rather than better. I can understand how Mum would be so shaken by Dad’s heart scare, but it had been six months now, and she seemed to bounce back so quickly at the start. Is it a delayed reaction? Is it just Christmas stress taken up a notch?
When I followed them all into the kitchen, Thom gave me a quizzical look – are you OK? – so I smiled and nodded at him and gave Mum a long, tight hug.
Mum: What’s that for?
Me: For letting all of us ne’er-do-wells into your home every Christmas. What a nice time we have. Thanks, Mum.
Mum: [surprised] Well.
Me: Now, what can we do to help?
But the one time I was offering to help, she wouldn’t hear of it, insisting that I must relax and stay off my feet, while I still could. I liked the first half of it, but the thought – even if this wasn’t what she intended – that next Christmas I would be jogging around like a maniac after a crying, stinking baby, planted me firmly on the sofa with my feet up. Dad turned the carols up and brought me a heavy tumbler of Buck’s Fizz (one part champagne to one hundred parts orange juice), and handed me a long, thin parcel. ‘You can open it now, if you want, before the hordes arrive,’ he said.
Inside
