number and I never knew his surname.
But she did have her. And she had sat with all her family, at the kitchen table of their big, old crumbling Victorian family house, and said exactly that. But she had ended with, I think I’m going to keep the baby and I’m going to need loads of help.
Hence why she now lived in a newly converted flat on the top floor of their house that used to be a junk storeroom, and had absolutely no idea how she would live a day without them all.
‘So,’ said Clarice, settling herself down on the sofa to the right of Hannah’s bed. ‘Here are your stockings,’ she said, pointing to Frank who revealed them from behind his back like a magician.
‘No way!’ Dylan was aghast.
Robyn looked delightedly smug as Frank handed them each a red felt stocking.
Jemima narrowed her little eyes and said, ‘Does that mean I’ll get my chocolate coin back?’
As Robyn tipped her stocking upside down and chucked Jemima a chocolate coin from the contents, Hannah reached her hand into her little red stocking, feeling the same childish excitement that she used to as a kid. Inside was an assortment of small packages all wrapped up with ribbon and a handful of chocolate coins in the toe. She got to the bottom expecting the usual tangerine, but found instead that this year it was apple and held it up with a bemused frown.
‘Dylan ate all the satsumas,’ her mum said with a shrug.
‘Doesn’t Santa bring his own satsumas?’ Jemima asked and they all paused, looking panicked to one another for an answer.
It was Clarice who leant forward and said, ‘Yes he does, darling, but because this lot are really far too old for stockings and he’s making an exception giving them to them in the first place, he asks us to supply our own fruit.’
Jemima nodded, her mouth full of chocolate Santa. ‘That’s understandable,’ she said.
‘Yes. Except then Dylan ate it,’ Clarice continued, with a glare Dylan’s way. But Dylan was paying no attention whatsoever and was happily ripping through the paper on his stocking presents.
Hannah, on the other hand, had laid all hers out in front of her and, as she listened to her mum and Jemima’s exchange, was deliberating on which present to pick first. Eventually she went for the square one – the heaviest – and instantly smiled as she unwrapped it.
In her hands was a simple wooden picture frame and in it the picture of her degree show dress that had featured in the style supplement of a national newspaper.
The press photographers had only been at the end of year show because one of the other graduates had a film star dad who called in favours from his A-list actress buddies to model his daughter’s clothes. But nestled in among those shots was Hannah’s graduation show-stopper. The dress that had launched all of this. That had been seen by Annie and inspired the phone call that had taken Hannah back to Cherry Pie Island and led to the wedding dress commission. It still made Hannah catch her breath to see it, her dream, all those brutally gruelling years later, fully realised.
‘You’re not crying, are you?’ her mum said, looking worried.
Hannah shook her head.
‘She is,’ Jemima whispered.
‘I’m not, I promise,’ Hannah said, wiping her eyes with the duvet cover. ‘I’m just tired.’
‘Tired and emotional.’ Her brother sighed.
Hannah got out of bed and gave her mum a hug. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered in her ear. ‘Thank you for helping me get this far. I owe you everything.’
Her mum pushed her back and held her by the shoulders. ‘It’s been our pleasure, Hannah. You owe us nothing. It’s your life now. You’re there. You’re on your way.’
Hannah nodded, wiped her eyes again. ‘It’s scary though.’
‘It’s exciting.’ Her mum smiled.
‘It’s snowing!’ her brother shouted.
‘Really?’ Robyn and Jemima jumped up.
‘No, just kidding.’ Dylan laughed. ‘Just wanted to lighten the tone.’
Christmas Day, it was a nightmare.
Not only was it pouring with rain, but Harry had to cycle forty minutes with a slow puncture to get to his parents’ house.
‘Harry!’ His mum stood in the doorway wearing her apron, her black hair falling from its bun, her slippers on and her earrings shaped like Christmas wreaths, flashing green and red lights. He remembered her wearing them to his school play she’d had them so long.
‘Hey, Mum.’ Harry slicked his soaking hair back from his face. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘It’s such a surprise. I didn’t even know you were here. Why didn’t you tell us you were here? Your sister had to find it on Twitter. You twittered it and you didn’t even tell us?’
‘I didn’t twitter it, Mum. Tweet it – it’s called tweeting. I didn’t tweet it, the restaurant tweeted it. If I’d known they were going to tweet it, I promise, I would have told you.’ Harry rested his bike against the porch wall.
His mum frowned. ‘But that still means that you weren’t going to tell us you were back. You’re never back, Harry. We miss you.’
Harry scratched his head. ‘Can I just come in?’
His mum stood to one side and let him pass, trying to help him with his soaked leather jacket as he did and Harry batted away the fuss.
‘Let me put it on the radiator, here, give it to me.’
‘Mum, it’s fine.’
‘No, I’ll put it on the radiator.’
In the end it was easier for him to hand her the jacket. Two of his nephews careered down the stairs as he edged his way into the living room, the whole house shaking as they swung from the banister.
‘Hello, Son.’ His dad looked up from over his reading glasses and put his paper down. He was wearing a paper hat and the sight of it – too small for his head – made Harry cringe.
His sister was in the kitchen cutting vegetables and peeling potatoes. There were dancing Santas and flickering Christmas lights. Someone had opened the sherry. His grandmother was snoozing already in the corner, wearing her holey slippers and her polyester housecoat. His uncle was shaking all the presents with one of the nephews, deciding what was in what and there was Now That’s What I Call Christmas blasting out the tape deck on the stereo.
Harry couldn’t bear Christmas. He couldn’t bear being trapped again in the confines of his house. The desperate need to breathe overtook him as the walls seemed to close in.
‘So you were going to ignore your old mum and dad, were you?’ His father sat up
