that each item, however seemingly worthless, has a memory attached and means something to her. And that, she says, is the important thing. What’s the point in spending lots of money on something that is emotionally worthless?
It took me quite a while to get my head round this (and she did bend the rules rather a lot when I was little), but as I got older, the gifts she gave me started to mean more, which meant I treasured them. I don’t keep much; I’m not a ‘stuff’ type of person, but each gift she has given me has captured a memory, a place or a feeling, and I’ve kept them all. My emotional me is spelled out on my dressing table, if anybody ever takes the time to study the weird assortment of items and work it out.
These days we laugh as we rip the wrapping paper off, but behind the laughter there is a shared ‘knowing’. An anticipation. Our flippant gifts prove how much we know about each other, how closely our lives are meshed.
Today, though, this feels wrong, and is making my heart twinge with dread. It is not Christmas morning, and the envelope she has just fished out of the drawer does not look funny, or cheap. It looks ominous. It feels like something terrible is about to happen, that the one tradition we’ve stuck to, the one certainty in my life, is about to explode and shatter into little pieces.
‘I’ll keep it until—’ I’m not usually a wimp, or melodramatic, but I don’t like this at all. The reality that we’re not spending Christmas Day together is still sinking in. I don’t want any more shocks. Changes.
‘Open it now, love.’ She doesn’t let go of her end, as though she knows I’ll stuff it in my bag if she does. There’s a little tussle between us, until my gaze meets hers dead on and she knows I’ll do what she’s asked. ‘It’s not a proper present really, more like a promise.’
‘A promise?’ The envelope is burning the tips of my fingers.
I don’t want to open it now, but I know she isn’t going to give me a choice. For all the hippy-chick free love-living and happiness vibe she gives out, on the inside Lynn is tough. And determined. Appearances can be deceptive.
The envelope isn’t even sealed, the flap is just tucked in, but it seems to take an age for my clumsy fingers to find a way inside it.
To drag out the slip of paper.
‘Oh.’ It isn’t at all what I expect. Not that I know what I’d expected. You can’t cram Christmas with all the festive trimmings into an envelope, can you?
‘But . . .’ It doesn’t make any sense at all. This isn’t like our normal presents, this isn’t about making new memories. This is terrible.
My world wobbles. Coffee and cake at Lynn’s had seemed weird, but this is starting to feel like it should be happening to somebody else. ‘Why?’ The single syllable rocks me. She hasn’t tried to cram Christmas into an envelope: she’s tried to cram responsibility in, commitment. The future. She’s not just leaving me for Christmas, she’s leaving me for ever.
Oh shit. ‘You’re,’ the words are choking me, ‘you’re staying there? In Australia? Or you’re ill?’
‘Oh Sarah, don’t be ridiculous! I might be getting a bit old in the tooth, but I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not about to pop my clogs any day soon.’
‘But you’re getting rid of—’
‘I’m not getting rid of anything. In fact, this is all about giving me some time to let my hair down before it all falls out. I didn’t have time to sort out all the legalities, but I’ll do it before I go and then we’re straight for when I get back. A new year, a new us, eh?’
‘But, I can’t—’
She shifts the sheet of paper so that it’s between us on the table, then puts an arm round my shoulders. ‘This isn’t about me leaving you, Sarah. This is about sharing, about the future.’
I stare at the sheet of paper. Flatten it out with fingers that seem to have an agenda of their own. A wobbly one.
I am now – well, soon will be, joint owner of Making Memories Travel Agents. My initial 50 per cent share will rise gradually over the next five years until I take full control.
My bottom lip is now as wobbly as my fingers and I feel very stupid. ‘I thought it meant . . . Oh God, I’m sorry Auntie Lynn.’ I throw my arms round her, trying not to rub my runny nose on her shoulder. ‘This is so nice of you, so . . .’ I wipe the back of my hand across my face, and resist wiping it down my jeans like a child. There’s this massive blockage in my throat that physically hurts, but my brain can’t work out what to say next.
My eyes sting with the burning tears that are trying to explode from my eyes. But I don’t want to be all emo and pathetic, and blubbering. Though to be honest, I’m not sure what I want to be. This is massive. Giving me a job was one thing, but an actual share in the company? It’s generous, it’s kind, it’s trusting, it’s . . . madness.
I’ve never been responsible for so much as a potted plant before, let alone a business. Well actually, I’m lying. Somebody gave me a poinsettia one year and it didn’t go well. Let’s just say that by Christmas lunch it was looking even more worse for wear than I was. And that’s saying something. I think I’m more of a cactus person. Minimum nurturing and commitment. This is forever! This is bigger than a five-year plan. Callum would think it was hilarious.
Oh God, how am I going to do this? A business! Aunt Lynn’s business. Letting her down would be the worst possible thing in the world. I can’t say no or scream for help.
So, I smile. Hope it comes across as confident and not manic. I’ll work out how to handle this later, when I’m alone and can talk to myself in private.
She puts a finger under my chin, and looks me straight in the eye, like she used to do when I’d come home after a shit day at school. ‘Who else could I trust with our little business, Sarah? We set this up together, and I’ve always expected you to take over one day.’ She suddenly smiles and looks lighter than she has since I arrived. ‘Actually, you going to the Shooting Star is a fabulous idea, Sarah. I was going to suggest you started to visit some of our resorts and searched out some new ones as well. We need to shake things up a bit! Going back there is a splendid idea.’
‘It is?’ I’m glad at least one of us thinks so.
‘Oh yes. And now is the perfect time to make your peace with the past, isn’t it? Before you sail into the future.’ She waves a hand.
‘Is it?’ Making my peace with the past isn’t on my agenda. That would involve accepting things, facing up to my dad, forgiving them both for what they did. I’m not sure I will ever be ready for that.
Her voice is soft and seems to come from a long way away, ‘I think it’s the perfect time, don’t you? I think it’s something you need to do, isn’t it? Go back?’
‘I’m going to sort all the problems out, make it perfect again.’ Even I can hear the defensive note in my voice.
‘Oh Sarah, this isn’t really about the problems with the place, is it love?’ Her voice is so gentle it brings silly prickly sensations to my eyes. ‘This is about you. The past.’
‘I don’t do the past, I do the future.’ Looking back has never helped me. Just hurt me.
‘Sometimes,
