Page 61 of Five Gold Rings
He looks over at the bay window of the house across the road, filled with a giant Christmas tree, the buzz of a festive gathering in the background, then back to me, slightly apprehensive. ‘So, what’s the plan here?’ he asks curiously. ‘Chris is in that house?’ He looks down at his watch. There is no plan as such, but we have about an hour to exact our revenge and I haven’t a clue what that might entail.
I’m not sure what I expected when I went home to the flat. Maybe Chris had come round and cleaned the place, perhaps he’d be sitting there on the sofa, contrite, wanting to apologise. We could have ended things properly with some sense of decency. But it was nothing like that at all.
And as soon as I walked in, I knew it was no longer a home, just a third-floor flat where I once lived, all good memories now replaced by the image of him standing with his wang out in the shower, nonchalantly. Like it wasn’t even a thing. I should have thrown something at the wang. This may be my biggest regret in all of this. And he came back to this space, our space, not to apologise or close this chapter of our lives but just to leave me a note and pick up a Christmas jumper. Sadness is now replaced by pure incandescent rage. That thought alone makes me want to burn the place down. But I won’t. Because my name is on the lease and other people live in that building.
I nod, biting at my thumbnail. ‘Do you think I could scale that roof? I could pee down the chimney.’
‘And I would veto that plan,’ Joe says, laughing. ‘Tell me about this party.’
‘It’s his mum and dad’s house. They have all the extended family around for Christmas Day – grandparents and all. Chris is certainly there.’
‘You want to talk to him?’ he asks.
‘I want to hurt him.’
‘Physically?’
‘I should have brought parts of the old bed to throw at him. Maybe we could put some dog poo through the letterbox?’ I suggest.
‘Look, as much as I’m in this, my limit is going to a park to look for dog shit on Christmas Day,’ he says, amused, putting a hand in the air.
The sound of laughter that fills the car for a moment is welcome. What exactly am I doing? Will I just charge on in there? Embarrass him? Throw a drink in his face? This has the potential to just hurt me more, to shame me and not even give me any sort of upper hand.
‘How do I look? Is my eye make-up halfway down my face?’
‘Your eyes look… fine. Look, they know you, but they don’t know me. Maybe we do what we did at that anniversary party? We wing it. We get into that party, and we just make it up as we go along?’
‘But what if it goes wrong?’
‘Then I’m there…’
I like that his words already make me feel more confident, more powerful, like I can go in there and do anything. We exit the car and walk up to the big blue door of the house. Breathe, Eve. You can do this. I press the doorbell, listening to the voices behind, conscious that Joe has put a calming hand to my lower back.
‘Oh, my goodness! EVE! You made it! So lovely, Christopher told us you were poorly. You look gorgeous. And you’ve brought a… friend?’
Chris’s mum, Miriam. For her, Christmas is about big earrings, crushed velvet skirts and a berry lip. I’ve always been the person she turns to when she needs information about her son – less a daughter-in-law, more her son’s social secretary. Every year she gives me a foodie gift that involves chutney and an M&S voucher for exactly ten pounds. Heads suddenly pop up at that door like meerkats and the air sticks in my throat because for years, I’ve got to know them and made them my family, I have anecdotes and intimate knowledge about each of them. What am I doing here? Because for a start, I’m not in a Fair Isle jumper but I’m glad I’m not because all these graphics are not kind on the eyes. And then, at the back of the crowd, a face I recognise that drains of colour to see me standing there. I need to say something, anything, but I can’t.
‘Hello, everyone!’ Joe says with a hand in the air, saving the moment. ‘My name is Olaf. Lovely to meet you all. Chris, didn’t you tell them we were coming?’ Joe turns to me, his eyes sparkling, both of us trying to keep a straight face. We may as well have fun whilst we’re doing this. I don’t know what accent that is, but it sounds like he’s going to play us all his hurdy gurdy.
The crowd of people turn to stare at Chris, still looking lost for words.
‘Yes, Christopher – Eve looks perfectly well. Come in out of the cold,’ Aunt Bea mentions. We both step into the house and the door closes behind us.
‘Yes, everyone, this is Olaf. He is a visiting student from Sweden, and he’s been staying with us,’ I say, trying to play along.
‘Hello, Christopher’s family! How are you all? Hey, Christopher!’ Joe says, waving at him at the back of that hallway.
‘Marvellous. What part of Sweden?’ quizzes one of Chris’s aunts.
‘Stock… holm?’ he says slowly, and I giggle quietly.
‘Well, you are most welcome today. Always room for two more!’ Miriam says. ‘Chris, do go and fix something for our guests.’
‘Why don’t I help?’ Joe says, going up to Chris to shake his hand. He reaches for it firmly. Oh dear. This is not the time, Joe. ‘Good to see you, my friend! Your family are adorable.’
Chris leads the way into the kitchen, and I follow them worriedly. Please don’t fight. Kitchens are not sensible places to have these sorts of confrontations anyway. Too much hot gravy and knives in the vicinity.
As soon as the kitchen door closes on the three of us, Chris turns to me. ‘What are you doing here? How dare you. And you’re not Swedish… you’re that bloke she works with, John or something. Why have you come here? What are you playing at?’